Chapter 05

Wed, Jun 20, 10:02 a.m. GMT, Stamford Bridge, London, England

Chelsea Football Club, PLC, Abridged Board of Directors meeting.

Members attending:

Roman Abramovich, Chairman of the Board (through an interpreter)
Peter Kenyon, Chief Executive Officer
James Gill, Director of Communications

(meeting already in progress)

“May I remind you, Mr. Abramovich, that Mr. Valentino is, in fact, Josef Stalin reincarnated, and that Mr. Valentino is very good friends with the aforementioned Premier Putin, a man without whom, it is my understanding, you could just as easily be in a jail in Siberia instead of here in the fashionable west end of London.” Mr. Kenyon glances at the translator who is frenetically, albeit quizzically relating this statement to Mr. Abramovich. “I believe it is in your best interests, sir.”

Roman Abramovich, oil billionaire, clad, as usual, in a silk shirt and blue jeans, scratches the thin gray beard he has just begun growing. Sunshine, had she been present, would probably refer to Roman Abramovich as being prematurely gray, noting that he is only forty-two years old, quite young considering all of his billions. “Just how much is Mr. Valentino asking we contribute?” he asks through his interpreter.

“He is asking that the Chelsea Football Club contribute two billion in American dollars and in return, we will be given top priority in all of the member restaurants’ product placement schemes, not to mention a forty-nine percent interest in the Applebee’s corporation.” Peter Kenyon waits while this information is translated to Mr. Abramovich.

Roman Abramovich raises his eyebrows. “I would expect a controlling interest, considering we’re going to be footing ninety-eight percent of the bill.”

“Well, so would I, sir, but Premier Putin would consider this to be a huge favor.”

Roman Abramovich sighs. “Fuck me.”

“Apparently,” Peter Kenyon replies.

Fri., Jun 22, 12:34 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania

“Muffin? It’s Earl again.”

“Hello Earl.”

“You got that number for me?”

Fri., Jun 22, 12:35 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania

“Fuck this headache. I’m going back to bed.”


Fri., Jun 22, 12:36 p.m., 341 Octavia

“Hey Art?”

“Yes.”

“Earl Patton.”

“Hi, Earl. How are you doing?”

“Not so well. I guess you heard.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Gwen?”

“Who else.”

“Next time I see her, I’m going to get some tape and do something with that mouth.”

“From what Sunshine says, I figured you were about done with tape.”

“She told you that?”

“I’m afraid, for both of our sakes, yes.”

“Unfortunate. Speaking of Sunshine, have you seen her?”

Arthur Cole pauses at the edge of a precipice. “Just this morning, at C.C.’s.”

“So you don’t know where she is right now?”

“No idea.”

“Well, if you see her, could you have her give me a call? Sunshine and I have a few things we need to discuss.”

“I will pass your message along.”

Fri., Jun 22, 12:39 p.m., 341 Octavia

Art calls Sunshine’s number. The call goes immediately to voice mail. “She must have her phone turned off,” he says to his pet turtle, the same turtle who is gnawing on a small volcanic rock in the bottom of its tank. “Well, I guess that message will have to wait.” The turtle is disinterested.

Arthur Cole feels that today could finally be the day he wins a velvet Elvis on e-bay. The auction ends in twelve minutes and his is still the highest bid. Still, however, there is the e-bay ninja effect, those assholes who wait until the last second to place a bid, therefore annulling his relentless pursuit of the prized Velvis.

It would look good on the wall next to his Budweiser clock and his signed publicity photo of Jean-Claude Van Damme. Still, though, it would be a whole lot cooler if he were to get a hold of a real, old time Marlboro man billboard sections. Especially a section with the actual Marlboro man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Unfortunately, those are currently going for more money than Art has budgeted for wall design. That would cut into his drinking budget, an unacceptable sacrifice at any time.

