—Any place I can dump these?
He takes them from me.
—I’ll take care of ’em.
Hitler wanders in from T’s bedroom and growls at me. T comes around the counter to me.
—Here, we gotta take care of this.
He wraps his arms around me.
—T?
—Hitler needs to see you’re a friend.
—Oh.
We stand there like that for a minute, T embracing my half-naked body, Hitler sniffing around us as T whispers to him, calling him a good dog, telling him I’m a friend. Hank Williams singing “I’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive.” And even in this context, it feels so good to be held.
T lets go of me, takes a step back, and Hitler comes over and licks my hand.
—That should keep him from eating your balls.
—Come again?
—He’s a rape dog.
—Come again?
—He’s an attack dog. I had him trained by these guys in Colorado who specialize in dogs for victims of rape, women who have some serious fears based on fucked-up personal experience. So he’s trained to go for an attacker’s balls or neck. Whatever’s closest.
Hitler sniffs my crotch.
—OK, I’m gonna head out to work for a couple hours and then I’m gonna pick up some clothes for you. A disguise. How ’bout that? Later we’ll go find your guy’s place. There’s a robe in my room. Help yourself to whatever else you find. I’m gonna take some of this money for the clothes, OK?
He scoops up a handful of money from the pile on the coffee table. He opens the door, turns, and looks at me.
—You sure about that pick-me-up, man? You look like shit.
I stand wounded in his living room, my bare toes flexing in the greasy fibers of his carpet. I look around at the beat-up couch, the brick-and-plywood coffee table, the milk crates stuffed with vinyl and paperbacks, the stacks of porn videos surrounding the TV. I think about being alone in this room for the next several hours, watching the few bits of my life that I have left, the few I kept because I thought I could control them, spinning away from me the way the blood spun off of Mickey’s head as he bounced down the stone steps.
I think about what an ideal place this is for a suicide.
—Yeah, maybe you better give me something.
He gives me a Xanax, and gets Hitler into his Chrysler 5th Avenue. I stand in the open door in his robe as he pulls out.
—T, wait.
He puts on the brakes.
—Yeah?
—I thought you were dealing?
—Sure.
—So what’s the job?
—I DJ the morning shift at a strip club on Fremont. It’s fun and the girls are great customers. See ya in a couple hours.
He drives off, Hitler sitting up in the seat next to him. I stand in the door and look out at the sharp blue sky over the trailer park.
AMERICA IS in love with my parents. Eighty-six percent “support” them and a whopping ninety-three percent “feel sorry” for them. This according to a poll on CNN.com.
Other than a written statement read by their court-appointed attorney, they have refused to speak with the media. We are so sorry for the losses suffered by the families of Deputy Fischer, Willis Doniker, and our friend, Wade Hiller. We don’t understand what has happened. All we know is that we love our son and we want him to come home and turn himself in so that we can help him. Their stoicism, combined with their blue collar–suburban appeal, have “endeared” them to the American public. This, according to one of CNN’s media/legal experts.
I’ve already seen the tape of them being escorted from the court building in Modesto and being loaded into the unmarked car that took them to a hotel. They can’t go home because the house is still sealed, being picked over by the FBI. They look tired and old and confused and lost. Not even the Xanax can make this bearable. So I don’t bear it.
I switch on ESPN.
The NFL wrap-up is starting on the six PM Sportscenter. The Dolphins coach is talking about how disappointed he was in his team’s effort against Detroit. But, he’s telling everyone in South Beach there’s no need to panic just because the Jets beat Green Bay and moved into first in the division. The Fins still control their own destiny because they play the Jets on the last day of the season. Get a win against Oakland this weekend and against the Jets the following weekend and the division is ours. I am not reassured.
Miles Taylor is doubtful for Sunday, and Coach is babbling about passing more. This, despite the fact that he has a noodle-armed quarterback whose one great ability is to hand a football to Miles. Add to this the Raiders’ top-ranked secondary, and I have yet another reason for wishing Coach would stop breathing air that other people could be using.
I hear a car scrunch up through the gravel. I look at the clock on top of the TV. Over six hours have drifted by since T left. The back door opens and Hitler explodes into the trailer. He freezes when he sees me, growls once, remembers we’ve met, and hurls himself into my lap. I wince as he puts a paw on the bullet wound in my thigh, and manage to shove him back to the floor, but not before my hands are coated in drool. T walks in behind the dog, his arms loaded with shopping bags and a big cardboard box. He dumps all of it on the floor.
—Here.
He walks back out the door and the dog runs after him. I look through the bags: 501s, a black cowboy shirt with white piping and pearl snap buttons, and a pair of black Tony Llama boots. I pick up the box and set it on my lap. T comes back in, a case of Bud balanced on either shoulder. I open the box and pull out the black Stetson within. T turns from where he’s set the beer on the counter and smiles.
—How ’bout that? I almost went with brown, but then I thought, you’re a bad guy, why fight it?
I turn the hat in my hands.
—T, I thought you were gonna get me a disguise. Something to make me less conspicuous.
He takes the hat from my hands and sets it on my head.
