Six Bad Things

by Charlie Huston

  He’s just a few years older than me, and everything about him screams Manhattan. He’s got one of those two-hundred-dollar haircuts that’s engineered to look like he paid thirteen for it at Astor Place Hair, and the flecks of premature gray at his temples set off the titanium frames of the rectangular glasses he’s wearing. His Levis look worn, but I’m certain they are a pair of phenomenally expensive historical replicas of a pair owned by some prospector in 1849. His feet are tucked into bright blue-and-yellow vintage Pumas, and over a designer T-shirt of some extra-clingy material that super-defines his razor-edged pecs he’s sporting a black leather jacket of such ethereal smoothness that it almost feels like fur when I brush up against it. He’s charming and affable, has bottle green eyes and a toothy Tom Cruise grin. I’d hate him even if he wasn’t threatening my family.

  —That’s one of the things I need to be certain you understand. Whoever the money might have belonged to, and, believe me, I’ve done quite a bit of research on this, it is mine now. Sure, you could argue that ultimately it belongs to the depositors at the banks that the DuRantes robbed in the first place, but the insurance companies took care of those people long ago. After that, the most legitimate claim is the Russians, and for awhile they were committed to recouping, but after three years they pretty much gave up. They were ready to call it a day, write the money off, and kill your mom and dad out of principle. If you ever turned up later that would be great, but they were done looking. That’s when I knew it was time for me to get involved. See, what you do is, you look at other businesses for assets you can pick up cheaply, especially from businesses that are struggling, and, believe me, the Russian mob is not what it once was. They had their heyday in the nineties. I mean, who didn’t? But they’re just not cutting-edge anymore, not sharp, and the market wants you to be sharp. So I saw that they had this great asset, which is essentially ownership of a four and a half million dollar IOU, but no real plan for collecting on it. See what I’m saying? Great asset, but they don’t know how to make it work for them. I do. So, what I do is, I go to a guy I know and I make an offer. I’ll buy your IOU for one hundred thousand dollars. Well, they balk of course, but then, I give them the kicker: one hundred grand to secure the IOU, which means that I become the sole agent licensed to pursue it, and, if I recover the money, a guarantee that they’ll receive ten percent of whatever I recover, less the hundred they already have. But they keep that hundred no matter what I get my hands on. Well, hell, at that point they have nothing, so it becomes a no-brainer. And trust me, when dealing with the Russian mob, a no-brainer is the only kind of deal you can make. So they take the 100K, and take the guys who had been looking for you and put them to work making money again. And I put my plan into action.

  The waitress brings the pot over again. He covers his cup with his hand.

  —No more for me, sweetheart, I’m about to float away. You want anything else?

  I shake my head. He smiles up at her.

  —Guess that’s it, just the check when you have a sec.

  —Got it right here, hon.

  She scribbles on her pad, tears off the check, sets it on the table, and walks back to the register.

  He looks at the check.

  —Unreal. You know how much that omelet would be in New York?

  He takes out a twenty and drops it on the table. Leeann comes to pick it up.

  —Be right back with your change.

  —It’s good like that, sweetie.

  —Thanks.

  —It OK if we hang out here just a little?

  —Sure, long as you like.

  She leaves. He smiles after her.

  —Sweet lady. Where was I?

  —Assets.

  —Right. So now I have this asset, this IOU, but, and here’s the rub, no way to collect. Well, I’ve already spent a hundred thousand on this project, I’m not about to sink more capital into sending a bunch of headhunters out to find you. So what do I do? Do you know what I did?

  —You had my parents’ house staked out until I came home.

  —No. Because I had looked into that, and do you know what I found out? Stakeouts, a real stakeout in a suburban neighborhood, that is both constant and imperceptible, is very difficult and expensive. So that’s not it. Any other guesses?

  —No.

