THE MISFIT UNIT: 23) THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER

My Saturday Evening: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

The deposition of Jeff Dalkin continues.

"Mister Dalkin," said Worthog. "For whom do you currently work?"

"Myself."

"You are self-employed as a consultant?"

"Correct."

"So 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."

"What is that name?"

"James Riddle—reaming rat-fuck."

Worthog scribbles a note. "What was the nature of the consulting..."—Worthogs contorted his face expresses his 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."

"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," said 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 in the midst of 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 tortuous interference of the legitimate business affairs of other people," says Worthog.

"For Michael Ei...uh, I helped him try to interfere with a lunatic who was murdering cartoon characters."

"Cartoon characters?"

"Do you remember the Mickey Murder Manhunt?"

"Yes," replied Worthogs. "That was...?"

"Me. I helped Disney catch that artist 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 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 took their pound of flesh."

"And the balance?"

"What balance?"

"The rest of the money," says Worthog.

"Between lawyers and taxmen there is no rest of the money. Zippo."

Worthog looked 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 20 publishers already told her," says Dalkin.

"And Ms. Rigglesworth had good reason to rely on your advice, correct?"

"No."

"But you were pawning yourself off as Bruce Willis, correct?"

"She seemed to think I was Bruce—willie-wankstain—Willis. All I did was go along with her own belief."

"And you did so with the presumption she would probably take advice given her by a Hollywood heavyweight like Bruce Willis, correct?"

"Advice is advice," says Dalkin. "People take it or leave it."

"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 been taking advice from, not Bruce—willie-wankstain—Willis, if that's who she thought I was."

"But you suggested to Ms. Rigglesworth that she 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. "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 that?"

Dalkin shrugs. "Because I think 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," says 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 wrote up, she looks at the world like 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,” continues 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-out scam to tortuously interfere with Ms. Rigglesworth's legal right to earn a living," says Worthog. He looks at Dalkin. "Correct?"

Dalkin shrugs. "The origins of 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—in part of this huge conspiracy to dupe poor 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.