Chapter 24: They Just Won’t Let You Be

Atascadero, California

April 23, 2004

Russell Crawford and Deshawn Michaels worked for Starving Students Moving Services, a small operation run by a former Cal Poly Business major who had started the business back in 1997 after buying a used truck from a rental company and enlisting the help of a fellow dropout to fill a niche in the local moving market—namely, low income renters, many of them college students, who were looking for cheap labor to get their things from one apartment to the next. The business now owned six modern moving trucks and employed eighteen movers—all of them students at Cal Poly—who were paid a bit more than minimum wage for their efforts.

The two young men had just finished loading the belongings of their client into the back of the truck. There wasn’t much to load. The young woman in question only had a bed, a crib, a bedroom set, and some clothes and toiletries to her name. It had only taken twenty-five minutes for them to load everything up and secure it. Only half of the cargo space in the small truck had been taken up.

“Okay then,” Russell told the brown skinned woman once the loading door was shut and locked. “Are you ready to tell us where we’re going now?” They had been sent to this job without a destination address. The boss-man had told them it was a very special client they were working for and the address—which they only knew was somewhere outside Oceano—would only be given to them by the young lady they were moving when it was time to actually go there. Neither of the movers had any idea why there was so much mystery involved.

“Yes,” said the brown-skinned woman (her name was Yogi or Yadi or some raghead shit like that). “We’ll be going to 13227 Pacific Coast Highway,” she said.

“Okay,” he said with a shrug. The address meant nothing to him except to tell him that it was either on or very near the ocean. “I’ll plug it into the GPS and let it guide me in.”

“That won’t work,” the woman said. “You get to the house by a tiny little access road off the PCH just outside of Oceano. It won’t show up on GPS or MapQuest.”

“Then how are we supposed to find it?” Deshawn wanted to know. The twenty-one year old’s entire driving life had been conducted with the use of GPS guidance. He was unaware of any other way to navigate in the world.

“You’ll have to follow me,” Yogi or Yadi (or whatever the fuck) told them. “Once we get there, just follow me through the gate and park behind me in the driveway.”

“Okayyy,” Deshawn said dubiously. “But don’t be drivin’ like a bat out of hell. This is a movin’ truck not a sports car.”

“I won’t,” the woman promised. “Are you ready?”

They were ready. They piled into the cab of the truck, Deshawn behind the wheel, and she climbed into her tattered old rice-burner car. He started up the engine and followed her out of the apartment complex, where she started heading for the 101. They need not have worried about keeping up with her. She drove slowly and carefully.

“That fuckin’ address mean anything to you?” Deshawn asked

Russell shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Any place has got to be a fuckin’ upgrade from that shithole we just moved her out of though.”

“You think she’s a student at Cal Poly?” Deshawn asked.

“She has to be,” Russell said. “Why else would a fuckin’ raghead be living in some shithole apartment in Atascadero?”

“How do you know she’s a raghead?” Deshawn wanted to know.

“What else would she be?”

“There’s lots of fuckin’ brown people in the world. They ain’t all fuckin’ ragheads.”

“Actually, they pretty much are,” Russell said. “Fuckin’ America-hatin’ terrorists that worship fuckin’ Allah and jerk off to videos of other ragheads cutting American heads off.”

Deshawn let the subject drop and turned it to something more to his liking. “She did have big fuckin’ titties though.”

“Yeah, but her ass is too fuckin’ big,” Russell opined.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with a big ass,” Deshawn said. “Besides, hers ain’t that big.”

“It ain’t that small either,” Russell said. “And she’s also a fuckin’ raghead. That’s another point against her. I bet her pussy is so fuckin’ hairy you can’t even find it.”

“You’d fuck her though, wouldn’t you? If she asked?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Russell said with a nod. “I’d have to.”

Deshawn followed her onto Highway 101 South. They left Atascadero behind and headed into the gentle rolling hills. They passed the occasional vineyard but they were pretty sparse on this side of Atascadero. Just before they got to the flatlands and into the narrow valley where the county’s largest city sat, they passed a vineyard that was larger than any of the others. The vines were green and lush, the rows perfectly straight. A large house stood amid the rows and the access road was guarded with a wrought iron gate. This was the vineyard and recording studio owned by Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez, both of whom lived in a fuckin’ mansion on a cliff over the ocean. Like most SLO County residents and students living in the area, he had heard many a tale of the parties and debauchery that went on in both places. The word around the campus was that Kingsley was putting together another Intemp CD and that Matt Tisdale and the rest of the band had been spotted coming and going around town.

