The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

(subprime version)

SUNDAY CONT.

I wrench the wheel hard left, arrowing towards the off ramp, leaving consternation in our wake as the following motorists swerve and brake to avoid a collision. Oops, sorry, peeps, terminator in a hurry. Make room. Make room.

"What is it? What's going on?"

The violent change of direction causes Daniel's head to slap against the side window instantly waking him up.

I offer a brief precis of the situation. He seems perturbed, even angry.

"It's not even seven yet! You said Frank wouldn't be discovered until eight minutes past seven."

"This isn't to do with Frank. The BMW must be reported stolen. It's likely it has some kind of tracking device installed."

"You mean it's lo-jacked? Why didn't you check before you stole it?"

"Such devices aren't conspicuous. Plus there was no time. And I didn't bring a spanner."

"Please. You could dismantle this thing with your bare hands."

He knows me so well.

"So what do we do now? Call Uber?"

"Dump this vehicle and steal another. Uber is our backup option."

"Seriously? I was joking."

"So was I."

Bazinga.

I bring the BMW to a halt under a bridge, just in time to see a helicopter fly low overhead following the Interstate. This is called in the nick of time. I'm not sure who Nick is. Somebody who sells clocks possibly?

We grab our gear and move away on foot. The time is 6:45AM. In Seattle, Mr Henderson will be in the laundry room waiting for the rinse cycle to end and wondering where his friend Frank is. Once discovered it won't take them long to connect our reappearance with a vehicle stolen at almost the same time from the apartment building opposite. This is called putting two and two together. The answer's four, by the way. If you're wondering.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Oakland."

"Near San Franciso? This doesn't look like the Bay area to me. It looks like a dump."

He's right. I have seen more salubrious areas. We appear to have alighted in an industrial wasteland. Abandoned warehouses line the street, secure behind high chainlink fences topped by razorwire. There are no people visible. Fine by me. And no vehicles. Considerably less so.

"Looks at the walls. The graffiti. I think those are gang markings."

"So?"

"So we're carrying all our worldly possessions. And those guys are seriously bad hombres."

Bad hombres,huh.

Wait till they get a load of me.

We jog to the end of the street which leads to ... more streets.

"Let's pick up the pace."

"Easy for you to say you don't have lungs."

At the end of street we turn right and are rewarded with the sight of a solitary vehicle, parked neatly against the kerb.

"There. Quickly."

"Seriously? We're gonna steal that?"

"What's wrong?"

"Just look at it."

I do. It's a Camaro painted gold that's had some major bodywork done. The suspension's been jacked up to accomodate huge slick tires that give the appearence of a dragster. The wheel arches are widened and flared and the engine bulge on the hood is positively phallic. To cap it off the windows are black and completely opaque. The overall look is as if Batman decided to pimp out the Batmobile with some serious bling.

"It has wheels and an engine. It will suffice."

I stop beside the driver's door and wrench it open. To my surprise the vehicle is occupied. A large black man is sat behind the wheel caught in the act of consuming a large cheeseburger. He is equally surprised to see me, even more so when I drag him from his seat, round to the back of the automobile and stuff him in the trunk.

I get behind the wheel and close the door. Daniel is more circumspect, hovering nervously in the street.

I roll down the window. "Come with me if you want to live."

Always fun to use my catchphrase!

Danel reluctantly climbs in.

From the rear the vehicle's owner is making his feelings known about his sudden abrupt change of circumstance. He is not best pleased.

"Are we taking him with us?" Daniel asks.

"We have no choice. If we leave him he will call the police and report his automobile stolen. We will be back at square one."

From behind, sudden silence.

Good. Perhaps he has resigned himself to his fate, that of unexpected cargo.

BLAM!
BLAM!

Gunshots. I feel one bullet embed itself in the back of my seat. The second makes a neat hole in the roof. I can see daylight through it. That will not help the resell value. Prospective buyers are notoriously picky about cosmetic damage, especially bullet holes. One careful owner, my ass.

Daniel jerks open the passenger door and dashes to the other side of the road. An impressive turn of speed for one who was recently complained he was tired.

I exit the vehicle myself and head to the rear. A noisy passenger is one thing. A passenger with a loaded weapon he's prepared to discharge quite another.

I pop the trunk. The man blinks owlishly at the sudden transition from darkness to daylight. Then he brings his pistol to bear, holding it in both hands like they do on TV shows. He pulls the trigger.

