Читать книгу Bieber's Finger - Craig Nybo - Страница 17

Chapter 9

Meanwhile, Somewhere on Planet Earth...

Butch and Twana sat across the street from Edward Chang’s dive-bomb of a Chinese restaurant on the western fringe of town. Few patrons visited Edward Chang’s and when they tried the awful egg foo yung or the lousy kung pow pork, they rarely returned. That was because the real owner of Edward Chang’s, a gangster named Orlando DePechio, didn’t want patrons to like the food. Edward Chang’s made DePechio plenty of money, but not by serving first-class Chinese cuisine. Of course, for the right patrons, the skeleton crew of cooks could whip up something brilliant.

Two muscular men dressed in almost identical black suits stood outside the entrance to the Chinese restaurant, the neon glow from a luminescent dragon marquee washing down on them in orange and pink. Both men wore dark glasses even though the sun had gone down at least an hour ago. They took more than a little notice of Butch’s rattletrap car parked across the street. One of the bruisers put a hand beneath his lapel. The other looked up and down the street, scanning for possible witnesses.

“You have to do exactly what I say,” Butch said.

Twana bit the tip of her little finger as she looked at the nondescript restaurant.

“These guys don’t mess around.”

“Just get me in there and let me talk to him.”

Butch fixed her with a stern expression. “Twana, you can’t go spewing off at this guy. He’s not me. If you rub him the wrong way, he’s liable to hurt you real bad.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Twana said, rolling her eyes.

Butch ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. He looked out the window at the two guards. He didn’t know their names, but he ran into them regularly when he brought numbers or parcels to Edward Chang’s. “Stay here,” he said and got out of the car.

The two iron-jawed toughs watched Butch cross the street. He ambled to them, hands out where they could be seen.

“Who’s the skirt,” one of the guards asked.

Butch swallowed hard. Here goes. “Either of you guys have family? Brothers? Sisters?”

“Who is she,” the guard asked again.

“It goes like this, you see; she’s my sister. And she’s got this crazy idea that she wants to see DePechio. I tried to tell her she’s not thinking straight. But she’s set on--”

“What’s her business,” the bruiser asked. The other guard tightened his grip on something hidden beneath his lapel.

“My ma’s sick,” Butch said. “Looks like she might be dying. My sis, she has a good heart. She’s doing everything she can. She has an idea that might save her but I guess it involves DePechio. I got no idea what she has in mind, but I told her I’d try to get her in.”

The two bruisers stood hard like they were hewn from stone. They considered Butch’s proposal for a silent moment. After a beat, the one who had been doing all the talking finally spoke up. “Bring the girl inside. I will have a word with the boss.”

Butch waved Twana out of the car. She crossed the street. Just before she and Butch entered the big red doors of the restaurant, she reached up and touched the little lipstick case at her chest.

Twana and Butch waited in a foyer outside the dining room. One of the guards stayed behind while the other went to talk to DePechio. Twana looked over the big man. His muscle-bound arms filled out his suit nicely. His face, chiseled to toned perfection, looked like it belonged on the cover of GQ. But something seemed off; although all the parts were in place, she found him all-in-all too perfect to be attractive. The guard looked like he had been built for one purpose: punching.

The other guard pushed open the dining room door and entered the foyer. “The boss, he’s confused as to why you would bring your sister to see him. He doesn’t understand why you might want to compromise this reputable establishment by allowing an outsider to breech its sanctimonious walls.”

Twana scoffed.

“It’s like this,” Butch said. “She’s my sister. Don’t you have a sister? Doesn’t the boss have a sister? I mean, what am I supposed to do when she comes to me crying?” Butch left out the part about Twana blackmailing him with the threat of blowing the whistle on what she knew about DePechio--which was, to Butch’s regret, quite a lot of information.

The guard issued an impatient sigh. “You got ten minutes,” he said and stepped aside.

Butch swallowed and offered Twana a hand.

She glanced at his hand and shot him an are-you-serious expression.

Butch dropped his hand, swallowed again, and pulled the dining room doors open.

Orlando DePechio sat at a corner booth with his back to the wall. A plate of kung pao pork and a beer sat in front of him. He looked up from his meal as Butch and Twana made their way across the dining room. “Hello, Butchie.” DePechio smiled--a long curve of a grin that had a way of terrifying Butch. “I ask you to bring me the numbers and you come to me asking for favors.”

Butch and Twana stepped up next to DePechio’s booth. Butch stared at the ground. Twana looked DePechio right in the eye.

