Lame Ducks Read online

Lame Ducks

  By Isaac Black

  Published by Isaac Black

  Copyright 2012 Isaac Black

  Simon felt dizzy. He and his boss and coworkers were partying in the VIP lounge of the most exclusive bar in LA.

  He found himself talking to a girl.

  “I met a girl years ago who looked just like you. Her name was Anique.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is your name Anique?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re not her, are you.”

  “No.”

  His friend was going to be killed that night—could already be dead—and Simon was still keeping up the pretense that he didn’t know him.

  Simon Johns first met Casper Benton after Casper plagiarized him. The Bentons were flamboyant socialites, descendants of a gold rush landowner, so Simon recognized Casper’s family name when it appeared in the local paper on an article that Simon had written. The article read identical to its counterpart in Simon’s university political science review except for a clumsily reworded sentence here and there. Despite being conversant in local gossip Simon wasn’t acquainted with Casper. He thought he remembered rumors of a somewhat reclusive middle brother—or maybe it was a young uncle—but was unaware, along with most of the city, that Casper was the primary heir to the Bentons’ massive fortune.

  Local royalty or no, Simon was going to confront him. By calling in a favor he came up with the Bentons’ home phone number.

  “Hello?” answered a soft, deep male voice.

  “Casper Benton please.”

  “This is he.”

  “Hi. It’s Simon Johns. The guy who wrote the article you put your name on.”

  “Whoops.”

  “I want a public retraction,” Simon said.

  “How public?”

  “I want the credit.”

  “I’ll write in to the newspaper and tell them you wrote what I said I wrote. Good?” Casper offered.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I’m going to wind up in the tabloids for this.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Simon said sarcastically.

  “Anyway. Look for my retraction.”

  “Ok.”

  “Bye.”

  Only after the call ended did Simon realize that Casper hadn’t apologized to him. But true to his word, the retraction ended up in the editorial section with Casper’s skimpy paragraph of explanation, carefully worded so as not to indicate remorse. And, true to his prediction, the tabloids picked up the story. But the next day a Hollywood starlet went topless at a beach in France and the world moved on.

  The article in question was about rising tuition for California public universities. Simon’s curiosity as to why someone like Casper would care to rip off such a snoozer nagged at him. He concluded that Casper was trying to burnish his image, to portray himself as something other than an aristocratic bimbo. He put some time into researching the Benton family. His interest was partially professional; he was an entertainment reporter for one of LA’s dailies, The Sun. His research turned up that Casper as a teen had made a music video for a pop single, one that incidentally demanded little of his pubescent vocal range. Since then, he only appeared in the news again for plagiarizing Simon’s article.

  Casper must have had a special talent for seeming lifeless in order to repel the vultures in the paparazzi. Simon figured that the sensational carnival the rest of his family put on display aided him in his obscurity. His mother had remarried three times after Casper’s father’s heart-related death in his early 40s, bizarrely suing for custody of her step-children in the most recent divorce. Casper’s oldest brother was a peacock restaurateur with lots of celebrity friends and rumored drug trafficking ties. The next oldest brother was notorious for being disorderly and intoxicated in clubs and had settled a sexual assault charge out of court. His little sister was eighteen by a couple of months but was already publicly dating a Clippers starter, which generated exactly the amount of innuendo one would expect. She had previously lit up the internet rumor mills for being catty and outspoken about other dynastic nymphets and once for getting herself arrested for underage drinking.

  Having satisfied his curiosity, or having grown tired of spending free time in the library, or having been drained by the perpetual, stagnant summer of Los Angeles, Simon forgot about Casper and the Bentons.

  A year or so later, Simon went to Dana Point to cover a litter cleanup effort because an ascendant leading man was lending his face in support. The actor got a bit snarky during their informal interview because Simon wouldn’t take off his sunglasses. Simon began thinking of ways to edit the star’s quotes to make him sound self-serving. After their interview, while watching the seagulls harvest refuse, he heard someone call out the name “Casper.” This Casper was wearing a ball cap and staying away from the cameras.

  “Are you Casper Benton?” Simon ventured a guess, going off the unusual name and his slight resemblance to his tabloid-magnet siblings; he didn’t look anything like himself at 13.

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Simon smirked. “I’m Simon Johns.”

  Casper’s face searched for recognition for a minute. “Oh geez,” he rubbed his face. “You’re Simon Johns? I feel like an asshole for that.”

  Simon shrugged.

  “Did I ever apologize?” Casper asked, disarming Simon. His brow shadowed his deep blue eyes earnestly.

  “No,” Simon said.

  “I’m sorry. Let me buy you a drink after this?”

  Simon consented hesitantly after looking Casper over once more. He seemed sincere, but everyone here seemed sincere. He helped Casper pack up, both of them seeming to prefer silence to idle chitchat.

  “I made some mistakes when I was younger,” Casper started, gripping his glass.

  “Sure,” Simon said, staring out the window next to their booth.

  He grimaced. “Let me explain myself. The thing is, people make preconceptions of you when you’re a public figure. Sometimes that perception is that you’re riding someone else’s coattails. In my case, I guess I was so anxious to dispel that idea that I made it true.” He smiled at Simon. “I ripped you off.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” Simon found himself saying. “Just a college paper.”

  “Whatever. I’ve learned a couple things since then.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Like not caring what anyone thinks.” He stared ahead distantly. “Hey,” Casper perked back up. “Which paper did you say you write for?”

  “The Sun.”

  “Oh, okay. Desmond Rinehard owns that one, right?” Casper asked.

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “No, not personally.”

  Simon took a drink.

  “What do you know about him?” Casper asked.

  “He’s a shitbag. As a person. Why?”

  “He’s got it out for Governor Solomon, huh.”

  “Can’t stand him. Doesn’t hide it.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Seems personal, but you know how politics can be. Why are you wondering?” Simon asked.

  “Nothing. Just curious.”

  “Hey, guy, you’re talking to a reporter. I know how to get a story, and that’s what you’re doing.”

  “It’s nothing,” Casper insisted.

  “Nothing,” Simon repeated.

  “Yep. Anyway, my apologies again. See you around.”

  “Bye. Thanks for the drink,” Simon said coldly.

 

  As it turned out, they would indeed see each other around. Simon was dating a girl who turned out to be friends with Casper’s cousin, a girl whose shape made her depraved obsession with celebrity tolerable at least for a
brief time. Simon and Casper ended up at the same party one night, though Simon wasn’t in a hurry to greet him after their last encounter. Instead, he eavesdropped on his girlfriend’s blather and inwardly criticized the other poseurs for not managing to be as attractive as the one he was with.

  “I’m sick of this party,” his girl said fifteen minutes after arriving.

  “Yeah?” he responded indifferently.

  “Hollywood’s not really my thing,” she confessed while rubbernecking the party. This was news to Simon. “Me neither,” he said, though he was telling the truth.

  The party was at some strenuously garish Hollywood mansion, and Simon could tell from the robotic smiles and barely committal conversations that most of the attendees were there hoping that a star would show up. None of them seemed to recognize Casper. Simon decided to reward him for this achievement by saying hello to him.

  “The trick is to not let a single person know who you are,” Casper boasted mildly, holding a glass of wine. “If one person knows, it spreads, and suddenly people get clingy.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “Most people at least try to pretend like they care about you as a person and not as a name, but you’d be surprised by how brazen some people get.”

  “I don’t think I would be.”

  “I’ve had total strangers ask me for loans. It’s