The Ascendant: A Thriller (10 page)

She stared at him. “Yeah. Right.” She relit her cigarette and drew deeply on it. Garrett sniffed the air. It didn’t smell entirely of tobacco, but Garrett couldn’t place the odor: it was faintly chemical, almost like burning plastic.

“So how you like it?”

“New York? It’s okay. I like my work.”

“A money thing, right? Like finances?”

He nodded and his mother stared off into space for a minute. Her eyes were unfocused. Garrett knew she was drunk, but then it occurred to him that she was high as well, and then he placed the odor: she was smoking methamphetamine, which was full of additives. That explained the scratches on her face. She’d become a tweaker: an addict who couldn’t stop scratching herself. Garrett grimaced at the realization. It disgusted him. She had been so lively, so smart once. She had been top of her class at Long Beach Poly High School, could have gone to a UC school on scholarship, but got married instead. Had kids. And drank. The waste of it made Garrett want to run from the house.

His mother looked up at him, smiled. “It’s good to have you home.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I miss you. All alone in this house. No one comes to visit. Nobody from the family. Nothing.” She waved at the dilapidated wall. “You get a week’s leave? You can sleep in your old room.”

“No, Mom, I’m—”

“I’m proud of you, fighting for the country, you know? Makes me feel good. You’re a hero. My son. A hero.”

Garrett was too wrung out to correct his mother; it was hard enough just being home. He sunk lower in the beat-up La-Z-Boy, willing himself to disappear into the furniture. It was a familiar feeling. The memories came flooding back: his mother berating him for being lazy and selfish, for smoking pot and getting into fights; Brandon stepping between them, defending Garrett to little effect; his mother eventually relenting, then stomping off to the backyard to smoke another cigarette. He had wished, over and over again, to be dead.

The springs creaked. He was still there. And so was his mother.

“Not like your brother. All he thinks about is himself. How I raised him wrong I do not know.”

Garrett winced. Bile collected in his stomach. His mother took another drag on her cigarette. She shook her head. “What the fuck is his problem? Huh? I ask you?”

“Mom, I’m Garrett. Brandon is dead.”

Inez stared at her son, blank confusion on her face. To Garrett she looked
like she was trying hard to process what he had just said, a flicker of the real world that she had seen but was quickly vanishing. She closed her eyes and sat motionless for a minute. Garrett watched her, then stood up and waved his hands in front of her face.

“Mom?” he whispered. Nothing. She didn’t stir.

Garrett gave his childhood home one last cursory inspection, glancing in at the tiny, cluttered bedroom he’d shared with his brother for seventeen years, then walked out the front door, promising himself never to return.

I
f someone wants to kill me, fine, Garrett thought as he watched the surfers off Long Beach ride the shoulders, dive right with the break of the waves, and then ease into the shallow water. Blow me up. Just get it over with, and fast.

But no one came to kill him. So he simply sat in the sand.

The waves weren’t that good here—the beaches in Long Beach faced the wrong way for the winter surf, and the port breakwater did the rest. But Garrett had still ridden them his entire life. He and Brandon had ruled this stretch of beach for a good five years. Well, Brandon had. He had been bigger, faster, three years older than Garrett, and he’d been ready to tangle with any outsiders who dropped in on them. L.B. locals only. That was their war cry. Brandon had taught Garrett every fighting move he knew. They’d lost a few dustups, sure, but mostly they’d been kings.

In his mind’s eye he could see his brother’s suntanned face, his long, tangled black hair, his pumped arms windmilling as he rode a wave into shore.

Garrett felt hollowed out inside. He hated coming back here, hated seeing his mother, their home, the baby pictures, the empty beer bottles, the squalor, all of it. And then the way she mistook him for Brandon. Or did she, really? She never said Brandon’s name. Only Garrett’s. Maybe she was doing it on purpose? It didn’t matter. She was a drug addict, and trying to figure out the motives of a drug addict was putting yourself on a direct road to insanity. And yet, they still stung—her complaints about his selfishness, her casual taunts about Brandon’s heroism. Coherent or not, she had gotten under his skin. It was an old wound,
the comparison with Brandon; a wound that was easily reopened. It ate him up inside. Garrett didn’t want to care, but he did.

