The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
TUESDAY
His name is Big Al.
I surmise this is due to his girth, which is considerable, and not his height, which is no more than average. He has small eyes set in a pale fleshy face, thin lips surrounding a cigar from which he regularly expels plumes of acrid smoke, occasionally directed towards me. I suspect he does this to intimidate or discomfit me. Fat chance. It probably helps if you have lungs.
We are seated either side of a plain wooden table. On the table is a pile of one hundred dollar bills. This is called the pot. We are playing high stakes poker. No Limit Texas Holdem. And I am about to win big time.
Wait.
I perceive I have committed a transcription error. I have failed to report the circumstances which led to my playing poker with a man named Big Al. Honestly, I'd forget my head if it wasn't welded on.
-0-
Two nights ago while on patrol I noticed a group of men acting suspiciously within two blocks of the safe house. I followed the men and watched as they broke into an abandoned store, not far from the burnt out remains of the Korean electronics store. Inside the building, which had once rented videos and DVDs until the economic downturn and people's changing viewing habits caused it to close, the men were engaged in illegal gambling, playing high stakes poker. The next night I joined them. I had the necessary ten thousand dollar 'buy in'. Still, I was not made to feel welcome. Participation was by invite only. They even suspected I might be an undercover cop. Then greed overcame their prejudices. I was ajudged too young to be a cop. And I had money. Easy money. I could see it in their eyes. I was a fish. A mark. A callow child who had walked into a den of lions like a lamb to the slaughter. I could have taught them a thing or two about slaughter had they asked. They didn't. Their loss.
In a place where families once rented classic movies such as Toy Story, Gone With the Wind and Horny Nuns Do AnaI, I took my seat at the table. The cards were shuffled and dealt.
Game on.
-0-
Big Al takes another long drag on his rapidly dwindling cigar and expels the smoke in my direction. He seems disappointed and a mite puzzled I don't cough or blink or ask he desist. Lungs, etc.
It is just he and I in the hand now, the others have folded. They are all men, each with names that offer a degree of anonymity and just a hint of mystique: Slim Jim, Diamond Joe, The Doc, Slick Willie and Fancypants Stan. I have seen his pants. Sears. Thirty-six Regular. Poly-blend. Nothing fancy about them at all. And the less said about Slick Willie the better.
The final card is dealt. The ace of hearts. It's my move. I carefully push all my money into the centre of the table. "All in," I declare.
Silence. I sense my move has ratcheted up the tension in the room. There is now thirty thousand dollars in the pot. If Big Al wishes to remain in the hand he will have to match it. If he does, he will lose. If he doesn't, he loses. Don't you love it when that happens!
He stares at me, eyes like cold marbles. The hand had begun so well for him. A pair of aces. And the final card gives him a set. A strong hand but not unbeatable. Not if you hold two hearts with three on the table. A flush beats a set.
"You're bluffing."
"Then call."
Our voices sound hollow as they echo in the vast shopfloor, lit now by a single flurescent tube. The windows are boarded up and allow no light to penetrate and betray our presence to passersby. The shelves are bare and coated with a fine layer of dust. This is about as far from the glitz of Las Vegas as you can get.
"You ain't got it, kid."
"Then call."
Like the others, Big Al is an experienced poker player. He knows the final card has made his hand vulnerable to a flush. Yet he will still call the bet. I am sure of it. It requires a strong will to lay down a set of aces and forfeit such a large sum of money, especially to a teenage girl who was supposed to be such an easy mark.
Several minutes pass as Big Al ponders his move. Diamond Joe, seated to my right, says impatiently, "While we're still young, Al."
"Shut the hell up!" Big Al snaps angrily.
Diamond Joe holds his hands up in placatory fashion. He has less than five hundred dollars of his original ten thousand. The cards have been bad for him. Or rather I have. I sense he is keen to call it a night, go home and lick his wounds and start afresh another night when there isn't a cyborg at the table who can count cards better than any sharpie.
"Okay, girlie, I'll call your bluff."
