Burbank, California remained steadfast beneath the bustle, a town assured to arouse the fondest of memories.
She settled into a sterile fifth floor room at the Marriott. The hotel wasn’t far from what she regarded as the unfortunately renamed Hollywood Burbank Airport.
They never should have torn down Bob Hope’s name. Pitiful. The purest possible demonstration of dreary bureaucracy.
She unpacked, tossed the cash on the duvet and counted it twice before cramming wads into the safe. Just over two hundred thousand dollars. Not all fit in the safe, so the rest was stuffed in a plastic hotel laundry bag.
She still hadn’t settled on a plan but felt comfortable with the three men whose names remained on her list. Each a cretin, each clearly guilty of odious environmental crimes, victorious, slippery and smug, enriched thanks to investments in costly attorneys.
Kidnapping was probably out, although she still thought that would have been fun. How idyllic if there could be a way to watch the weasels squirm. Better yet, a way to corral the three of them together and put their squirming on public display.
A hotel room in Burbank California, even if a bit sterile, was a good place to think.
The memories seemed to inspire the depth of creative thinking she needed. What ornate memories. Maybe her best.
Her father had been a member at Burbank’s Lakeside Golf Club. When she was little, he often took her along when he went to hit balls and practice putting.
One day she took an ice cream cone out by the putting green to watch him.
A sinewy man in a lime green diamond-patterned sweater with a Ping Anser Putter approached and told her to move back. He said he didn’t want her spilling any ice cream.
She told him she didn’t want to spill any either.
The man raised his coarse voice and told her not to get smart with him.
Her father overheard the exchange.
What he did next insured that Burbank, California would always nourish her with sunny memories.