  —OK, here it is, this was my multimillion-dollar idea: I paid one of your parents’ neighbors to watch the house and call me when you turned up. Brilliant, right? I mean, not to blow my own horn, but this is a recurring expense of five hundred dollars a month with a possible, if not likely, return in the millions.

  There’s no smoking in Mill’s, there’s no smoking anywhere in California these days, so I’ve been fiddling with an unlit cigarette for about half an hour. I snap the filter off and break the rest into little quarter-inch pieces.

  —Which neighbor?

  —Hey now, that would be telling.

  WE SIT in his rental car in front of my parents’ house. I look at the other houses on the street and watch for someone peeking from behind a curtain or over a fence, someone advertising their guilt. No luck. The car is a nonsmoker, which should really come as no surprise. He hands me a cell phone and a recharge cable.

  —We could do this a lot of ways. I could have someone sit in the house with your mom and dad while you go and get the money or arrange to have it sent from wherever it is. I mean, assuming it’s not here. It’s not here, is it?

  —No.

  —I figured not. The thing is, that’s not my style of business. I really prefer to manage in a hands-off kind of way. Keep my distance until my presence is required. What I want to do is back off. Let you get the money together and give me a call when you have it. That phone has my number programmed into it, and I’m talking about my personal number here, so please don’t go giving it out. Just to be clear, there will be people here, employees of mine, and they will be watching your mom and dad. And I’m not talking about neighbors this time, I mean professionals. Understand? I do need an answer on this, Hank. Understand?

  —Yeah.

  —If my employees see your parents try to leave town, etc? Well, to return to my metaphor, if they leave, they can no longer be detonated, and they are no longer of value to me. I need them here where they can be watched, where I can get to them in case you fail to bring me my money. So if my employees see any indication that your parents are trying to leave or to seek shelter, I’ll have no choice but to detonate my “weapon.” You understand all of this?

  —Yes.

  —Good. So, you go get the money in what we will simply call a reasonable amount of time, and call me. After that, you pay off your IOU and I disassemble my arms, so to speak.

  He sticks out his hand.

  —Deal?

  I look at his soft, well-manicured hand.

  —What’s your name?

  —Jeez, did I do that again? Sorry. I’m Dylan, Dylan Lane.

  His hand is still sticking out.

  —Dylan?

  —Yes?

  —Keep my parents safe.

  —Trust me, that’s in my best interest, too. And hey, I won’t even bring up the police, because they would be in no one’s best interest.

  I shake his hand, it’s almost as soft as his jacket, and he drives off.

  I stand on the curb and imagine all the things I could do to make myself dead. I remember all the drunken times in Mexico that I thought about trying to swim to Cozumel, knowing that I would drown long before I got there. And I never did it. I sobered up and stayed alive long enough to kill a man who threatened my folks. And then I ran home to protect them. And by doing those things I have put their lives at greater risk than they ever were before.

  Looks like it’s a good thing Dad is tuning up the BMW, because I can’t wait around here any longer for Timmy’s call.

  But I do have something I’d like to do before I go.

  —SO, MOM, how have the neighbors been, any of them come around?

  She looks up
from the pasta Dad made for dinner.

  —Pat and Charley used to check in on us, that first year, when it was especially hard. But, then they moved last year to . . . Oh, where did they go?

  Dad is over at the stove, serving himself seconds from the big pot.

  —Vacaville.

  —Vacaville, they moved to Vacaville.

  —Anyone else, what about the new people?

  —I don’t know, Henry, they know about us, but I don’t think. It’s not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation. A couple of my friends at the school, they ask, if we’ve heard anything, if we know how you are. But.

  She sighs. Little Dog wanders into the kitchen and starts snuffling at her feet.

  —Oh, get away from there. You know you’re not supposed to be in here.

  But she scratches Little Dog behind the ear. Dad sits back down at the table and gently kicks at Little Dog.

  —Don’t encourage her.

  Now Big Dog comes over to see if any treats are being handed out. Dad shrugs his shoulders in surrender.

