The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
WEDNESDAY
John and I are counting the money from the bank robbery. We separate it into correct denominations - 20s, 50s, 100s - and arrange the money in neat stacks on the kitchen table, which now resembles the topgraphy of a miniature Manhatten Island with bills representing the skyscrapers.
Sarah Connor walks in with a cup of coffee in each hand. She gives one to her son and keeps the other for herself. There is nothing for me. Not even a refreshing cup of WD40. How inconsiderate.
"This is it. Our illgotten gains. What I believe is called 'the swag'."
"How much is there?"
"Care to hazard a guess?"
"Twenty thousand?"
"Not even ballpark. I'll pass it over to the other team for an extra bonus prize..."
"Eightysix thousand five hundred forty dollars," I declare confidently.
"Is the correct answer! We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen."
"What's my bonus prize?" I ask.
"A pat on the butt."
I love my prize!
"Not bad for a first time."
"For the only time," his mother amends.
"Come on, you can't deny it was a major rush taking down a bank."
"I'm just relieved we didn't get arrested and no one got hurt."
"Except the security goon you punched in the face."
"It was for his own good."
"Right. Because a punch in the face a day keeps the doctor away."
John appears to be in a very good mood. Possibly it is the sudden acquisition of a large sum of money. Or possibly because he just patted me on the butt. I do have a particulary awesome ass. Yes, I'm sure this is the explanation.
"Of course, the eightysix grand doesn't include the jewelry. That's probably worth a lot more."
"We're not keeping the jewelry."
"We're not?"
"We're not common thieves, John. The bank is insured for the money so no one loses out. The jewelry is people's family heirlooms. We wait a few days then post it back anonymously."
"i guess you're right. It'd be tough to fence anyway."
"Box the money and place it under my bed."
"Why your bed?"
"Because I won't be tempted to fritter it away on motorbikes or big screen TVs we don't need."
"Can we at least buy a new toaster? The old one's on the fritz."
"Fine. Take a twenty."
Kerching!
THURSDAY
The robbery is reported in all newspapers and broadcast media. We are described as 'opportunistic thieves who took advantage of the traffic chaos to steal a large sum of money and make a clean getaway.' None of the journalists make the quantum leap between taking advantage of something and causing it.
The traffic chaos supersedes all other stories. At one point over half of Los Angeles was affected. There were 37 arrests, mostly assault charges as stranded motorists vented their frustrations on each other. A pregnant woman enroute to hospital found herself giving birth in the back of a HumVee since no ambulance could reach her. Interviewed by TV she states she will name her newly born daughter Hummer as a permanant reminder of the occasion. "That'll make her popular in high school," Sarah Connor smirks. I don't see how exactly and she doesn't elucidate.
Events take a darker tone when the reason for the traffic jam is discussed. Several right wing commentators state that because the event came and went so abruptly it could only have been caused by a deliberate cyberwarfare attack on the technology infrastructure of this country. China is accused of being the source of the cyber attack, which is refuted by the Beijing government. The chinese get the blame for everything. Perhaps I should change my name to Cameron Wang?
The cost to the national economy through lost productivity and other factors is estimated at one billion dollars.
One. Billion. Dollars.
John says it makes the eightysix grand look like a drop in the ocean.
-0-
Of Rubin Creed there is no sign. John is absolutely convinced he will know we are behind the whole thing. His mother less so. She remains tense, with a packed bag kept nearby at all times for the moment she fears will arrive when Creed and his minions break down the door.
"Mom, I'm telling you. He knows it's us. The bank manager will have told him what Cameron did to the vault door."
"Suppose she didn't, John. What if she decided no one would believe her and kept quiet."
"Fine. I'll prove it."
He picks up one of the prepaid cells we use and taps in a number.
"Hello?"
"Emilia Clarke?"
"Speaking. Who is this?"
"Hank Malloy, Ms Clarke. LA Times crime desk. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?" he says in a gruff drawl very unlike his own voice.
"I already gave a statement to you people."
"I know you did, Ms Clarke. And we appreciate it really we do. I've just got a couple of follow up questions. Won't take a moment of your time."
"Very well. Quickly, please. I'm very busy."
"Thank you. Now, you said there were three bank robbers - correct?"
"Yes. A man and two women. I got the impression the man was the leader. They all wore masks."
"Uh huh. We're hearing rumors that one of the robbers exhibited extraordinary super strength. Would you care to comment?"
Silence.
"Ms Clarke? Are you there?"
"I can't talk about...I was told not to..."
"Did someone tell you not to talk about what you saw?"
"Yes. No. Look, I have to go."
"One last question. Have you ever heard the name Rubin Creed?"
Silence.
"Thank you, Ms Clarke. You've been very helpful. Enjoy the rest of the day."