—Rodeo week in Vegas, man. No one is gonna look twice at you in that stuff.
Rodeo. I’ve heard that before.
—Rodeo?
—The NFR, man. National Finals Ro-day-o. Ten days of broncs and bulls, man. Big business for me, that’s why I was out so late last night. I tell ya, those cowboys are bigger speed freaks than the strippers. I’m making bank over at the Mack Center and hanging around the Frontier.
—Rodeo. Got it.
I get up, walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. The hat covers my hair and the brim leaves my face in deep shadows. T may be on to something.
I walk back out to the living room. T is in the kitchenette tossing beers into the fridge with freakish precision and speed. He looks over his shoulder at me.
—Well?
I sit back on the couch.
—Yeah, it works.
—Shit yeah right it works.
He takes a last beer from one of the cases, tosses it high in the air, hops to his feet, kicks the fridge door closed, and catches the beer.
—Ye-haw!
He grins at me, waxy skin sheened with speed-sweat, eyes popping and dark ringed. Jesus, did he sleep at all? He cracks the beer open and guzzles half of it. Then he hunts through the pile of shopping bags and grabs one with something heavy sagging the bottom.
—Got these for you, too.
He upends the bag and the contents bang onto the coffee table. Two boxes.
9 mm.
.44 Magnum.
T STARTED going gray in high school, so he’s been dyeing his hair since he was twenty. He uses a set of clippers to shave my beard, leaving a long drooping cowboy ’stache down to my chin, and sideburns to my earlobes. I wash my hair and he combs in the same black dye he uses himself, then does the moustache, burns, and my eyebrows. He speed-raps the whole time, giving me a rundown on his life in Vegas, a detailed Godzilla filmography, and his top-ten porn-star list.
I rinse and wash and dry and go in to the spare r
oom and put on my cowboy gear: BVDs, Levis, wife-beater, clean white socks, pointy-toed boots, pearl snap shirt, black leather belt with a big silver buckle, and the hat. It all fits. I step out of the room and T takes a long look at me.
—Bad. Ass. You’re like Sam Elliot and Greg Allman’s secret love child.
I look in the mirror. Badass.
I’VE REMEMBERED Tim’s address. It’s a wonder what a little sleep and medication will do for a concussion. We park in front of a stucco fourplex on King’s Way, me and T up front and Hitler in the back. T kills the engine and the headlights.
—This is it.
I look up and down the block. It’s a street full of driveways that lead into apartment complexes. Only Tim’s building and a couple others front the street itself. I look at T.
—Kind of early. Maybe we should come back later, when people are asleep.
T shrugs.
—It’s a 24/7 town, man. Doesn’t really matter what time it is. But the good news is, people pretty much mind their own business.
—OK, OK. You, uh . . .
—Wait here?
—Yeah. You wait here and . . .
—Honk if someone shows?
—Yeah, that’s good.
—Yeah. That Xanax still cooking? You seem a little out of it. You want something to give you an edge?
No, no more pills.
—No, no, I’m cool. I mean, I’m mellow. I’m just not exactly sure what to do. Can you, if I can’t get in, can you pick the lock?
T looks at me sideways.
—Shit, man, I’m a dealer, not a thief.
I don’t want to bring the guns. I don’t want to bring them, but I know I should. So I split the difference. I leave them in the plastic grocery bag with the ammo, tucked under the passenger seat of T’s car. I feel safer without them.
Tim’s apartment is #4, upper right corner. I climb the stairs and ring the doorbell. I ring it again. And one last time. There’s a kitchen window. I push on it and it slides open, unlocked. Great, Timmy. I look up and down the empty street, and boost myself through the window.
I land on the kitchen counter, my hat tumbles to the floor, and I slide after it. I get to my feet and turn on the lights. The kitchen has one of those pass-through counters that opens on to a small living room. The living room has a sliding glass door that opens on a tiny balcony. There are two bar stools at the pass-through. The place looks pre-furnished, lots of black leather bachelor stuff that is not Tim’s style at all. But he’s been at work here. The walls are covered in jazz and blues posters. And there’s a brand-new stereo, the box full of foam packing still sitting next to it. It’s one of those hunks of Japanese engineering that only an audiophile like Tim would buy. I walk down a short hall to a large bedroom. The bed matches the living room furniture. More posters here, a nice boom box, more CDs, an orange iMac on a desk, and a beeper and a huge bong on the nightstand.
There’s a knock at the door. Shit. Concerned neighbor? Girlfriend? Russian mafia? Why did I leave the guns in the car? I sneak up to the door and press my eye to the peephole. T is on the landing. I open the door and he comes in, followed by Hitler.
—What? Is someone here?
—No.
—What’s that matter?
—I couldn’t sit out there, I’m way too jacked-up, man. I was about to fucking vibrate to death.
—Jesus, T. You’re the lookout. I mean, fuck.
—You were right, superstar, you don’t need anything to give you an edge.
—Yeah, I’m on edge. And, Jesus, what about the dog? What if it starts barking?
He rubs the top of Hitler’s head.
—Hitler don’t bark. Ever. Only time this dog makes noise is when it farts.
