Chapter 14: Urban Legend

Los Angeles, California

December 20, 1996

It was just after ten o’clock on Friday morning and Jake had just touched down at Whiteman Airport after flying Elsa and her baggage to LA so she could start her two-week Christmas vacation. Her agreed upon time off period did not actually begin until Friday evening, but Jake had cut her loose the night before so he could fly her here now, when he was coming to LA anyway, instead of making another flight on Saturday morning. He tied down the plane on the ramp and then went to the hangar to get his truck. After driving it back to the plane, he loaded Elsa into the front with him and then put her bags in the bed of the vehicle since there was no rain imminent.

“I really do like your new airplane, Jake,” she said. “It is much more comfortable. It even bounces around less.”

“And it has a bathroom,” Jake added.

“That is an advantage for Laura on those long flights,” she said.

“She gets kind of a thrill out of peeing in her own private bathroom while in flight,” Jake said.

Elsa nodded in understanding. “I do appreciate Laura’s ability to find happiness wherever it may be found,” she said.

“She is pretty good at that,” Jake agreed as he pulled out of the airport and onto the main road. He began heading for the Granada Hills house, where Elsa would be staying for her time off. He looked over at her, a little hesitant to bring up the subject he needed to bring up. He had meant to talk to her about the issue in flight but had put it off. He was not sure why he was nervous to talk to her about it, but the feeling could not be denied.

“Is there something on your mind, Jake?” she asked him.

“Why do you say that?” he enquired.

“Because I know you. You are not usually quiet and withdrawn. You seem like you have something of importance you wish to discuss.”

“Uh ... well...” he said, amazed, as always, by how well she could read him, “as a matter of fact, there is something.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Laura and I have made a decision on something,” he said. “Something pretty big. I wanted to discuss it with you and give you forewarning.”

She looked at him carefully with her brown eyes. “Forewarning about what?”

“We want to have a baby,” he told her.

Elsa blinked. “A baby? That is what you wanted to tell me?”

“That’s right,” he said. “We talked it over quite a bit on the flight back from Pocatello and decided we were ready for this. You’re the first person other than her doctor and the pharmacist at the Alpha Beta that we’ve told. She’s put a hold on her birth control pills and we’re going to let nature take its course. The doc says it may take a month or two for her hormones to return to normal, but there is no reason we know of why she shouldn’t be pregnant early next year.”

“You were hesitant to tell me that?” she asked.

“Uh ... well ... yes, actually.”

“What in the world for?” she asked. “I think this is wonderful news.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “You and Laura will make phenomenal parents. Perhaps unconventional, but phenomenal all the same. Why would you think I would consider this anything but good news?”

“Well ... when we have a baby, that is going to increase your workload to some degree. I mean, we’ll hire a nanny to take care of the baby those times we can’t be at home, but there’s going to be dirty diapers in the trash, baby clothes to wash, breast milk in the refrigerator, crying in the night, a little toddler running around destroying things and making messes eventually.”

“All things I will gladly embrace for the joy of having a child in the household,” she said. “I am very excited about this Jake, and I support your decision wholeheartedly.”

“Thank you, Elsa,” he said, pleased by her enthusiasm. A part of him had been afraid she would just quit once the baby was born.

“Of course, you will increase my rate of compensation when the blessed event happens,” she added, in all seriousness.

Jake chuckled. “Of course,” he promised.

His cell phone began to ring in his back pocket. This was a bit unusual. Though he carried the phone so he could be in communication if necessary, it was not usually necessary. Everyone he had given his cell number to knew that Jake was not a fan of talking on the thing, particularly not incoming calls. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the small screen. It was the number for Pauline’s office in KVA’s studio. He pulled the antenna out and flipped open the phone (noting a disapproving look from Elsa, who was strongly of the opinion that there should be a law against talking on a phone and driving—like that would ever happen, Jake mentally scoffed).

“This is Jake,” he said into the phone.

“It’s me,” said Pauline’s voice. “I tried to get you at home but just got the answering machine. Same deal at Granada Hills. Are you coming into the studio today?”

“I am,” he said. “I want to work a little more on culling down the tracks we’re doing for V-tach. The boys are there, right?”

“Yep,” she said. “They’ve been here since nine and they’re grinding away in the studio. Where are you?”

“Just left Whiteman. I brought Elsa with me so she can start her vay-cay. I’m gonna drop her off at Granada and then head on in. What’s up?”