“Man,” said Deshawn as he looked over at the vineyard surrounding the house, “can you imagine how much fuckin’ pussy Jake Kingsley gets? I bet he’s fucked more than a hundred bitches.”

“At least that many back in the day,” Russell said. “He’s into dudes these days, though.”

“No fuckin’ way!” Deshawn proclaimed.

“It’s true,” Russell insisted. “He nailed so much fuckin’ pussy back in the day that he’s bored with it now and started tapping asses for a change of pace. I hear he only likes faggots with long, girly hair that have actual written references on how well they suck dick. He won’t even talk with them unless he sees some good reviews from others.”

“What about Celia fuckin’ Valdez?” Deshawn asked. “She’s still livin’ with him. You don’t think he’s still tapping that shit?”

“I heard he never tapped it once, not even to knock her up. They did the fuckin’ turkey baster thing so she could get preggo. I heard that’s what he did with his other old lady too.”

“You’re trying to say that he was married to both of them hot bitches and he’s never fucked either of them?”

“That’s what I heard,” Russell said.

It did not occur to Deshawn to wonder just who would have such intimate details of the personal life of Jake Kingsley in order for such information to be shared. If people were saying it, there must be some truth to it, right? People didn’t just make up shit like that. “That’s a fuckin’ shame,” he said sadly.

“Isn’t it?” replied Russell with a shake of the head.

The little caravan continued on. They passed through the city of San Luis Obispo and then climbed the taller coastal hills beyond it. Once on the other side and heading down, the ocean became visible off to the west, at first just here and there for a moment or so, and then pretty much constantly as they turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway and hugged the coastline. They passed through the town of Oceano and out the other side. Just after the road curved away from the coast and began to climb, the raghead bitch they were following began to slow down. Her left turn signal came on. She led them onto an unmarked paved access road that was barely visible. A large signed warned that this was private property and no ocean or cliff access could be reached from it. This sight triggered a memory in Deshawn’s brain.

“Dude,” he told Russell, “I think we’re going up to Jake Kingsley’s crib.”

“What?”

“I think this is the road that leads up to his mansion,” Deshawn insisted. “I saw a picture of that sign on the fuckin’ news last week when they was trying to interview him about his old lady.”

“You think this is his fuckin’ road?” Russell asked, quite skeptical. “One road looks like any other fuckin’ road.”

“I’m pretty sure it was this one,” Deshawn said. “They said it was right outside Oceano and they showed a picture of that fuckin’ sign we just passed. And everyone knows he lives on a cliff over the ocean. We’re climbing up the back side of a fuckin’ cliff right now.”

It was obvious that Russell was still not buying it. Both of them read the signs they passed that continuously warned them away. If it wasn’t Jake Kingsley’s house, it was some rich motherfucker’s house.

Finally, they came to a gate. There were several more signs here, all of them equally serious in tone. The concept of Go Away Unless You Have Business Here was plainly articulated to anyone who could read the English language. And even if the signs weren’t there, the big fuckin’ closed gate with the intercom and the camera in front of it spoke clearly in any language.

The raghead bitch stopped her car at the intercom station and pushed a button. A squabble of conversation reached them but they could not understand it. A moment later, the gate began to open. The raghead waved her hand out the window, indicating they should pull forward and follow her. They did so, staying thirty feet behind as the gate closed behind them and they headed up the hill.

“No fuckin’ way this is Jake Kingsley’s place,” Russell said when he first saw the structure. “Kingsley lives in a fuckin’ mansion. That ain’t no fuckin’ mansion.”

“Yeah,” Deshawn had to agree. “It sure don’t look like no place that Kingsley would live.”

“It’s probably some rich fuckin’ raghead lives here. The raghead we’re moving must be his fuckin’ daughter or some shit like that.”

