The Coaster (19 page)

But it pretty much was. When we got close to downtown, I called Sarah's cell phone, let it ring twice and hung up. I got off the bus and thanked the driver, who still didn't look up. I walked the couple of blocks to Sarah's office and sat down on the curb. She pulled up thirty minutes later.

Sarah was understandably proud of me. “Jesus Christ! What the hell took you so long? I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere.”

I got in the car. “I spent some quiet time in a random backyard. Otherwise, everything went okay.”

“I was just sitting there waiting and waiting and waiting for you to call. I was trying to figure out what I was going to say to the kids.
Daddy's dead. Even though he's never ridden a motorcycle in his life, he had a fatal motorcycle accident at four o'clock this morning.
That would have been easy to explain. I knew you shouldn't have tried to drive that motorcycle.
I
could ride that thing better than you. It was an idiotic plan. Stupid and reckless and unnecessary and…”

I think she kept going, but I didn't hear it. Once I leaned back in the passenger seat, all the adrenaline left me. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep.

Chapter Twenty-three

Over the next couple of days, I watched the local news and scanned the newspaper for any indication that Corny had been reported missing. Despite living in a perpetual state of anxiety, I didn't really expect to see anything. What were his coworkers going to say to the police?
We started to worry when Dave didn't show up for an important extortion meeting.
Maybe Corny had somebody back home who would eventually call the police if he didn't show up, but I figured that wouldn't happen for a while. Corny had to be feeding whoever that was (wife? girlfriend? mother?) a constant pack of lies. The last thing he'd want would be for her to call the police if she didn't hear from him for a couple of days.

So I played it cool, if you call hanging from the ceiling every time the phone rang like that cartoon cat scared by the barking puppy “playing it cool.” Sarah didn't have any trouble. Her schedule was full. She didn't have time to think. But everything I did felt unnatural. When I thought about the possibility of being watched, I wasn't frightened—I was embarrassed. I pictured two lifelong criminals sitting in a room full of eavesdropping equipment, disgusted by how little I got done during the day.

Nellie called to find out how the rest of our night went after he and Lang went home. “Tell me what you and Corny did so I can live vicariously through you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Nellie. Nothing happened. We had a few more and then went home.”

“Fine. I didn't expect to get the truth out of you. I tried to call Corny to get the real scoop but it went straight to voicemail. I think I may have an old number for him.”

I pictured Corny's phone buried in rice at my house. “Why is that?”

“I noticed he was carrying some kind of old flip phone the other night. That can't be his real phone.”

“Why would someone under eighty years old use a phone like that?”

“You ever seen
The Wire
, Bob? Drug dealers use them because they're untraceable. They call them burner phones. But why would Corny use one?”

Oh, I don't know, maybe blackmail, extortion, criminal conspiracy.
“Who knows with Corny? Maybe he has a different phone for each girlfriend.”

Nellie laughed. “I didn't think of that.”

“So there's no way to get the data on one of those burner phones?”

“No. If they were uploading everything to the cloud, it would defeat the whole purpose of having one. Even the cops or the FBI can't get anything from a burner phone.”

Dammit. I hoped the rice worked. “Just keep trying Corny. I'm sure he'll eventually get back to you.”

“I'm not holding my breath.”
Me either.

***

My phone rang again. This time it was Lang. “Bobby! Sorry we couldn't stay out with you guys the other night. You know how Nellie's wife is.”

“Right,” I scoffed. “You would've been there for last call if not for Nellie.”

“Well, maybe not,” Lang chuckled. “So everything go okay with Corny?”

“Par for the course. If par is eighteen straight triple bogeys and a disqualification for playing the wrong ball.”

“That sounds like Corny.” Lang paused. “So you guys didn't talk about anything in particular?”

“Not really. Why?”

“No reason. I assume Sarah came home. Everything back to normal?”

God, I hope not. If this is the new normal, I'll be babbling to myself in a rubber room by spring.
“Let's just say I'm glad she wasn't around for Corny's visit.”

“Did Corny say how long he was staying or where he was going next?”

“This shouldn't surprise you if you've ever been out with Corny, but my memory of the later part of the night is a little cloudy. Why?”

