(“Still working on that other project,” he tells E, winking. “We’re going to have to save it for next time.”)
The house in question is massive. It’s made up to look like, I dunno, some Spanish villa or something, the red clay roof and the vast expanse of sand-colored stucco. There’s a wrought-iron gate across the driveway. Beyond it, a vintage Corvette sits in the driveway.
“So, what?” Haley says. “Are we fixing this guy because he defended a bunch of jerkoff investment bankers? Why not just hit the bankers themselves?”
Jordan holds up his hand. One finger. Just wait.
“Defending sleazy hedge fund managers, shameful though it may be, isn’t old Allen’s most egregious sin.” He smiles. “Sit back and let me tell you a story.”
133.
Jordan talks. The others listen.
“Allen Headley had a few too many Manhattans with his homeboys at the Cactus Club last October,” Jordan tells them. “Then he climbed in that vintage Vette over there and tried to drive the thing home.”
He shakes his head. “Allen failed. Miserably. He put dents in, like, four cars on the way up the hill. Then, about a mile from here, he ran down a poor cleaning lady named Grace Ferreira as she was getting off work. Ran a stop sign and POW,”—he claps his hands—“hit her, knocked her across the block. Broken hip, broken ribs, a serious concussion.”
“Maria, our maid,” Paige says. “Grace was her cousin. Maria left us to take care of her after that. She said Grace was lucky she wasn’t killed.”
“Allen Headley’s a big-shot lawyer. He’s tight with the mayor. And this town is so messed up he didn’t spend one night in jail for what he did. Got off totally clean.”
“That slimy motherfucker,” Haley says.
“No criminal record. No fine. Not even an article in the goddamn Capilano Herald. As far as the world knows, Allen Headley didn’t do jack shit that night.”
Eric listens. Thinks about his dad and his frat buddies that night in San Francisco.
Eric sees the parallel.
“This asshole needs fixing,” Haley announces from the backseat. “So what’re you thinking, Jordan?”
Jordan glances into the rearview mirror. Meets her eyes, then Paige’s. Then he looks over at Eric.
“Headley loves that Corvette of his,” he tells them. “Paid a shitload to get it repaired. As far as I’m concerned, he didn’t pay enough.”
134.
Jordan might not have his bomb set up, but he has an arsenal of incendiary devices in the back of his Bimmer.
“Molotov cocktails for everyone,” he says. “Tonight the Corvette burns.”
Eric reaches for a bottle. The air smells like gasoline, dizzying, overwhelming. Eric’s nervous again. He’s feeling that electric adrenaline, that high. He’s torn between puking and freaking raging on that Corvette, and it’s not so much that he’s pissed at Allen Headley for doing what he did—
(even though he is pissed, when he actually thinks about it)
—it’s more like this is justice.
This job needs doing.
And goddamn if it doesn’t feel good.
135.
Jordan reaches for Eric’s hand, stops him.
“Not here,” he says. “We’ll take it up to Fincher’s Bluff and burn it there. The cops will never find it.”
(Fincher’s Bluff is at the end of a logging road on the other side of the mountain, about as far away from Capilano as you can get. Kids go up there to get drunk, throw bonfires, shoot guns. Really get away from it all.)
Eric draws back, still feeling the warmth where Jordan touched his skin. “Um, okay, but how do we get the car out of the driveway? Do you happen to have the keys?”
“Keys?” Jordan says. “Nope.” He reaches into the trunk again. Pulls out a pair of pliers and a long-handled screwdriver. He smiles. “YouTube.”
136.
“That Corvette’s a two-seater,” Jordan tells the others. “So who’s coming with me?”
Haley, Eric, and Paige all swap looks. Shrug. Raise eyebrows. Eric feels the adrenaline. He’s bouncing on his heels.
He’s thinking, Fuck being a Connelly Man.
“I’ll do it,” he tells Jordan, before Haley or Paige can talk first. “I’m coming with you.”
137.
