Charlie Huston - Six Bad Things

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 thereafter.

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?

I look at the pic. It’s Dylan. He’s a few years younger, standing in a big, partitioned office space, surrounded by a group of very young and geeky-looking men and women.

– Yeah, that’s him.

T clicks through a series of articles from the New York papers.

– So dickhead here was some kind of financial whiz kid in the stock market. Kind of a flavor of the week broker in the early nineties, but then he got busted for manipulations and shit and disappeared for a couple years. Didn’t do jail time, of course. Fuckos like that never go to jail. Then he pops back up just in time for the fattest part of the Internet boom. He got money from somewhere to get a start-up rolling in Silicon Alley. Well, he was the flavor of the week again, and his company is a big fucking hit, and then the market folded. No criminal charges this time, but he disappears again, except for some gossip column shit about him. Stuff like, “Dylan Lane was MIA for fashion week, but several of his comrade investors were in attendance in hopes of giving a bear hug to the former dot-com darling.” And more of the same. Innuendo about him being a shady character, but no details. Any help?

I flop back on the bed.

– It explains why he talks like an asshole.

T spins the chair around to face me.

– So?

– What?

– What now?

– What now? I’m fucked, that’s what now. I don’t know how to find Tim. I can’t go to the cops without risking Mom and Dad. I don’t have anything to use to cut a deal with Dylan. I have a few days till Sunday to do something, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. You know this town. How do I find Tim?

T shrugs.

– Fucked if I know.

I stare at the ceiling. My heart is jumping and sweat is starting to break out all over my body. I know what this is. It’s panic. A scream has been living in my gut for years, and now it wants out. I don’t have any moves left to keep it down and the Xanax has worn off and it’s going to come out.

T sits next to me on the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder.

– You OK?

I shake my head side to side. The scream is in my chest now. Climbing.

He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pill.

– Here.

I look at it. I don’t want any more drugs. I want to feel this. I deserve to feel this. But I can’t afford to feel it right now. I can’t scream now. If I start now I’ll never stop. It’s in my throat.

T presses the pill against my lips.

– It’s Percocet. It’ll chill you out.

I remember the Percs my doctor gave me after my leg broke, the ones I shared with Wade and Rich and Steve. They killed the pain and made the world balloon off and bob at the end of a string.

I let the pill into my mouth and swallow. It chases the scream back down into my belly, and, almost instantly, long before it can possibly be taking effect, I feel better.

– I don’t know what to do, T.

He picks something up from the floor and hands it to me. It’s one of Tim’s pot boxes.

– I think I know someone who can help us.

T DRIVES us to the North Strip. We park the car, leave Hitler inside, and walk down Fremont Street. A few blocks of Fremont have been converted to a pedestrian mall and covered by a canopy about two stories high, its underside lined with lights. Christmas carols are blaring from a PA system as the lights flash, creating a variety of holiday-themed images that flicker across the canopy. A crowd of tourists fills the mall, their heads dropped back to gape at the spectacle as candy canes, Christmas trees, stockings, and Santa and his reindeer all twinkle overhead. T nudges me and points ahead.

– It gets better inside.

In front of us is a strip club; a huge neon cowgirl in white boots, a bikini, and a cowboy hat hangs above the door. A long line of cowboys waits underneath her to get in.

– No way, T.

He looks at me.

– What?

– We can’t go in there.

– Why not?

– Way too many people.

– So what? They’re all drunk and they’re all dressed like you.

– No.

He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a pair of big black Wayfarer sunglasses, and puts them on my face.

– There. Now you look even more like every other rube in town.

I take the sunglasses off and start to head back to the car. He grabs me.

– Look, man, this place is my office, right? I kick back to the house and they give me the franchise in there to deal speed to the strippers.