| "MAXIMUM PAYOLA" CONTINUED |
Out of luck. Out of money. George Westwood wakes up pissed off. The automatic blues. He
feels the burn in his brain and tears open the hotel room curtain before the fury takes hold. What
do we got today? Sunshine. Could not've asked for a more beautiful day for some hard payback.
After dressing he snaps a clip into the M-1911 Model NM Hardball semiauto. Seven in the mag,
one in the chamber good to go. Shave n' shower be damned today, Westwood decides. Only one
matter on his mind. He pockets the backup clip and the gun and takes the '71 Torino 500
downtown.
So he's marchin' on foot. Trouble walkin'. It's a strut really. A vengeance strut. That swagger,
you know the one, struttin' like a muthafucka 'cause you just snapped some piece-a-shit's jawbone,
stupid fuck didn't know who he was messin' with, broke his jaw right off the hinges with your bare
hand, grabbed hold of his lower jaw, his teeth piercing into the flesh of your hand (but you can't
even feel it), and you're stickin' your fingers into his mouth, a couple of 'em going all the way into
his slimy throat, squishing into his tonsils in a way that feels good like banging your best girlfriend up
into her uterus.
Black suit, blue shirt, open collar, no tie. Round and round. Briskly. Occasionally his shoes touch
the ravines that border the smooth bricks laid into the street. If I was in a movie, Westwood thinks,
this is the part where the director rolls the opening credits. The cameraman, the shooter, he'd be
doing a closeup on my rough yet severely handsome face and a supercool '70s rock (perhaps soul)
tune'd kick in. Monkey Man by the Glimmer Twins. That one. The credits are rolling thoroughly
full-on: Steven Soderbergh presents a Quentin Tarantino Film. Vice versa maybe? Nah, I think I
want De Palma on this one. Let's call this movie Bob's Receiver.
Obstructing doves scatter into flight the moment he brushes into them and sunshine pokes through
the ample green shade of perfectly placed arbutus trees. The building is hip sophistication erected in
the sad, corrupt heart of the city's fraud central. It's well disguised, covered up the same way this
city hides the sleazy underground money laundering distribution networks putting a thin veneer of
legitimacy on dirty money. A one-block commercial office and retail venture, the ground floor
hitting every swinging retail note with stylish perfection: modern Seattle-style coffee shops, jewelery
stores hawking diamonds and gold, women's fashion boutiques, trendy restaurants with eighty dollar
entrées served to smug patrons drinking margaritas on balcony tables across from flashy car
dealerships hyping the latest buzz ride in showrooms awash with warm industrial strength lighting.
These one-way streets have a strict dress-code, all the well-dressed pedestrians done up chic-like,
like fashion model extras in a Hollywood movie, all aware, knowingly playing their part in the scene.
This protective barrier of up-market, high-priced haute couture and sophistication a weak facade, a
buffer of vacuous fluff insulating a rats lair of contempt, a warren of vermin on the third floor of the
brownstone building looming over Westwood's left shoulder on Helmcken Street.
Round and round he goes, wound up like an automaton, his anger supercharging with every
revolution, the combustion of rage pounding on his head. Two words, Westwood tells himself, two
crucial words: self-fucking-control. That's three words, George. Whatever. You got a job to do,
you do it. Keep cool and get it done.
Westwood brings a Rothmans Special up to his whiskered face, scissored between index and middle
finger, and absorbs a hit. A rack of dresses slides past, pushed along by a Japanese delivery boy
who looks like a schoolgirl. A garbage truck dumps a bin into its load. In an automatic motion
Westwood lowers the Rothmans and lifts the bottle of whiskey held by the neck in his other hand to
his lips. He squints and pauses for an instant as a thought enters his mind. Suppose I run into Bob
right here on the street? Cocksucker. What then? He takes a pull off the whiskey. The shot is
swallowed. I'll coldcock the mutha, he decides. Fuck it. Won't even wait, all these people
watching, I'll do him right here on the street. Westwood wipes his mouth with the back of the hand
holding the bottle of Jack, feeling the liquid heat descend like the devil into his belly. No. Can't kill
him here on the street. Too sloppy, too chancy. All these witnesses. That's gambling.
