Six Bad Things (26 page)

—Got these for you, too.

He upends the bag and the contents bang onto the coffee table. Two boxes.

9 mm.

.44 Magnum.

T STARTED going gray in high school, so he’s been dyeing his hair since he was twenty. He uses a set of clippers to shave my beard, leaving a long drooping cowboy ’stache down to my chin, and sideburns to my earlobes. I wash my hair and he combs in the same black dye he uses himself, then does the moustache, burns, and my eyebrows. He speed-raps the whole time, giving me a rundown on his life in Vegas, a detailed Godzilla filmography, and his top-ten porn-star list.

I rinse and wash and dry and go in to the spare room and put on my cowboy gear: BVDs, Levis, wife-beater, clean white socks, pointy-toed boots, pearl snap shirt, black leather belt with a big silver buckle, and the hat. It all fits. I step out of the room and T takes a long look at me.

—Bad. Ass. You’re like Sam Elliot and Greg Allman’s secret love child.

I look in the mirror. Badass.

I’VE REMEMBERED Tim’s address. It’s a wonder what a little sleep and medication will do for a concussion. We park in front of a stucco fourplex on King’s Way, me and T up front and Hitler in the back. T kills the engine and the headlights.

—This is it.

I look up and down the block. It’s a street full of driveways that lead into apartment complexes. Only Tim’s building and a couple others front the street itself. I look at T.

—Kind of early. Maybe we should come back later, when people are asleep.

T shrugs.

—It’s a 24/7 town, man. Doesn’t really matter what time it is. But the good news is, people pretty much mind their own business.

—OK, OK. You, uh…

—Wait here?

—Yeah. You wait here and…

—Honk if someone shows?

—Yeah, that’s good.

—Yeah. That Xanax still cooking? You seem a little out of it. You want something to give you an edge?

No, no more pills.

—No, no, I’m cool. I mean, I’m mellow. I’m just not exactly sure what to do. Can you, if I can’t get in, can you pick the lock?

T looks at me sideways.

—Shit, man, I’m a dealer, not a thief.

I don’t want to bring the guns. I don’t want to bring them, but I know I should. So I split the difference. I leave them in the plastic grocery bag with the ammo, tucked under the passenger seat of T’s car. I feel safer without them.

Tim’s apartment is #4, upper right corner. I climb the stairs and ring the doorbell. I ring it again. And one last time. There’s a kitchen window. I push on it and it slides open, unlocked. Great, Timmy. I look up and down the empty street, and boost myself through the window.

I land on the kitchen counter, my hat tumbles to the floor, and I slide after it. I get to my feet and turn on the lights. The kitchen has one of those pass-through counters that opens on to a small living room. The living room has a sliding glass door that opens on a tiny balcony. There are two bar stools at the pass-through. The place looks pre-furnished, lots of black leather bachelor stuff that is not Tim’s style at all. But he’s been at work here. The walls are covered in jazz and blues posters. And there’s a brand-new stereo, the box full of foam packing still sitting next to it. It’s one of those hunks of Japanese engineering that only an audiophile like Tim would buy. I walk down a short hall to a large bedroom. The bed matches the living room furniture. More posters here, a nice boom box, more CDs, an orange iMac on a desk, and a beeper and a huge bong on the nightstand.

There’s a knock at the door. Shit. Concerned neighbor? Girlfriend? Russian mafia? Why did I leave the guns in the car? I sneak up to the door and press my eye to the peephole. T is on the landing. I open the door and he comes in, followed by Hitler.

—What? Is someone here?

—No.

—What’s that matter?

—I couldn’t sit out there, I’m way too jacked-up, man. I was about to fucking vibrate to death.

—Jesus, T. You’re the lookout. I mean, fuck.

—You were right, superstar, you don’t need anything to give you an edge.

—Yeah, I’m on edge. And, Jesus, what about the dog? What if it starts barking?

He rubs the top of Hitler’s head.

—Hitler don’t bark. Ever. Only time this dog makes noise is when it farts.

—Great. Look, just, just see if you can find anything out here or in the kitchen. I’ll be in the bedroom.

