Mr. G

By Michael Moretti

I was detailing Mr. G's Ferrari one sunny afternoon when a white Escalade with blacked out windows rolled up the driveway. The passenger side window slid down, revealing a jacked up Mexican thug with dark brown skin covered with black tats. His face and bald head had numbers, tears, guns, spider webs, and assorted gang bullshit printed on it. His teeth were gold plated.

"Yo. Muchacho. Donde esta su jefe'?"

"He's not home. Who are you guys anyway? I'll send him a message."

The Sicario grinned; an ugly black MAC-9 machine pistol muzzle appeared in the window. I bolted into the garage as he opened fire in full auto on the gorgeous red Ferrari. The staccato firing stopped after a few seconds. Then resumed when he reloaded another clip. I fumbled with my phone trying to call 911, dropping it on the concrete floor.

Mr. G came out of the kitchen door in a Versace robe and slippers. Even had his Gucci shades on. His hands held the business. A silver plated AK-47. "You OK kid?" He was completely calm. Just another day at the office.

"What the fuck?" I shouted back. "Are they Cartel?"

Mr. G dropped to one knee is a perfectly practiced tactical firing stance. He pulled two ammo clips out of his robe pocket and stacked them next to his knee on the pavement. His aim was expert. He took the front windshield out and nailed the tatted Sicario in the right eye. Blood sprayed the driver's face obscuring his vision while he frantically tried to wipe the visceral matter from his eyes. Next, G. took the front tires out. He slammed another clip in the rifle and smoothly advanced in a low crouch with the gun barrel blazing. Dozens of rounds perforated the interior of the vehicle and anyone in the back seat. The SUV made a wild "S" loop on the lawn and jetted down the steep driveway. I heard tires squealing as it tore down the street.

I joined G next to the trashed Ferrari pock-marked with holes. Oil was leaking like black blood and one of the tires was flat. It was going to be hell to explain to the insurance company. G could give a shit. This guy was battle hardened. Not the sissy art collector he pretended to be at all.

"Sometimes your past catches up with you Kid. Sorry you got caught in the crossfire. We should talk."

~

Mr. G lived in a Magni-designed mansion in Bel Air, only a few blocks from Sunset Blvd. A slinky platinum blond with a Southern accent invited me to a private after- party there one night. I met her at the Sunset Tower bar where she was sipping on mojitos while trolling for Hollywood agents and producers. We lost track of time and our bar tab as we told each other fake backstories designed to impress. It was L.A. after all; nobody could be real. That was just too boring.

Catherine squeezed my thigh and whispered in my ear with a slightly drunken slur that was one cocktail away from reckless abandon in bed. "You're cute. I like writers. Let's go to a party. It's a cool scene. Lots of famous people."

I brushed her silky hair back and kissed her neck lightly. Just a tease. "Sure. I'd love to join you. I like your Southern charm."

"You just like my hot body," she said with a mischievous smile. "Guys are easy to read. I hope you've got stamina."

I laughed and kissed her hard. Paid the bartender. We took an Uber to some obscure address on her phone screen. All I could focus on was getting her out of those skin- tight jeans. The rest was a drunken blur of groping each other in the back seat.

We were halfway up a mountain by the time the Uber dropped us off in front of a long driveway leading to a three-story modern palace lit up like Christmas. Thumping trip-hop music floated down from a raging party. Half-naked aspiring super-models and sexy posers staggered around the enormous designer house. Every piece of furniture looked like it emerged from a photo editorial in Architectural Digest. The massive walls held priceless modern art. I recognized a famous David Lockney. Some fancy queer dressed in pastel hanging out at a sunny swimming pool. "One of his pool paintings just sold for millions at a Christies auction," said Catherine.

I noticed there were six large format Lockney's adorning the walls of the main living room.

"Are these originals?"

"What do you think Kid?" A middle-aged man with flowing shoulder length silver hair landing on the shoulders of a perfect off-white Panama suit faced me. His smile was infectious. He held an unlit Cuban cigar in one hand, balanced with a bottle of Krystal champagne in the other. "May I offer you a drink?"

Catherine didn't miss a beat. She turned on the charm like the fake debutante she pretended to be in a mirror ever since she was a little girl. "Why, you can offer me anything Mr. G. Shall I drink from the bottle or do you want to feed me?" Her eyelashes swept up and down as she delivered lines from Gone with the Wind or some faux antebellum flick.

Mr. G handed me the bottle and looped his arm around her slender waste. "Let's take a look at the pool Miss Charming. You might notice a connection to the painting. Seems you are well educated."