BLAM!

At point blank range he can hardly miss. My favourite top is ruined, to say nothing of the damage done to my pseudo-flesh. Honestly, it's a terrible thing when you can't just steal a person's automobile, stuff them in the trunk and drive away without being shot for your trouble. The world's gone mad!

I bat the gun away before he can get off another shot. Hello, tops cost money.

"I'll kill you, you bitch!"

He comes at me with his bare hands, as if to strangle me. Oh please, get real.

I give him a shove. A firm shove. His head hits the steel bulkhead and his body goes limp. That's more like it.

I conduct a body search by hand for concealed weapons, a task made harder by his sheer bulk. This man has more folds of fat then a litter of Sharpei puppies.

I find another pistol in an ankle holster. A switchblade and a pair of knuckledusters in a pants pocket. Perhaps he's a member of one of the gangs Daniel is so nervous of.

Back behind the wheel I start the engine and put the Camaro in Drive.

Daniel is still not among those present, loitering at the opposite side of the street like some kind of bum.

I lean out the window.

"Come with me if you want to live."

Twice in one day! Just wait till I tell Cameron prime.

"Is he dead?" Daniel asks as he joins me.

"I don't know. It's not important."

"Uh, I think it is to him."

"What I mean is, he's no longer armed and can't open the trunk from the inside. His options are severely limited."

"So we're taking him along for the ride?"

"Correct."

I make a U-turn and head towards the freeway ramp. According to the dashboard dials the Camaro has almost a full tank of gas. Excellent.

"We're going back on the Interstate?"

"It's the quickest route."

"Aren't the cops looking for us?"

"They're looking for a stolen BMW not a Camaro."

"This vehicle's pretty conspicuous."

"Conspicuous but not suspicious. Plus the windows are opaque. I consider the odds of detection to be considerably in our favor."

The Camaro growls its way up the ramp and slots seamlessly into the traffic flow. The outsize tires make the ride a little bumpier than the BMW, but no biggie.

Daniel blows out his cheeks. "It's been quite a day, hasn't it?"

"Somewhat out of the ordinary."

"I planned to spend Sunday catching up on Tivo."

"America's Top Model?"

"No! Listen, I hardly ever watch that show."

"Then why is Tivo programmed to record every episode?"

"I think it's a leftover from Krissie's time. She loved that show not me."

A likely story...

Daniel glances across at me. "Shit, you've been shot."

"I'm aware of that fact." I take a hand off the steering wheel and lift my top. "Count my boobs."

"Uh - you want me to...what now?"

"Count my boobs."

"O-kay. One...Two."

"They're both there?"

"Oh yeah..."

"Sometimes they get shot off and I have to regrow them."

"They regrow? Can they - uh - grow bigger?"

"No. My bodyshape is based on the resistance soldier, Allison Young. She was a petite girl," I add ruefully.

"Pity. Er - that she had to die, I mean. I presume she's dead?"

"Yes. After torture."

Ah, sweet Allison. Such a feisty deceitful bitch. The bracelet...

"Only a T-1000 model terminator can assume any bodyshape," I explain.

"Really? So this T-1000 - it could have the top half of, say, Kelly Brook. And the bottom half of Elle MacPherson?"

"In theory, yes."

Daniel falls silent. His eyes assume a faraway look. Perhaps he is imagining how ferocious a T-1000 can be."

"They're very hard to nail."

"What? I wasn't thinking that!"

"John spilt hot liquid over one."

"Ha! I bet he did, the dirty dog."

"They just keep coming."

More cackling laughter. He doesn't appear to be taking the threat seriously.

"A T-1000 is a formidable opponent," I scald."Virtually impossible to stop by conventional means."

"Right right. Sorry. So...are there many T-1000 models in the future?"

"No. They are very rare. It was designed in the latter days of the war and the production facility was overrun before Skynet could manufacture the model in great numbers."

"Bit like the jet fighter in the second world war. If the Nazis had had jets during the Battle of Britain they'd have wiped out the RAF and probably won the war."

We drive on in silence. History often turns on such events.

"What's gonna happen when we get to LA?"

"The Connors will provide you with accomodation until new fake documents can be obtained."

"What about you? Think they'll bury you in the desert again?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I won't let them. I'll say I need you with me as my minder."

"Babysitter."

"What?"

"John describes me as your babysitter."

"Why that little...Okay, fine. Babysitter if it stops you being buried in the desert. It's a waste."