I head down the hallway.

—And what am I looking for?

—A really big box full of money.

It doesn’t take long. I don’t find the money or any indication that Tim was kidnapped or killed. The place is a mess, but that’s just Tim.

T is on his knees in the kitchen, his head stuck in the cabinet below the sink. I kick the sole of his shoe.

—Anything?

He pulls his head out.

—This.

He tugs a blue day pack from the cabinet and unzips it, revealing about twenty small, colored plastic boxes. This is Tim’s dealing stash. Each box is stuffed with hydro-grade buds of varying quality. The color of the box indicates the content’s price. Hitler sticks his nose into the pile of boxes and shoves them around.

T shakes his head.

—I don’t know your boy, but speaking as a dealer? I generally take it as a bad sign when a professional disappears without his stash.

T FINDS a couple bottles of Tullamore Dew in one of the cabinets and breaks the seal on one of them. I get a glass of water from the tap and flop on the couch. T takes a slug from the bottle of whiskey and starts flipping through Tim’s CDs. Hitler rolls around on his back.

—So you think he ripped you off?

I stare at the wall.

—Could be.

—Think maybe the Russians found him?

—Could be.

—What now?

I look at the clock on the VCR. It’s almost nine.

—I need to make a call.

I take the cell from my pocket. T sits on the floor with his back against the wall, empties Tim’s day pack in his lap, and starts looking at the little boxes.

—Dylan?

—Yeah.

—What ya gonna tell him?

I don’t know, so I just dial the number. It rings once.

—I thought we agreed to updates every
twenty-four hours.

—Hi, Dylan.

—Did we not
agree
to that?

—Yes, and it’s not quite twenty-four.

—That’s cutting it very fine, Hank, very fine indeed.

—Sorry.

—No, no,
you’re
right. We said every twenty-four hours from nine
PM
pacific.
You’re
right. So what have you got for me?

—Not much.

—OK, well, that’s fair, but this is
supposed
to be a progress report so why don’t you tell me what
progress
you’ve made.

—Well, I haven’t been captured.

—OK, sarcasm aside, that
is
progress. What about my money, Hank? Any progress there?

T is trying to juggle three of the little colored boxes from Tim’s stash.

—I haven’t been captured.

Pause.

—Yes, we covered that.

Pause.

—You haven’t asked about your parents, Hank.

Pause.

—How are my parents?

—Have you been watching the
news
?

—Yes.

—Then you may have seen that they were released from custody and taken to an undisclosed location.

—Yes.

—Well, you’ll be happy to know that they are staying at the Days Inn at the Los Banos rest stop. I’m told by my employees that the security at a Days Inn is somewhat lax, and shouldn’t present any difficulties for them. You understand?

—Yes.

—Good. So, have you made any progress on my money?

T drops the boxes, gets up, and walks back to Tim’s bedroom.

—Yes.

—Good. Tell me, please.

T comes back down the hall carrying Tim’s bong.

—I am lying low while I ascertain if my position here is tenable.

T looks at me and crosses his eyes. I listen to Dylan.

—Good. And?

—I expect to make contact with my “banker” in the next twenty-four hours.

T is shaking his head. He cracks open one of the little bud boxes and starts filling the bong.

—And?

—Within twenty-four hours of that, I expect to receive your money and have it in your hands shortly thereafter.

T puts his lips to the top of the bong, holds the flame of his lighter over the bowl, and rips.

—
Good.
That’s good. See, this is the kind of clarity I’m looking for. Like I told you, Hank, I’m a control freak. The more
information
I have, the more in
control
I feel. And that makes me more
comfortable.
None of this is about you or your abilities, it’s about my personal weaknesses. And I want you to know how much I appreciate you dealing with them so well.

—Sure.

—
And…
I guess that’s it?

—It is.

—
OK,
I’ll expect to hear from you in the next twenty-four, and look forward to seeing you in the next forty-eight to seventy-two.

—Yes.

—
Well…
good-bye.

He hangs up. T exhales and starts hacking.

—What? Hack! What the fuck was that? Hack! Bullshit?

