Roger
It’s like an action movie.
Before I know what’s happening, Natalie is up and out of her chair. She hops the little fence that, a few minutes ago, I’d so gentlemanly helped her over. That she does so in heels and a pencil skirt adds to the excitement.Trust me.
Then she’s down the block. I stand and watch as she shoves some pear-shaped, balding dude with a camera up against a wall. I hop the fence once again, and take off in hot pursuit of Natalie.
By the time I catch up, she’s raining her fists down on the guy’s shoulders and back. He hunches over, trying to protect his camera. I have no idea who this ‘Weasel’ is, but there’s something enjoyable about watching the dude get shit-canned by Natalie.
She leaves off punching him and is now smashing one of her heels on his toes. Weasel lets out a yelp. I’m tempted to see how far this goes. If he really is working for the tabloids, then I have no qualms about his getting a little punishment. In my book, the paparazzi rank somewhere just below cockroaches and slightly above lawyers.
Except, I become aware of the crowd that’s forming. Cellphones are out. The front page ofExposé Extragarners some eyeballs, but not nearly as many as social media. The irony of being photographed beating up a paparazzo is lost on Natalie, given how fired up she is. So, regrettably, I figure it’s time to step in and break up the fight.
“OK, OK…” I say. “End of round one.” I put my hands around Natalie’s waist and hoist her away from Weasel, who’s now down on one knee. I think I can hear him actually whimpering.
“Bastard works for my ex!” Natalie accuses as she squirms in my arms. That’s an interesting twist. I set her down and pull Weasel up to stand. Then I get in his grill, still gripping his arm.
“That true?” I ask. “You work for Blake Western?”
“I don’t have to talk to you!” he tells me in a nasally voice that’s heavy with a Queens accent. He yanks his arm out of my hand. “Fuck off, Zane.”
All right. I can play bad cop, too. I turn back to Natalie. “Were you finished?”
“No.”
“Have at him.”
Weasel throws up his hands, “Wait, wait!” He’s literally shaking, poor douche bag. “Yeah, I work for Western.”
“And?” I encourage him.
“He saddled me with following his old broad around.”
Natalie’s face goes red with rage again. She points a finger at Weasel. “He’s the son-of-a-bitch who took those photos from the other night.”
“That true?” I ask him. “You take those pics?”
“That out of focus horse shit?” he sneers. I give him a look that lets him know his critical opinions are not of any interest to me.
“No,” he says more agreeably, “I didn’t take those snaps.”
Natalie takes another step toward him, and he presses himself further against the wall. “Hey, I swear! I swear!”
I believe him. Some scum in this world are actually terrible at lying. They have so little care for their own moral appearances, it never occurs to them to be untruthful to save face.
So, Weasel’s just a hired monkey out to satisfy the boss’s obsession with his ex. It’s too bad. I’d like to know how this whole mess got started, too. A mystery for another day.
Natalie is still fuming. I could basically give two shits about Weasel and Western’s obsession with Natalie, but I would really like to go back and enjoy my lunch with her. Right now, this Weasel situation is a first rate cockblock, or getting-to-know-her-block, or whatever.
I turn back to the shitbag. “Weasel, is it?”
“Yeah,” he says, like I just asked if his name was ‘James’, like that was the name his beloved mother gave him. New York, man.
“OK, Weasel. How much is Western paying you?”
“I don’t gotta tell you that.” He gets another look from me and immediately says, “Two smacks for the day.”
“Great,” I tell him, pulling out my wallet. I slide out four crisp hundreds. Weasel’s eyes go wide. I’m aware of the fact that Natalie’s do, too. “Here’s twice as much if you promise to fuck off and never try to get a picture of this nice lady again.”