“I tried to call him. His phone keeps going straight to voicemail.”

Get used to that. “What do you need him for?”

Lang verbally shrugged. “He said he wanted to talk to me. You know Corny. He's always got something going.”

Not anymore.

***

I ignored my insecurities and got through the days with the help of the Internet. At night, Max and I patrolled the house like a real-life Shaggy and Scooby, ready to leap into each other's arms at the first creak of a floorboard. Max and I ran in and out of rooms, and made sure doors and windows were locked, and generally accomplished nothing. Just like any other house, if someone wanted to get in, they could get in. Even if they set off the alarm, they could kill us all before the cops got all the way out here in the country. Not to mention they could disable the alarm in about five seconds if they wanted to. The reason alarms and dogs and deadbolt locks normally work is they cause the burglar to just move on to the next house because yours is too much trouble. But if they're coming specifically for you, there's nothing you can do to keep them out.

Nobody came. They easily could have, but they didn't because they really had no reason to. For Swanson, this was still a business deal. His associate Dave seemed to have disappeared, but this was no time to panic. Surely violence toward the innocent family of Bob Patterson would be a last resort. At least that's what I kept telling myself.

***

After a few more days of self-consciously going through the motions of my life, I was at the office when my cell phone rang.

I didn't recognize the phone number. I thought it was probably the number Swanson called me from before, but I wasn't sure. While I waited for the little chime that would signal a voicemail, I Googled the number and came up empty, which meant nothing. Swanson wouldn't have an easily identifiable number. He probably changed cell phones once a week. No reason to make it easy for the authorities to track his movements or listen in as he conducts his “business.” After way too long, my phone finally signaled that I had voicemail.

“Bob, Tom Swanson. I just wanted to touch base and provide you some additional information about our investment opportunity. Please call me at your earliest convenience.” Okay, the message wasn't that long, but it seemed like it while I was nervously waiting for it.

I thought about not calling him back but I knew I couldn't avoid him forever. Plus I wanted to know what he would say about Corny. As Michael Corleone once said, “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.” Michael would probably approve of keeping my friend Corny in a pond on my property.

I made the prick wait an hour before I called him back.
I'm a busy man. You can't just get ahold of Bob Patterson on a whim. There are channels. Your girl needs to call my girl, etc.

Just as with ninety-nine percent of the phone calls I make, while it was ringing I was hoping to get voicemail. There's nothing better when you're making a call you didn't want to make in the first place than when you hear it click over to an obvious recording. Unfortunately, in this case, I got enough rings to get my hopes up—no doubt while Swanson was recognizing my number and excusing himself from the vicinity of his latest victim—followed by the unmistakable pompous
assitude
of the actual voice of Tom Swanson.

“Swanson.” Don't you just hate him?

“Tom, it's Bob Patterson, returning your call.”

“Bob, thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I know you're a busy man.”

Was that sarcasm?

“What can I do for you?”

“Bob, the question is what can
I
do for
you
? And the answer is: A lot. A helluva lot. Say, have you heard from your friend Dave lately?”

I knew this was coming. I decided I needed to let Swanson know the blackmail was a dead end. “I talked to him a few days ago. I told him he was wasting his time because I already told Sarah about what happened with the girls. She believed me, so the DVD is worthless now.”

“I see. A very understanding woman, your wife.”

“Yes, she is.”

“And what did Dave say in response to your revelation?”

“Not much. He tried to convince me to do the deal anyway, I said no, and that was the end of it. I haven't heard from him since.”

“Well, no matter. This deal stands on its own two feet. Dave was perhaps a little draconian in his methods. You need to do this for Bob Patterson. Not to keep your wife from discovering your secrets, but so she'll be proud of her man. This is an opportunity to finally get out from under your father-in-law's shadow. You'll be seen in a whole new light in the community.”

”I don't care about that.”

“You don't care that the power brokers in this town laugh at you behind your back?”

“No.” Nice try, Swanson. They laugh right in front of me.

“You don't mind that the joke around town is that your wife was brought up to overachieve at everything except marriage?”