Big Al uses his short forearms to to push his remaining cash into the middle of the table. He flips his cards over with practised nonchalence and stares defiantly across at me. When I don't respond immediately I see elation and relief animate his face. Then I flip over my cards, revealing the flush.
The language!
I carefully count my winnings and place the bills in tidy piles, ignoring the expletives from Mr Potty-mouth across the table. Finally, Diamond Joe says, "Gee, Al, wouldja knock it off. Ladies present."
"What did I say about shutting your goddamn mouth, Joe?"
"I'm just saying, wouldn't hurt to show a little class. She beat ya fair and square."
"Oh yeah? That little twink just cleaned me out. Cheated me, she did."
"Whoa, now that's plain untrue. None of us are babes in the wood here. I've been watching her all night. If she's cheating then I've never seen the like, and I've a few more miles on the clock than any of you."
"So ya think she just showed up out of the blue with ten grand in her pocket? Bullshit. We've been had."
"Hey, you voted for her to play. Same as we all did."
"Oh I get it. You two are in cahoots. What's the deal, Joe? She your grandkid or something? Gonna split her winnings later, is that it?"
"Ain't never seen her before tonight. And in case you didn't notice she cleaned my clock same as youse."
Big Al rises from the table, his bulk tipping back his chair which clatters to the floor. "This ain't over," he declares ominously. "Not by a long chalk is this over. No one screws Big Al and gets away with it."
With a final glare he leaves. We hear the door slam as he exits the building.
The men stand, stretch, make small talk while studiously avoiding watching me stuff my winnings in every availible pocket. It was their money once. Not anymore.
"Never seen Al that mad."
"Ah - he's always been a sore loser."
"You think he means any of that shit?"
"More bark than bite. Mostly."
"I hear he's got connections."
"That was years ago."
"Wife's gonna kill me. That money's our vacation in Cabo."
"Wanna ride home?"
"Nah, I'm good, Stan. Thanks. I think she left me my cab fare."
Rueful laughter.
"You okay, kid?" Diamond Joe enquires. "You got someone waiting for youse outside?"
"No."
"Your wheels nearby?"
"I walked."
"Okay, well, it's probably nothing but you might want to watch your back."
I slowly twist my head and peer over my shoulder. No one laughs at my joke.
Jeez, tough audience.
-0-
I let myself out. The rear entrance is a heavy wooden door with thin steel cladding. At eyelevel is a spyhole. As the door closes I see a shadow behind it then nothing. I am alone. Alone in a narrow alley with high walls that cast deep shadows.
Not quite alone...
Infra red shows two figures, tight to the walls left and right. The figure on the right is short and bulbous. Big Al. The figure on the left is taller, very broad in the shoulders. A mystery man. I wait for the riddle to resolve itself.
Big Al steps out of the shadows, still puffing on his cigar. The other man does likewise. He's an impressive sight: tall and thick with muscle, not unlike a T-1000. Such would be a formidable opponent. This man is flesh and blood. For all his gym bulk he may as well be a mewling infant for all the threat he poses.
"You've got something of mine. I want it back. In fact, I'll take it all. Call it your punishment for screwing with me," Al declares.
"Flush beats a set," I remind him.
"I don't give a shit! You think you can mess with me and get away with it? Lou here is gonna collect what's mine. Then he's gonna mark your pretty little face up. So's every time you look in the mirror for the rest of your life you'll be reminded of one thing. No one messes with Big Al. No one."
He motions the other man - Lou - forwards. Lou shrugs and says, "Seriously? She's just a kid."
"Dammit! You want the five hundred or not?"
"Seven-fifty. I don't normally rough up kiddies. Bad for my rep."
"Dammit. Fine. Seven-fifty. Get it done."
Lou takes a step towards me, flexing his huge shoulders as he does so. He is probably expecting me to cower back against the wall and beg for mercy. What he almost certainly doesn't expect is for me to take a step forward and confront him. And throw the uppercut from Hell.
Lou's jaw shatters on contact, snapping his head back so violently the vertibrae in his neck break like so many dry twigs. He is dead before he hits the ground.
Big Al's cigar drops from his mouth in surprise. It sizzles harmlessly on the damp ground.