So Haley goes to work on Allen Headley’s gate.
In seconds, the gate swings wide.
Haley does a curtsy and joins Paige at Jordan’s BMW. “It’s on you now, boys,” she says. “Let’s see what you got.”
“Follow us to Fincher’s Bluff,” Jordan tells them. “But don’t get caught, right?”
Haley rolls her eyes. “You don’t get caught. We’ll be fine.”
The neighborhood is dead quiet. No cars. No movement. There’s a light on above Allen Headley’s front door, but otherwise, his cheesy villa is dark. The Corvette sits in the middle of the driveway, chrome glinting in the dim light.
It’s 2:43 in the morning. Jordan claps Eric on the back. “Let’s do this.”
138.
The Corvette is locked.
(Duh.)
“Doesn’t look like there’s an alarm, though,” Jordan says, peering through the windshield. Then he grins. “Guess we’ll find out.”
He wraps his fist in his hoodie. Looks back at Eric and winks. Then he punches the driver’s-side window out.
(SMASH)
It sounds like an explosion. Like you could hear the window shattering all the way across town. Somewhere in the distance, a dog starts to bark. Eric feels his heart pounding, his palms sweating. Looks up at Allen Headley’s villa again, but the villa remains dark.
Jordan has the driver’s-side door open. He’s bent down under the steering wheel, whole body contorted, his feet kind of kicking out. Eric can hear him muttering to himself. Can hear plastic cracking.
Eric wonders what else Jordan learned on YouTube, but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on that notion, because the Corvette’s engine is RUMBLING to life, throaty and loud
and
at precisely the same time
a light BLINKS on in
Allen Headley’s
second-floor
window.
(Shit.)
139.
Jordan doesn’t see the light at first.
And when Eric shows him, Jordan doesn’t seem to care. “That raises the stakes, huh?” he tells Eric. “I guess we’d better bail.”
“Yeah,” Eric says, watching the light. “Bailing sounds like a great idea.”
Then Jordan steps back from the driver’s seat. Gestures to the door. “Well, go on then.”
“What,” Eric says. “Me?”
“Uh-huh.” Jordan smiles, and his eyes are alive, luminous and hypnotic. “Let’s see what you got, E. Drive it like you stole it.”
140.
The Corvette drives differently than Eric’s mom’s G-Wagen.
It’s lighter.
It’s lower.
It’s lightning-freaking-faster.
The engine howls as Eric steps on the gas. The tires spin and chirp and the car launches forward, careens down the driveway toward the road fast—too fast—Jordan laughing in the passenger seat.
Eric eases off the gas pedal. Tries the steering wheel.
The Vette is nimble. It corners like it’s on rails.
Eric hits the road, feels the Vette jostle over the gutter. Then he’s turning down the dark street, toward Haley and Paige in Jordan’s Bimmer, and the Bimmer’s engine is purring and its headlights are bright, and Eric knows the girls are just waiting for him to pass them, waiting for him to lead them to Fincher’s Bluff to start the real show,
the real Fix,
and Jordan’s laughing, and Eric’s laughing, too, because he’s scared shitless, yes, but because this is freaking fun, too, like more fun than he’s ever had in his life, and
even when
Allen Headley shows up on the street behind them—
<
br /> (in his bathrobe)
—chasing Eric and Jordan like they just stole his dog, Eric doesn’t stop laughing.
(Not even when he hears the sirens.)
141.
They don’t sound like much, at first.
(The sirens.)
They sound like the wind whistling through the smashed driver’s-side window as Eric steers the car fast through the suburbs and across the mountain toward the highway to Fincher’s Bluff.
They sound like Jordan laughing, or Eric’s heart pounding in his eardrums. They sound like they’re coming from somewhere far away.
It isn’t until Eric sees the lights in the Vette’s rearview mirror that he kind of starts to get worried.
142.
“Shit,” Eric says, his eyes ping-ponging between the rearview mirror and the road. “Dude, what do we do now?”
