Read Online The Detective & the Pipe Girl by Michael Craven - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Craven
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with the half-inch guard on my Oster head shaver every three days. My receding hairline left me with some power alleys up top, a veritable Hair Peninsula on my head. My friend Gary Delmore once used my Hair Peninsula as a facsimile for the state of Florida. He showed a girlfriend of his how to get from Tampa to Miami by tracing with his finger from the middle of my peninsula, Tampa, to the bottom of my peninsula, Miami. I think he even showed her where you would turn off of to visit the Everglades. I just stood there. It wasn’t a great moment for me.
You’re probably wondering, well, what are you going to do when you totally lose your hair up top? Are you going to be one of those guys with a moat of hair wrapping around the sides and back of the head? Like Terry Bradshaw, or Captain Stubing?
Here’s my answer to that: YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT I AM.
But let’s get back to the story.
Gina Vonz said, “Yeah, I like your look. Ever thought of going in front of the cameras? Most people who live in L.A. consider it at some point, even if they don’t admit it.”
“Really?” I said. “Have you?”
Vonz chimed in. “She’s been in a couple of my movies, John. Surprised you don’t recognize her.”
Gina said, “Well, it was a while ago. His early stuff. And the parts were pretty small.”
She gave Vonz an affectionate, flirty look to say: You could have given me slightly bigger parts.
“She could have done more, could have been a star, I think,” Vonz said. “Even without my help.”
She smiled at Vonz. They still had chemistry.
“So,” she said to me. “Have you ever been bitten by the acting bug?”
“No,” I said. “And I’ll tell you why. When you’re an actor, your whole life is waiting around for someone else to allow you to do the thing you want to do. I’d never do that. My drug isn’t stardom. It’s freedom.”
Gina looked at me.
Then Vonz again said, “I like that.” And then, “John, walk us out to the plane.”
We both downed our drinks and got up. Vonz motioned to one of the waitstaff, who nodded. Guess he didn’t have to pay right then and there. Ah, the life of the elite. Maybe he didn’t have to pay at all. That’s what happens to a lot of these rich guys. They get rich and then everyone starts buying them stuff. You ever noticed that? The rich, famous guys getting the free drinks, free dinners, free this, free that? You’ve noticed that.
We left Typhoon, walked down the outside steps to the parking lot, then swung around through a ground-level door that Vonz used a magnetic key fob to get us through. We were now underneath the restaurant. We went through a clean, simple waiting area, then out the door on the other side, and ended up, essentially, right on the tarmac and runways.
Thirty yards away, a gleaming, crisp, white jet, engines humming, slid into our eye line. It stopped, the door opened, the stairs unfolded down, waiting for Vonz and Gina. The jet looked like it had just been just washed, pellets of water visible, which made it sort of glisten and shine. Almost like it had been sprayed down for aesthetic purposes.
Talk about freedom. It looked like a vessel to freedom.
We walked toward the jet.
“We’re going to New York for a couple days,” Vonz said.
“Okay.”
“Some meetings, some restaurants, some real city life.”
Vonz was bullshitting until Gina got on the plane. I just kept walking. We arrived at the jet, the stairs to freedom. Gina trotted on up.
“Be right there, G,” he said.
At the top of the steps, she turned and smiled at him, and smiled and flickered her fingers at me. And then she disappeared.
Vonz, his back to the plane, to the windows, discreetly pulled an envelope out of his blazer.
“Please get this to Suzanne for me.”
He was close to me. Having to raise his voice over the engines, but not much, surprisingly. The engines would prevent Gina from hearing him, but I could hear him fine. I guess that’s what you get for
You’re probably wondering, well, what are you going to do when you totally lose your hair up top? Are you going to be one of those guys with a moat of hair wrapping around the sides and back of the head? Like Terry Bradshaw, or Captain Stubing?
Here’s my answer to that: YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT I AM.
But let’s get back to the story.
Gina Vonz said, “Yeah, I like your look. Ever thought of going in front of the cameras? Most people who live in L.A. consider it at some point, even if they don’t admit it.”
“Really?” I said. “Have you?”
Vonz chimed in. “She’s been in a couple of my movies, John. Surprised you don’t recognize her.”
Gina said, “Well, it was a while ago. His early stuff. And the parts were pretty small.”
She gave Vonz an affectionate, flirty look to say: You could have given me slightly bigger parts.
“She could have done more, could have been a star, I think,” Vonz said. “Even without my help.”
She smiled at Vonz. They still had chemistry.
“So,” she said to me. “Have you ever been bitten by the acting bug?”
“No,” I said. “And I’ll tell you why. When you’re an actor, your whole life is waiting around for someone else to allow you to do the thing you want to do. I’d never do that. My drug isn’t stardom. It’s freedom.”
Gina looked at me.
Then Vonz again said, “I like that.” And then, “John, walk us out to the plane.”
We both downed our drinks and got up. Vonz motioned to one of the waitstaff, who nodded. Guess he didn’t have to pay right then and there. Ah, the life of the elite. Maybe he didn’t have to pay at all. That’s what happens to a lot of these rich guys. They get rich and then everyone starts buying them stuff. You ever noticed that? The rich, famous guys getting the free drinks, free dinners, free this, free that? You’ve noticed that.
We left Typhoon, walked down the outside steps to the parking lot, then swung around through a ground-level door that Vonz used a magnetic key fob to get us through. We were now underneath the restaurant. We went through a clean, simple waiting area, then out the door on the other side, and ended up, essentially, right on the tarmac and runways.
Thirty yards away, a gleaming, crisp, white jet, engines humming, slid into our eye line. It stopped, the door opened, the stairs unfolded down, waiting for Vonz and Gina. The jet looked like it had just been just washed, pellets of water visible, which made it sort of glisten and shine. Almost like it had been sprayed down for aesthetic purposes.
Talk about freedom. It looked like a vessel to freedom.
We walked toward the jet.
“We’re going to New York for a couple days,” Vonz said.
“Okay.”
“Some meetings, some restaurants, some real city life.”
Vonz was bullshitting until Gina got on the plane. I just kept walking. We arrived at the jet, the stairs to freedom. Gina trotted on up.
“Be right there, G,” he said.
At the top of the steps, she turned and smiled at him, and smiled and flickered her fingers at me. And then she disappeared.
Vonz, his back to the plane, to the windows, discreetly pulled an envelope out of his blazer.
“Please get this to Suzanne for me.”
He was close to me. Having to raise his voice over the engines, but not much, surprisingly. The engines would prevent Gina from hearing him, but I could hear him fine. I guess that’s what you get for
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