I followed them through ornate floor-to ceiling glass doors to an Olympic-sized pool sprinkled with mostly naked party guests. The well-lit mosaic tiled bottom of the pool was also designed by Lockney. Same as the Chateau Marmot Hotel pool. Cement ponds were a fetish for the perverse old fag.

Chaise lounge chairs were covered with wet, hard bodies involved in various gymnastic positions. Clothes, bottles, and passed out waifs were scattered about the finely groomed lawn. I smelled fragrant weed mixed with exotic perfume.

This was the orgy that Hockney really needed to paint. But he was stuck in the bright sunshine of the L.A. daydream. All blue water and sunny skies. Pastel people floating through life. Constantly watching each other but never connecting. Just acting out their imperfect roles. Typecast by a Cynical God who knew they didn't deserve any of it.

Catherine took a big swig of expensive champagne. Stripped her white silk blouse and jeans off to reveal an athletic boyish body. Mounted the diving board like it was the audition of a lifetime; executing a perfect dive into the deep end. Not even a splash.

G looked at me with a cynical smile. "She'll do just fine in this town. But what about you Kid? What's your talent?"

"I'm a writer. Actually, I want to be a screenwriter. I'm just looking for the right connections."

"I like you Kid. Fearless. I was like that once. Can barely remember. Made some bold moves when I was your age. Took big risks to get all this. Paid off. But I was lucky. Do you feel lucky?"

"Sure. Yea. We make our own luck. Right?"

"If you say so Kid. I like your optimism. You looking for a job? Maybe you can help me out around here. It's a big place and the guests make a hell of a mess."

"Absolutely. Whatever you need Mr. G."

His eyes seemed to light up. It was too dark to read his tells. But I got a solid vibe. "Swing on by tomorrow afternoon. I've got some errands to run. Are you a good driver?"

"I was a limo driver for a while. Never had a ticket. Always got my clients home safe. I'm embarrassed to say I don't have a car right now. It's in the shop."

"Don't worry about that. I've got six of them in the garage under the house. You can choose whichever one you like. Except the old jeep. That's off limits."

~

I rallied with G. in his "safe room" after the gun battle on the front lawn. He had converted the master bedroom closet with iron doors and a wall of weapons. Security camera feeds were displayed on a plasma screen. "I thought you were a high society art dealer? I've been working for you almost two years and you never told me your real name or business. I figured you just liked being an enigma. Good for your brand and all that L.A. PR bullshit."

"Time to grow up Kid. I gave you a shot at this life, and you seem to like it. A lot. But it's your choice. You can choose a car in the garage and drive away from here right now. Clean. They don't know your name or where to find you. It's a different deal with me. I can't hide from them. My story was written years ago. This is how it ends."

"What's my choice exactly G? I don't give a fuck what you did to get here. That's your business and you'll settle it with The Man. On your own terms. But I respect the Mr. G who set me up here as a writer. Making connections for me with your Hollywood friends. It's paying off. I know you're better than any of your rich and famous party guests. You're just playing a role."

"You got my number Kid. I never was a very good actor. That's why I had to buy my way to the top of this glittery hill of rich trash. I don't have the talent. But you do. I've seen the real deal and you're it. At least you could be. Lockney was basically an arrogant punk when I met him. Five years later I sold his first painting to a Cartel billionaire for $10 million cash. That's how we got started. He's as dirty as I am in all this."

"What the hell are you talking about? It's not illegal to sell art to narcos, is it?"

"Not unless it's all part of a multi-billion dollar money laundering scheme that involves banks, artists, auction houses, and even Hollywood brokers like me. That's called an international money laundering conspiracy. The penalty is life in a super-max Federal prison. If you make it that far."

"Fuck me! I like you G, but I can't be involved with this shit."

"I don't want you involved Kid. Never intended to get this surprise visit. Seems I've got an unsatisfied customer. Not like I can give him a refund or store credit." He laughed at his own bad joke. Charismatic under any circumstances. Always the joker. You just had to like him.

G tossed me the keys to his black Bentley coupe. "There's a hidden compartment under the driver's seat with everything you need to get to Europe. You'll also find a password token and credentials for a numbered account at Suisse Banc in Zurich. The branch manager will be notified that you are coming. You always said you wanted to travel. See the world. Now's your chance. Take it Kid. Never look back. There's nothing in the past worth clinging too anyway. Focus on your future. Make me proud."

G slapped me on the back and headed to the garage with only a large leather art case. He left in an old Jeep that he kept under a tarp. It had rusty bullet holes in the door. Last I ever heard of him.

I took one last look at the magnificent house before I hit the road. That's when I noticed the bare wall. The place where the painting with the queer pastel guy used to hang. I read that it sold in a London auction one year later for $93 million.

~