Jordan twists in his seat. Sees the police lights, flashing red and blue behind them. Two cars back there, now. Both of them gaining ground.
But Jordan doesn’t seem to care. “Only one thing we can do, E,” he says. “Lose them.”
Lose them, Eric thinks. Yeah, okay.
(Easier said than done.)
143.
This isn’t Grand Theft Auto; Eric doesn’t lose those cop cars.
They multiply like rabbits in the rearview mirror. Block off the road a half mile from the highway, nowhere near Fincher’s Bluff.
(Haley and Paige must have ditched—must be long gone, thank god.)
Eric sees the roadblock. Doesn’t slow down. Grits his teeth and aims the Corvette straight down the middle of it, between the two police cars. Sees the cops tense behind their cruisers, lit up in his high beams.
Screw it, he thinks.
“E.” Jordan’s saying something. Eric can hardly hear him over the sound of the wind and the growl of the motor. “Eric!”
Eric glances across the car. Jordan’s shaking his head. “We’re not going to make it, E. You gotta stop the car.”
Eric takes his foot off the gas. Hesitates. “You want to give up?”
“Never.” Jordan gestures to the streets on either side of the car. “How fast can you run?”
144.
Eric’s never been much of a runner.
That doesn’t stop him.
He slams on the brakes. The Corvette squeals to a stop. Jordan reaches for his door handle. Eric reaches for his.
“If they do get you, don’t sweat it,” Jordan says. “A trial would show the world Allen Headley never got what he deserved.”
Eric freezes. “Wait, a trial?”
Jordan gives Eric a look. “Using our connections and wealth to avoid paying the consequences for our actions? That would make us hypocrites, E.”
Then he smiles, and shoves open the door.
CAPILANO POLICE DEPARTMENT – INCIDENT REPORT
CASE FILE 56091A DATE 07/18/16
ARRESTEE Eric Connelly AGE 17 SEX Male
CHARGE(s) Grand Theft Auto Reckless Endangerment Resisting Arrest
ARRESTING OFFICERS Seymour (Badge 120956) Grouse (Badge 489033)
NARRATIVE: Received report of a vehicle theft in progress in the Hollyburn neighborhood of Capilano, approximately 0300hrs July 18, 2016. Officers Grouse and myself proceeded to the 1200 block of Jefferson Avenue, where we found the complainant outside his house in a state of agitation. Complainant advised that unknown parties had just stolen his 1967 Chevrolet Corvette.
Acting on the complainant’s information, we proceeded east on Jefferson Avenue to 12th Street, then south on 12th, where we observed a vintage Chevrolet Corvette driving erratically and at a high rate of speed. Attempts to instruct the driver to stop the vehicle were unsuccessful, and we continued pursuit with other Capilano PD units for approximately ten minutes, whereupon the driver stopped the vehicle at the intersection of Taylor Way and Inglewood Avenue. At this time, the driver and his passenger exited the vehicle and proceeded to run in opposite directions down Inglewood Avenue.
Officer Grouse and myself took pursuit of the driver, whom we identified as a tall white male in a black hooded sweatshirt, age unknown. We pursued the driver for approximately five minutes, until the presence of other officers directly ahead of the driver forced him to conclude the pursuit.
We apprehended the driver and advised him of his rights. The driver appeared calm as we escorted him to our squad car. He did not respond to questions on the way to the booking station.
Suspect was booked into Capilano PD headquarters at approximately 0430hrs, July 18, 2016.
145.
Jail is boring.
After the excitement wears off and the adrenaline dissipates, Eric finds himself in an empty holding cell in the Capilano PD headquarters. The fluorescent lights overhead burn bright, even though it’s the middle of the night. He has fingerprint ink on his hands, and the officers who booked him took his shoelaces and the drawstring on his hoodie. The police station is quiet.
Eric sits in the empty holding cell and waits. He’s pretty sure the police didn’t get Jordan. After all, he’s not here. And they probably didn’t get Haley and Paige, either. They only got Eric.