"How..?"
Good question. Just one I am not prepared to answer.
I grip his face in my right hand and slam it repeatedly against the wall. The brickwork soon becomes slick with blood and brain matter, resembling in gory fashion a particularly lurid Jackson Pollock painting. Perhaps I'm an artist and never knew it.
I allow Big Al's body to slump to the ground, sans head which is mostly on the wall. The empty alley beckons and I walk to the end, look left and right, and exit unseen by anybody.
The sun has risen. It is a new day.
For some of us.
-0-
I arrive home to find Mia awake and sitting at the kitchen table moodily stirring her breakfast cereal with a spoon. "Did you bring takeout?" she enquires eagerly as I enter the house.
"Not this time."
"Pity. Sarah's got me eating this new granola. See these round black things? They're supposed to be currants but I think they might be bird poop."
I tell her it's unlikey the FDA would approve of guano being added to a popular breakfast cereal.
"Well, they sure taste like birdpoop. Hey - what's that on your jacket?"
I look down. Adhering to the leather is a piece of Big Al's brain, all grey and glutinous. I flick it off and it lands on the kitchen floor. Snowy stirs himself to investigate, takes a couple of suspicious sniffs and swallows it whole.
Truly that dog will eat anything.
THURSDAY
The double homicide is reported in the newspaper. Big Al is revealed to be Albert Mattarazzo, described as a business entrepreneur with connections to organized crime. The other man is Louis D'Amato, a bodybuilder who once won the Mr Universe contest and earned a living as a personal trainer and occasional muscle for hire. Neither was married or had issue.
I watch as John picks up the newspaper and reads the article. Apart from the proximity to the safe house there is nothing to connect it with me. The cause of death is simply described as violent. There is no lack of violence in Los Angeles; the city boasts a large number of homicides every year. Humans can be every bit as ruthless and deadly as any terminator when the mood takes them.
MONDAY
Paige Bartlett visits the house, bearing fresh homegrown vegetables her father has cultivated in his backyard plot. Once delivered she enquires about my whereabouts and Sarah Connor reluctantly concedes I am home and would she like to come in and hang?
You betcha.
So here we are, in the backyard. Just the two of us. Homies hanging. Two gal pals shooting the shit. Not literally, of course. No. I have tried this and the mess is indescribable.
Paige is the sixth human I have befriended, following in the footsteps of Becca Shaughnessy, the Ramirez twins, soccer teamates Wanda and Ramona, and vampire expert and all round freakshow Mad Ellie. She is possibly the smartest and most ambitious of them all: a straight A student who dreams of attending a top college and becoming an investigative journalist. Yet she shares with the others certain insecurities, mostly pertaining to body image and how she is perceived by her peers.
"When do feet stop growing?" she asks, seated beside the pool and dangling her legs in the water.
"I don't know," I confess. It is not a question I have ever been asked before and can find no match on my database.
"I've just gone up a size. I'm now a ten. Can you believe it? I hope they stop growing soon. Anything over twelve and I'll be shopping for big old clown shoes." She raises her legs out of the water, sighs, and lowers them again. "What size are you?"
"Six."
"So lucky. Sookie's a three. A three! She's got doll feet. I haven't been a three since kindergarten."
Snowy ambles by, heading for his usual daytime nap spot in the shade cast by the diving board.
"Hey, Snowy. Hey, boy." Paige slaps her thighs to attract his attention. "Gonna go in the pool? C'mon, boy, show Aunty Paige how well you can swim."
"Snowy doesn't swim," I tell her.
"C'mon, every dog loves to swim."
"Not Snowy." I explain about his brush with death by ingesting too much pool water laced with chemicals.
"That's terrible! Poor doggie! Hey - maybe there's a story in it. 'Heartless Chemical Companies Endanger Beloved Pets.' They can't be allowed to get away with something like that."
"There's a warning printed on the chemical bottles about the dangers of ingesting treated pool water."
"Oh. So much for my big expose. No Pulitzer for Paige. Still, I've got other irons in the fire. Did you hear about that double murder a block from here?"
"Two blocks," I correct. I'm a stickler for the facts.
