The Albuquerque Turkey: A Novel (30 page)

“Just count it,” said Louise. “And make sure it’s real.”

Well, this Martybeth did, dumping a hundred bundles out on a blackjack table, counting them out in groups of ten, inspecting them, and placing them back in the bag. By the time she was done, she was drunk with money. I’ve seen this before. The look, feel, and smell of cash stirs something primal in people. It makes ’em a little nuts. I think it made Martybeth wet.

“It’s all there,” she said at last. She licked her lips. “And it’s all real.” She relocked the bag and hugged it to her chest like a teddy bear.

Louise pulled out a key of her own and freed me from my choke
chain. I quickly shed the peppers, hat, and poncho. Let someone else be the show.

“Let’s go,” said Allie.

“No, let’s stay,” said someone who wasn’t any of us: Wolfredian, entering the tent with two hefty sidewheels along his flanks.

To Louise this was clearly an unwelcome interruption, but she worked hard to keep her ire in check. “Jay,” she said, “we had a deal. I get this, you get the other thing.”

“Yes, but I decided I want both things. Martybeth?” Martybeth continued to clutch the bag. She either didn’t know what was going on or didn’t want to acknowledge that she did. Jay crossed to her and lifted the duffel bag straight up and out of her arms.

So now I had some new information, and it wasn’t good news. I thought the ladies had gone indy, but it turned out that Louise, at least, had been operating with Jay’s blessing—blessing now revoked. As Louise was the one with the gun (that I knew of), I guessed Jay’s authority trumped that. Sigh, women’s lib, sold a bill of goods again.

But new information brought a new conclusion, again not good news, because Red’s hastily improvised snatch job now seemed to have been neither hasty nor improvised. It anticipated Miriam’s rejection of the Pump and Dump, even when that looked like a deal Miriam had to accept. It’s like someone knew we’d try the trapdoor double cross at exactly the point we did. Someone who knew it wouldn’t work.

And who’s got that kind of foresight?

Who indeed? Shall we recite it together in rhyme?

Looking at me just then, you’d see me becoming jangly, agitated, furious at how I’d been mooked. Allie had warned me. Mirplo had
warned me. Hell,
I
had warned me. What could I have said in my defense? That I was so desperate for a father’s love I’d grasp at the straw of it even when I knew the straw wasn’t there? That I took his many acts of contrition as contrition and not acts? Or how about this: that I secretly
wanted
to get played, just to prove that the absconding scoundrel was exactly guilty of the charges I’d historically filed against him? In that instant, it all fell apart, the need for approval replaced by a murderous rage. At least that’s how it struck Wolfredian, who deployed his sidewheels a little closer to the loose cannon, should I decide to go off.

For his part, Wolfredian seemed to find my rage reassuring. He no doubt had a picture in his mind (an old and cherished one) of Woody as someone who would lay waste to lives to get what he wanted. To betray one’s own son—steal his
bankroll
—all to close a money deal, fit perfectly with that picture. Despicable, yes; double-crossing, sure; but with his eye firmly on the bottom line, no matter how many bodies got strewn in the wake. Jay must’ve felt his jones—lock, stock, and Mirplo—to be legitimately in his grasp at last. And what could be expected from me now but the petulant protests of a broken son, trying desperately to take someone,
anyone
, right down with him?

With that, my fury boiled over into words. I poked a savage finger at the duffel bag. “That’s his damn gospel drop, isn’t it?” I said, using grifter slang for good-faith money. Wolfredian didn’t answer, just smiled tightly. He would have seen the Mirplopalooza projections by now. He knew about the long-term lease and the year-over-year growth estimates. I recalled how Miriam Plowright had raised this subject back in the sports bar, only to have Mirplo strategically quash it. That’s tantalizing, true, but Jay would still want to see the thing for himself. Was he dazzled by the fan base, the souvenir sales, the identified flying objects? Maybe, but it still wouldn’t be enough, because he knew Woody and would ever have to consider the source. How could the source prove his good faith? Ripping off his own son—and using the boy’s own cash for the gospel drop—would put that fear to rest forever. It may have been how Woody pitched Wolfredian in
the first place: “My son’s got this deep, unprotected pocket. What say we go after it? We’ll have to jump through some fairly funky hoops, but his money might not be the only benefit.” Thus does the timely carrot of Mirplopalooza get dangled. From Jay’s point of view, he gets it both ways. He gets to watch a father crush a son—certain satisfaction in that—and that very act of destruction eliminates his last doubts about Mirplo. “I suppose it makes sense,” I said, defeated. “Stealing your good-faith money from your own flesh and blood. I can just imagine how you two kissed and made up after his stay in your little storage-shed hostel.”