DePechio looked Twana over. She was the spitting image of Butch, only with long hair and a few years less life experience. She had an intensity about her that DePechio had learned to recognize in people who were angry or desperate.

“And what’s your name, little girl?” DePechio asked, pushing his plate away.

“Name’s Twana. I’m Butch’s sister.”

“Your brother does a lot for me, and I appreciate it. He runs a few errands, does a little house cleaning. Most of all, he keeps his mouth shut about my business, don’t you Butch.”

Butch nodded but kept his eyes on the ground.

“You ought to show some respect and look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Butch looked up from the ground into DePechio’s eyes. He felt a lump rise in his throat.

“What can I do for you, little girl?”

“My name isn’t little girl.”

DePechio chuckled. Butch felt every chortle like a nail driving into his coffin. Maybe he should have refused to bring Twana to DePechio and let the chips fall where they may.

Twana went on: “I have a proposition that I think might be extremely lucrative, but only to a man with the right resources.”

DePechio raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what kind of resources are you referring to?”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Mr. DePechio,” Twana said. “I watch the news; I read the papers.”

“I see.” DePechio nodded toward the dining room entrance where one of the guards stood. The guard nodded back and began crossing the room toward DePechio’s table.

Butch whimpered.

“Before you sick your pit bull on us,” Twana went on. “You should hear what I have to say. I’m not talking about chicken scratch here, I’m talking about millions of dollars in residual income by granting you control over a single asset.”

DePechio frowned and raised a hand. The guard stopped where he was. “Just because I have a sense of humor,” DePechio said. “I’m going to hear you out.”

Twana took a deep breath. She’d practiced her pitch in the mirror countless times. She cleared her throat and went into it. “Have you ever heard of Bieber?”

DePechio blinked and shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him; he’s the only person who makes the papers more than you.”

Butch winced. “Yea, that pop-tart brat with the songs and the pelvic thrusting that kids today call dancing. Sure I’ve heard of him. What’s that got to do with anything else?”

“As you probably know, Bieber made the news recently.”

DePechio balked. “Kid, I had nothing to do with it. I’m a businessman. Car bombings aren’t my style.”

“Take it easy,” Twana said. “I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I just want to make a deal.”

DePechio shrugged. “Okay, kid, go on.”

“Let me paint a picture for you. What if Bieber didn’t die in the accident. What if the whole thing was a hoax, a publicity stunt? What if Bieber was still alive and, even more importantly, willing to sign the rights of his future albums and live performances over to you?”

“I ain’t no record producer.”

“Bieber’s first album sold over eight million copies. His second, Love and Rocks, did more than triple that. Bieber’s estate is worth nearly a billion dollars. He is a money machine. And it all can be yours.”

DePechio smirked. “That sounds all well and good, but there’s one catch: Bieber’s dead, blown to a million bits.”

Twana removed the chain and lipstick case from her neck and tossed it onto DePechio’s table. It landed next to his plate of kung pao pork.

The guard in the back of the room drew a pistol from beneath his lapel and aimed at Twana. DePechio raised a hand, indicating for the guard to put away his heat. The guard complied.

DePechio picked up the lipstick case and examined it. When he recognized what was stuffed inside, his lips peeled back into that smile that had a way of terrifying Butch. “Oh, Butchie, I’m beginning to like your little sister.”

“It’s Bieber’s. I was there. I caught it like a piece of candy at a parade,” Twana said.

DePechio grinned. “Well, it makes a nice souvenir, but it don’t mean much to me.”

“Come on, Mr. DePechio, don’t make me spell it out for you.”

DePechio put the lipstick case down on the table and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He fixed Twana with an amused expression. “Why don’t you indulge me; spell it out.”

“Bieber isn’t the only one making the news these days,” Twana said. “Everyone knows about your less-than-ethical pharmaceutical endeavors.”

DePechio spread his hands expressively. “Enlighten me.”

“You’ve been running a black market cloning ring. For the right price, you have been printing copies of the rich and famous for the rich and famous.”

DePechio stroked his chin and considered his next words carefully. “Them reporters, they say a lot of things. You can’t believe everything you read in the papers. Truth is, I run a legitimate business, making deals with good honest people. Even if I had the resources to do what you are proposing,” DePechio glanced at the lipstick case, “all I would have was a copy. It’s not the body with the magic; it’s the mind, the memories, the experience. A copy can’t sing; a copy can’t dance.”

“That’s why you need me.” Twana took a step toward DePechio’s table.

The guard at the back of the room flinched. DePechio raised his hand again, ordering the guard to stand down.