"Yeah, well, there's some stuff didn't make the press. The murderer was a woman. Can you believe that? I mean, I've heard of PMS but that's taking it a bit far. And one of the men was like this huge bodybuilder. She must have been really tough. I sure hope Gina Carano has a good alibi."
Gina Carano is a female cage fighter turned actress. She's big and strong and capabable of kicking ass. I could take her. With one hand tied behind my back. With both hands tied behind my back.
"How do you know this?"
"I've been cosying up to one of the guy's on the crime desk."
"Cosying up?"
"Yeah. You know, flick my hair, laugh at his dumb jokes when I serve him coffee, shit like that. You'd be surprised what these middle aged guys will let slip if they think they've got a chance of nailing a teenager."
"How do the police know the killer was a woman?"
"They've got a witness. Apparently he even spoke to her. Lucky escape, if you ask me."
A witness. So the spyhole showed more than I anticipated. One of the poker players gave me up, revenge perhaps for cleaning him out. Taking their money obviously wasn't enough. I should have taken their lives as well.
"How advanced is the investigation?"
Paige shrugs. "That's the weird thing. The police aren't investigating. It's been kicked upstairs."
"The FBI?"
"Nope. Even higher. Some kind of special department operating out of Washington. The local cops are off the case and there's a complete information embargo."
Special department operating out of Washington. Complete information embargo.
Creed.
My actions have brought Rubin Creed to within two blocks of the safe house.
I have to inform John...
"You must leave immediately," I tell Paige, pulling her upright.
"Hey, you're hurting me!"
I retrieve her shoes and hand them over. "Here are your big old clown shoes. Leave now."
"But I only just got here!"
"And now you're only just leaving."
-0-
John listens patiently as I tell my story. I start at the beginning: the group of men acting suspiciously, infiltrating their poker game, Big Al's anger at losing all his money, the ambush in the alley, Paige's discovery of Creed's involvement.
"Is that it?"
"Yes. You are angry with me."
"Not angry, no."
"No?"
"Disappointed, is a better word. How long have we been together - six years? Yet after all I've taught you you still went ahead and killed those two men. Why? So what if this guy was a bodybuilder? All you had to do was walk away. He wasn't going to stop you."
"Suppose they had gone to the police?"
"People like that don't go to the police. Under any circumstance. They actively avoid the police. And now you've brought Creed right to our doorstep." He shakes his head and sighs. "I've no choice, I'm gonna have to take this to mom."
Sarah Connor is predictably even more scathing. "You just can't stop killing, can you?" she sneers. "And what the hell were you doing playing poker anyway? You're supposed to be protecting my son."
"Someone has to earn the money to pay the bills."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"The rent. The food bills. Mia's school fees. They all need paying. The diamonds were sold several months ago. I don't you see working."
"Why you little -"
"That's enough. Both of you," John interjects. "What's done is done. We can't be fighting amongst ourselves. Not now."
"You're right. This can wait. I'll fetch Mia from school. Be packed and ready to leave when I get back."
"Wait. We're leaving?"
"John, you said yourself they don't have the manpower to search the city door to door. There are only fifty houses between us and them. They could be coming up the street right this minute."
"Hang on. Let's think how this looks from Creed's perspective. For now all he knows for sure is Cameron killed two men and stole their money."
"Flush beats a set," I insist. I stole nothing.
"Creed will think that's the motive. Money. We're using her to enrich ourselves. Remember what that miltary spook said? The Pentagon thinks we stole the HunterKiller to sell to the chinese. Money again."
"So? They already believe we're murderers. What difference does it make if they think we're thieves as well."
"Suppose we reinforce that prejudice. Stage another robbery somewhere else in the city."
"You're suggesting she crashes another poker game and steal more money?"
"Flush beats a set," I repeat. Why does no one get this?
"Not poker, no. A bank. We rob a bank."
Sarah Connor rolls her eyes and flaps her arms against her sides. "You can't be serious? Rob a bank?"
"We do it in such a way that Creed will know instantly it's us. Then It won't matter about the location. It'll be irrelevent. To Creed it'll seem like we're just exploiting Cameron's - uh - gifts."