—That was the kind of bullshit he wants to hear.

—Fuckin’ A. Hack! What a prick he must be.

I nod, and lie back on the carpet. T comes over and stands there looking down at me, bong in one hand and one of the pot boxes in the other.

—What now?

I stare at the ceiling. What now? Fucked if I know. Why can’t someone just tell me what to do for a change? Why can’t someone tell me how to stop all of this?

—T, I get it that you’re not a criminal mastermind or anything.

—Thanks, asshole.

—But do you know how to get information? About people?

He smiles.

—Shit, yeah. No problem.

T SITS in front of Tim’s iMac. I sit on the foot of the bed and look over his shoulder as he scrolls through the Google results for “Dylan Lane.”

—There’s a shitload here, man. Guy’s got a record

—What for?

T clicks around.

—SEC violations.

—What?

He clicks on the heading.

—Looks like he was investigated for insider trading and some other shit.

I shake my head.

—I don’t think that’s him.

He clicks a couple times and a photo starts to resolve on the screen.

—This your boy?

I look at the pic. It’s Dylan. He’s a few years younger, standing in a big, partitioned office space, surrounded by a group of very young and geeky-looking men and women.

—Yeah, that’s him.

T clicks through a series of articles from the New York papers.

—So dickhead here was some kind of financial whiz kid in the stock market. Kind of a flavor of the week broker in the early nineties, but then he got busted for manipulations and shit and disappeared for a couple years. Didn’t do jail time, of course. Fuckos like that never go to jail. Then he pops back up just in time for the fattest part of the Internet boom. He got money from somewhere to get a start-up rolling in Silicon Alley. Well, he was the flavor of the week again, and his company is a big fucking hit, and then the market folded. No criminal charges this time, but he disappears again, except for some gossip column shit about him. Stuff like, “Dylan Lane was MIA for fashion week, but several of his
comrade
investors were in attendance in hopes of giving a bear hug to the former dot-com darling.” And more of the same. Innuendo about him being a shady character, but no details. Any help?

I flop back on the bed.

—It explains why he talks like an asshole.

T spins the chair around to face me.

—So?

—What?

—
What now?

—What now? I’m fucked, that’s what now. I don’t know how to find Tim. I can’t go to the cops without risking Mom and Dad. I don’t have anything to use to cut a deal with Dylan. I have a few days till Sunday to do something, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. You know this town. How do I find Tim?

T shrugs.

—Fucked if I know.

I stare at the ceiling. My heart is jumping and sweat is starting to break out all over my body. I know what this is. It’s panic. A scream has been living in my gut for years, and now it wants out. I don’t have any moves left to keep it down and the Xanax has worn off and it’s going to come out.

T sits next to me on the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder.

—You OK?

I shake my head side to side. The scream is in my chest now. Climbing.

He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pill.

—Here.

I look at it. I don’t want any more drugs. I want to feel this. I deserve to feel this. But I can’t afford to feel it right now. I can’t scream now. If I start now I’ll never stop. It’s in my throat.

T presses the pill against my lips.

—It’s Percocet. It’ll chill you out.

I remember the Percs my doctor gave me after my leg broke, the ones I shared with Wade and Rich and Steve. They killed the pain and made the world balloon off and bob at the end of a string.

I let the pill into my mouth and swallow. It chases the scream back down into my belly, and, almost instantly, long before it can possibly be taking effect, I feel better.

—I don’t know what to do, T.

He picks something up from the floor and hands it to me. It’s one of Tim’s pot boxes.

—I think I know someone who can help us.

T DRIVES us to the North Strip. We park the car, leave Hitler inside, and walk down Fremont Street. A few blocks of Fremont have been converted to a pedestrian mall and covered by a canopy about two stories high, its underside lined with lights. Christmas carols are blaring from a PA system as the lights flash, creating a variety of holiday-themed images that flicker across the canopy. A crowd of tourists fills the mall, their heads dropped back to gape at the spectacle as candy canes, Christmas trees, stockings, and Santa and his reindeer all twinkle overhead. T nudges me and points ahead.