Walking the length of Helmcken, he takes another drag off the smoke. A black Jaguar convertible
gently passes, stroking up against his thigh, a middle-aged updo blond, her face painted determined
holding the wheel. Down Incognito performed by the rock group Winger plays on the car's audio
system. Releasing the sweet smoke from his lungs he glides round the corner of the block onto
Davie. A bus pulls up to a shelter and he maneuvers through the exiting riders and swings round the
next corner. A flamenco guitarist on the patio of the Jonestown Bar & Grill on Mainland attacks the
nylons strings of his instrument like an insane maniac. Westwood senses the patrons are starting to
notice him, Westwood having circled the block eighteen times. He glances at them with malice.
Fucking losers. Propping up this village with the most heartfelt support of approval they can offer -
their money and their presence. They don't even know the rot they're tacitly condoning by
patronizing the area. Look at all the pompous fuckin' losers. Losers in Losertown. Yeah, I mean
you, buddy. Ground zero enemy territory. Call in an air strike and firebomb the corridor. I oughta
pull out my pistol and pop every one a ya. Erase that. Can we erase that? That wasn't me. I
didn't think that. Not me. Can we wind the tape back and scrub that? Maintain focus. Three
words: Self-fuckin'-control.
A man watches his leashed Doberman take a shit on the sidewalk. The dog-walker's eyes meet
Westwood's and he nods a subtle, knowing yes to him. That's the idea. Mark it.
Been here before, Westwood thinks. In high school. I'm playing with fuckin' children here. No. It
ain't high school, not even elementary school. This double-dealing shit's kindergarten. Grew out of
these playground tactics at puberty.
He walks into the entrance of the Helmcken Street building and takes the elevator up to the third
floor, dropping the emptied whiskey bottle onto the compartment floor. The door opens and across
the hall is St. Alexander's office, the office where he'd discussed business with Bob a year previous
before hopping a jet airliner to Mexico.
The GordonCoopers deal. Don't you worry, St. Al'd said, GordonCoopers is
unim-fuckin'-peachable. Your money's safe with them, secured in a reinforced vault. It's private
and untouchable. They've got fraud protection in place. It's safer than in your mama's womb. Bob
says: GordonCoopers' admin fee's a twenty point front-end cut of the proceeds and that's it. My
fee's included in that twenty. The balance'll go into a pool of high interest-high dividend
investments. Depending how well the market does you'll recoup most or all of the admin fee. All
you got to do is cool your jets for twelve months till maturity. Go on vacation. Get out of town for
a while. Where've you always wanted to go? Puerto Vallarta beckons, my friend.
No government of Canada bonds Westwood'd told him. No Canada Savings Bonds. Do not invest
a penny of that money in government debt. Okay, no Canada Savings Bonds, St. Alexander'd
replied. You don't wanna do business with the government, a lot of people feel the same way, I can
understand that. No sweat. I told you not to worry. GordonCoopers cannot tamper with your
funds, everything gets vetted through me. No purse snatchin' street mongrel's gonna get a whiff of
your dough and make a play to scam you. Not at GC. Your investment might as well be locked up
n' fortified like gold bullion in the airtight intestines of Fort Knox, Kentucky.
Well guess what? Word is the receiver absorbed the one point five they said they'd hold for us.
Bob's fuckin' receiver, GordonCoopers & Associates.
Standing talking to the receptionist is where Westwood sees St. Al. First he's seen of him in a year.
Hasn't changed at all, Westwood thinks derisively. Twenty pounds overweight, Bob St. Alexander's
got an overall sloppiness about him. The son of an illiterate immigrant from England, a fisherman
on the west coast of Vancouver Island, his mother Canadian Inuit, St. Alexander's ill-fitting suits
never quite sit sharp on his pear frame. With the bowl haircut, the shaggy mustache, the jowly
cheeks, the bags beneath the eyes, he fits a certain stereotype of the disorganized dimwitted
white-collar professional. Westwood allows the doors of the elevator to slide closed before St.