  —See, now they’re both in here.

  He turns to me.

  —We try to keep them out at meals, but your mom.

  —Now don’t start that, you feed them from the table all the time.

  —I? I feed them?

  As he says this, he’s sneaking a scrap of bolognese from his plate and slipping it to Big Dog. Mom slaps his shoulder.

  —See, see, there, now you have to give some to both of them.

  —See what? I didn’t do anything.

  And he tosses a bit of meat to Little Dog. Mom throws her hands up in the air.

  —You, you encourage them and.

  Dad’s laughing now.

  —I don’t encourage anything, you’re seeing things. See, Hank, your mom is seeing things.

  He leans over and kisses her on the cheek. She shoves him away.

  —Pest.

  —You like it.

  —I do not.

  He leans over to me and stage whispers.

  —She likes it.

  I shove my linguine around the plate and think about Dylan Lane threatening these people.

  —But no one else asks about me?

  Mom stops playing with the dogs and goes back to her dinner. Dad sets his fork down.

  —We don’t talk about you, Hank. We don’t talk about you to anyone. We don’t talk about you with each other anymore. We had to stop.

  He picks up his fork and takes a bite and chews it hard. Mom looks up at me, tears floating in her eyes.

  —It hurt too much, Henry. We. And there was nothing to talk about. We didn’t know anything.

  I smile at her, at my dad.

  —It’s OK, I understand.

  We all eat for a minute. Mom wipes some sauce from her lips.

  —Wade calls sometimes.

  —Wade?

  —Your friend from high school.

  —I know. Last I heard he was in San Jose.

  —Yes, he moved there, and then a few years ago. You remember his mom died so young?

  —Yeah.

  —Well, his father passed a few years ago and Wade moved back here with his family. They’re living in his old house.

  —Right around the block?

  —Uh-huh. And he was so sweet right after all the trouble. He came over, and I hadn’t seen him since I don’t know when, and he’s such a grown-up I didn’t recognize him. And then we didn’t hear from him for awhile and then I ran into him at the market and he started stopping by every now and then to see how we are, if we need anything, if we’ve heard anything.

  Wade, my old housebreaking partner, the guy who liked to go into houses where people were still at home and awake. He always was a sneaky fucker.

  BIG DOG and Little Dog sleep upstairs with Mom and Dad and, both being half-deaf and half-senile, they don’t raise a fuss as I slip out the back door. I walk over to the fence and boost myself over into the yard behind ours. I edge along the fence until I get to the next fence down, and boost over again. If I’m remembering this right, it should be the third house down after this one. I hop another fence.

  Dog.

  It’s a big fucker. It runs up to me out of the darkness, skids to a stop a foot away, and starts barking like hell. I sprint to the next fence; halfway there I get clotheslined by a clothesline. Who has a clothesline anymore? I scramble to my feet, the dog barking at my heels, run to the fence, and vault over into the next yard.

  Dog.

  It’s a terrier. The first dog is still on the other side of the fence going apeshit. All the other dogs on the block are starting to join in. The terrier yaps at me as I make for the next fence, then it leaps forward, bites at my ankles, and gets a mouthful of my pants cuff. I hop across the yard, trying to shake it loose, but the little ratter has a good grip and isn’t letting go. I make it to the fence and a light pops on inside the house. I cock my afflicted leg back, kick out with all my might, and hear the cuff tear. The terrier flies off and I jump the fence before he can scramble back at me.

  I fall into some bushes. I can hear the terrier raising hell and bouncing off the fence as he tries to get through it to kill me. The porch light comes on in the terrier’s yard. I hear a sliding glass door open and then a woman’s voice.

  —Digby! Digby, shut up. Shut up! Come here and shut up.

