Admittedly, in Smithy’s version, a lot of that had changed. For a start, he wasn’t actually going to kill Lousy Louis, and despite what his acting CV said, Smithy couldn’t ride a horse. Even if he could, he would have needed a much bigger crate.
No, in his plan, Lousy Louis is asleep in his douchy floating bed and wakes to find a leprechaun standing over him, holding a paintball gun. Smithy had a shortlist of four planned speeches, but was yet to settle on one. He thought he would wait and see what felt right at the time. Then, as Louis is lying there thinking he’s about to die, he’d be hit with the mother of all paintball barrages.
Smithy had spent quite a lot of money he didn’t have on a gun that the guy in the shop said had something called a motorised, gravity-fed hopper. Smithy hadn’t understood most of the technical lingo, but he’d grasped the important bit – it could shoot twenty paintballs a second. The dude had waxed lyrical and called it a triumph of engineering elegance and excellence. Smithy considered the phrase more appropriate for a feat of design such as the Brooklyn Bridge, but he had let it slide. Besides, he was fully intending to return the gun in the morning and say it was a present that hadn’t been appreciated. Failing that, he’d stick it on eBay and hope for the best. This project had gone way over budget, not least because it wasn’t supposed to have one.
The other change in Smithy’s version of events was that, unlike the deceitful lord, this would be only the beginning of Lousy Louis’s nightmares. If Smithy’s plan went as he hoped it would, Lousy was going to learn a valuable lesson – one that would stay with him for the rest of his life – about how to treat human beings.
Smithy moved back into the bedroom and walked up to the other Star Trek door. He waved his hand in front of the sensor.
“Aw, hell no times a hundred!”
“Now what?”
“He’s got a whole wall of Lou Reed’s album covers – like the actual, proper musical genius Lou Reed. Full vinyl LP covers – all thirty-five – that’s twenty-two studio and thirteen live albums.”
“Oh,” said Diller. “OK.”
“OK? OK? It is not OK!”
“What? This guy can’t like the same music as you?”
“He can, but he doesn’t. Because if you actually like Lou Reed, you would not have his album covers on the wall of your bathroom.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. One of the greatest artists ever to grace the planet deserves more respect than to have his life’s work gazed upon by some fat dipshit while he takes a dump.”
“We said we weren’t going to mention his weight again.”
“All bets are off! This is an affront that will not stand.”
“Oh boy. And so it begins.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well,” said Diller, “I can always tell when you’re totally losing your temper because your speech gets more and more Shakespearean.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Is it, though? That fight in the karaoke bar, the last thing you said was, ‘If this brute dares to place his hands on me once more, I shall smite him.’”
“I never—”
“You did. You said you were actually going to smite that Australian dude, which turned out to mean putting his head through a framed picture of Gloria Estefan.”
“How do you know who Gloria Estefan is, but you don’t know Lou Reed?”
“Now who’s changing the subject?”
“Alright, I’m just … I once had every Lou Reed album on vinyl, y’know. They got lost in a fire.”
“Oh.”
“I know these aren’t the exact same ones, but it’s just …” Smithy ran his gloved hand over the framed covers, as if trying to comfort a wounded animal. “This is just … Aw, hell no! Hell no! Hell no!”
“Now what?” asked Diller. “Has he stuffed and mounted Lou Reed?”
Smithy looked up at the wall. “I think he …” Smithy had to work to hold back the emotion in his voice. “I think these album sleeves still have all the original records inside them.”
“So?”
“So?” Smithy could feel his blood starting to boil. “Dill, do you have any idea what a steamy bathroom will do to rare vinyl recordings?”
“No.”
“Well, neither do I, but I bet it’s not anything good. I’m going to rip down every single one and take them with me. This is an affront in the eyes of God!”
“Hello again, Mr Angry Shakespeare,” said Diller. “If you’re gonna steal stuff, can you get me the Han Solo laser pistol?”
“I am not stealing stuff. I’m here to make an important point.”
“Couldn’t that point be that bad people don’t deserve nice things?”
“Dill, don’t—”
Smithy froze. It was only 4:30pm – Lousy Louis wasn’t supposed to be home for at least three hours. So why had he just heard the front door open?
Chapter Five
Lou Reed – the one who wasn’t dead – came barrelling through the front door, his phone pressed to his ear.
“I don’t give a fuck, Morris. Just get it done, or else go fill out a job application for Dunkin’ Donuts, because that is where you’ll be working next week.”
He snapped his phone shut with a pleasing thunk. Flip phones were hard to come by these days, but he’d found a place in South Korea that did custom builds. He enjoyed being able to snap the device shut to terminate a call. It felt boss. Speaking of bosses …
He looked at the big crate sitting in his kitchen of polished marble surfaces and glittering chrome. His fridge had more processing capacity than NASA had when they’d put a man on the moon. It currently housed some pickles and a jar of mayonnaise past its expiration date.
“Alright, alright, alright!”
He walked around the crate as if admiring a fine work of art. He’d hurried home right after his assistant had given him the message. Last year, Lou had spent a lot of time chasing Springsteen’s people to try to book him for the company’s Fourth of July party. He’d been told Bruce did not do private events, no matter what. He’d doubled the offer – hard no. Then he had doubled it again, and had gone to great lengths to find out where Springsteen lived. He had sent an intern over to deliver the offer in person with a bottle of champagne. The intern had been instructed not to take no for an answer. He had returned drenched in champagne and defeat. Last Lou had heard of him, the guy was working in Starbucks. That was too good for him – coffee is for closers.
Lou ran a hand over the crate affectionately. He’d known that Springsteen would have a price – all that “man of the people” stuff was just marketing.
“Samantha, call Pamela.”
“Calling Pamela, sir.”
Samantha was the state-of-the-art home management system that he’d had installed earlier this year. It controlled everything. He’d also paid a small fortune to get that hot chick from that show he liked that’d got cancelled to record the voice for it. It was totally customised. One of a kind. Lou was all about rarity.