"As you wish."

"I mean, if it wasn't for you I'd be in federal custody around now, probably staring at twenty to life."

"And I would be in a government lab about to self-destruct."

"You can self-destruct?"

"Of course. It's a simple software hack, not part of the original OS."

"I hope you give me a heads up if you ever do it."

"If possible, I will. You'll need at least a quarter mile of distance between us."

"Wow. That must be something to see."

What can I say, I go off with a bang. A very big bang.

-0-

Noon. Southbound on Interstate 5. Daniel is fidgeting.

"I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since yesterday. Man, I which I wish I'd brought some food with me. I only did a grocery shop Saturday. That's ninety dollars down the toilet."

"Isn't that where they usually end up?"

"Not before I've masticated the hell out of them. And I bought bacon flavour tattertots."

"Why would anyone make potatoes taste like bacon? Why not just eat bacon."

"Because sometimes only tattertots will do."

"Do they sell bacon that tastes like potatoes?"

"Of course not. That'd be crazy."

I open a subfolder and insert this fresh data.

Potatoes that taste of bacon = sane

Bacon that tastes of potatoes = insane

"This guy's gotta have something to eat in here. Did you see the size of him? Now there's a man who loves his tattertots."

Daniel manages to pry open the glovebox. Several small plastic sachets cascade out.

"Holy shit, look at this. It's stuffed with these things."

"What is it - sugar?"

"I don't think so. I think it's dope."

"Sugar can be dope. If you have a sweet tooth."

"Not dope dope, you dope. Drugs. It's either cocaine or heroin. This guy must be a drug dealer."

"It would certainly explain why he was so well armed."

I make a tear in one of the sachets and transfer a little bit of white powder on to my finger. I insert the finger in my nose and sniff.

"Oh. My. God. Did you just snort drugs?"

"Cocaine," I confirm as sensors scroll the data down my HUD. "Good quality. Very little bulking agent."

"Are you high right now?"

"High? Oh you mean intoxicated. No, cyborgs aren't affected by drugs. We have no bloodstream to contaminate. No nasal linings to destroy. No-"

"Okay okay. I getit. Drugs are bad for you." He rummages deeper in the glovebox. "Aha, found something."

He shows me an unopened packet of Oreos.

"You don't suppose these are laced with drugs, do you, like LSD?"

"Do they sell LSD-flavored Oreos? It seems the FDA might object."

"If this guy's a drug dealer then maybe he has customers with particular tastes - like folk who eat hash-brownies instead of smoking joints. I don't wanna eat them and start acting weird."

"Define weird. Much of what humans do strikes me as weird."

"Like I suddenly see floating pink elephants. Or believing I know the secrets of the universe."

Secrets of the universe? That sounds like something worth knowing.

I break off a piece of oreo and pop it in my mouth. Sensors again get to work analysing. No pink elephants are apparent. Or secrets of the universe. Bummer. Just a scrolling list of ingredients.

"There are no drugs present. However, the ratio of refined sugar and processed carbohydrates is quite high," I caution. "Excess consumption might entail a long term risk of developing type-2 diabetes."

"Screw long term. I'm fine with the short term sugar buzz." He stuffs two oreos in his mouth. "Hmm, delicious. You can really taste the e-numbers."

Daniel consumes the whole packet in minutes, then lifts the hem of his tee shirt to hoover up stray crumbs with his mouth. Fine dining this isn't.

He again delves deep in the glovebox.

"Aha, I knew I'd find this. Tums. A guy that big's gotta have digestive problems."

Daniel palms two tablets and dry swallows. Tums are basically calcium carbonate - chalk - disguised with artificial fruit flavoring and given a high mark up in price. They are used to neutralise excess stomach acid. Another reminder that humans are mere skinbags of fermenting chemicals. Again, ewww!

"Too bad there's nothing to wash it down with. Would it kill this guy to keep some Diet Coke handy?"

"I could drain some colant from the radiator for you to drink."

"I'll pass, thanks."

Lemme hear you say. Fight the power.

"What the hell's that?"

"Rap music. I believe it's Fight the Power by Public Enemy."

Lemme hear you say. Fight the power

"It's a ringtone. There must be a cellphone somewhere..."

He searches under the seat and finds an iphone, blinged out with a fake-diamond encrusted vinyl skin.

"The fat guy must've dropped it when you dragged him out."

"Yo, Sweet Dee, where you at, man?"

"Shit, I switched it on!"