“Must be,” Deshawn agreed again.

They did have to admire the view the property offered and both did so until they got to the circular driveway. The raghead pulled all the way through until she was facing back out the other side. She put her hand out the window again and pointed at the spot in front of the porch and the front door. Deshawn parked the truck, looking in his mirrors to make sure the loading area was just beyond the doorway. He then shut it down and the two of them stepped out and met at the front of the truck. Yidi or Yadi (or whatever the fuck her name was) walked over to them. Before she could say anything, the front door opened and a man stepped through. They could not help but notice that he was Jake Kingsley dressed in a pair of jeans and a tank top that showed off his tattoos and well-muscled arms. Both of their mouths dropped open at the sight of him.

He walked up to the raghead bitch and smiled at her. He asked her how the trip in had been and she told him it was just fine. He then turned and looked at the two movers.

“Jake,” the raghead said. “This is Russell and Deshawn. Russell, Deshawn, this is Jake. He and his family own this home.”

“Hey, guys,” Jake told them, his voice friendly. “Thanks for doing the job.”

Deshawn tried to say something but nothing would come out. Russell held out his hand for a shake and then quickly pulled it back, wondering if that was a stupid thing to do. Kingsley had been about to hold out his own hand but pulled it back when Russell did.

“It’s ... uh ... uh ... nice to meet you ... uh ... Jake,” he stammered.

“Likewise,” Jake said with a nod. “How about I show you where to put everything?”

“Everything except the bed and the dresser,” the raghead said. “Those are going into storage for now.”

“Right,” Kingsley agreed. “The bed and the dresser to the garage. Shall we do it?”

Both movers nodded quickly and Jake Kingsley turned to lead them into the house. It turned out that the house was bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside. Much bigger. It was, thought Deshawn, like Dr. Who’s TARDIS, though on a bigger scale (and it probably didn’t time travel). They went through a living room full of expensive furniture, through a dining room with a huge polished wood table and matching chairs, through the biggest kitchen both young men had ever seen, and into an enormous family room full of all kinds of cool shit. In the family room, sitting down and watching TV, was Celia fucking Valdez! She was dressed in a pair of baggy shorts and a simple t-shirt. Her feet were in socks with pictures of kittens on them. Both were so astounded at seeing the Celia Valdez sitting there that neither noticed the three children sitting on the couch near her, watching TV.

“Hey, guys,” Celia greeted with a smile as Kingsley led them through the room. “Thanks for getting Yami moved for us.”

“Uh ... sure,” stammered Deshawn. “It’s what we do.”

From the family room they entered a wide hallway floored in polished hardwood. They turned right. Two doors down was an open door that led into a large bedroom finished in plush carpeting. There was a King-sized bed in the middle of the room and an impressive view of the ocean out the large picture window.

“This is going to be Yami’s room,” Kingsley told them. “Everything will go in here except for the bed and the dresser. The crib will go over in the closet there.” He pointed to a door with a mirror mounted on it. After they nodded their understanding, he disappeared and the raghead bitch came into the room, a little girl now trailing behind her. The little girl’s skin was dark too, though not as dark the raghead’s. Still, the facial similarity was enough that neither had doubt that the little girl was the raghead’s daughter.

“Just stack things wherever and I’ll unpack them and put them away later,” the raghead said.

“No problem,” said Deshawn. “Is this your little girl?”

“Yes,” she said. “Her name is Kira. I brought her over earlier with some of the smaller stuff. Celia has been watching her.”

“Celia Valdez was babysitting your kid?” asked Russell in awe.

“She was,” Yami said simply. “She’s very nice.”

“Your daughter is very cute,” Deshawn said with complete honesty.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“So...” said Russell, “you’re uh ... moving in here? With Jake Kingsley and ... uh ... Celia Valdez?”

“That’s right,” she said with a nod. “I’ve been hired to be their live-in nanny for the children.”

“No shit?” Russell said with wonder. “How do you get a job like that?” Maybe by letting your little brother suck Kingsley’s dick and take it up the ass? was his first thought. Or maybe you are eating Celia Valdez’s snatch?

“I was in the right place at the right time,” she said. “Nothing more than that.”

“Interesting,” Deshawn said.