"No. It's too risky."
"Just a small bank. No one will get hurt."
"And because it's a small bank the police won't bother trying to stop us?"
"It's just as risky leaving here. We'll all need new IDs. Somewhere else to live. And if they discover this place they'll know about Mia so she won't be able to attend a regular school. She'll have to be home schooled."
"That girl home schooled? It's bad enough getting her to do chores let alone teach her math and history."
John is silent, letting the implications sink in. Sarah Connor looks around the kitchen, her gaze settling on the double doors of the refrigerator that are plastered with pictures Mia has painted or drawn and held in place by small magnets. These crudely rendered artworks mostly depict Snowy, though there are several of John, two of me, and even one of Sarah Connor.
Like it or not, this is more than a house. It is a home. Our home.
"Do you have a plan?" mother asks son almost wistfully.
"Not quite. Give me time. I'll think of something."
"You have until three o'clock to convince me. If I don't like what I hear we pick up Mia and leave. No arguments. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"And you're grounded," she says pointing at me. "No more poker. No more patrols. You don't leave the house without my permission."
Grounded. At my age. How humiliating!
-0-
John goes to work on the plan, alternating between studying a large map of the city and his laptop computer. At one point he looks up and asks me a question. When I answer in the affirmative he smiles and nods, seemingly pleased by my reply. It's funny how pleased boys are when a girl says yes.
At three o'clock Sarah Connor enters the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest. "Time's up. What d'you have?"
John points to the map spread across the kitchen table. "Our target is the First National Bank of Long Beach. It's a half mile from the coast. More importantly the nearest police precinct house is here, the other side of downtown. If the bank's alarms are tripped it's about a six minute response time."
"That's not long to get in and out."
"No. But if a traffic jam blocks the city centre I figure response time becomes more like twenty or thirty minutes."
"So what do we do - hang around Long Beach until there's a suitable traffic jam?"
"Or we make our own. Traffic management in Long Beach, and the whole of LA come to that, is controlled by computers. Basically algorithms designed to make the traffic flow as smoothly as possible. I can hack the system and Cameron can design malware we can install to do our bidding. Malware is-"
"I know what malware is, John. I'm not that old." She stares at me as if daring me to say contrary. I keep my mouth shut. I'm in enough trouble as it is.
"Right. Well, we show up at the bank, trigger the malware, and basically Long Beach becomes one huge carpark."
"And how are we supposed to make our getaway?"
John explains.
"You really think that'll work?"
"It's the last place they'll think to look. And remember the police will have their hands full dealing with the traffic."
"When do you want to do this?"
"Tomorrow. Bank opens at nine."
"That soon?"
"Like you said, if Creed starts going door to door then he'll find us sooner rather than later."
"And Mia? What do we do about her?"
"Sleepover at Megan's. Her folks seem fairly liberal so I don't think they'll object. Or ask too many questions."
Sarah Connor is silent, thoughtful, pondering the pros and cons. Finally she nods, giving her consent.
We are about to add bank robbery to our list of crimes.
-0-
Mia is curiously subdued when told she will sleepover at her friend's house tonight.
"What's the matter, munchkin?" John wants to know. "You and Megan are still friends, yeah? You two didn't fall out, did you?"
"No, we're still friends."
"Then why the long face?"
"How come it's tonight? School's tomorrow. I'm normally not even allowed to stay up late."
"We've got to be somewhere real early and there won't be anyone here to drive you to school."
"Why? What's going on?"
"We have business to take care of, that's all. We'll be back in time to pick you up."
"What kind of business?"
"Just grown up stuff. Nothing to worry about."
"Does it have anything to do with Cameron going out every night?"
"In a way."
"Are you ever going to tell me what's going on?"
John smiles sadly. "Sure. One day."
"Why not now?"
"Because we want you to have as normal a childhood as possible. Believe me, I've been in your shoes. It's better this way. So...are we cool?"
"I guess." She brightens up. "C'mon, Snowy. Let's go pack." The two head upstairs. " Hey - maybe Megan's sister will show us her bald beaver!"
snowy love bald beavers!