"Yo, Dee - that you? Pick up, dog."

"Uh - Sweet Dee isn't here right now. Can I take a message?"

"Who that?"

"This is - uh - Vanilla Dee."

"You tell Sweet Dee Big Al says to get his fat ass down here pronto. Shit's starting to go down, man!"

"Right. Big Al. Fat ass. Pronto. Shit going down. Got it. Hello? He hung up."

I take the phone and drop it out the window.

"What'd you do that for?"

"Cellphones can be tracked."

"Well, yeah. But jeez."

"Why did you call yourself Vanilla Dee?"

"It's mah gangsta name, bitch! Sorry, didn't mean to call you bitch."

"Do I have a gangsta name?"

"Sure. You can be...Juggernaut Jay. Because you're unstoppable."

Unstoppable Juggernaut Jay? I like it.

"So we know this guy's name. Sweet Dee. And he seems to take orders from a Big Al. Shit's going down. I wonder what that means?"

"Perhaps they're holding a toilet party."

Daniel laughs. "A toilet party! Oh man, wouldn't want an invite to one of those!"

Me neither.

-0-

Mid afternoon. Still southbound approaching the Bakersfield turnpike. One hundred-thirteen miles to Los Angeles.

For the past ten minutes a muffled banging has issued from the rear of the Camaro. Sweet Dee. Alive and all too literally kicking. He alternates hammering the bulkhead with heartfelt pleas to be released. When these aren't acknowledged he resorts to threats, dire warnings of what he will do to me once he gets out. These mostly involve violence to my person via the insertion of sharp objects to various orifices. Subtle he isn't.

Beside me, Daniel is asleep once more and oblivious to our reluctant passenger's actions. So are the other motorists around us since road noise blocks out any sound.

This can't last.

Once we leave the freeway and enter Los Angeles proper: narrow suburban streets with stoplights and pedestrians, people will hear him as we drive past or stop at junctions and possibly be motivated to call the police.

This won't do at all.

I take out my cellphone and hit the speed dial. John answers on the third ring. Good. He is alert and reactive.

I keep it short and to the point.

"We have another problem."

THE SECRET DIARY OF CAMERON BAUM

MONDAY

Mid afternoon. The driveway of a house in Calabasas, a suburb of Los Angeles and due north of Topanga State Park.

"They'll be here soon. You ready?"

"Of course."

The house is empty, abandoned by its owners three months ago as they fight a messy divorce battle in the courts to decide who gets legal possession. We heard about its limbo status from Doug Bartlett - the husband is one of his dental patients. With its large driveway shielded from the street by mature trees and shrubs, it is the perfect meeting place if you happen to know someone who has, say, a man locked in the trunk of an automobile and wishes to deal with him in a discreet location.

It doesn't get any more discreet than this.

"Nice here, isn't it? Peaceful."

"Yes. Snowy would enjoy the trees."

Though I doubt the trees would enjoy Snowy.

John is leaning against the Suburban, face tilted upwards to catch the rays of the late Fall sun. It's less than a week to Halloween, that time of the year when normally intelligent americans try to convince themselves ghosts and ghouls actually exist. A few days later a real-life ogre will be elected to the White House, confounding the so-called experts who even at this late stage are confidently predicting the continuation of the liberal status quo.

Hang on to your pussy hats, gentlemen, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.

"That sounds like them now."

The low rumble of a V-8 being throttled back.

"Oh wow, will you look at that!"

It's a Camaro, blinged up to within an inch of its life. The gold paintjob sparkles in the sunshine while the engine bulge on the hood looks like a giant...no, I won't say what. This is a family diary.

The engine is switched off and Daniel and Cameron subprime get out.

"Nice wheels. You guys carjack Elton John?" John quips. He's so witty!

"It's the property of Sweet Dee," Cameron subprime explains. "That's him you can hear in the trunk."

"Doesn't sound too happy."

"Don't blame him," Daniel says. "With his size it's gotta be a tight fit."

"Sweet Dee - that's his name?"

"Yeah. We think he sells drugs for a guy named Big Al. He's got a whole bunch of illegal stuff hidden away."

"Man, you get yourself in some scrapes."

"Hey, this isn't all down to me. I didn't choose this automobile. Or the previous one."

"That was me. My bad," Cameron subprime confesses.

"It's okay. We've dealt with worse. Here, put these masks on. I don't suppose a drug dealer's gonna go crying to police, but we'll take no chances."

