Man’s dude ranch in California and hanging out on Stone’s movie sets to help with security. He looked like Jack Palance with a crew cut and one ear. The chewed ear had been bitten off by a horse or an ex-wife, I wasn’t sure which.
I motioned to our sidekick, a brawny little black guy named MoJo Baybridge. Mojo had wanted to play pro football, like two of his brothers up in New York; Mojo could kung fu the Gatorade out of an NFL linebacker or shoot an Enquirer photographer out of a pine tree at two hundred yards. Only one problem: he was only five-feet tall.
After Stone sprang me from prison, he turned me over to Tex and Mojo. They were supposed to teach me the rules of Senterra Land and make sure I toed the straight and narrow. But they were also supposed to help me take care of business. Personal business.
“Stone says he doesn’t want to know how we go about it,” Tex growled, “but it’s our job to get you laid.”
“No hookers, Stone says,” Mojo added. “Just actresses.”
“Thank you kindly,” I deadpanned, “but I’ll get myself laid, when I’m in the mood.”
Tex stared at me. “Hell, son, you just spent ten years in a cell whacking off. How much longer you want to wait?”
I wasn’t sure how to explain, without sounding like a sissy, that prison made everything about life feel dirty, including pure, plain, good ol’ sex, and now, as much as I wanted to grab the nearest willing female—okay, the nearest willing twenty or thirty females—I also wanted to feel nice about it. Clean. Decent. Romantic.
“Just point me in the right direction,” I told Tex and Mojo. “And I’ll get myself laid when the moon’s right.”
That self-disciplined philosophy made ‘em wonder if I was gay, I suspect. But it also won their respect. Not long after that I had myself all the ladyfriends a man could handle without investing in Viagra, and b) Tex and Mojo became my buddies, not my keepers.
I turned from my courageous duty guarding the frilly garden gate in front of Casa Senterra Dahlonega, as somebody had named Stone’s big, rented Victorian on a historic street off the town square. A bronze plaque by the driveway gate said Persimmon Hall, Est. 1842.
“What the hell’s a persimmon ?” Stone said the first time he saw it.
“It’s a kind of tree fruit,” I explained. “Possums like it.”
“Do I look like a possum? Cover that sign.”
So now the plaque had a canvas condom over it.
Casa Senterra had seven bedrooms, a private pool, and two acres of lawn and giant oaks, all surrounded by a girly picket fence that wouldn’t even keep out girls. In front of me, on a sidewalk lined with little dogwood trees and azaleas just past their pink prime, about thirty fans inched forward eagerly, all clutching autograph books and hot-off-the-press copies of the National Enquirer , featuring Stone’s backward belly flop into mountain laurel.
“No autographs, folks,” I said again, trying not to look obvious while I darted glances up the street so Diamond couldn’t surprise me. “Maybe later on today. Mr. Senterra’s working right now.” Stone was inside the big house with his agent and publicity team, debating whether to put off the start of filming until the Enquirer gossip died down.
In my ear Tex said, “You hear me, son? Diamond’s driver says he’s no more than a minute away. You got time. Head for the woods, then cut across to the main road. It’s just a half mile over to the old gold mine by the Wal-Mart. Hide in them mining caves, son. Hell, get to the Wal-Mart and you can hide in the garden shop . Just hide somewhere .”
I grunted. “I just got my job back.”
“Hell, son, what good’s a job if your ass is laying out in the street with Diamond’s fang marks on it?”
Someone poked me on the knee. I looked down. A half-grown hobbit in a Super Cop t-shirt peeked up at me through the azaleas. “Mister, can you get Super Cop’s autograph for me, please?”
Okay, I’m a
I motioned to our sidekick, a brawny little black guy named MoJo Baybridge. Mojo had wanted to play pro football, like two of his brothers up in New York; Mojo could kung fu the Gatorade out of an NFL linebacker or shoot an Enquirer photographer out of a pine tree at two hundred yards. Only one problem: he was only five-feet tall.
After Stone sprang me from prison, he turned me over to Tex and Mojo. They were supposed to teach me the rules of Senterra Land and make sure I toed the straight and narrow. But they were also supposed to help me take care of business. Personal business.
“Stone says he doesn’t want to know how we go about it,” Tex growled, “but it’s our job to get you laid.”
“No hookers, Stone says,” Mojo added. “Just actresses.”
“Thank you kindly,” I deadpanned, “but I’ll get myself laid, when I’m in the mood.”
Tex stared at me. “Hell, son, you just spent ten years in a cell whacking off. How much longer you want to wait?”
I wasn’t sure how to explain, without sounding like a sissy, that prison made everything about life feel dirty, including pure, plain, good ol’ sex, and now, as much as I wanted to grab the nearest willing female—okay, the nearest willing twenty or thirty females—I also wanted to feel nice about it. Clean. Decent. Romantic.
“Just point me in the right direction,” I told Tex and Mojo. “And I’ll get myself laid when the moon’s right.”
That self-disciplined philosophy made ‘em wonder if I was gay, I suspect. But it also won their respect. Not long after that I had myself all the ladyfriends a man could handle without investing in Viagra, and b) Tex and Mojo became my buddies, not my keepers.
I turned from my courageous duty guarding the frilly garden gate in front of Casa Senterra Dahlonega, as somebody had named Stone’s big, rented Victorian on a historic street off the town square. A bronze plaque by the driveway gate said Persimmon Hall, Est. 1842.
“What the hell’s a persimmon ?” Stone said the first time he saw it.
“It’s a kind of tree fruit,” I explained. “Possums like it.”
“Do I look like a possum? Cover that sign.”
So now the plaque had a canvas condom over it.
Casa Senterra had seven bedrooms, a private pool, and two acres of lawn and giant oaks, all surrounded by a girly picket fence that wouldn’t even keep out girls. In front of me, on a sidewalk lined with little dogwood trees and azaleas just past their pink prime, about thirty fans inched forward eagerly, all clutching autograph books and hot-off-the-press copies of the National Enquirer , featuring Stone’s backward belly flop into mountain laurel.
“No autographs, folks,” I said again, trying not to look obvious while I darted glances up the street so Diamond couldn’t surprise me. “Maybe later on today. Mr. Senterra’s working right now.” Stone was inside the big house with his agent and publicity team, debating whether to put off the start of filming until the Enquirer gossip died down.
In my ear Tex said, “You hear me, son? Diamond’s driver says he’s no more than a minute away. You got time. Head for the woods, then cut across to the main road. It’s just a half mile over to the old gold mine by the Wal-Mart. Hide in them mining caves, son. Hell, get to the Wal-Mart and you can hide in the garden shop . Just hide somewhere .”
I grunted. “I just got my job back.”
“Hell, son, what good’s a job if your ass is laying out in the street with Diamond’s fang marks on it?”
Someone poked me on the knee. I looked down. A half-grown hobbit in a Super Cop t-shirt peeked up at me through the azaleas. “Mister, can you get Super Cop’s autograph for me, please?”
Okay, I’m a
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