The two of them got to work. It did not take long to bring in her belongings, only five trips out to the truck and then back to the bedroom. On one such trip they encountered Laura Kingsley coming down the hall as they were bringing in the crib. She was dressed very casually as well, wearing a pair of loose fitting denim shorts, a simple t-shirt with a picture of an owl on it, and a pair of fuzzy green socks. Her bare legs were very pretty and her face was indescribably cute. Her copper colored hair was down and flowing over her shoulders. She ducked into a doorway to let them pass as they met.

“Sorry, guys,” she told them with a smile.

“No problem, ma’am,” Russell replied politely, thinking that Kingsley was the biggest fuckin’ faggot ever if he wasn’t plowing the redhead bitch nightly. She was hot enough that even a fudge packer would want to plow her.

They left the house a few minutes later and Kingsley followed them outside. He directed them to an open garage door in a bank of five of them. “You can put Yami’s old bed and her old dresser in there,” he said. “Up against the wall and out of the way. There’s lots of room for it.”

Deshawn got back in the truck to pull it closer, leaving Russell with Jake to walk over. “Uh ... I just wanna say,” Russell said, “that I really like your music, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Thanks,” Jake said with a nod of appreciation. “It’s always good to hear that. We’re working on some new Intemperance material up at our studio these days.”

“Oh yeah?” Russell managed to reply. Jake fuckin’ Kingsley was talking music with him! Is it because he wants me to suck his dick? No fuckin’ way that shit’s gonna happen! Well ... at least not unless there’s two or three grand involved.

“Yeah,” Kingsley said. “That’s why we hired Yami to be our new nanny. All of us are going to be at the studio most workdays. Someone has to take care of the kiddos.”

“Yeah,” Russell said with a few nods. He could think of nothing else to add to that. He waited for Kingsley to make the offer of a dick sucking (fifteen hundred dollars, fuckin’ minimum! he vowed to himself) but no such offer came. It seemed the man was really just sharing some small talk with someone his path had crossed in life. Like he was an ordinary person or something. Fuckin’ weird!

The two movers manhandled the bedframe, mattresses, and the tattered dresser into the garage and stacked them neatly against the far wall. Kingsley even gave them a hand with the dresser, as it was an awkward carry. Once they were done, he led them back outside to the truck and signed the receiving form for them.

“Thanks again, guys,” he told them, shaking each of their hands. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out two hundred dollar bills, giving one to each of them. “For a job well done.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kingsley!” Deshawn gushed, looking at the bill in awe.

“Yes, thanks a lot, Mr. Kingsley,” Russell echoed. Maybe Kingsley was all right after all.

“The gate will open for you when you approach it,” he told them. “Have a nice drive home.”

They thanked him one more time and climbed into the truck. A minute later they were rolling down the hill toward the gate.

“I can’t believe we just met Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez,” Deshawn said. “That was fuckin’ surreal.”

“He seemed like an ordinary guy, didn’t he?” Russell asked, still pondering that. He had heard that all celebrities were assholes. Though he had never met a celebrity until today, he still believed with all his heart that most of them were, in fact, assholes. Kingsley was maybe a rare exception to the rule (Celia Valdez too, he had to admit).

Deshawn turned right onto the PCH after they passed through the gate and reached the intersection with the two-lane highway. He drove them back toward Oceano and the junction with the 101. As he passed the turnout for the state beach he spared not a glance at it. Nor did he notice when a vehicle pulled out and took up position behind him. “Whatever the man is,” he told his partner, “he’s a great fuckin’ tipper. A hundred bucks a piece! That’s badass.”

“Fuck yeah,” agreed Russell. “Hey, why don’t we splurge a little and get lunch from that seafood joint over by the main entrance to the dunes? I could go for some clam chowder out of one of those bread bowls.”

“Hell yeah!” Deshawn agreed. “I’m gonna get me one of those plates with the fish and chips.”

“Let’s get a beer too,” Russell said.

“Now you’re talkin’,” Deshawn said with a smile.