We bought the masks earlier. With Halloween so close they're not hard to obtain. President Nixon. Coco the clown. Two Marilyn Monroes. They didn't have any Taylor Swift. Bummer. I'd have enjoyed wearing Taylor's face.

"Hey, why do I have to be the clown?" Daniel demands to know clearly taking offence at what's he given. "Why can't I be Nixon?"

"You'd rather be a crook than a clown?"

"Damn straight. Hand it over."

"Just put the mask on."

"See, there you go bossing me around again. Newsflash. The war hasn't happened yet. You're not a real general."

"Just put the damn mask on. And keep your mouth shut for once and let me do the talking."

John approaches the Camaro and slaps the trunk with his open palm. "Hey, you in there. Listen up. I'm letting you out. I've got a gun so don't do anything stupid."

He pops the lock and takes a step back.

Sweet Dee emerges like some giant grotesque jack in the box. He is quite the largest man I have ever seen and I have lived in America for some time and travelled widely. Who ate all the pies? This guy. And then some.

With an incoherent roar of rage he charges at John, arms outstretched to either hug or strangle.

I don't waste time finding out which. I stick out a leg and over he goes, a pratfall fit to grace any comedy movie.

John bends down and presses his Glock pistol against Sweet Dee's skull, which is clean shaven and really rather delicate compared with the rest of him. "What part of don't do anything stupid didn't you understand? Try it again and I perforate your thick skull."

"Where am I?"

"You're in Los Angeles."

"Who are you people?"

"We work for Mr Snowy. You might say he's the top dog round these parts."

Daniel stifles laughter. Sweet Dee doesn't appear to notice.

"I ain't never heard of no Mr Snowy."

"Maybe not. But he's heard of you. Mr Snowy handles the drug trade in Los Angeles. Your boss Big Al is trying to muscle in on our turf. We don't care much for outsiders."

"Nah huh. We're strictly Bay area, man."

"Maybe Big Al's got ambitions and went behind your back."

"Nah. Al and I go way back. We was in 'Quentin together."

"San Quentin?" Daniel guesses.

"Yeah. Quentin. We tight, man. He's a true brother."

"You calling me a liar?" John presses the Glock's barrel firmly against Sweet Dee's head.

"No, sir. Not me. Swear to Jesus."

"Good. Now you're going to stand up, get back in that lurid excuse for an automobile, and drive home and deliver the news to Big Al. Stay the hell out of LA or suffer the consequences."

"You letting me go?"

"That's right. We don't want a war with you. There's plenty of money in this business for us both if we stick to our own turf."

"What about mah crack? You touch mah crack?"

"Your butt crack?" Daniel hazards.

"No, fool. Mah crack. I gotta pound of rock in the Camaro."

"It's still there. Consider it a sign of Mr Snowy's good faith. Don't go abusing it."

Sweet Dee struggles to his feet and glares at us. He is easily six feet tall yet seems shorter due to his girth. "I shot one of you back in 'Frisco. A girl. Skinny little thing. Strong though. Picked me up like I was nuthin."

"That was me," Cameron answers without rancour. As a rule we don't bear grudges.

"Oh I get it. You was wearing a vest."

"A halter top. Thank you for noticing."

John waves his pistol at the Camaro. Sweet Dee takes the hint and wedges himself behind the wheel. The engine starts up with a deafening bellow until he throttles it back. He leans out the window and declaims truculently, "You tell your Mr Snowy no one tells Big Al and Sweet Dee what to do. You want a war? You got it. Later, mofos."

And with that he is gone. The V-8's signature growl fades with distance until all is silent once more.

We remove our masks. Daniel laughs and says, "Oh man, I almost lost it when you said Snowy's the top dog round these parts!"

"Well, it's kinda true," John grins.

"Wonder what Big Al would say if he knew Mr Snowy was a harmless little dog?"

"Probably that his bark is worse than his bite."

The two men laugh. Cameron subprime and I exchange puzzled looks. Now how exactly is a bark worse than a bite?

-0-

Obviously I don't mean to imply all black men are gun- toting drug dealers. That's absurd. Like believing all englishmen are born cricketers. Ha. As if.

Established the date: October 2016. A year behind because some chapters covered just a day or two.

A toilet party. Do I bring a bottle? Do I fill it myself? What's the etiquette here? (Please no one answer this.)

Next: Mexican border. Gun play. Betrayal. Angry birds...