John ends the call. Even Sarah Connor has to admit this sounds like a woman badly intimidated by someone we know all too well.
"Who is Hank Malloy?" I ask.
"Hank Malloy, little lady. Ace crime reporter," John replies playfully in the same gruff drawl. "I seek out the truth in this city of lies. What say you and me split this joint and head downtown? I'll buy you a whisky sour and we'll share some rough shag."
Rough shag? Sounds promising.
SATURDAY
John has given me an important mission.
I am to befriend Paige Bartlett and ascertain via her media connections the progress of the police investigation into the double homicide.
It sounds straightforward enough. Easy-peasy for an advanced model terminator such as myself designed to infiltrate human communities. However, human emotions are likely to complicate matters. Not mine, of course. As Sarah Connor regularly points out, not all together kindly, I have the emotional range of a trashcan.
The last time we met I forcibly ejected Paige from the house. This probably hurt her feelings and she will be disinclined to hang with this particular homey.
Fortunately, John has a possible solution and I waste no time in trying it out.
"I don't know. You were pretty mean to me last time," Paige replies when I call her on the phone and suggest we hang.
"PMS," I explain.
"You practically frogmarched me out the door. That wasn't very friendly."
"PMS."
"And I've still got the bruises from where you manhandled me."
"PMS."
"Yeah? Well...I guess I get a little cranky at that time of the month. Okay, you're forgiven. Come on over to my place and we'll hang."
Mission accomplished! John's solution worked like a charm. Now only one question remains unanswered.
What on earth is PMS?
-0-
I walk the short distance to the Bartlett residence and knock on the door. From within, Paige yells, "It's open!"
I enter the house. Again Paige yells, "I'm upstairs! C'mon up!"
I climb the stairs. The house smells like flowers and sure enough on a table on the landing is a vase of scented white ones. Gardenias, my database informs me. Our house seldom smells of flowers. Mostly it smells of wet dog (Snowy) or burnt food (Sarah Connor). On the whole I think I prefer flowers.
I enter Paige's room and find her lying on the bed in shorts and a grey tee. Her head is propped on the pillow while she balances a MacBook on her stomach. The screen shows her boyfriend Spencer. They are using FaceTime.
"Cameron just walked in."
"Yeah? Let me see."
Paige tilts the laptop slightly so the camera picks me up.
"Hey, Cameron."
"Spencer."
"Looking go-oo-od!"
"Thank yo-oo-ou."
"So, we still on for tonight?"
"I said I'd go, didn't I? Although if Daddy finds out I'll be grounded for a month."
"Worth the risk. Is Sookie bringing Marcus?"
"No, they split up. She's with Chad now."
"The USC jock? Aw, man, that guy's a jerk!"
"Yeah, well, he's also a rich jerk who drives a Porsche and has his own apartment. And according to Sooks, is like a Duracell bunny between the sheets."
Paige winks at me as she says this. I wink back. For once I know what she means. Duracell bunnies are pink and fuzzy. Therefore this Chad must be pink and fuzzy. What a strange person he must be.
"I heard Chad only dates girls who are celebrity that girl who looked like Jessica Biel?"
"That's right. He thinks Sookie looks like a young Lucy Lui."
"They all do. Let's face it, all asian chicks look pretty much alike."
"Oh. My. God. Racist much?"
" Think about it. Short. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tiny boobs. Teeny tiny feet."
"Oh she's got those. Lucky cow. Where d'you think Sookie's from anyway?"
"China? Japan? Hong Kong?"
"Try Burma. Her folks came here when she was two. She's Burmese."
"A Burmese babe. How about that."
"I've gotta go. Bye, Spencer."
"Wait - promise me if you and Cameron get the urge to pillow fight in your underwear you'll tape it so I can watch it later."
"Bye, Spencer."
Paige shuts the MacBook's lid with a firm click.
"Are we having a pillow fight in our underwear?" I inquire.
"Duh!" She stands up. "Back in a sec. Gotta go tinkle."
"Tinkle?"
"Make pee-pee."
"Oh."
While Paige is absent 'making pee-pee', I use the opportunity to explore my surroundings.
The room is large, more so than any bedroom back in the safehouse. A clothes closet runs the entire length of one wall. Under the window is a desk cluttered with laptop, tablet, printer, fax machine and iPod. All the paraphenalia a teenage girl requires to survive in this modern day and age.
A wall shelf holds a number of CDs. I scan the artists. Elliot Smith. Veronica Falls. Vampire Weekend. The Breeders. No Chumbawumba? Bummer. I get knocked down. And get up again. Nothing's gonna keep me down. Classic.
Another shelf holds DVD boxsets. Castle. The West Wing. Gray's Anatomy. Pretty Little Liars. No 'Horny Nuns Do Anal'? Double bummer. I'd like to watch that. These nuns sound so funlovin'.
