A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"For the record, I was the one who got the girl out of the trunk, not the one who put her in — that's what makes me a Good Samaritan."

"It's kind of the glass-half-empty phenomenon, isn't it?" Andy says. "I've got my eye on you, twenty-four fucking hours a day, I'm watching you. And you can tell my wife that the free ride only lasts so long. She still has my credit cards, but all it takes is one phone call and she's dry."

"You know what?" Richard says. "You're bothering me. You're a bully and you're on my property, so leave, how about that — go away, leave me alone."

"I'm so intimidated."

"I'm telling you to get off my property."

The guy swats at him; Richard ducks. "Fucking lay a hand on me, asshole, and I'll press charges; come back here again, give Cynthia a hard time, fucking do anything, and I'll know it's you," Richard says, speaking to Bozo in his own language. "I'll send you the fuck to jail, and your kids will end up in foster care — does that sound like the good life?" He stops and takes a breath. "Have some grace, accept what is."

The little white car with the yellow flashing lights pulls up — the government man.

"What's that, your personal police force, your goon squad? You're not man enough to take care of yourself?" Bozo trips over a clod of grass and cries out. "I'll sue you, fucking my ankle."

"Need a hand?" the government man asks from the curb.

"Fucking fuck," Bozo says, storming off down the street.

"Was he high?"

"Grief-stricken," Richard says.

The government man looks confused.

"Do you think he's coming back? Should we be armed?"

"There are golf clubs in the garage. So — how are you?"

"Pretty good. I got a bit part in this little play downtown, and I'm still carrying this around." He reaches into the car, pulls out the screenplay, and waves it at Richard, who now feels obligated to take it. "Ground Motion."

"Can't wait."

"Don't mock. I just came by to give you some off-the-record information. Your hole is not as out of the blue as it initially appeared. It might well be water-related; everything in the history of Los Angeles is. You might be able to make a claim — get some money back. I don't make promises, but I suggest you have your lawyer be in touch with the Department. FYI," the guy says. "And you didn't hear it from me."

Richard nods. "Thanks."

"My number is on the script, if you have any notes."

Richard gets into Bentley and starts down the hill. As he's going down, the minivan comes speeding up; Richard swerves into a semicircular driveway and watches Bozo plow his mini-van into a parked car. The air bag goes off, punching Bozo in the chest, knocking him out. Richard takes the cell phone out of his pocket, dials 911, asks for rescue, and says, "A guy just smashed his minivan into a parked car. He may be injured. He's on Shadow Hill Way."

"Is this the Good Samaritan?" the operator asks.

"It is," Richard says.

"I thought I recognized your voice. We're on the way."

HE DRIVES to Anhil's shop. The place is empty. "Have you had lunch?"

Anhil pulls plastic containers out of the fridge. "Lipi made lunch — would you like some?"

"How about we go out — my treat."

"All right," Anhil says.

"And can I borrow a phone book?"

"White or yellow?"

"Whichever is thicker."

Anhil flips the "Open" sign to "Closed" and locks the door. "Where is my beautiful queen?"

"In the shop — having a beauty treatment."

"You want me to drive?"

"I borrowed a car," Richard says, acting nonchalant. He leads Anhil to the Bentley.

"Oh my goodness. It is like you are the King of England, the man. Do you think I can drive it?"

"If you sit on this." Richard hands him the phone book.

Anhil drives, bouncing up and down on the phone book, his foot on and off the gas like a New York cab driver. His excitement is difficult to contain. "I am the man," he says, pumping the gas.

"Do you know whose car this was?"

"Who?"

"John Lennon."

"Not possible."

Richard nods.

Anhil starts to sing "Let It Be." "I felt very bad when he died, very bad; that is not good for any of us."

Anhil guides the car into the drive-through at the In-and-Out Burger on Washington Boulevard. He rolls down the window. "One four-by-four with extra mustard and…" He turns to Richard.

"A double-double, protein-style," Richard says.

"What is protein-style?" Anhil asks.

"No bun; what's a four-by-four?"

"Four patties, four slices of cheese; I won't be hungry for a week."

They go through the drive-through and then park and eat at a picnic table facing Washington Boulevard. "We can't eat in the car," Anhil says. "That would be like using it as a bathroom. And don't tell Lipi. I'm not supposed to eat beef — against my beliefs — but this is so delicious, it bears no relation to a cow."

"Ben will be here tomorrow," Richard says — he has to tell someone.

"I am so looking forward to meeting him."

"Thank you."

"No — thank you. I can't believe my phone book is riding in John Lennon's car."

On the way home, Richard stops at a party-supply store and buys a "Welcome" sign for the front door. It's like something you'd put up for a four-year-old, or a returning hostage, but he can't help himself.

He goes from the party-supply to the grocery store — up and down the aisles, thinking that if Cynthia is going to be making lunches for her kids he'd better get some kid-friendly stuff — organic peanut butter, organic jelly, sandwich bread, soy chips, cheese sticks.

He calls his ex-wife from the store.

"She's in a meeting," her assistant says. "Can I take a message?"

"This is… Ben's father." He can't bring himself to say "ex-husband." "I'm trying to find out what Ben eats for lunch."

"White tuna in water. I only know because sometimes I order the groceries. Avocado, bananas — very firm. Do you want me to just punch up the list I order from?"

"That would be great," Richard says.

"Diet root beer, sliced turkey breast, turkey-noodle soup, English muffins, and I think the rest is hers; I don't think Ben is the one eating pink grapefruit and drinking Lactaid. Should I tell her you called?"

ACROSS THE STREET from the house there are two people taking pictures — who are they working for? He pulls off the highway, opens Nic's garage, and drives Bentley in. He's just put the car away when he sees Sylvia, the nutritionist, coming out of Nic's place.

"Oh, hi," she says, awkwardly.

"The meatloaf was delicious," Richard says, not knowing what else to say. "How's his back?"

"Better. I did some trigger-point and put Tiger Balm on it."

Richard nods. "Are you bringing him food?"

"No, actually he's cooking for me. Steak. I'm just running out for horseradish; I have to have horseradish with steak."

"I had no idea you ate meat."

"Every now and then I crave it, but it has to be rare, almost bloody."

"Tell him I said hi and that his car is back."

"Will do," Sylvia says, gunning her mini-SUV onto the highway.

AFTER DINNER, Richard helps Cynthia move. Considering that she has nothing, the move consists of their borrowing the Bentley again and driving to the nearest Target store.

Driving a Bentley to Target — only in L.A. does this make perfect sense.

They go up and down the aisles: toothpaste, shampoo, razor, blow-drier, deodorant — she confesses, "I've been using yours."

He likes the idea of his solid stick sliding over her armpits, picking up little pieces of hair, leaving her stubble stuck on his Mitchum.

"Do you think I need to buy my own sofa?" she says, half joking, when they get to the furniture aisle.

"I think you have to practice sleeping in a bed."