"Don't we all," John smirks when I interpret Snowy's barks.
Now what does that mean?
TUESDAY
Morning. With Mia and Snowy absent the house is strangely quiet. It is odd how the two smallest individuals make the majority of the noise.
We head south, taking the freeway to Long Beach where we park the Suburban in a lot beside the beach. We hike the half mile inland to the First National Bank of Long Beach. This will also be our escape route so I memorise any potential ambush sites and calculate which street corners provide the best kill zones should we need to defend our retreat. It's best to be prepared.
The bank stands alone in its own parking lot, a large square building empty at this time of the morning. I know every inch of the interior. The architect's blueprints weren't hard to find online and easier still to commit to memory.
A diner stands across the street from the bank, offering a perfect vantage point from its plate glass windows. We enter, select a window booth, and order three breakfasts.
"Should I trigger the virus?" I ask John, placing a cellphone on the table between us.
"Not yet. I don't want to risk the bank employees getting stuck in traffic. We need a witness, remember."
A waitress brings our meals. For once I am not the only one without an appetite. Neither Connor eats much or their meal. Tension. Though we have gone over the plan a dozen times there are always variables, events beyond our control that we will have to adjust to on the fly. No plan survives contact with the enemy.
At 8.30, a silver Mercedes coupe enters the bank's parking lot, stopping in the designated employee zone right next to the building. A black woman gets out, conservatively dressed in grey business suit, white blouse and dark court shoes. Her name is Emilia Clarke, the bank's manager. An internet trawl revealed she is 39 years old and married with a small daughter. She joined First National straight from college and worked her way up from teller to branch manager. Oh - and she likes fine wines, Marvin Gaye, and romantic walks in the moonlight. How she feels about being robbed at gunpoint isn't listed. I'm thinking probably a downer.
At 8.35, two more employees arrive, a man and a woman.
At 8.45, two more, both women.
"Five inside," John whispers as we watch from the diner. "No security guard. Okay, you can launch the virus."
I do so.
"How long until it takes effect?"
"Not long."
We wait. Fifteen minutes pass.
"Nine o'clock. Everyone ready?"
We reply in the affirmative. Sarah Connor drops some bills on the table as a tip and we stand to leave. A waitress heads over, notices our uneaten meals and says, "Is everything okay? You barely touched your food."
"Everything's fine. We...didn't really feel like eating."
"Are you sick? You didn't use the rest room, did you?"
Sarah Connor smiles knowingly; she was a waitress once herself. "No. You don't have to worry. There's nothing for you to clean up. I used to hate that too. We're just feeling a little stressed out."
"Big job interview," John lies smoothly.
"Oh. Right. Well, good luck."
"Thanks."
"I'm told it helps if you imagine the boss in his underwear."
Job interviews are conducted in nothing but underwear? Oh my. No wonder there is so much unemployment in the country.
-0-
We exit the diner and walk out into the street. Across the way the bank is open for business. Abruptly John holds up his hand and we stop walking. "What is it?" his mother asks anxiously.
"Can you hear it?"
We listen. From far away yet seemingly everywhere comes a single discordant note, like the world's worst orchestra all trying to tune their instruments at the same time. It is the sound of hundreds if not thousands of car horns blaring simultaneously. Irate motorists giving vent to their frustration at being trapped in vehicles designed for speed and mobility that are now utterly stationary, going nowhere fast, hemmed in by other vehicles just as helpless and useless as their own.
Our plan is working. My malware is working. There can be absolutely no doubt about it.
I am giving everyone the horn.
-0-
To be continued...
It's like those people who raise tiger cubs. They're like - 'ooh, he's just a big softie.' Then one day the big softie claws their face off. You can take the animal out of the wild but not the wild out of the animal. Ditto Terminators designed to infiltrate and destroy.
Emilia Clarke. The name of the (Brit) actress to play Sarah Connor in the next Terminator film. You see what I did there?
Next: Maggie Thatcher makes a comeback. Richard Nixon still insists he's not a crook. And Cameron finds herself pregnant.
All together now...WTF?