“I got an email here that you’re going to want to take a look at,” she said. “It was forwarded to my address by an entertainment reporter and then she followed up with a phone call asking for commentary on it. Since then, five other reporters have forwarded it to me as well and they are all asking for the same.”

“What’s the email about?” Jake asked.

“It appears to be a complete and total fabrication that any idiot would disregard, but it seems that most of the idiots are not disregarding it.”

“What is it?” Jake asked.

“I think you should see in person,” Pauline said. “It is very inflammatory if people are actually believing what is written here.”

“Can you give me the abbreviated version at least?” he asked.

“You and Teach are being accused of kidnapping an underage transgender person from Venezuela and using her as both slave labor and a sexual toy.”

“What?” Jake said, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

“I am completely serious,” she said. “And there is a picture attached that purports to be of you, Teach, and the transgender person in question.”

“A picture? Of Laura and I and a tranny? What the fuck? We haven’t taken any pictures like that.”

“As I said,” she said, “I would like you to review the email in person and tell me what this picture actually is. How long until you’re here?”

“About twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll drop Elsa off and head right over.”

He actually made it in only seventeen minutes, as his foot had been heavy on the pedal between Granada Hills and the studio in his eagerness to see what the hell this was all about. He parked next to Ben’s car and went inside, not even saying hello to the receptionist at her desk. He went down the hall and through the open door of Pauline’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, looking at her computer screen when he came in.

“Come sit over here, next to me,” she told him.

He slid the desk chair around to her side and sat down. She turned the screen toward him and he saw a color photo was displayed. He recognized it immediately. It was the shot of he and Laura with that ramper that worked at the Pocatello airport, the photographer guy. What had been his name? Jake could not remember that.

“That’s a ramper that works at Pocatello Airport,” he told his sister/manager. “He took a bunch of shots of the plane and a few of me and one of the other rampers who was an Intemp fan. But somebody has doctored this photo.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The guy was wearing a sweater with the name of the FBO on it,” he said. “And the sweater was not pink.”

“Interesting,” she said. “And you’re sure it was a guy?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jake said. “He was a bit effeminate in appearance, but definitely male. He wasn’t even really setting off the old gaydar.” And as a celebrity who had lived in Los Angeles for more than ten years and who interacted with actors, producers, and upper-echelon record executives, Jake’s gaydar was quite sensitive and accurate.

“A ramp worker, huh?” Pauline said. “I figured it was something like that.” She clicked her mouse and the picture disappeared. She clicked again and the body of the email came up on the screen. “Here. Read what is being circulated about this picture.”

Jake peered at the screen and began to read.

“What the fuck?” Jake asked when he finished. “Who the hell wrote this?”

“There is no name on the email,” Pauline said. “The original came from a Hotmail account with the address “none of your business”, spelled B-I-Z on business. Since then, it has been forwarded nearly a hundred thousand times and has been appearing in inboxes everywhere in the world where email currently exists. It is also appearing on thousands of bulletin boards and hundreds of websites that deal with celebrity stalking.”

“And people are actually taking this seriously?” Jake asked.

“Not everyone,” she said, “but a lot are. Remember the rule we humans like to live by: if it’s written down, in must be true.”

“But this is the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard,” Jake said. “The alleged tranny tells his entire story to a ramper but not to the cops when they show up? And Laura and I hang around long enough for the cops to show up in the first place while we’re keeping a foreign citizen captive? And then we pose and smile for the camera with our alleged underage tranny sex slave standing between us while we’re waiting for our lawyers to spring us?”

“Or,” Pauline added, “that the cops would actually listen to your lawyer if they thought you were really keeping a seventeen-year-old Venezuelan captive? Yeah, anyone who believes in this crap is a moron, but there are a lot of morons in the world.”

“That is true,” Jake agreed. “What did you tell the reporters who called?”

“Just what I knew at the time. Number one, you are most definitely not keeping anyone captive, for housekeeping or sex slave or any other purpose. Two, you already have a housekeeper who has been in your employ ten years now and she is well-compensated for her position, not from Venezuela, not a teenager, and is there quite voluntarily. Three, please make note that there is no name on the email, it comes from an anonymous address, none of the people mentioned in the email have last names except you and Laura, and it would not be the Idaho State Police who would have investigated such a thing, but the Sandpoint Police Department and/or the Bonner County Sheriff’s department.”