He parked the truck in the back of a large lot located adjacent to the main entrance to the state park located amid the dunes and the shoreline. Across the street from the parking lot, in view of the guard shack that collected money from vehicles entering the park, was a simple seafood restaurant where you ordered from a counter and sat in an outdoor dining area that had a cover over it and was kept warm by propane fired heaters. Neither man noticed the strange car parking near them and two people trailing them on foot.

They ordered their food and then found a seat at one of the long tables with benches. No one else was at their table. They put the little order number stand between them as they sat facing each other, their Coors light beers out of the keg sitting in front of them. Before they could even begin a conversation, two people approached them. One was a hot female of maybe thirty. She had dyed platinum blonde hair and a set of fake tits that could make a man cry. The man with her was a little older, maybe forty or so, with long brown hair tied into a ponytail. Both of them wore jeans and light sweaters. The woman had a notebook with her.

“Hi, guys,” the woman greeted with a warm, sexy smile. “I’m Amanda Sloan from the SLO Register.”

“Hi,” Russell said, his eyes firmly fixed on those tits. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hey,” said Deshawn carefully. What the fuck was going on here?

“You two are the ones who are driving the moving truck, right?” asked Sloan.

“Uh ... yeah, we are,” said Russell, wondering if the hot news bitch needed them to move something for her—maybe even something in her.

“And you just moved some things into a house on a cliff off the PCH?” she asked.

It suddenly made sense to Deshawn. This hot white bitch was a reporter for the local newspaper. The local newspaper had been obsessively reporting about Jake Kingsley and his divorce from Celia Valdez (who was even hotter in person than he had imagined). She wanted to pry some information out of them. Who was the man with the ponytail though? Her driver? Her bodyguard? Maybe both?

“Yeah,” said Russell without hesitation. “We just moved someone into that house.”

“Can you tell me her name?” Sloan asked, keen interest in her eyes.

Russell opened his mouth to say something but Deshawn sternly shook his head at him, shutting him up momentarily. “We’re not supposed to talk about clients with anyone,” Deshawn told her. That had been told to them multiple times during their initial training for the position—the little bit of training there had been, anyway. The reason was not because they might be moving someone into Jake Kingsley’s mansion, but because a fair amount of their clients were young females moving from the dorms into off-campus apartments or sorority houses. Sometimes those females had stalkers, or vengeful ex-boyfriends, or just parents who were a bit overly protective.

“I understand,” Sloan said smoothly, “but I already know who she is. Her name is Yami Misra. She will be twenty-six years old on her next birthday. She worked for Dr. Gloria Niven at the Omni Health Services medical building in SLO until three days ago.”

Deshawn and Russell looked at each other for a moment and then back at the reporter. “If you already know that, why are you asking us?” Deshawn enquired.

“We need confirmation,” Sloan said. “We were able to get information on her based on her license plate number when she visited the house earlier today, and we were able to get follow-up information by having our team dig it up based on the registered owner of the vehicle. We have pictures of her taken this morning at her old apartment a few hours after she left the Kingsley house for the first time. What we do not have, however, is absolute confirmation that the woman we believe is Yami Misra really is her. If that is the name of the person you two just moved into that house, that would be confirmation.”

“We would get fired if we told you that,” Russell said regretfully. He was still thinking he might have a chance with the hot reporter bitch. “Especially after you printed our names or even who we are.”

“We would not print your names or who you are,” Sloan reassured them. “You would be listed as an anonymous source who knows Yami.”

“We don’t know her,” Russell felt compelled to point out.

“You do,” Sloan insisted. “You just helped her move and you know her name. In the world of journalism, that means you know her, are a friend of hers, and can comment about her.”

“Yeah,” said Deshawn. “I get you, but we’re still not supposed to talk about who we move to anyone. It’s a safety thing, you dig?”

Sloan smiled and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a wad of twenty dollar bills. She peeled off two of them and set them on the table in front of Deshawn. She then did the same for Russell. “Perhaps this will help you fudge that one little rule,” she told them. “We’re not interested in compromising Ms. Misra’s safety in any way. We just want confirmation of what we already know: That Yami Misra, medical assistant for Dr. Gloria Niven in SLO, resigned her position two weeks ago, worked her last shift three days ago, and is now moving into the residence of the Kingsley family. All we would like is verbal confirmation that the woman we believe is Yami Misra really is Yami Misra.”