  And so on. I lie in the dirt while she collects Digby and takes him inside, and then wait while the other dogs on the block settle down. By the time I crawl out of the bushes to see if I’m in the right yard, the night’s chill has gone through the thin CSM jacket I’m wearing, straight into my bones, and the front of my jeans are soaked through from the damp earth. There’s plenty of light spilling into the backyard from the street lamp and the Christmas lights strung across the front of the house. I’m in the right place. The paint job is different and the yard has been relandscaped, but I recognize the house and the big redwood deck.

  I can’t see any lights on in the house. I squint and scan the roofline, looking for one of those motion-detector security lights. No sign. I scuttle to the side of the house where I remember the side door to the garage being. I edge past a stacked cord of firewood. No helpful warning sticker left by an alarm company on the door. None of the alarm tape you would expect to see on the window in the door if it had been rigged. I put my hand on the knob, twist it slowly. Someone jams a gun into the back of my neck.

  —Don’t you even breathe, fucker.

  I don’t.

  —Open the door.

  I do.

  —Now crawl inside. Stay on your hands and knees.

  I do. The barrel of the gun stays pressed against my neck and I hear the door close behind us, then the lights come on.

  —Turn around.

  I shuffle around on my hands and knees, and look up at Wade and the huge revolver he’s pointing at me.

  His brow furrows. Air hisses out between his teeth.

  —Hank?

  He lowers the gun.

  —Your mom and dad are really worried about you.

  And that’s how I know he’s not the one who sold me out to Dylan.

  THE GARAGE is stocked with a particularly large supply of suburban toys: a couple of Jet Skis; a small powerboat on a trailer; two golf bags stuffed in a corner; a massive tool bench running down one side, with every imaginable power tool displayed on the peg wall behind it; snow skis laid out on the rafters; two Honda motocrossers, a massive 420 and a matching 125; and five mountain bikes dangling from overhead hooks.

  —Beer?

  —I don’t drink.

  —Why not?

  Because I got drunk and forgot something one time and a bunch of people died.

  —It was bad for me.

  —Soda?

  —Sure.

  Wade gets off the stool he’s sitting on and opens the garage fridge.

  —Sprite or Coke?

  —Sprite.

  He tucks the Colt Anaconda into his armpit an
d grabs a can of Sprite and a bottle of Miller High Life. He hands me the can, twists the cap off his beer, tosses it into a waste can under the workbench, and takes a drink. Then he digs a key from the pocket of his Carhartt jacket, opens a drawer on the bench, takes the gun from his armpit, and drops it inside.

  —Stacy would shit if she knew I had that thing, but I always keep it locked up.

  I get a good look at the chambers in the cylinder before he closes and locks the drawer.

  —It’s not loaded.

  He looks at me like I’m an asshole.

  —With three kids in the house? No, it’s not fucking loaded.

  I open my Sprite, take a sip, and huddle a little closer to the space heater he fired up for me. I point at the side door.

  —How did you?

  —I was out here sneaking a cig before going up. Stace won’t let me smoke in the house. I heard all that barking, switched off the light to take a peek, and saw someone hop the fence. Went out and hid behind the woodpile. Stupid shit, should have called the cops, but I was pissed.

  He fingers a gouge in the surface of the workbench, looks at me.

  —You any warmer?

  —Yeah.

  —Good, let’s take a walk, I don’t want you in here if Stace wakes up.

  WE STROLL around the block, our faces illuminated by streetlamps and the colored lights flashing on the rooflines of the houses. Wade left his smokes back in the garage and has to bum one of mine.

  —Benson & Hedges?

  —Uh-huh.

  —Kind of an old lady cigarette. How’d you get started on those?

  —Long story.

  We pause while I light his cigarette, continue. Walking past houses I remember from my childhood. We stand in front of one with a particularly elaborate display: a mini Santa’s Village built on the lawn and spilling onto the driveway.

  Wade looks down, sees something, bends, and picks up a pigeon feather. He tucks it into the zippered breast pocket of his jacket, sees the look on my face.