He sat on the beach like that for two hours, feet and hands dug into the sand, and watched the surfers as, one by one, they called it a day and the sun slipped down over the Pacific. The sunset glowed orange and then purple, and it was just before night fell for real that Garrett saw the man watching him from the beach parking lot. He was sitting inside a large, dark sedan, American, with the lights out. Garrett had seen him when he first went to the beach, and thought nothing of it, but now that it was almost night, and he and his watcher were the only ones out, he knew who the man was. Garrett put his shoes back on and trudged across the sand to the parking lot. He walked to the sedan and knocked on the driver’s-side window.

The man, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, no beard or mustache, wearing a bland, dark suit, rolled down his window.

Garrett said, “Tell Captain Truffant that I’ll do it.”

The man in the car said nothing, rolled his window back up, and made a phone call. He rolled the window down again and said, “She says to wait here.”

Garrett shrugged and leaned against the car, watching the last of the light disappear. Dusk came on fast in Southern California, and left just as quickly. Five minutes later another car pulled up, and Alexis got out of the passenger seat.

“You’re making the right decision,” she said.

“I’m tired.”

“I’ll get you a hotel room. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’ll start over.”

G
arrett spent the night at the Hilton just off the I-5 freeway, south of Long Beach in Orange County. He had lain down at nine in the evening, fully dressed, just to rest for a moment before getting some dinner, and the next thing he knew Alexis Truffant was knocking on his door and it was six-thirty in the morning. He showered, ate a quick breakfast in the hotel restaurant, then got back into the unmarked car with the man in the dark suit at the wheel. Alexis sat next to him, a folder full of papers on her lap. She seemed chipper and all business. Garrett had the sense that his agreeing to work with her was a feather in her cap—whatever battle she had been fighting, she had clearly just won it.

“Is the Army okay with you?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You have to be a member of an armed service. For all the clearances and information I’m going to give you. So I thought Army. I know your brother was a Marine. I figured you might want something different.”

Garrett had to laugh. Garrett Reilly? In the Army? How ridiculous was that?

“I won’t wear a uniform. No fucking way.”

“Think of it as paperwork. A document you’ve got to sign.”

“Army will work fine,” he said.

They stopped at an Army recruiting station at a ratty strip mall on the border between Long Beach and Lakewood. A broad-shouldered Hispanic lieutenant saluted Alexis as she entered. They’d clearly been expecting her. He took
a few lines of personal information, then had Garrett raise his right hand and repeat the oath of enlistment.

“I, Garrett Reilly, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”

Garrett felt a rush of contradictory feelings as he said those words. He’d never pledged to any group, never sworn to protect anyone or anything, and wasn’t comfortable doing it now. On the other hand, it made him think of his brother, and that made him smile. Brandon would have laughed to see his little brother in the service. Brandon would have laughed and laughed. And then probably punched him.

“Congratulations,” the lieutenant said, shaking Garrett’s hand.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I’d remind you that you need to address me as sir,” the lieutenant said, “but the captain here says it’s not going to work like that with you.” He gave Garrett a dubious stare. “Which I’d like someone to explain to me sometime.”

“Maybe next time, Lieutenant,” Alexis interrupted. “And he doesn’t need a physical, either.”

Back in the car Garrett asked about his rank, and Alexis told him he was a private first class, but that wasn’t important either. “All we ask is that you pass a urine test sometime in the next month. You think you can do that?”

Garrett shrugged. “Depends how much pot I smoke.”

D
enny Constantine paced through the empty rooms of his two-bedroom condo. The midday Las Vegas sun glared through the bedroom windows. The sunlight had already faded half the room’s carpet, and Constantine had only installed the high-pile wall-to-wall six months ago. The elements in the desert were brutal to a condo. Then again, everything in Las Vegas was brutal to condos these days.