“Very good points,” Jake said. “What did they have to say?”

“They said they will be looking into the details of the accusation and will call back for further clarification. They all asked for a quote from you.”

“I should give them one, right?” Jake asked.

“Yes, most definitely,” Pauline said. “I plan to thoroughly debunk this story by using as many facts as I can dig up. I’ve already called the FBO services at Sandpoint Airport and they have assured me they have no employee by the name of Jose, now or ever. I have called the Idaho State Police, the Sandpoint PD, and the Bonner County Sheriff’s department and they have all verified that they have not taken a report of any kind that involves you or Laura or a possibly abducted Venezuelan citizen. These are all verified facts. Now that you have told me the source of the photograph, I will call the Pocatello Airport’s FBO and try to get in contact with the man in the photo. It would be helpful if you could remember his name.”

Jake searched his memory banks but just could not come up with the ramper’s name. Though he remembered every other detail about the guy, that critical piece of information eluded him. This was undoubtedly due to the way his brain was wired regarding casual acquaintances like rampers, autograph seekers, wait staff, and groupies. There was simply no need to move such people’s names into long term memory. “I’m sorry,” he told his sister. “I just can’t remember it. Maybe Laura can.”

“That’s a thought,” Pauline said. “She stayed home today?”

“She was still asleep when Elsa and I left,” Jake confirmed. “She’s probably up now. I’ll give her a call. She needs to know that this shit is going down anyway.”

“Do you want me to forward a copy of the email to her?” Pauline asked.

“Yeah, good idea,” Jake said.

He turned the phone toward him and then dialed the main number for the Oceano house. Laura picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, babe,” he told her. “We got some shit going down that you need to know about.”

A sigh. “What now?” she asked.

He told her the tale. She expressed disbelief that anyone was dumb enough to actually believe such a ridiculous accusation but otherwise did not seem to be all that upset. She was more interested in how his conversation with Elsa had gone.

“She is thrilled for us,” Jake told her.

“That’s wonderful!” Laura said happily.

“It is, isn’t it?” he said. “Anyway, I was hoping you might remember the name of that ramper. Pauline needs to get hold of him and find out how his picture got into circulation.”

“You don’t think that he is the one that started this, do you?” she asked. “He seemed so ... you know ... nice.”

“We don’t know,” Jake said. “It doesn’t seem logical that he would make himself out to be a young tranny from Venezuela, but maybe he can shed some light on how the picture got out into the world. Paulie can probably find him without his name—after all, it’s not a very big FBO they have in Pocatello—but if you can remember...”

“I remember,” she said. “His name was Ron. The other ramper was named Dallas.”

As soon as she said the names, Jake remembered and knew she was correct. Apparently, they were stored somewhere deep inside but were just not easy to access. “That’s right,” he said. “Thanks, hon. Paulie is sending a copy of the email to your inbox so you can take a look at it.”

“It’s already there,” Pauline said from her keyboard.

“I’ll look at it right now,” she said.

“And I’ll keep you informed on developments as they warrant,” he promised.

“Right,” she said.

They said their I-love-you’s and broke the connection. Jake told Pauline the name of the ramper and his companion.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll start working on this right now.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said with a sigh. “And I suppose I should go get some actual work done.”

She nodded. “I’ll keep you updated,” she promised.

Jake walked to the studio and let himself inside. For the next two hours he immersed himself in the making and criticism of V-tach’s music. Thoughts of the ridiculous email were driven far to the back of his mind. After all, it was a perfectly ludicrous story that they were able to factually refute. He was sure that nothing would ultimately come of it.

As it turned out, he was only half right.

Darlene Sams, the manager of the Oceano Alpha Beta grocery store, did not particularly care for Jake Kingsley, his wife, or their uppity maid. The maid in particular—her name was Elsa, and she was hands-down the blackest woman Darlene had ever met—rubbed her entirely the wrong way. Their initial encounter with each other on the day the trio had moved into their Oceano home and Darlene had tried to refuse a check from Elsa (and who wouldn’t automatically mistrust a check from a black-ass nigger with a Los Angeles address, she often pondered) had only set the tone for her dislike. Since then, it had grown. Elsa was in the store several times a week buying three and four hundred dollars worth of groceries at a time (a good portion of it top-shelf liquor and wines—it was quite clear that the Kingsleys were alcoholics) just as Elsa had suggested she would. Darlene was always careful to be polite to Elsa, even syrupy sweet on occasion, but she secretly thought the woman arrogant and hoity-toity, which infuriated her because she sincerely believed that an actual African nigger who worked as a mere maid had absolutely no place feeling superior in any way to a hard-working white woman such as herself. The fact that Elsa was more educated than Darlene, made considerably more money, lived in nicer accommodations, drove a better car, and worked considerably harder and more numerous hours every week, did not even enter her equation unless she was looking for sources of validation of her opinion.