“He wasn’t as upset about that as he might have been,” conceded Jay.

“Why would he be?” I said ruefully. “Eyes on the prize, right? Let bygones go by. Was that when he told you Miriam was Allie?”

Jay gave a terse nod, from which it was easy to backpredict that at some point after Woody’s rendezvous with us in Villa 23, he would have made his state of liberty known to Jay. He’d have expressed his understanding for Jay’s move—a kidnapped father assures the cooperation of the son—and made it clear that no hard feelings would interfere with their intended win-win. The ultimate sellout: let a guy kidnap you and then let him off the hook for it. And to authenticate this amity, you hand over your son’s girlfriend, too, blow the lid off the Plowright identity. Of course, it was already half blown, thanks to Louise’s hidden camera trick, but still, Red could’ve bought Miriam and me for one-night stand-ins—unless she already knew otherwise. So Jay had sent the girls to the doomed Pump and Dump with their backup kidnap plan already in place. Though later they were surprised not to find Woody at Stash My Sh*t. Why didn’t Jay tell them Woody was out? Need-to-know basis, I guess.

So Woody sold us out. And was Jay sold? If yes, then he was about to barf a serious chunk of change into Mirplopalooza. All thanks to Woody’s master manipulation of a mark who came into the play armed to the teeth with suspicion.

That’s not just repeat business, that’s art.

“You can’t trust him, you know.” I was stating the obvious, in words that came out of my mouth so thick with grief that I could see Jay dismissing them as bafflegab.

“Can’t trust whom?” asked a new voice, and now, as if on cue (and who’s to say it wasn’t?), here came the old jackalope himself, striding into the tent like the king of the county fair. For once he wore no camouflage, and that made sense, for there now remained no call to play dress-up. Or you could say that at this point his Cheshire grin was all the outfit he needed. He carried a Geoid under his arm. Jay waved his sidewheels out of the tent, then took the Geoid from Woody as if he’d been expecting it, which, of course, he had.

“Any problems here?” asked Woody.

“None,” said Jay.

Woody pointed to Allie. “She coughed up, no fuss?” Jay nodded. “Motivated by love,” said Woody without a trace of irony.

“Only now Jay says we don’t get the money,” said Martybeth petulantly. “And if we don’t, who does?”

“Don’t worry,” said Woody. “Everyone’s going to do fine. There may be some adjustments along the way, but trust me, darling, you’ll be more than happy with your taste.”

Martybeth seemed satisfied with this, but to me it looked like an assault on a small mind with a blunt instrument, and Jay’s smirk confirmed it. Perhaps Louise picked off that sign, for she said, “We’d better be. Unhappiness spreads.”

“Yes,” agreed Woody, stepping up to me. “And here’s where it seems to be pooling. Hello, Radar. Can you honestly say you’re surprised?”

“By your level of duplicity, no. But by some of the finesses, yes.”

“Like having Jay set Martybeth and Louise up as independent agents?”

“Yeah, that distracted me.”

“As it was intended to do.”

“Plus slip my California Roll right up into your gospel bag.”

“Intended as well.”

A guy in my position—so used, so badly betrayed—could be expected to show a fair chunk of irk, and I wasn’t shy about spewing mine. “So,” I asked Woody, a grim challenge in my voice, “what price did you finally set?”

“Price?”

“On Mirplopalooza. Three million? Four?”

“Three point five.”

I turned to Jay. “He’s ripping you off, you know.”

“I did my diligence,” said Jay. I could tell my words carried no weight with him, except to reinforce his feeling of holding all cards.

“Uh-huh. And if I told you that Mirplo was a golem constructed just to get you on this particular hook?”

“Nonsense. You’ve seen the crowds. The kid’s a hit. The next hundred-million-dollar pop star.”

“If he’s still around. Guy like that, the flake factor runs pretty high.”

Jay patted the Geoid. “He’ll have his incentives.” I caught a glimpse of an online banking screen.