Which sucks.
There’s a pay phone down the hall from the holding cell. The guard who locked Eric in asked him if he wanted to call anyone. But Eric doesn’t have Jordan’s lawyer’s phone number. And he sure as hell isn’t calling his parents. So Eric just sits there in the too-bright holding cell and waits for the criminal justice system to process his ass.
(Why?)
Because Eric thought about it.
And Eric decided Jordan was right.
146.
Don’t commit the crime if you can’t do the time, right?
I mean, it’s a horrific cliché, but how hypocritical would Eric be if he tried to skirt the system the same way Allen Headley did?
(A: Very.)
More to the point, how could I expect you to respect such a hypocritical protagonist?
(A: I couldn’t.)
Eric got himself into this mess. He’s going to deal with the consequences.
(Why?)
Because that’s what people with real integrity do.3
147.
Eric sleeps for a couple hours on the hard holding-cell bench. Wakes up to his cell door opening. The guard again.
“Come on out,” the guard tells him. “You’re free to go.”
“Huh?” Eric sits up. Rubs his eyes. “I didn’t get arraigned or anything yet. Aren’t you guys supposed to arraign me?”
“I don’t know about that,” the guard replies. “They just told me to come get you. So come on.”
Eric follows. Feels something like vertigo, like he might be still dreaming. The guard leads him out of the holding cell area and through the police station to the front desk. There are a couple men in suits standing there, waiting. One of them looks like a Very Important Cop.
The other is Eric’s father.
(WTF?)
The senator shakes hands with the other man as the guard sets Eric free. “Thanks very much, Chuck,” he says. “He’ll make things square with Allen Headley, I’ll see to it myself.”
“I don’t doubt it,” “Chuck” says, and both men turn to look at Eric. “Let’s just hope the young man’s learned his lesson.”
Eric stops walking. Hears the doors close behind him, locking him out of the police area. Turns around anyway, tries the door handle. Wonders whose car he has to steal next to get himself locked back in.
148.
It’s just past dawn. Eric and his dad are riding home in the back of Eric’s dad’s chauffeured Yukon SUV. Eric can smell the stink of the jail on him. He’s exhausted.
His dad is the first one to speak.
“The night sergeant recognized your name on the booking sheet,” the senator tells Eric. “He called his lieutenant, who happens to be a good friend of mine—woke him up, I might add—and thank god. They were ready to arraign you, Eric.” The senator rubs his e
yes. “Stealing a car? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I can’t believe this,” Eric mutters. “I can’t believe you bailed me out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What happened, Dad?” Eric glares at him. “What happened to all that stuff about Integrity and Honor and the Connelly Man? We’re Connellys, aren’t we? Aren’t we supposed to earn everything? How does you calling in favors fit in with everything you have ever told me since I could understand English?”
Eric knows how he must look—wild-eyed, a little insane. He feels like his entire worldview is unraveling.
Good, he thinks. Let his father see it.
Eric’s dad glances up at the driver. “Lower your voice,” he says. “Do you know what it would do to our family if word got out about this? Do you know what it would do to me, publicly?”
“As if that’s any excuse,” Eric says. “How many secrets have you buried, Dad? How many times has that been a justification for doing the same shitty things every other asshole does?”
The senator’s eyes dart back to his driver. “I think we’re good here, Tom,” he calls forward. “Bring the truck around back. We’ll walk up the rest of the way.”
The driver slows the car. Eric’s dad opens his door. Steps out onto the pavement. After a moment, Eric follows.
149.
It’s quiet outside. The sun is slowly rising. There’s dew. Tom drives the Yukon away, and Eric and his dad are left standing there, a couple houses down from the Connelly residence.
Eric’s dad waits until the Yukon disappears. Then he looks at Eric. He doesn’t look mad, though. He looks a little, you know, mournful.
“You’re getting older, Eric, and you deserve the truth. I’m sorry I waited so long to give it to you.”
The Fixes Page 10