As for Kingsley and his wife, they were occasional visitors to the store as well, one or the other of them coming in once every few weeks or so when they were in town. Mrs. Kingsley came in regularly to pick up her birth control prescription from the pharmacy (and Darlene had heard some juicy gossip about that just the day before) and to occasionally do some light shopping. Jake Kingsley came in a bit more frequently, usually by himself, usually to buy the makings for a single meal. These visits were usually on the weekends. He had told several of the checkers while making small talk with them that Elsa the maid had weekends off and that he, Kingsley, did the cooking on those days if he was home.

The Kingsleys were naturally the subject of much town gossip since they had moved to that house up on the cliff a year and a half before. Oceano was a small town with a smalltown mentality and an instinctive mistrust of rich interlopers, even if they were not dope-using musicians who were said to be into Satanism and homosexuality. And the fact that they kept mostly to themselves, paid their bills on time, donated very generously to the local high school’s music program, and bought nearly all of their household supplies or services locally, only seemed to deepen those dark suspicions about them; making it seem as if they were putting up a front.

Everyone wondered just what sort of things the Kingsleys were doing up in that mansion on the cliff (it was assumed that they had to be doing all kinds of illegal and perverted things). Particularly valuable sources of Kingsley gossip were those few who, through the nature of their jobs, had actually been inside the Kingsley compound. Jack, the driver for Suburban Propane services, made regular visits there to refill the two tanks on the property. Ralph, the guy who worked for the private waste management company that contracted with San Luis Obispo County, was up there every Thursday morning to empty the garbage cans. Both of them reported that they had been given gate codes that were unique to them and were only valid on the days they were to be there. They also had to look into the security camera every time they used them. They rarely saw anyone at all on their visits, but Jack claimed he had once seen Mrs. Kingsley washing her car in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Ryan, the satellite service technician, had been inside the house on two occasions, as had Frank of the local plumbing service. They reported that the Kingsleys had not even been home when they’d been there, that they had just dealt with Elsa, the maid, who was polite to them, thankful for their help, but otherwise aloof. Several local contractors who had performed other services for the Kingsleys reported much the same thing. Usually, Jake and his wife were not even home when they were there to install a new sound system or a new set of bathroom cabinets or to fix the pump on the hot tub.

The comings and the goings of the Kingsleys were pretty much known by the town as well. Whenever Jake left San Luis Obispo airport when the wind was blowing from the southwest—as it did most of the time during the daylight hours—that noisy, expensive plane would fly right over the town before going out over the ocean and banking south. And when it returned at the end of the day, when the wind was generally offshore, it would fly over the town once again to land in the opposite direction. Many complaints had been filed with the FAA in Los Angeles regarding that airplane noise and the matter had been investigated, but the ruling had been that, while annoying perhaps, the Kingsleys’ plane was not loud enough and did not persist long enough to be considered a nuisance. The general consensus in the town was that Kingsley had used his status as a celebrity to sway the investigator into finding in his favor. It was even suggested that money had changed hands. The idea that Jake’s plane was not really louder than any other aircraft coming out of or into SLO airport—the Avanti’s impressive rate of climb meant that it was usually higher than three thousand feet by the time it passed over Oceano—but just had a distinct and admittedly annoying timbre to it, and that they had come to associate this distinct sound with someone they did not particularly care for, was never even considered.

Darlene was working one of the check stands on this Friday afternoon as she was short-staffed because that Mexican bitch Maria was knocked up (again!) and had a doctor’s appointment. She had assigned herself to the express lane, naturally, so she would not have to check huge carts full of groceries one after the other and even got some downtime on occasion. She caught a glimpse of copper coloring out of the corner of her eye and turned to see that Laura Kingsley had just entered the store. Mrs. Kingsley looked very cute today—as she did pretty much every day. She had on a pair of jeans and a green Christmas sweater. Her hair was done in matching pigtails and her cheeks were red from the brisk December air outside. Darlene felt her resentment and dislike well up just at the sight of her.