“Give it up, Radar,” said Woody. “We three businessmen found a way to do business. Long-term business. If it comes at the expense of your hurt feelings, well, you can add them to your growing collection.”

“So it was all bullshit,” I said sadly. “You must be pretty disappointed. You raised a sucker for a son.”

“How am I supposed to answer that, Radar? Anything I say will just hurt you more.”

But still I wouldn’t leave it alone. I was that angry and that desperate. I turned to Jay. “You know his measure,” I said. “He mooked me from birth, but he’s got a pretty decent track record with you, too. Did he tell you about the Kagadeskas, the other fakes?”

Woody tried to cut me off. “Radar, shut up.”

“Or what? You’ll steal my bankroll? Ruin my life? Can’t break the same egg twice, man.” I turned to Wolfredian. “But you sure can pick the same pocket.” I fixed my gaze on the Geoid. “It looks like you’re
ready to make a buy there. You go ahead if you want to. I don’t really expect you to believe anything I say. I’m probably just trying to throw whatever monkey wrenches I have handy. But whatever. Fair warning, that’s all I’m saying. Fair warning.”

Jay stared at me for a long moment. Then he chuckled. “Beautiful speech,” he said. “Excellent monkey wrench.” He fingered the Geoid. “I knew about the Kagadeskas. I sold them on to someone even less suspecting than me. As for Mirplo, I like the kid. He’s the real deal. I think I’ll take my chances.” He stabbed a spot on the touch-screen surface with authority, then handed the pad back to Woody. “It’s done.”

I sagged against the portable bar, visibly staggered by Woody’s triumph: He’d skinned Allie and me out of a million and touched up Jay for more than three times that. Hand it to the old goat, he knew his game.

Just then, Vic’s voice rose outside the tent. “Step aside,” I heard him say. “This is my meeting.” A moment later, he threw back the tent flap and strode in. “Goons,” he said. “They’re funny.”

Vic had changed clothes again and now wore gleaming sequined satin cowboy gear and a big Stetson so white it glowed. “This better not take long,” he said. “I have a sunset show to do, and in case you don’t know, sunset won’t wait.” His eyes found, and fixed on, the Geoid, and he wore the same expression Martybeth had when she counted the cash. Lust. “Set?” he asked.

“Set,” said Jay.

Now Vic noticed Allie and me. “Oh, hi, Radar,” he said. “Hi, Allie. Great to see you here. I guess you know this is good-bye. But it’s been real.” I could hear the icy finality in his voice and knew that his transformation was at last complete. Gone were his innocence and bright-eyed sense of wonder. The man who stood before me had placed ambition above all. He was determined to be
Mirplo!
at the expense of everything, including old friends. He spotted the duffel bag at Wolfredian’s feet. “That’s the gospel drop?” he asked. “My walking-around money?” Jay nodded. “Cool.”

“Wait,” I said. “What?”

Vic grinned grandly. “You wanted to start over, right? Clean slate? And what could be cleaner than no ill-gotten bankroll to sully your past?” He nodded to the duffel bag. “Congratulations, Radar. Today, officially, you’re a citizen.”

How do you like that? Mooked by a Mirplo.

You see something new every day.

I
heard a low growl from my right. It was Allie, giving voice to her rage. But impotent rage, for it was evident to everyone that there was no play to make here. She and I clearly had to swallow this outcome, cut our losses and move on. Money’s just money, right? But it was
our
money, hard-won (well, hard-scammed), and she seemed in no mood to give it up without a fight. Correspondingly, when Jay picked up the gospel drop by its handles and flipped it through the air to Vic, Allie dove for the bag like a blitzing linebacker, picked it off in flight, and hit the ground with a thud and a spray of sand.

“What the nuck?” yelled Vic. He jumped on Allie, but she wriggled free and stood up, holding the bag tucked under her arm. They were both breathing hard, with matching mad looks in their eyes. The rest of us were momentarily frozen, suffering the familiar temporary paralysis caused by unexpected action.

“What’s your problem?” shouted Allie. “You had your own money, and plenty of it!”

“Maybe it’s not about money,” said Vic.

“Then what?” I found myself asking.

“Oh, think about it, Radar. You just think about who you are and the way you are, and think about how your arrogance sits with the people you think you’re so much better than. Let me know when the light dawns. Begrudger.”

“This is about that? Vic, I’ve got nothing but respect for your—”