Still, the Marlboro man would be really cool. Maybe Sunshine would see it and realize, yet again, that Art is the kind of man she could consider dating. Sure, there are plenty more women out there, but there is something about Sunshine, an intangible, magical quality, almost a buzz that is here but not here, a feeling he gets when he’s around her, a sense she has, whether she knows it or not, a direct line to the realm of divinity and that she can, at any given moment, dial up the supernatural and harness its powers. Arthur Cole also realizes that this makes him slightly insane. Yet, he still can’t escape the feeling that she is somehow different, better in a way than the rest of the human race. And it’s not because of the way he feels towards her romantically, no. This is something that his primitive senses perceive.

Son of a bitch. Some fucker has raised the bid. Three minutes left. Okay, they want to play that way? Up another dollar. Stick that in your Velvis and smoke it.

It’s not an angelic thing. That would be the last way to describe Sunshine, but it is magical, a sort of buzzing invisible fog around her, charging the atmosphere with…

Fuck. Up ten dollars? Asshole e-bay ninja. That’s it. Raise it another ten. Two minutes remaining.

Back when he and Sunshine were dating, he remembers how she could pick up on current events before they happened, kind of like she had a built in news radio in her head. She would often predict the resignation of high level Presidential cabinet members before it was reported on the news. Stranger too, that she had absolutely no interest in politics. Sunshine would just, out of thin air, mention in passing that so and so was going to resign and then make no mention of it afterward. And if you asked her again, often, she wouldn’t remember who she had said and never, ever knew what position that person actually held.

You have been outbid. Auction complete. Damn it to hell!

Fri., Jun 22, 6:44 p.m. GMT, Abidjan, Cote d’Ivorie, Home of Didier Drogba

Didier Drogba, the twenty-eight year-old star striker for the Chelsea Football Club, sits anxiously in front of his computer, counting the seconds.

“Come on, Didier!” yells twenty-nine year-old Ghanaian international midfielder and Chelsea teammate, Michael Essien. “We’re going to be late!”

“Just a few more seconds!” replies Didier.

And then it comes up on the screen, “You are the winning bidder of item number 3873882, VINTAGE VELVET ELVIS BLACK FRAMED ALOHA HAWAII.”

“Gol!” he yells, before getting up from his desk and admiring the fifty-eight velvet Elvis prints stacked in the corner of his office.

Essien comes in to see what is happening.

“Michael,” he says, “I am going to corner the market. The next time somebody wants to buy one of these things, they’re going to have to come to the Ivory Coast. I’m telling you, I’m going to hold the world ransom.”

“Didier, I have to tell you this because you’re a close friend. You’re insane.”

Fri., Jun 22, 1:32 p.m., The Law Offices of Matt Winters

“Earl, we’ve known each other a long time. In college, we both did a lot of stupid things. But this, well…”

“Don’t remind me. But what I need to know is, how are you going to get me out of this?”

“Well, let’s start with the charges. First, there’s the criminal trespass, okay, no big deal. Then, there’s the breaking and entering. This one’s a little more dicey. So let’s see, we also have simple burglary, and then, my personal favorite, possession of stolen property.” Matt Winters chuckles. “In your case, I think it was the other way around, the property was in possession of you.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I have my moments. So anyway, in the grand scheme, any one of these by themselves, aren’t particularly trivial, but they’re also no big deal. Put them all together, slap on top of this that you perpetrated them against a sitting judge, and, well, I’m sure, even with your limited legal experience, you can see that this is, by no means, a trivial situation.”

“Which is, of course, why I am here.”

Matt Winters opens his desk drawer, shuffles around for a moment until he finds a business card. “This isn’t my arena. Call this number. I don’t think it will cost much, financially.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“This guy usually prefers to be paid in favors.”

“Favors?”

“Nothing sexual.”

“But favors, in quotes, nevertheless?”

“It’s easier that way. Less of a paper trail.”

“Are you sure I should do this?”

“If you had done this to anyone else, we could remedy the situation a lot more easily. Shit, Earl, any other judge would have been better.”

“Damn it.”

“You’ve got that right. Anyway, it’s not like you’re going to the mob for help, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Well, yes, it does. Who am I going to, anyway?”

“An attorney.”

“Well, I figured that, but the attorney for whom?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”