37.
Monday morning, nine a.m., Jeff Dalkin returns to Bacon, Hump and the Worthogs.
"Lively weekend?" Dalkin winks at the corpse-like senior Worthog as he rumps his rear. "I'm sorry, it's just that you don't look well."
The videographer swears in the deponent.
"Mister
Dalkin," Worthog growls. "I
request for the record that you turn off your cell phone."
"That's
impossible." Dalkin smirks.
"Why is it impossible?"
"Because I don't
have a cell phone with me."
"Mister
Dalkin." Worthog straightens his
spectacles. "For whom do you
currently work?"
Dalkin looks to his lawyer to object, but Fatwood remains silent.
"That has nothing to do with your case," says Dalkin.
"Are you refusing
to answer?"
Dalkin considers this. "Yeah."
Worthog focuses his gaze on Fatwood. "I suggest you counsel your client that the Court has compelled him to answer questions pertaining to current employment."
Fatwood looks at
Dalkin, nods.
"I have to use the
bathroom." Dalkin unclips the
microphone from his shirt.
"We just started," Worthog erupts. "I don't agree to a recess!"
"No? You want me to pee on your shoes?" Dalkin doesn’t wait for an answer, but skips out, Fatwood at his heels.
"What's going
on?" says Fatwood.
Dalkin turns and points
to the hospitality room. "In
there." Dalkin closes the door and
turns on his lawyer. "National
security just cut in. Big time."
"National
security?"
"My current client is the U.S. government—golly glomping goo-goo butts. I am running a very sensitive and highly classified intelligence project and I am not permitted to disclose it to anyone who does not have a security clearance and cleared to know what I'm doing, which is almost no one. USG would never clear those Worthogs to see anything except used toilet paper."
"Maybe you should tell me about it," says Fatwood.
"How high do your security clearances go?"
"We have attorney-client
privilege," adds Fatwood.
"Doesn't cut
it."
"I'll go
explain." Fatwood turns.
"No, you won’t. An explanation itself is secret. They’d leak it to
the media just to harass me. Don't you
get it? They're looking for ammunition
to force a settlement. And Rigglesworth
has it in for me because she got fooled. And she, being a reporter, she'll use
everything she can get from litigation to write about this situation, including
everything she can find out about me."
"What do you want
me to do?" asks Fatwood.
"You're the goddam
lawyer—lying labanza-balls. Call the
judge—jiggering jerk-off. No, don't call
him a jiggering jerk-off. Just call
him. Demand a conference. Tell him he's stepping on national
security."
"Opposing counsel
will want to be present."
Dalkin shakes his head. "In that case, never mind. I'll get a gaggle of government lawyers to go see the judge—jiggering jerk-off."
"Hmmm." Fatwood does not want to be upstaged by other attorneys. "Here's what we're going to do. You should answer the question by saying you currently have no clients. Once they produce a transcript of the deposition for you to read, you'll have thirty days to review it and make corrections before it becomes a permanent record. By that time, we can hopefully sort this out and you can correct it—or not—accordingly.”
Dalkin grunts approval
and, moments later, the two men reseat themselves opposite the Worthogs.
"Mister
Dalkin," said Worthog. "For whom do you currently work?"
"Myself."
"You are
self-employed as a consultant?"
"Correct."
"My question is, for whom do you currently consult?"
"No one."
"Who are your
clients?"
Dalkin shrugs. "I'm looking for some. Got any ideas?"
"Who was your last
client?" asked Worthog.
"A dot-com
billionaire."
"Did this client
have a name?"
"Yes, but turned
out it wasn’t real.”
"What is that
name?"
"James Riddle—reaming rat-fuck."
Worthog scribbles a note. "What was the nature of the consulting..."—Worthog contorts his face to show disdain--"...that you did for James Riddle?"
"He wanted to know
the truth," says Dalkin.
Worthog scoffs. "From you?"
"Objection,"
calls Fatwood.