The windows have blinds instead of drapes; tiny wooden louvres that open and close by pulling a cord. I do so. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.
"Plantation shutters."
I turn around to see Paige has returned. "Excuse me?"
"They're called Plantation shutters. All the windows have them. We can't take any credit; they were here when we moved in."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Five years. We moved from the Valley when Daddy opened his practice. The commute was a killer."
By Valley I presume she means San Fernando and not Napa or any of the other valleys in the state. People can be so imprecise in their speech, so very unlike machines. I have learned not to question every small detail. No one likes a numbnuts.
"This used to be the main guest bedroom. I was down the hall. I persuaded Daddy to let me switch."
"Why?"
"The closet's twice the size. And my old one was about to explode."
An exploding closet? Oh my. That's one weapon Skynet never envisaged.
"I'm a bit of a clothesaholic. Check it out."
She opens the closet doors. Never have I seen so many clothes and shoes outside of a Mall.
"I know, right," Paige grins. "Every month Sookie and I do a trawl of all the thrift shops and flea markets in Hollywood. She's worse than me because more stuff fits her."
"Because she has doll feet?"
"Right. She can still shop at Baby Gap, for goodness sake." She picks up a pair of spangly high heeled shoes. "Louboutins. I'm in mourning for these."
"Did they...die?"
"They're dead to me. Size eight. I'm a ten. You do the math."
I do the math. They no longer fit. Dead shoes. Who'd have thought it?
"Check this out."
Paige closes the bedroom door. Attached to the back is a corkboard. Pinned to it are articles about the double homicide. Exactly what I came here for.
"Neat, huh? Imagine if I could solve the crime all by my lonesome. I bet that would swing a really good college. Maybe Harvard."
"Is there any news?"
"I managed to find out the name of the witness. Guy called Joseph Lisicki. Lives in Inglewood. I've been calling his number but he won't pick up."
Joseph Lisicki.
Diamond Joe? It must be. Yet he seemed so friendly. Perhaps he bore a grudge because I took all his money. Don't you just hate a sore loser?
"Hey - I was thinking of going over and checking out the crime scene. Want to come with?"
The crime scene. Is this a good idea? I wonder.
"Don't worry, there won't be any cops there," Paige says sensing my hestitation. "Come on. You're not a wuss, are you?"
I am many things. A wuss is not one of them.
"Great. Let me get changed first."
She strips off her shorts and tee, rummaging in the closet dressed only in bra and thong. I can't help notice her boobs are bigger than mine. Much bigger. It is fortunate we didn't pillow fight in our underwear since she would have effectively had three pillows to my one. Of course, I could even things up by snapping her neck. Or is this against the rules? I don't know. I have never seen a pillow fight, not even on ESPN.
-0-
We walk the two blocks to the crime scene. Paige has changed into an outfit similar to mine: skinny jeans and halter top. It's a bright day and we both wear sunglasses.
Paige chatters nonstop as we walk, about anything and everything. Like Snowy she is a bit of a blabbermouth. At least she doesn't urinate on every passing tree trunk. This is a blessing.
"See? Told you no cops."
The alley is indeed deserted. Three strands of yellow tape are stretched across the entrance.
POLICE CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS
Paige ignores the warning and ducks underneath. "Come on. We won't be long."
The noon day sun is high overhead, banishing the dark shadows of my previous visit. Also absent is any trace of the crime. All the blood and gore is gone.
"They have special people to clean up all that stuff. I saw a movie about it once," Paige explains. She uses her cellphone to snap a few pictures of the bare walls that were once decorated with Big Al's brain matter.
We approach the door. Paige gives it a shove and to both our surprise it opens.
"Oh wow. Lucky break."
The abandoned video store is much as I left it, except the table and chairs are gone.
"Hey, look at this!"
Paige points to the light switch. There is white powder on it, as if sprinkled with icing sugar. Surely no one's that hungry?
"Fingerprint dust. Maybe the killer touched it and they've got her prints."
"No, she didn't."
"How d'you know?"
Oops!
I cover my tracks by suggesting the killer wouldn't have been that careless.
"Left a witness, didn't she?"
Tell me about it...
She snaps a picture then walks the empty aisles between the dusty shelves. "I remember this place. We used to rent stuff here before Netflix came along. One time Daddy got mad because I rented Lion King three times in a row."
Suddenly the store grows dark. Something is blocking the light from entering.
Or someone.
A large policeman stands in the doorway, his muscular bulk creating the gloom.
"You two girls are under arrest," he growls.
He reaches for his gun.
-0-
PMS stands for pre-menstrual syndrome.
Sunshine Cleaning is the movie about crime scene cleaners.
Rough shag is a coarse grade of rolling tobacco. I'm sure you didn't think it was anything else...
Note Paige's impeccable taste in music. Not every girl is a Belieber.