John Locke - Wish List

Standing before these five trailers, guarding them, are ten of the most formidable men I’ve ever seen. There are two such men in front of each trailer. They’re wearing sunglasses and dark business suits and have electronic communication devices that extend from their ears to their mouths.

The limo pulls to a stop twenty feet in front of the largest trailer.

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“Your money.”

I look at the two guards standing between me and the trailer. Their dull-eyed expressions suggest they could kill me faster than I could crush a grape.

I turn back to Jefferson.

“You’re telling me there’s a million dollars in that trailer?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

I focus on the trailer. It’s about forty feet long, twelve high, with windowed sections pulled out on either side of the front door. It sits three feet off the ground, and is equipped with two propane tanks. Lettered on the lower right are the words Elkhardt Location Equipment , followed by a phone number with a 505 area code.

“A million dollars weighs less than you think,” Jefferson says.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, you might be surprised by the weight.”

“I work in a bank, remember?”

“You’ve held a million dollars in cash before?”

“Of course.”

“Really?”

“Not all at the same time.”

He nods. “That’s funny.” Then he adds, “A million dollars in hundred dollar bills weighs 20.4 pounds, not counting the weight of the straps around the bricks.”

“Bricks?”

“Each brick is a $50,000 bundle. There are twenty bricks in a million dollars.”

“I knew that.”

“Of course, the briefcase will add some weight.”

“Of course,” I say, trying to sound as though I have these sorts of conversations every day.

We look at each other a moment.

“You swear to God there’s a million dollars in that trailer, in a suitcase?”

He is either angry or impatient, and his face shows it.

“Briefcase,” he says.

“Really?”

“Really.”

I nod. “What do I have to do to get it?”

“Fuck Jinny Kidwell.”

Chapter 15

The one thing I know beyond all doubt is Jinny Kidwell is not in that trailer. Nor is there a million dollars in a briefcase in bricks of hundred dollar bills. But I also know I’m going to try to get past these guards and into the trailer, just to see how this thing plays out.

I take a deep breath, open the door, and approach the big eaters, fully expecting them to beat the living hell out of me. The first one holds me at bay with his ham hock of a hand while checking my face against a photo. After a few seconds, he passes it to the other guy, who studies it carefully, then says, “Your name?”

“Charles Pancake.”

“Says here, Buddy Pancake.”

“My nickname.”

“Social Security number?”

I tell him.

He nods, indicating the trailer door. I walk up the aluminum steps and knock.

The first thing I notice about Jinny Kidwell is how tiny she is, and how frail she appears. The next is her porcelain skin. I’m so stunned to be in her presence, I nearly fall backward off the steps.

“Buddy?” she says.

I try to speak, but my throat is pinched shut. All that emerges is a tiny mouse-like squeak. I feel my face redden, and clear my throat to hide my embarrassment. She flashes her radiant smile, the one that earns the big bucks, and says, “Please come in.”

I want to turn to see what’s happening behind me, in case Jefferson and the body guards are laughing or getting ready to kill me or to see if I’m being filmed for some sort of cruel reality show. But my eyes are glued to her face. When she steps back and opens the door I enter. She closes the door, locks it, and briefly presses her body against it. Her back is to me, and her head dips slightly. She moves to the window and stops a moment to place her hand on the window pane. Her shoulders sag slightly, and I hear her give off a small sigh. Then she closes the curtains. When at last she turns to face me, her eyes appear moist, but her expression is incredibly seductive.

She glances to her right, and I follow her gaze to see a couch located in one of the sections that extends outward, that gives the front of the trailer a three dimensional look. In front of the couch is a small coffee table that holds a cut-crystal tumbler filled with ice.

“Can I pour you a drink?”

Jinny Kidwell said that. Not some look-alike actress, body double, or high-tech hologram. Like Nicole Kidman, there is only one Jinny Kidwell, and her voice is as unique as her appearance. Often imitated by that talented comedian on Saturday Night Live, among others, no one can quite nail Jinny’s voice. It’s smoky like Demi Moore’s, but not as husky or deep. So this is her, and we’re in the same room, sharing the same air, and she’s offered me a drink, and the only thing I can think to say is, “Why?”

Her laughter seems sincere. She takes a seat in the chair across from me and says, “Why, what?”

I gesture at her, and shake my head.

“Seriously, what’s going on here?”

She starts to speak, then pauses, as if trying to formulate the proper words. While she does that, I allow my eyes to take in her entire frame. Although the Jinny Kidwell before me is very close to how she appears on the big screen, I realize the camera has never properly captured her perfect skin, upon which there are no blemishes, wrinkles, or marks of any kind. No freckles or moles on her face, arms or legs that I can see.

Speaking of her legs, they are jaw-droppingly perfect. Impossibly long, and toned to a degree that stops just short of being muscular, these legs draw you in and hold your gaze like Medusa’s head.

“Are you okay?” she says.

I force my eyes upward. She’s smiling coyly. What must her lips and tongue taste like? Before Lissie came into my life, all my sexual conquests smelled the same: like closing time at the local bar.

I put it all out there: “I’m old, fat, broke and ugly.”

She smiled. “You’re not so old.”

“Compared to you, I’m a dinosaur. I’m a complete nobody. I’m lousy in bed, and…”

“And you’re married,” she says.

I’m stunned. “You knew?”

“You’re married to Lissie. She’s very pretty.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“I’ve seen a photo.”

I don’t know what to say. Nothing makes sense.

“I’m married too,” she says.

“You are?”

She looks at me curiously. “You sure you’re a fan?”

“I know you through your movies.”

She nods.

Despite the absurdity of my presence, I love being here, love knowing that Jinny Kidwell is sitting a mere six feet in front of me. I love her attention, love exchanging words with her, love looking at her.

But this is crazy.

“Jinny,” I say, then shake my head thinking how ridiculous her name sounds coming out of my mouth.

She waits expectantly.

“Is it okay to call you Jinny?”

She looks at me as if I might be crazy. She’s right. I’m in her trailer, been told I’m here to have sex with her, asking if I can call her by her name. I start over.

“Did they tell you why I’m here?”

She blushes.

I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to Jinny Kidwell, making her blush like a coed. She bites the corner of her bottom lip nervously.

And stands.

She’s wearing—I now notice—a leopard print mini skirt and a black (she told me later) Ferretti silk tee, with a jeweled, sunburst print. I can’t remember the style and pedigree of her sandals, but they were lovingly crafted by some premier designer exclusively for her.