—Great. Look, just, just see if you can find anything out here or in the kitchen. I’ll be in the bedroom.
I head down the hallway.
—And what am I looking for?
—A really big box full of money.
It doesn’t take long. I don’t find the money or any indication that Tim was kidnapped or killed. The place is a mess, but that’s just Tim.
T is on his knees in the kitchen, his head stuck in the cabinet below the sink. I kick the sole of his shoe.
—Anything?
He pulls his head out.
—This.
He tugs a blue day pack from the cabinet and unzips it, revealing about twenty small, colored plastic boxes. This is Tim’s dealing stash. Each box is stuffed with hydro-grade buds of varying quality. The color of the box indicates the content’s price. Hitler sticks his nose into the pile of boxes and shoves them around.
T shakes his head.
—I don’t know your boy, but speaking as a dealer? I generally take it as a bad sign when a professional disappears without his stash.
T FINDS a couple bottles of Tullamore Dew in one of the cabinets and breaks the seal on one of them. I get a glass of water from the tap and flop on the couch. T takes a slug from the bottle of whiskey and starts flipping through Tim’s CDs. Hitler rolls around on his back.
—So you think he ripped you off?
I stare at the wall.
—Could be.
—Think maybe the Russians found him?
—Could be.
—What now?
I look at the clock on the VCR. It’s almost nine.
—I need to make a call.
I take the cell from my pocket. T sits on the floor with his back against the wall, empties Tim’s day pack in his lap, and starts looking at the little boxes.
—Dylan?
—Yeah.
—What ya gonna tell him?
I don’t know, so I just dial the number. It rings once.
—I thought we agreed to updates every twenty-four hours.
—Hi, Dylan.
—Did we not agree to that?
—Yes, and it’s not quite twenty-four.
—That’s cutting it very fine, Hank, very fine indeed.
—Sorry.
—No, no, you’re right. We said every twenty-four hours from nine PM pacific. You’re right. So what have you got for me?
—Not much.
—OK, well, that’s fair, but this is supposed to be a progress report so why don’t you tell me what progress you’ve made.
—Well, I haven’t been captured.
—OK, sarcasm aside, that is progress. What about my money, Hank? Any progress there?
T is trying to juggle three of the little colored boxes from Tim’s stash.
—I haven’t been captured.
Pause.
—Yes, we covered that.
Pause.
—You haven’t asked about your parents, Hank.
Pause.
—How are my parents?
—Have you been watching the news?
—Yes.
—Then you may have seen that they were released from custody and taken to an undisclosed location.
—Yes.
—Well, you’ll be happy to know that they are staying at the Days Inn at the Los Banos rest stop. I’m told by my employees that the security at a Days Inn is somewhat lax, and shouldn’t present any difficulties for them. You understand?
—Yes.
—Good. So, have you made any progress on my money?
T drops the boxes, gets up, and walks back to Tim’s bedroom.
—Yes.
—Good. Tell me, please.
T comes back down the hall carrying Tim’s bong.
—I am lying low while I ascertain if my position here is tenable.
T looks at me and crosses his eyes. I listen to Dylan.
—Good. And?
—I expect to make contact with my “banker” in the next twenty-four hours.
T is shaking his head. He cracks open one of the little bud boxes and starts filling the bong.
—And?
—Within twenty-four hours of that, I expect to receive your money and have it in your hands shortly thereaft
er.
T puts his lips to the top of the bong, holds the flame of his lighter over the bowl, and rips.
—Good. That’s good. See, this is the kind of clarity I’m looking for. Like I told you, Hank, I’m a control freak. The more information I have, the more in control I feel. And that makes me more comfortable. None of this is about you or your abilities, it’s about my personal weaknesses. And I want you to know how much I appreciate you dealing with them so well.
—Sure.
—And . . . I guess that’s it?
—It is.
—OK, I’ll expect to hear from you in the next twenty-four, and look forward to seeing you in the next forty-eight to seventy-two.
—Yes.
—Well . . . good-bye.
He hangs up. T exhales and starts hacking.
—What? Hack! What the fuck was that? Hack! Bullshit?
—That was the kind of bullshit he wants to hear.
—Fuckin’ A. Hack! What a prick he must be.
I nod, and lie back on the carpet. T comes over and stands there looking down at me, bong in one hand and one of the pot boxes in the other.
—What now?
I stare at the ceiling. What now? Fucked if I know. Why can’t someone just tell me what to do for a change? Why can’t someone tell me how to stop all of this?
—T, I get it that you’re not a criminal mastermind or anything.
—Thanks, asshole.
—But do you know how to get information? About people?
He smiles.
—Shit, yeah. No problem.
T SITS in front of Tim’s iMac. I sit on the foot of the bed and look over his shoulder as he scrolls through the Google results for “Dylan Lane.”
—There’s a shitload here, man. Guy’s got a record
—What for?
T clicks around.
—SEC violations.
—What?
He clicks on the heading.
—Looks like he was investigated for insider trading and some other shit.
I shake my head.
—I don’t think that’s him.
He clicks a couple times and a photo starts to resolve on the screen.
—This your boy?
Six Bad Things Page 20