Laura grabbed one of the carts and worked her way deeper into the store, disappearing from Darlene’s view. She caught a few glimpses of her every now and then, moving her cart from place to place, putting things into it on occasion. She seemed to be spending the most time at the meat counter, in the bread aisle, and in the produce section. She also made a stop at the pharmacy, having a conversation with Rick, the pharmacist, a man Darlene also did not care for because he refused to share any gossip about what he dispensed to various town people, including the Kingsleys. Of course, Diane, the pharmacist’s assistant, was not so discrete, so Darlene and most of the other store employees—and subsequently, most of the town—had already heard that Laura Kingsley had put a hold on her birth control pills yesterday.

Laura appeared out of the freezer aisle and spent a moment looking at the lines at the check stands, evaluating which one to go to. It did not take her long to come to a decision. Aisles 4 and 6 were both open and had shoppers with full carts waiting. There was no one in the express lane currently. She headed directly to Darlene and wheeled her cart up to the front. Darlene took a quick look at her groceries, intending to tell the uppity bitch that she could not use this line if she had more than fifteen items, but, alas, Mrs. Kingsley did not.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kingsley,” she said politely, fighting to keep a pleasant expression on her face. “Did you find everything you need today?”

“Yes, I did, thanks,” the redhead answered, giving a brief smile.

Darlene began to ring up her items. A pound and a half of 85 percent lean ground beef, a half-pound of fresh sliced cheddar cheese, a bunch of romaine lettuce, two hothouse tomatoes, a red onion, a garlic bulb, a bag of frozen tater tots, a bag of hamburger buns with sesame seeds on them. “Making hamburgers tonight?” she asked, knowing she was stating the blindingly obvious but corporate insisted they make small talk with the customers and she, as manager, rigidly enforced this.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Kingsley said, politely not making any allusion that Darlene was pointing out the blindingly obvious. “Elsa is on Christmas vacation, so Jake is making dinner tonight when he gets home. He wanted to make something simple.”

“That sounds like fun,” she said, responding automatically as she continued to work. There were three more items to scan. Two were bottles of expensive chardonnay—the most expensive wine that Alpha Beta sold at this location. The other was a bottle of pills. She scanned the wine first, suppressing the urge to shake her head as she saw the prices pop up. One bottle ran $67, the other $54. The wine alone was three times the cost of all the rest of the groceries combined. And then she picked up the pill bottle. Before scanning it, she took a quick glance at the label to see just what Laura Kingsley was buying. They were prenatal vitamins. Very interesting. That certainly confirmed the gossip that Diane had shared about the hold on the birth control pills. Laura Kingsley had to be pregnant. Whether or not Jake Kingsley was the father was the only question remaining (Darlene was already leaning in the direction of that nigger rapper that was known to frequently visit the Kingsleys as her lead suspect in the case). And here she was buying a hundred dollars worth of wine to wash down her prenatal vitamins. Her low opinion of Laura Kingsley dropped even lower.

But she said nothing. She simply rang her up and named the price for the items. Mrs. Kingsley paid for it by using her ATM card in the card reader which corporate had finally purchased for them six months before (though Elsa the maid still insisted on writing checks when she was the one purchasing groceries). The transaction was approved—it always was when members of the Kingsley household were the ones making it—and off the redhead bitch went, heading back to the parking lot and her little Volkswagen convertible so she could drive home to her mansion on the cliff, do drugs, drink wine, and poison the demon-spawn she was now growing in her belly.

No sooner had Mrs. Kingsley left the store than Darlene’s three o’clock person checked in for duty. It was Karen Michaels, one of two assistant managers and Darlene’s closest crony. They had gone to high school together and had worked together at the Alpha Beta for the past fifteen years. It was they who ruled the Oceano Alpha Beta the same way the popular clique in high school (of which Darlene and Karen most certainly had not been members of) had ruled the minions beneath them. Karen would be in charge of the store until closing time once Darlene left at 5:00 o’clock.

“Why don’t you take over for me here?” Darlene told her. “I’ve got some admin stuff I need to do before I go home.”

“Sounds good,” Karen said, amicably enough. She nodded in the direction of the door. “I saw Laura Kingsley heading out as I came in. She buying up a bunch of booze again?”