"The truth about
what?" asks Worthog.
"UFOs, who killed JFK," says Dalkin. "Who really runs the world. That kind of thing."
Worthog harrumphs. “So, who killed Kennedy?”
Dalkin looks to
Fatwood. “Am I supposed to answer that under oath?”
Fatwood shrugs. “It’s about time somebody did.”
“Okay, why not.” Dalkin reverts his gaze onto Worthog. “Meyer—silenced wife—Phillips, Harvey—fat-ass, Veciana, Sturgis, Morales and… you want the shooter too? Sarti—Corsican cunt. A rogue op—crypto-cruds—they’re all rotting in hell.”
“Huh?”
"Is that really a question?”
"How do you know that?"
"You kidding?" Dalkin winks. "I know more things by accident than you'll ever know on purpose."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Who the hell cares whether you do or don't? It'll all become clear when the fucking records are finally unsealed."
“Let’s get back to my
case.”
“About time, chief.”
"It would be
correct to say that you sold James Riddle information?"
"Yes."
"How much did
James Riddle pay you for this so-called truth?"
"I can't remember the total amount, if that's what you're asking."
"Which part of it can you remember?"
"The part where Riddle—reaming rat-fuck—turned out to be sting undercover agent for the F-F... festering barf-bags of incontinence—FBI."
"I don't
understand," says Worthog.
"I'm sure there's
a lot you don't understand."
"You sold
information to the FBI?"
"I didn't know it
was the B-B... ball-less bargsters—Bureau."
"You were doing
something illegal?"
"No."
Worthog settles back into his seat. "Who else have you consulted for?"
"Michael Ei... Ei... Ei-yi-yi-yi!" Dalkin sings like a Mexican mariachi undergoing a hot coffee enema.
"Who?"
"Ei-yi-y-yi...
Eisner, whew!"
"Michael Eisner,
the chairman of Disney?"
"Bingo."
"What did you do for him?"
"Objection,"
says Fatwood.
"We have a right
to know if there is a pattern to Mister Dalkin's tortious interference of the
legitimate business affairs of other people," says Worthog.
"For Michael Ei...,
uh, I helped him try to catch a lunatic who was murdering cartoon
characters."
"Cartoon
characters?"
"Yeah, right. Don't you remember the Mickey Murder
Manhunt?"
"Yes,"
replied Worthogs. "That
was...?"
"Me. I helped Disney catch that artist, Stukey, who killed
Mickey Mouse."
"You must have
been paid a lot of money for that," says Worthog.
Dalkin shrugs.
"How much money did you make from Disney?"
"Problem
resolution scale," says Dalkin.
"And what is
that?"
"Depends how rich
the client—dumb-mutherfuck—is."
"So how much did Disney pay you?"
"Two grand a day, expenses."
"Where is that
money now?"
Dalkin turns to
Fatwood. "Bacon, Hump has
some. The IRS—thieving thugs—they have
some."
"And the
balance?"
"What
balance?"
"The rest of the
money," asks Worthog.
"That's my
point," says Dalkin. "Between
lawyers and taxmen there is no rest of the money. No balance. Zippo."
Worthog looks into a
portable filer, extracts a manila envelope and peruses some papers. Then he scowls at Dalkin. "Did you tell Ms. Rigglesworth that she
was wasting her time researching Ding-a-Ling Widgets?"
"I only echoed
what about twenty publishers already told her," says Dalkin.
"Yes or no."
"Yes."
"And Ms.
Rigglesworth had good reason to rely on your advice, correct?"
"No."
"But you were
pawning yourself off as Bruce Willis, correct?"
"Not correct. She seemed to
think I was Bruce—willie-wankstain—Willis.”
"Presuming she thought you were Bruce Willis and would presumably take advice given her by a Hollywood heavyweight like Bruce
Willis, she was led by your advice, correct?"
"Advice is
advice," says Dalkin. "People
take it or leave it. Presumably."