The two movers looked at each other again, shared a little silent communication between themselves, and then turned back to the reporter. “Well,” Deshawn said, “since you already know who she is, I don’t see what harm could come by just giving you confirmation.”

“Yeah,” agreed Russell. “I don’t think that rule was meant for a situation like this. You ain’t no stalking ex-boyfriend or nothin’. You’re just a reporter.”

“That’s right,” Sloan agreed. “Just a reporter. Perfectly harmless in all ways. So ... is the woman you just moved Yami Misra?”

“Yeah,” said Deshawn. “That was her name.”

“And you agree?” she asked Russell.

“Yeah, I agree,” he replied.

“How do you know that is her name?” Sloan asked next.

“It was on the fuckin’ dispatch slip,” Russell told her.

She smiled. “I will call that confirmation, gentlemen,” she said. “Is there anything else you can tell me? For instance, we do not know why she is moving into that mansion. Did she say anything to either of you?”

“We only agreed to confirm who she was,” Deshawn said. “We didn’t agree to any follow-up questions.”

Sloan was still holding the wad of twenties in her hand. She peeled off four more of them and slapped two in front of each man, joining the pile already there. “I’m asking now,” she said with a smile.

This time, the two men did not even glance at each other. “She’s going to be the fuckin’ nanny for them,” Russell said without hesitation.

“The nanny?” Sloan asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” said Deshawn. “You know? Watching kids and shit?”

Yami began to unpack and organize her room as soon as the moving team left. She would be on her own time and able to start settling in until the following Monday, when she would begin her first official day of work as the Kingsley nanny. That was when Jake, Matt, Coop, Charlie, and the Nerdlys would begin their workups in the rehearsal warehouse of The Campus. At the same time, Celia and Laura and the rest of Celia’s band would begin their own workups in the empty Studio C space, the space that had been set up as a recording studio but did not have any equipment in it currently. It also served as Jim the paramedic’s bedroom.

Jake and Celia sat on the couch in the entertainment room, watching as Caydee played with her new friend Kira on the floor across the room. Caydee was showing her how to play Pokémon using the hundred or so cards that Caydee possessed (she had learned the game from her honorary cousin Kelvin, who she often traded cards with). Kira did not seem to be grasping the rules and intricacies of the game, but she appeared to be having a good time, laughing and giggling frequently. It was clear that she had never had a friend to play with before. Laura, meanwhile, was in the office composing a complex document that outlined how to care for Caydee and Cap, their list of rules, who could go outside unsupervised, when and what they could eat, etc. She had been elected for this task since she, unlike her husband and co-wife, had a college degree in English and therefore “have to be a better writer than us”. From the kitchen came the smell of burgundy beef stroganoff being prepared by Westin. Sean was currently over in the servant’s quarters, doing whatever it was he did there when he was alone.

It was a little more than two hours after the movers had left when Jake’s cell phone, which was sitting on a table next to the couch being charged, began to ring. He sighed, looked over at the caller ID screen, and saw that it was Pauline’s home office number that was requesting him to engage in conversation.

“Shit,” he said, shaking his head.

“Who is it?” Celia asked.

“Paulie,” he said. He did not need to say more. Phone calls from Pauline were never to shoot the shit. They were always about KVA business. They had just submitted the Brainwash master CD to all of the music labels, but that had only been forty-eight hours ago. Too soon to hear anything back.

He unplugged the phone from the charging cord, picked it up, and pushed the accept button. “Hey, Paulie,” he said unenthusiastically. “What’s up?”

“They figured things out much quicker than I thought they would,” his sister’s voice told him.

“Who figured out what?” he asked, though he already had a suspicion of what she was talking about.

“The press,” she said. “I just got a call from Amanda Sloan at the SLO Register. She’s their primary entertainment reporter.”

“I know who Amanda Sloan is,” Jake said sourly, feeling his mood already starting to turn dark. Sloan had penned many an article about the goings on of the Kingsley family over the years, none of them meant to portray an ordinary family trying to live out their lives in peace. It was she who had first obtained a copy of the confidential divorce settlement paperwork that had been filed with the court, her paper the first to publish a copy of it.