It was a beautiful day in Lynwood, the Los Angeles industrial suburban community. Only the media elite were aware of the flashpoint of a storm that was beginning to brew. At the Lynwood Correctional Facility, the women's jail for the LA County Sheriff's Department, the parking lot was teeming with news media waiting for something to write about and broadcast. Not much investigation was needed on prison facilities and menu. These items were covered extensively when Lindsay Lohan vacationed there and could easily be rehashed without fact-checking: Most prison cells are rarely redecorated and prison menus never change for the reasons of variety and appeal.

The reporters were on the lookout for an officer who might talk or a relative of an inmate who could provide an insider's view for a small cash down payment and media immortality.

            Thirty miles to the northwest of Lynwood, in commercial Beverly Hills, a media contingent, much more orderly, was gathering in front of the House of Freemani Jewelers on Camden Drive. Unlike Lynwood, taco trucks were discouraged from setting up camp.

            Half a mile to the northeast of Rodeo Drive, in the hills, Muk and crew were starting the day at the Freemani installation site. Muk would soon realize that he had over-planned, as usual. He and Pedro could have done the job themselves. He had arranged for two Art Dogs to assist. Kasper Kovitz and Pete Cortel were both artists who paid the rent as art handlers. Art Dog is slang for a very specialized and versatile job. They are the ones who install and hang an art show in a gallery or museum. They are the ones who carry a priceless Picasso or attach a painting to the living room wall in a private home. Quite handy, they are generally highly skilled in all manner of construction and fabrication. They solve problems. Working with eccentric artists, despotic art dealers or loopy collectors, Art Dogs always have the very best stories.

            Assembling the base of the sculpture that was designed by Ball-Nogues was a breeze. All pieces fit as snug as a puzzle. Muk had prepared for some futzing and finagling but none was needed. The interlocking abstract petals, for lack of a better description, attached onto an invisible frame with custom nuts and bolts.

It was a pleasant day and no one worked up much of a sweat.

            Blu was sitting in the limo, wired to the world on a laptop. Occasionally she would report the developments in the Ali BeeDee whirlwind. Since they were at the Freemani compound, Blu was dolled up in her Honey Bare-Sugar Fox guise. The effort may have gone unnoticed, for the Freemani siblings were nowhere to be seen. Keeping a personal low profile might be a good idea since their professional name was part of the headline news. When Muk drove up to the compound this morning, he saw one car with a hungry photographer hoping for an opportunity. At the end of the day, he would count three cars and a pap perched like a vulture on a motorcycle.

            When the sun was at it's height, Cosima's maid brought out a tray of cut crystal glasses and a pitcher of an unusual lemonade drowning in fresh fruit slices. Upon tasting it, Muk thought how good it would blend with tequila. There was something spicy about it.

            "Did you make this?" Muk asked.

            The maid nodded, pleased at the compliment. She regarded Muk with a wary admiration bordering on awe.

"Amazing. By the way, we've met but I don't know your name."

"Amada," replied the uniformed servant. She looked away shyly. With a life in service, she was unaccustomed to a compliment or a consideration.

"I'm Muk."

"I know. I know," she said enthusiastically, almost fervently, "Miss Freemani speaks so highly of you."

"And I, her." Muk wasn't really very good at a compliment either. "Can you slip me the recipe?"

The fifty-three year old turned away, unsure how to answer. She swayed back, feeling brave but unable to look Muk in the eye, wagging her finger and smiling, "No. No, it's very... special."

Muk laughed, "I don't blame ya. Franchise it."

"My grandmother, she made it."

"Then, that's a secret to keep."

"And her grandmother, too!"

"Ya know, it'd be great with tequila. Or vodka!"

Laughing, Amada bravely touched Muk on the arm and said in Spanish, "That's what my great-grandmother said!"

They laughed but Muk didn't know why. His Spanish was lousy. Muk said, "Hey, I need another glass to take to my gal." Muk nodded in the direction of the limo across the car park.

"No. No, I take it."

"Well, Thanks. Thank you."

Amada poured a glass.

Muk turned back to the construction crew. Kasper the Art Dog raised his glass and said in his thick Austrian accent, "Dis vood be good wit tequila."

"Oh, thanks," said Blu when Amada surprised her with the frosty glass.

The laptop was streaming old file footage of Ali DeeBee getting carried out the door of a nightclub by a large bouncer, who then drops her onto the concrete pavement. The horror and indignity of the scene was painted over when the film was reversed and fast-forwarded repeatedly so that it looked like the goon was dribbling Ali BeeDee like a basketball. The sound effects were hilarious. Within twenty-four hours, this basketball clip broke viewership records on 'Funny or Die.' Amada pointed, "Miss Ali."

"Did you know her? Was she here a lot, when she was dating Bobby?"

"Si. A wild girl. Too much of a girl. Like a boy, a bad boy. But she has a good heart."

"Yeah? Well, she's in bad boy big trouble now! Thanks for the lemonade."

"De nada. Does Mister Muk love Miss Ali?

"Oh, yeah. America loves Ali."

Amada nodded, paused and retreated.

It was one o'clock in the afternoon and the job was done for the day. There was nothing else that could be done. The crane would arrive tomorrow to finish the job. It was too early to go drinking and too late to get garb and go golfing or fight traffic and go surfing. Muk told the Art Dogs to get outta here. Kasper Kovitz and Pete Cortel were stoked. This meant that they had a whole afternoon to make art in quiet solitude. Both were married with working wives. The time to make art is precious.

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

© Gordy Grundy, All Rights Reserved

www.Gordy Grundy.com

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