Alexander has a chance to see him through the window. He strikes the main floor button. Down on
main he walks across the street to the courthouse, leans back against its brick wall, lifts the sole of
his shoe up and lights a smoke. Then he waits like a sentry for St. Al to leave his office.
feels the burn in his brain and tears open the hotel room curtain before the fury takes hold. What
do we got today? Sunshine. Could not've asked for a more beautiful day for some hard payback.
After dressing he snaps a clip into the M-1911 Model NM Hardball semiauto. Seven in the mag,
one in the chamber good to go. Shave n' shower be damned today, Westwood decides. Only one
matter on his mind. He pockets the backup clip and the gun and takes the '71 Torino 500
downtown.
So he's marchin' on foot. Trouble walkin'. It's a strut really. A vengeance strut. That swagger,
you know the one, struttin' like a muthafucka 'cause you just snapped some piece-a-shit's jawbone,
stupid fuck didn't know who he was messin' with, broke his jaw right off the hinges with your bare
hand, grabbed hold of his lower jaw, his teeth piercing into the flesh of your hand (but you can't
even feel it), and you're stickin' your fingers into his mouth, a couple of 'em going all the way into
his slimy throat, squishing into his tonsils in a way that feels good like banging your best girlfriend up
into her uterus.
Black suit, blue shirt, open collar, no tie. Round and round. Briskly. Occasionally his shoes touch
the ravines that border the smooth bricks laid into the street. If I was in a movie, Westwood thinks,
this is the part where the director rolls the opening credits. The cameraman, the shooter, he'd be
doing a closeup on my rough yet severely handsome face and a supercool '70s rock (perhaps soul)
tune'd kick in. Monkey Man by the Glimmer Twins. That one. The credits are rolling thoroughly
full-on: Steven Soderbergh presents a Quentin Tarantino Film. Vice versa maybe? Nah, I think I
want De Palma on this one. Let's call this movie Bob's Receiver.
Obstructing doves scatter into flight the moment he brushes into them and sunshine pokes through
the ample green shade of perfectly placed arbutus trees. The building is hip sophistication erected in
the sad, corrupt heart of the city's fraud central. It's well disguised, covered up the same way this
city hides the sleazy underground money laundering distribution networks putting a thin veneer of
legitimacy on dirty money. A one-block commercial office and retail venture, the ground floor
hitting every swinging retail note with stylish perfection: modern Seattle-style coffee shops, jewelery
stores hawking diamonds and gold, women's fashion boutiques, trendy restaurants with eighty dollar
entrées served to smug patrons drinking margaritas on balcony tables across from flashy car
dealerships hyping the latest buzz ride in showrooms awash with warm industrial strength lighting.
These one-way streets have a strict dress-code, all the well-dressed pedestrians done up chic-like,
like fashion model extras in a Hollywood movie, all aware, knowingly playing their part in the scene.
This protective barrier of up-market, high-priced haute couture and sophistication a weak facade, a
buffer of vacuous fluff insulating a rats lair of contempt, a warren of vermin on the third floor of the
brownstone building looming over Westwood's left shoulder on Helmcken Street.
Round and round he goes, wound up like an automaton, his anger supercharging with every
revolution, the combustion of rage pounding on his head. Two words, Westwood tells himself, two
crucial words: self-fucking-control. That's three words, George. Whatever. You got a job to do,
you do it. Keep cool and get it done.
Westwood brings a Rothmans Special up to his whiskered face, scissored between index and middle
finger, and absorbs a hit. A rack of dresses slides past, pushed along by a Japanese delivery boy
who looks like a schoolgirl. A garbage truck dumps a bin into its load. In an automatic motion
Westwood lowers the Rothmans and lifts the bottle of whiskey held by the neck in his other hand to
his lips. He squints and pauses for an instant as a thought enters his mind. Suppose I run into Bob
right here on the street? Cocksucker. What then? He takes a pull off the whiskey. The shot is
swallowed. I'll coldcock the mutha, he decides. Fuck it. Won't even wait, all these people
watching, I'll do him right here on the street. Westwood wipes his mouth with the back of the hand
holding the bottle of Jack, feeling the liquid heat descend like the devil into his belly. No. Can't kill
him here on the street. Too sloppy, too chancy. All these witnesses. That's gambling.
