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The Formula – Part 4 by David Guest
I picked up my car and dropped off the can of formula with Ellie. I was hoping the offering would redeem myself in her eyes, and in the eyes of my children, but inside our meager home, the hunger was palpable. A single thirty-two ounce container wouldn’t last long. I had to find a way to deliver a real payload, and to do that, I’d have to find the man who had double-crossed me.
Tall Bill lived with his obese wife and triplet baby daughters in a dumpy apartment building in Studio City. Well, it wasn’t actually Studio City. It was a wannabe enclave of ramshackle homes on the edge of Studio City, ambitiously named Toluca Studio Lake Woods with the hope that people would think it was part of the high profile neighborhoods in its proximity. I had been to Bill’s place numerous times when we were outlining the gangster heist screenplay that we planned to co-write, so I knew the layout of the building. I also knew that his well-fed wife, Martha, would more than likely be home, watching reruns of Two and a Half Men and feeding their daughters from the stash of formula I had helped steal.
I snuck around the edge of the building, and through the security fence, I could see that both of their cars were in their spaces. Were Bill and Martha both home? And if so, what had ol lizard eyes done with the tractor-trailer filled with baby formula? I then remembered that Bill was the on-site manager of the building, and he had access to an empty lot behind the place. One night, when he and I were racked by writer’s block and arguing over who would get to direct our movie if we ever did get Joe Pesci attached to star, we took a walk to clear our heads. That’s when he showed me the vacant lot, and as I remember, it was easily big enough to hide a large truckload of baby formula.
I scaled the fence and let myself drop into the weed-tangled lot. Sure as day, the semi-truck was there, filled with millions of dollars of Mr. Vladimir’s product. If I was some kind of hardened ex-con in a mafia revenge film, I would have found a way to jimmy the door lock and hotwire the ride, but unfortunately, I had no idea how to do that. I’d have to take this truck by less skilled methods, like knocking on the door and ripping the keys from Bill’s hand.
I journeyed back to the front of the building and convinced an elderly woman to let me through the security door so that I could deliver the manager his magazine subscriptions. I had never peddled anything door-to-door, but if I did, I’d have a good idea of the rags my old pal, Bill, would like: Backstabbers Monthly…The Double-crosser Report…The Lying, Cheating, Under-handed, Wretched Thief Gazette.
I staggered down the hall toward the door of their apartment, and with each step, emotion gave way to anger, which gave to pain. My mind replayed highlight films from the freeway—the door opening, the push, the heavy somersault on to the pavement—and each blink of memory awakened my hospital wounds. A sitcom laugh track echoed through the door. I knocked.
Martha opened the door. She looked as large as ever. “Dave? What brings you by?”
“Is Bill around?” I asked. “Ellie and I wanted to invite you two and the girls over this Friday for Thai food and Pictionary. You know, we’ve all been meaning to get together for so long.”
“Oh, Bill’s not here. Don’t know about that Thai food. What is it they cook with? Mint?
She tried to close the door, but I jammed my foot in the way. “I make a mean homemade pizza. We’ll have that. I’ll pick up the ingredients at that little Italian grocery store. You buy the dough fresh in these—.”
Martha bashed me hard on the bridge of my nose. “I’ll have to check our schedule,” she said. “I’ll drop Ellie a message on Facebook.”
I lowered my shoulder and barreled into the door, knocking Bill’s fat wife out of the way. “You know, Ellie’s all about Pinterest now. Have you made an account?” I scanned the room. The triplets were enjoying large bottle of foamy formula. Bill was there, alright. I felt pain on my shin and looked down to see Martha hitting me with a Ms. Sue Anne Sunshine Toadstool Funhouse.
“Oh my God, I’m obsessed with Pinterest,” she groaned.
I hobbled away, rifling through the room for the truck keys. “It seems like all you ladies like it these days.”
Martha pulled herself to her feet and threw the funhouse at my head. I ducked just in time, and as it shattered on the wall, the three girls cheered with delight. “It’s almost these girls’ naptime,” Martha said, huffing and puffing with anger. “I’ll tell Bill you stopped by. All he does is talk about that screenplay you guys are going to write.”
Just then, the bedroom doors flew open, and Tall Bill bolted through the living room into the hallway. I turned and went after him. I had some magazine subscriptions I wanted to give him.