It was true but I didn't think anyone was really saying it. For whatever reason, my reputation far exceeded my ability. “Look, Swanson, we've been over this before. Sam decided not to do it, and I'm not doing it either.”

“That's my point, Bob. It's foolish to pass on a deal so good for you personally just because of your father-in-law, who, I might point out, no longer gets to tell you what to do. He did for twenty years, but now it's your show. Be your own man for once.”

“I am my own man. My decision has nothing to do with Sam. The answer is still no.”

“But this is a sure-thing, Bob.” Why is it Salesman 101 to use a person's first name all the time? People you actually know don't constantly say your name at the beginning or end of every sentence. My wife says my name all the time but it's more as an attention-grabber, like saying the dog's name.
Max! Get off the couch!
Are some people fooled into thinking the salesman is their friend? Would anyone want the salesman to be their friend? I'll bet the net effect on sales is negative. More people are annoyed than are duped.

“Sure-things make me nervous,” I said. “You know why? Because they don't exist. Nobody really knows what's going to happen.”

“Based on your logic, you could never invest in anything. You're going to do a hell of a job running that trust. Do you want me to help you stock up on mattresses so you'll have someplace to keep your father-in-law's money?”

Swanson had a point but I was unswayed. “I'm sure I'll find plenty of appropriate investments.”

“Not as good as this deal. I'll bet not one other investment has crossed your desk with this kind of return.”

“You're right. The numbers are actually too good. It seems impossible to me. It's like betting on football. If the line seems way off, it's a sign Vegas knows something you don't.”

“So you won't invest because the deal is too good.” Swanson laughed, but he didn't sound like he was smiling. It was a disgusted laugh, like the sound you would make as you said
I can't believe
y
ou're choosing Yoko over the band
. “I sent some more detailed information over to your financial guy. Give him a call and see what he thinks.”

“The answer is still going to be no.”

Swanson sighed and his voice got hard. “Bob, don't be a schmuck. This deal will make you rich. I know Sarah has money, but
you
don't. I'd hate to see you pass up the opportunity to provide for your family in the manner they deserve. It'd be a shame to see Emily and Nick have to give up that fancy private school they go to. Where is that, over on Forty-third Street, right? You pick them up about three-thirty every day?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? How do you even know where they go to school?”

“And I'd hate for you to disappoint Sarah,” Swanson said. “One day she's going to be so worried about your lack of ambition she's going to lose her concentration and fall off her horse and have a terrible accident.”

Swanson was starting to scare me. “Is that some kind of a threat?”

Swanson chuckled. “Of course not, Bob. I'm just pointing out that you have loved ones who are counting on you to take care of them and protect them. Signing off on this deal will do exactly that.”

***

I hung up and called the young guy who was looking at the Sanitol financials for me. “Eric, Bob Patterson here. You remember I came to see you a few days ago about the Sanitol deal?”

“Of course I remember, Mr. Patterson.” Because I never remember anyone until I've met them multiple times, I always overexplain and reintroduce myself more than necessary. Obviously, this guy would remember me.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I just got off the phone with Tom Swanson. He said he provided you some new information that might have affected your opinion.”

“That's right, sir, he did. I'm in the middle of putting together a complete analysis. I should have it to you sometime tomorrow.”

“Can you give it to me in a nutshell?”

“Okay, Mr. Patterson. I don't like summarizing my report because in the financial world everything is qualified. Nothing is black and white. I have to explain the assumptions I made for each conclusion and—”

“I understand that,” I said, even though I didn't. “I'm not going to hold you to it. Just give me an idea. Is the new info going to change anything?”

He was silent for a moment, no doubt trying to figure out how to answer my question without committing himself. Finally, he gave up and said, “Not really, no.”

“Thanks, Eric. I'll read the full report when you're finished.” And then I'll run a marathon and join the astronaut program at NASA.

So my financial guy still had Sanitol as a DON'T BUY and Swanson was still a lying sack of shit.
Second verse, same as the first
.

***

When I got to my office the next morning, I was surprised to see an e-mail from Eric already in my inbox. He must have stayed up late finishing his report. Of course, it looked like those guys lived at that office. I'm not sure he ever went home, if he even had a home. He probably still lived in his mother's basement.