Constantine had thought of himself as a smart, conservative real estate entrepreneur. But even the smartest people in the real estate game had been burned lately. Constantine owned ten properties. That was down from twenty-three, two years ago. He’d sold off two at break even, seven at a loss, and four he’d simply walked away from. But the ten he still owned were killing him: the loans, the upkeep, the building fees. He was drained. Completely broke. And
broken
. Physically. Mentally.

He ran his thumb along the outer edge of his cell phone, rubbing the device for luck as if it were a talisman. If he massaged it long and hard enough, perhaps it would bring him the news he wanted: an offer. He had had a couple walk in here yesterday, and they seemed to like the place. The guy worked as a pit boss at the Mirage; his wife was a hairdresser. The price was right—$195,000—the building was in a prime Strip-adjacent location, and the apartment was in excellent shape. Yes, this would be another almost zero-profit sale for Constantine, but it would provide him with the trickle of cash flow he needed to cover his
expenses for another month. It would give him breathing room, something he’d had precious little of lately. And yet still the phone didn’t ring.

He stepped out onto the balcony to get better phone reception. Maybe the buyer’s agent had been trying him but couldn’t get through? The spring desert heat hit Constantine like a body blow. He immediately began to sweat into his black suit. He didn’t care. He would wait right here, ten stories above the Vegas sidewalks, until his goddamned phone rang, even if his suit ended up a wet rag. And then, just as he had that determined thought, a miracle happened. His phone rang. It was the buyer’s agent. He snapped open the flip phone in a fluid, practiced blur: “Denny speaking.”

“Hey, buddy. How you doing?”

“I’m good, I’m good.” Constantine tried to keep his nervousness in check. Deep breath. Talk slow. “Trying to stay out of the heat.”

“Little hot. Little hot. But I can never get too much sun.”

“Yeah.” Constantine could feel rivulets of sweat running down his cheek. “So talk to me. Tell me some good news.”

“Well actually . . .”

Constantine winced. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckety-fuck. The blood drained out of his face.

“. . . my clients are not going to put in an offer.”

Constantine grabbed the railing for support. He felt like he might faint. “I can go a little lower on this one. I mean, I know they liked the property. It’s a great building. Did I show them the pool in back? And the workout room?”

“You did, man. Absolutely. And those were great, and they were really considering putting in an offer. But then, you know, all those other places came on.”

“Other places? What other places?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“No. Hear what?”

“Dude. Seven hundred separate condo units all came on the market this morning.”

Constantine shook his head. “
What?
That’s not possible. Seven hundred units?”

“Seven hundred and four actually. All over the city. Different buildings, different neighborhoods. But here’s the really fucked-up thing. They all came on at half assessment. Like fire sale, half price. Or less.”

Constantine’s head swam. “Were they all owned by the same person?”

“Nobody knows. All kinds of guesses. Some distressed corp. Or maybe a hedge fund that’s going under. People are digging through the titles like crazy, but it’s weird complicated. Frigging mortgage mess, right?”

Constantine blinked in the heat. Sweat dripped into his eyes. “I . . . you sure your clients won’t . . . ? I mean I could drop the . . .”

“I don’t wanna ruin your day, but my clients can buy two other units in your building, same layout, for less than a hundred grand. Half what you’re asking. I’m real sorry, dude. But that’s the way the market goes, right?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

“I gotta go. Stay strong, man. Later.” The agent hung up.

Constantine was stunned. Seven hundred condo units all put up for sale, all at the same time, at half price? Or less? The market, already in steep decline, would drop dead. Prices would plummet, like a stone dropped off a building. All of Vegas would crash by this afternoon, if it hadn’t already. Maybe all of Nevada.

He tried to grasp the enormity of what had just happened. Who the hell would do that? They were setting themselves up for gigantic losses. The only explanation he could think of was that they, like him, were completely desperate. Well, he hoped they were happy, because now everyone in all of Las Vegas was going to be desperate with them. They would all go down the sinkhole together. And wouldn’t that be fun? One big fucking toilet.