THE MISFIT UNIT: 15) MORE FUN & GAMES

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

The deposition of Jeff Dalkin continues.

"Counsel," the videographer speaks in a nasal twang. "Please state your names and who you represent."

"Bernard Rosen for Philip Dillman," says Rosen.

"Bradley Fatwood for Jeff Dalkin."

"Would you swear the witness, please," says Worthog sternly.

The court reporter asks Dalkin to raise his right hand and repeat the oath after her.

"Would you please state your full name and address for the record, sir," says Worthog.

"Jeff Dalkin—hot-diggedy-dogaroonie.

"Excuse me," Worthog interrupts. "Is hot-diggedy-dogaroonie your middle name?"

Dalkin inhales, exhales. "No."

"Then why did you say that?"

"It popped out of my mouth."

"It popped out of your mouth?" Worthog pulls a face.

"I want to note for the record," Bradley Fatwood interjects, "my client suffers from Tourette's syndrome."

Dalkin turns to his lawyer. "I object,” he says. “I don't suffer Tourette's. I actually enjoy it."

Fatwood looks straight ahead at Worthog. "My client curses uncontrollably."

Worthog absorbs this. "How long have you enjoyed Tourette's syndrome?"

"Ever since Mister Slater—Nazi schwinehund dickhead.”

"Mister Slater?"

"Mister Slater—Nazi schwinehund—was my third grade teacher. When I started cursing him out they thought I was possessed by Satan.”

"Are you?" asks Worthog.

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"Am I what?"

"Are you possessed by Satan?"

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"No," says Dalkin. "I'm actually the opposite."

"What does that mean?"

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"I'm a kind of exorcist," says Dalkin. "I have the toe of my boot up Satan's sphincter."

"Can you elaborate?"

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"I exorcise demons that torment my clients." Dalkin fills a vacuum of awed silence with another deep breath. "And I do it with a bottle of whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other. I call it exorcising the devil on its own terms." Dalkin smirks like Bruce Willis. "Actually, my own concept."

"Isn't an exorcist supposed to be a Catholic priest, Mister Dalkin?" asks Worthog with the matter-of-factness of a corpse.

"Life is more complicated these days.” Dalkin winks. "The trick is to fool the devil."

"Did you graduate from high school?" asks Worthog.

"Barely."

"Do you have any degrees?"

"Most of what I know is self-taught."

"You mean how to con innocent people?"

"Objection," says Fatwood. "I instruct my client not to answer."

"Mister Dalkin, would you describe your work background?"

"I was a special agent with the F-F... fecal barf-bags of incontinence, uh..."

"The FBI?" Worthog interjects.

"Yeah—baloney beaters.”

"Can you tell us how long you were a special agent for the FBI?"

"Ten years."

"Why did you leave? Were you fired?" Worthog tosses in.

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"Actually, I got bored," says Dalkin.

"Isn't it true that you were not liked at the FBI?"

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"It's not actually for me to say whether others actually liked me or not," says Dalkin. "Depose them."

"There was no possibility of advancement at the FBI for you, was there, Mister Dalkin?"

“Objection,” says Fatwood.

"I wouldn't know. Just did my job."

"Until you got bored," Worthog echoes.

"That's actually what I said."

"And what did you do after that?"

Dalkin inhales, exhales. "I took a vacation."

"I mean professionally. What was your next job?"

"Self-employed."

"Doing what?"

"Consultant."

Worthog scoffs. "What does that word consultant mean?"

"It means clients hire me to consult for them."

"Who are your clients?"

"Objection," says Fatwood. "That's beyond the scope of this deposition. Your questioning must pertain to the plaintiff."

Worthog returns his gaze on Dalkin. "Was one of your clients Ding-a-Ling Widgets?"

"Yes," says Dalkin.

"And what was the nature of your work for Ding-a-Ling?"

"Consulting."

"What kind of consulting do you do, Mister Dalkin?"

"Investigative consulting."

“Is that what you did for Ding-a-Ling, investigative consulting?"

"Yes."

"Isn't investigative consulting just a euphemism for spying?"

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"Objection," echoes Rosen.

"I guess it's a question of semantics." Dalkin folds his arms. "Isn't contingency lawyer just a euphemism for sleazy shakedown artist?"

"Mister Dalkin," said Worthog. "Do you have an investigative consulting company?"

"No."

"Were you employed by an investigative consulting company?"

Dalkin yawns expressively. “No,”

Worthog steadies his dull gaze at the deponent. "Mister Dalkin, do you take these proceedings lightly?"

Dalkin steadies his gaze into opposing counsel. "Mister Worthog, this case may be a big fucking deal to you. But to me, it's actually like a boil on my butt. In other words, it's a small nuisance that deserves to have the poison squeezed out of it." Dalkin turns to the stenographer. "Got all that? Big tits! No, I... never mind."

Watson Worthog pushes a slip of paper to his father. "Here, here," he says, fidgeting like a chipmunk. "Ask him this."

“Leave me alone!” Worthog senior hisses at his son. He seems to have little regard for such a dork, unemployable elsewhere. But he looks at the question nonetheless and refaces Dalkin. "Do you hold any professional licenses?"

"No."

"Do you hold any licenses at all?"

"Yes."

"And what license is that?"

"My driver's license." Dalkin smirks like Bruce Willis.

"So you're in the private investigation business without a license?"

"No."

"So you do possess a professional license?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Then what-what?"

"How can you be a professional private investigator without a license?"

"Simple," says Dalkin. "I never said I’m a private investigator, I'm an investigative consultant."

"What is the difference?"

