Life According to Jason™

The Conversation

On the way out, clinging to a stack of papers, Les seemed in a hurry. His face was red with exertion.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He breathlessly shouted over one shoulder:

“Remember that lead I was telling you about? From that thing I couldn’t really tell you about?”

I galloped after him.

“That story,” he blurted. “The really big one.”

“You mean the mysterious business you’re always slipping away to do?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Well, I’m not quite sure what story that is exactly. You never say.”

“It’s big, and it’s going to come to a head real fast. I don’t want to spoil it.”

“Spoil what?”

“The story,” he insisted. “You’ll see…soon.”

He juggled the armful of papers to remove his car keys. What was he up to? It was just possible that Les had no lead, and there was no story. Maybe sealed away in a small corner of his imagination was a lockbox of paranoia bursting with conviction. Each day, randomly, his subconscious would take over. It would lead him to an abandoned processing plant on the other side of Little Vietnam, where papers filled the empty corridors—stacks of papers, heaps of papers, overflowing armfuls of papers—because one also had to validate a mystery with hard proof. And what better way to fake a huge, roiling story than with a huge, roiling collection of notes?

What Les did not realize is I knew more than I let on. One day I’d seen him scampering about with his usual stack of notes. Curious, I followed him outside. Catching the wind, one note slipped away and flittered down the street. He was in such a rush he failed to notice. I tarried after the lost note and retrieved it.

In retrieving the flyaway paper, I noticed an oddity right away. Such was not Les’s note-taking style. He was a vivacious and messy note-taker. He covered his papers from edge to edge with large, obnoxious scrawl, then flipped them over and repeated. Quite possibly, he was incapable of deciphering the script afterward, but he claimed the value was in the writing of the note rather than the reading of it. Which is why it took no time at all to realize this note was different. It was entirely blank. I considered the possibility that all those papers were blank, excepting a few strategically faced decoys.

I discarded the note in the nearest trash receptacle, but something took hold of me. I returned and flipped the paper over. It had not been entirely blank. There was in fact writing on the other side. Just a few lines scratched in the center and underlined. I looked closer, and horror seized me. The writing on the note was mine.

It was my note—one I had written a few weeks prior and had presumed to be lost. But the note alone had been a mild curiosity. Forgotten. Finding it made me wonder. Why had Les taken this note? A plain, simple note? What was the connection? Les had skillfully avoided my inquiries then. And now as he struggled to open his car door in lieu of his latest armload of papers, I hardened up.

“Les,” I said. “We must get to the bottom of something right now. I don’t care how busy you are, or where you need to go.”

He was finally getting into the car:

“I can’t right now, Bren.”

“Les, I don’t care.”

He showed no sign of slowing. The giant had an uncanny stubbornness in such matters.

“Les,” I insisted.

Nothing.

I hooked my arm through the car and unlocked the back door. I then gracefully opened it with the other hand and was comfortably buckled in before the giant could respond. Styrofoam coffee cups and notepads crinkled under my feet.

“Aw, Bren,” Les whined.

“Drive,” I demanded.

Les eyed me in the rearview mirror. A flash of derision passed between us and was gone. He started the engine.

I waited until we had driven to the edge of the neighborhood, then said carefully, pointedly:

“I have some questions to ask you. You will answer them for me one by one. And don’t argue. Just tell me what I want to know.”

“Bren, I really—”

“BECAUSE,” I interjected. “You are my pal, and I would offer you the same knowledge. That’s what real fellows do.”

“Are you sure this is what you want? There’s no turning back once we begin.”

“First question,” I said.

Les made a wide turn onto 37^th.

“Okay. I’ll answer the best I can.”

“Okay,” I confirmed. “What is the relevance of the Drunken Strumpet?”

I watched his eyes in the rearview mirror as they narrowed and became dark with seriousness. He took a left turn.

“Remember McGully?” he finally said. “From the restaurant way back? The really fat Asian guy with the English accent?”

I instantly conjured the image of an overweight behemoth who, shoveling fistfuls of food into his gullet, spoke through a spray of minced edibles. And, yes, the spoken voice that managed to penetrate the early lunch had been unnaturally British.

“Do you remember why I took you to that meeting?”

“No, actually, I don’t think I ever figured that out.”

“Bren, seriously…”

“No, I don’t know why you did that.”

“Well I had many reasons. First of all, I needed a witness. You saw the guy; you can vouch that he is real.”

“Please, Les, no existentialism right now.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. Do you remember what I told you about him?”

“About what? He was crazy and a messy eater.”

“No, Bren, think about it. About who he works for…”

I thought back on that day. The nice southern restaurant. The three plates of food the freak of nature known as “McGully” consumed before our we’d even placed an order. The creepy English accent, when he was a fat Asian. The name: McGully. One wondered at its origin, because it was neither Asian or English in origin. “McGully” was the fabrication of an uninventive mind. A pseudonym.

“Well?” Les urged.

“I remember, Les. How could I forget?”

“And..?”

It was so obvious. Why had I not made the connection before? Then again, no. Couldn’t be. Because it was so obvious.

“Brennan, put the pieces together. You’re a smart kid.”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m thinking Asian Mafia.”

“Yes!” Les blurted. “Asian Mafia.”

I chuckled, “Asian Mafia. No shit. I was partly guessing.”

“You’re a good guesser, my friend.”

Than a pang. “Asian Mafia? Really? There is an Asian Mafia?”

“You bet there is.”

“What – do they go around hoarding all the sushi and creating porn that makes you vomit?”

“Bren, Asian Mafia is a serious business, and it is alive and well in Biloxi. Take heed.”

“I don’t know,” I said, dismissive. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Good. Get your believing hat on, because we’re almost there.”

“Where?” I said. We sat at a stop sign in an empty neighborhood. A car peeled out in the distance. A dog barked and another joined it. Les turned back around in his seat, placed his hands on the steering wheel. He revved the engine, and the car proceeded forward.

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