"But you led Ms. Rigglesworth to believe you would represent her, correct?"
"No, not correct. Very incorrect. As I remember it, Rigglesworth already had an agent, a literary agent, so she was represented and that's who she should have presumably been taking advice from, not Bruce—willie-wankstain—Willis, if that's who she thought I was."
"And you suggested
that Ms. Rigglesworth research another subject, correct?"
"Yeah."
"What was the other subject you suggested?"
"Well, it wasn't just a suggestion. Rigglesworth had already dabbled on the other subject herself."
"How did you know that?" snaps Worthog.
Dalkin rolls his eyes. "Because she told me."
"What was this other subject?"
"Rigglesworth
seems to fixate on people who are successful and rich. She'd already written
about The National Enquirer
and the gaffer who used to own it, Generoso Pope. All I did was suggest that she focus on that
for a while."
"Didn't you tell
Ms. Rigglesworth you thought a book about the National Enquirer would
make a good movie?"
"I probably said
it might make a good movie," says Dalkin.
"Why did you say
this?"
Dalkin shrugs. "Because it would make a good
movie."
"Did you lead Ms. Rigglesworth to believe that if she devoted time and effort to developing this subject as a book, you would try to make a movie out of it?"
"She led herself."
"Did you tell her,
Mister Dalkin, that you would try to make a movie about the National
Enquirer?"
"I said I'd
try."
"Did you
try?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"What the fuck do
I know about making movies?"
"Exactly," said Worthog. "It was a ruse, wasn't it?"
"Of course it was a ruse, you dickhead."
Worthog recoils. "A ruse to sidetrack Ms. Rigglesworth
and waste her time on an impossible subject."
"Excuse me? You're forgetting something important. I paid her to develop a story about The National Enquirer. More money than she deserved..."
"You knew full
well that The National Enquirer's
founder was secretive about his privacy, didn't you?"
"Only from what
Rigglesworth wrote herself."
"You knew you were
sending her on an impossible assignment."
"I didn't send her
anywhere," says Dalkin. "Aside
from which, I bet a lot of assignments would be impossible for Rigglesworth
because, judging by the Complaint she helped you write up, Rhoda looks at the
world as if was a disciple Lyndon Larouche.
I'm surprised you haven't named the Trilateral Commission as a co-defendant."
"Isn't it true that you chose The National Enquirer as a subject because it would be reasonable to Ms. Rigglesworth that Bruce Willis, who you were pretending to be..."
"Objection," says Fatwood.
"That Bruce Willis,” continued Worthog, “would have a vested interest in embarrassing the Enquirer?"
"No."
"But you must
admit it makes sense that Bruce Willis would want to expose the Enquirer
in retaliation for constantly exposing him?"
"Objection," says Fatwood. "I don't know what this has to do with anything."
"It shows that this was a well thought through scam to tortiously interfere with Ms. Rigglesworth's legal right to earn a living," says Worthog. He looks at Dalkin. "Correct?"
Dalkin shrugs. "The
National Enquirer is a great story.
I was doing Rigglesworth a favor by suggesting it."
"You even gave Ms.
Rigglesworth material on the Enquirer to further encourage her, isn't
that correct, Mister Dalkin?"
"Yes."
"Material that
connected the Enquirer's founder, Generoso Pope, to the CIA. Correct?"
"Yes."
"From where did
you get such material, Mister Dalkin?"
Dalkin shrugs. "I don't recall."
"Did the CIA give it to you?"
"Uh-oh, now you want to implicate the CIA—crypto-cruds—into a huge conspiracy to dupe poor Ms. Rigglesworth?”
"I demand an
answer to my question."
"No," says
Dalkin. "CIA—crypto-cruds—did not
give me information on anything to do with the Enquirer."
"Has the CIA given
you information on anything else?"
Dalkin turns to his lawyer. "Why aren't you objecting?"
"Objection," Fatwood obliges his client.
"I'm taking a recess," says Dalkin.