Twana went on. “I know everything there is to know about Bieber. I can teach him all the moves. I can teach him how to walk, talk, and croon like Bieber.”

DePechio looked Twana up and down. She stood tough, unflinching in his glare. He looked at the lipstick case, standing upright on the table next to his meal. He looked back at Twana, tossing her proposal back and forth in his mind. “How old are you, kid?”

“Fifteen,” Twana said.

“I was twelve when I first started in the business,” DePechio said, more to himself than to Twana or Butch. He picked up the lipstick case and dangled it in front of his face. It turned in the crimson light of the Chinese restaurant. “When’s Bieber’s birthday?”

“August 12th,” Twana said.

“Biggest hit.”

“STAND.”

“Name three of Bieber’s dance moves.”

“The Funky Monkey, the Warrior, and the Ice Breaker.”

“Favorite breakfast.”

“Cheese omelet, ham, red bell peppers and onions, white toast, one slice, toasted on one side, no butter.”

“Distinctive features.”

“Birthmark shaped like a heart on his left ring finger, the finger in the lipstick case in front of you.”

DePechio squinted and examined the finger floating in its formaldehyde bath. “Well, I’ll be,” he said as he spotted the heart-shaped birth mark. “I have to say, I am impressed. But this is a risky deal. Bieber’s dead. Bieber’s not dead. How are people going to react?”

“We have one shot at this,” Twana said, putting a hand on the edge of DePechio’s table. “Bieber’s been booked to play the biggest show in the universe, the Pan-Galactic Prom Show. He is he the first human act in history to headline the event. It makes sense that Bieber’s PR people might try something big for such a landmark moment in his career. They might even fake his death and have him show up at the Pan-Galactic Prom Show fresh and new, back from the dead. Imagine the buzz that would result from such a publicity stunt.”

DePechio smiled and rolled a finger forward, indicating for her to go on.

“Think of this: Bieber gets out of his old contract by dying. But then, raised from the dead, he hits the scene bigger than ever, signing with a new label, your label. Nobody questions him because your PR people have created a bulletproof cover story, made the whole affair out to be a publicity stunt. Everybody buys it because he’s the real McCoy, Bieber, in the flesh. He knows all the songs, he knows all the moves. You can’t copy that; as you said, you can’t clone singing and dancing.”

“So let me get this straight,” DePechio said, holding up the lipstick case. “I take this finger and make a new Bieber. I turn him over to you for Bieber training. You keep it all quiet. I get my people to paint a pretty picture for the press. I sign Bieber into my books and pick up the royalties for his future albums?”

“That’s right. But there’s one more condition.”

“What’s that?” DePechio inclined his head forward.

“You gotta save my ma. She’s real sick. She’s a junkie and she’s going to die unless you get her help. I want to send her here.” Twana brought a brochure out of her purse and tossed it on the table in front of DePechio. The cover read: NEWlives Rehab and Counseling Center in bold lettering. DePechio picked up the leaflet and browsed through it, glancing at the pictures and reading a few of the headlines.

“This looks like a real classy joint. Sorry about your ma.” He put the brochure on the table and interwove his fingers. He rested his hands on the formica and looked over at Butch. “You got a firecracker of a sis here, Butchie. I don’t know who I should have working for me more, you or her.”

Butch forced an awkward smile.

DePechio turned to Twana. “When is this Pan-Galactic Prom Show?”

“In two months. I will need Bieber and two tickets to get there via space bus on the quick or the whole deal collapses.”

DePechio leaned back in his booth. He stroked his chin and looked off into the darkness of the restaurant. He picked up the brochure and looked through it again. He picked up the lipstick case and held it to the light so he could get a better look at the finger. Finally, he looked at Twana. “I’m going to make this deal with you. Not for the money, and not for the prestige of having the world’s biggest pop-tart in my pocket. I’m doing it because I too love my ma. And I understand what it means to lose her.”

Twana smiled.

Butch breathed a sigh of relief.

DePechio held up the brochure. “Louis.”

The thug across the dining room perked up.

“Make a call to the NEWlives Rehab and Counseling Center. Tell them that they have a new resident.”

Twana rubbed her hands together and bounced a couple of times on the balls of her feet.

“Here’s my condition,” DePechio said, his demeanor going decisively dark. “If you say even one word about me or my involvement in this thing to anyone, you, your brother, and your ma will all become subject to terrible accidents. Am I clear?”

Twana nodded.

“Good. Then we have a deal.” DePechio used a red napkin to wipe the last traces of kung pao pork from his fingers and extended a hand. Twana reached out and the two of them shook.