Walking the length of Helmcken, he takes another drag off the smoke. A black Jaguar convertible
gently passes, stroking up against his thigh, a middle-aged updo blond, her face painted determined
holding the wheel. Down Incognito performed by the rock group Winger plays on the car's audio
system. Releasing the sweet smoke from his lungs he glides round the corner of the block onto
Davie. A bus pulls up to a shelter and he maneuvers through the exiting riders and swings round the
next corner. A flamenco guitarist on the patio of the Jonestown Bar & Grill on Mainland attacks the
nylons strings of his instrument like an insane maniac. Westwood senses the patrons are starting to
notice him, Westwood having circled the block eighteen times. He glances at them with malice.
Fucking losers. Propping up this village with the most heartfelt support of approval they can offer -
their money and their presence. They don't even know the rot they're tacitly condoning by
patronizing the area. Look at all the pompous fuckin' losers. Losers in Losertown. Yeah, I mean
you, buddy. Ground zero enemy territory. Call in an air strike and firebomb the corridor. I oughta
pull out my pistol and pop every one a ya. Erase that. Can we erase that? That wasn't me. I
didn't think that. Not me. Can we wind the tape back and scrub that? Maintain focus. Three
words: Self-fuckin'-control.
A man watches his leashed Doberman take a shit on the sidewalk. The dog-walker's eyes meet
Westwood's and he nods a subtle, knowing yes to him. That's the idea. Mark it.
Been here before, Westwood thinks. In high school. I'm playing with fuckin' children here. No. It
ain't high school, not even elementary school. This double-dealing shit's kindergarten. Grew out of
these playground tactics at puberty.
He walks into the entrance of the Helmcken Street building and takes the elevator up to the third
floor, dropping the emptied whiskey bottle onto the compartment floor. The door opens and across
the hall is St. Alexander's office, the office where he'd discussed business with Bob a year previous
before hopping a jet airliner to Mexico.
The GordonCoopers deal. Don't you worry, St. Al'd said, GordonCoopers is
unim-fuckin'-peachable. Your money's safe with them, secured in a reinforced vault. It's private
and untouchable. They've got fraud protection in place. It's safer than in your mama's womb. Bob
says: GordonCoopers' admin fee's a twenty point front-end cut of the proceeds and that's it. My
fee's included in that twenty. The balance'll go into a pool of high interest-high dividend
investments. Depending how well the market does you'll recoup most or all of the admin fee. All
you got to do is cool your jets for twelve months till maturity. Go on vacation. Get out of town for
a while. Where've you always wanted to go? Puerto Vallarta beckons, my friend.
No government of Canada bonds Westwood'd told him. No Canada Savings Bonds. Do not invest
a penny of that money in government debt. Okay, no Canada Savings Bonds, St. Alexander'd
replied. You don't wanna do business with the government, a lot of people feel the same way, I can
understand that. No sweat. I told you not to worry. GordonCoopers cannot tamper with your
funds, everything gets vetted through me. No purse snatchin' street mongrel's gonna get a whiff of
your dough and make a play to scam you. Not at GC. Your investment might as well be locked up
n' fortified like gold bullion in the airtight intestines of Fort Knox, Kentucky.
Well guess what? Word is the receiver absorbed the one point five they said they'd hold for us.
Bob's fuckin' receiver, GordonCoopers & Associates.
Standing talking to the receptionist is where Westwood sees St. Al. First he's seen of him in a year.
Hasn't changed at all, Westwood thinks derisively. Twenty pounds overweight, Bob St. Alexander's
got an overall sloppiness about him. The son of an illiterate immigrant from England, a fisherman
on the west coast of Vancouver Island, his mother Canadian Inuit, St. Alexander's ill-fitting suits
never quite sit sharp on his pear frame. With the bowl haircut, the shaggy mustache, the jowly
cheeks, the bags beneath the eyes, he fits a certain stereotype of the disorganized dimwitted
white-collar professional. Westwood allows the doors of the elevator to slide closed before St.
Alexander has a chance to see him through the window. He strikes the main floor button. Down on
main he walks across the street to the courthouse, leans back against its brick wall, lifts the sole of
his shoe up and lights a smoke. Then he waits like a sentry for St. Al to leave his office.
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