"The difference is, I don't actually need a license to be an investigative consultant.”

"Where do you practice investigative consulting?"

"Wherever the job takes me."

"Has the job ever taken you into Washington, D.C,?"

"Yes."

"Do you know Ms. Rhoda Rigglesworth?" Worthogs glances at his client.

"Yes."

"Did you meet with Rhoda Rigglesworth in Washington, D.C.?"

"Yes."

"Were you paid to meet Rhoda Rigglesworth by Ding-a-Ling Widgets?"

"Objection," says Bernie Rosen.

"Yes," says Dalkin.

"Did you solicit information from Rhoda Rigglesworth on her journalistic investigation of Ding-a-Ling Widgets?"

"I lent her an ear," says Dalkin.

"You lent her an ear? What does that mean?"

"It means Rigglesworth likes to yak about her work. I just listened."

"You just listened?"

"Yes. Once Rigglesworth starts yakking about herself, it is actually difficult to get her to shut up."

Rhoda Rigglesworth gasps.

"Do you have any idea what you've done to this poor woman?" Worthog demands.

"Objection," calls Fatwood.

"Objection," calls Rosen.

"Investigation is actually a two-way street. If Rigglesworth doesn't have the stomach for playing the big leagues, she probably shoulda been a librarian."

"Mister Dalkin," says Worthog with as much sternness as he can muster. "Do you understand why you are here today?"

"Yes."

"And why is that, sir?"

"The writer Gore Vidal once said, and I quote, 'Litigation replaces sex in middle age.'" Dalkin pauses. "I actually think that's why we're here.”

Worthog harrumphs. "Mister Dalkin, how much did Ding-a-Ling Widgets pay you to gain Ms. Rigglesworth's confidence?"

"Objection," calls Bernie Rosen.

"Ding-a-Ling paid me seventy-five hundred a month to consult for them."

"Were you paid in cash?"

"No."

"Did you receive a 1099 form from Ding-a-Ling?"

"Probably."

"Did you report your payment from Ding-a-Ling Circus to the IRS?"

"Of course."

“Objection,” calls Fatwood.

"Then you must have records." Worthog smacks his open palm on the table. "Why have we not received this documentation as requested?"

"All this happened about nine years ago,” says Dalkin. “I actually don't keep records that far back."

"Not even your tax returns?"

"Especially not my tax returns."

"Do you retain any records from your work?"

"Current projects only."

"Such as?"

"Objection," says Fatwood. "I instruct my client not to answer."

"Are you familiar with the name Richard Mutton?"

"Yes."

"Did you know Richard Mutton?"

"I thought I knew a Dick Mutton—mutant masturbator," says Dalkin. "Emphasis on dick."

"You thought?"

"Yeah, the dick I knew wasn't a two-timing son-of-a-whore."

"Did you know that Richard Mutton was senior vice president at Ding-a-Ling Widgets?"

"Yes."

"Was it Richard Mutton who hired you to consult for Ding-a-Ling?"

"Objection," says Rosen.

"Yes," says Dalkin.

"Mister Dalkin, are you aware that you bear a striking resemblance to Bruce Willis, the movie actor?"

Dalkin smirks. "I am aware Bruce Willis has a striking resemblance to me.”

"And is it also true that you use your Bruce Willis looks in your work as an investigative consultant?"

"No."

"I remind the deponent that he is under oath."

"Thanks," says Dalkin.

"Did you hold yourself out as Bruce Willis to Rhoda Rigglesworth?"

"No."

"How do you explain that Ms. Rigglesworth believed you to be Bruce Willis?"

"I think you just explained that yourself." Dalkin smirks. "Bruce looks like me.”

"You did not tell Rhoda Rigglesworth you were Bruce Willis?"

"Why the hell would I do that if I’m not Bruce Willis?"

“So your answer is no?”

“Yes. No.”

"Then why did she believe this were so?" asks Worthog.

"You’d have to ask her what she believed, not me.”

“Why do you think Ms. Rigglesworth thought you were Bruce Willis?”

“Because of what you already said yourself. Bruce Willis looks like me, and I guess people fool themselves.”

"But once you allowed Ms. Rigglesworth to believe you were Bruce Willis, you continued this ruse?"

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"What ruse?" says Dalkin.

"Making Ms. Rigglesworth believe that you would assist her with her intellectual property while all the while having no intention to do so."

"I didn't make Rigglesworth believe anything."

"You held yourself out as someone who would assist Ms. Rigglesworth, and then you reported everything you found out about her to Ding-a-Ling Widgets. Right, Mister Dalkin?"

"What's right is that Rigglesworth thought I was Bruce Willis and yakked her friggin' head off about her various writing projects."

"And you reported everything she told you to Ding-a-Ling?"

"Of course."

“Objection,” says Bernie Rosen.

"Including personal information about Ms. Rigglesworth?"

Dalkin shrugs. "Whatever she told me."

“Objection,” says Bernie Rosen.

"And you specifically asked about her personal life, didn't you, Mister Dalkin?"

"Like I already told you, I didn't ask nothing about nothing. I didn't have to. Rigglesworth poured herself out like beer piss. I didn't give a shit about her personal life. Ding-a-Ling’s only interest was why a freelance reporter was targeting them. What was I supposed to do when she started yakking about her hair stylist, tell her to shut up? I sure as hell felt like it. But I listened out of politeness."

"You're going to sit there and tell us that you were polite to Ms. Rigglesworth?"

"Objection," says Fatwood.

"I'm just answering your question with the truth I've been sworn to tell, chief," says Dalkin. "And I'll tell you something else..."

“I’m calling a recess,” says Worthog.