Gregg Hurwitz - You're Next

One day Shep walks into the shared bedroom carrying what appears to be a wall safe, his substantial biceps bulging under the weight of it. Mike is rereading his worn SAT practice book, because he is convinced that he will arrive at college next fall and not know how to communicate with kids actually smart enough to be there. He hopes against logic that knowing words like ‘bedight’ and ‘acetate’ might help close that gap.

Incredulous, he looks up from the vocab section at Shep. ‘Where’d you get that?’

Shep says, ‘A wall.’

Mike conveys another bite of SpaghettiOs from can to mouth, using the flat edge of a butter knife since all the forks and spoons are dirty. ‘Shep,’ he mumbles around the mush, ‘you can’t do that shit.’

‘You get half of whatever’s in it.’

‘I don’t want half.’ Mike rolls up the workbook and smacks it against his forehead. ‘I want to know what “flagitious” means.’

‘Of or like a flag.’ Shep sits Indian style on the floor, knocks on the safe at various points, then removes from his back pocket folded graph paper and an actual stethoscope. Mike watches with fascination. Shep ducks into the earbuds and twists the dial, listening with medical interest. Given his hearing, he seems to be having trouble perceiving the clicks. The EKG line of his graph doesn’t progress beyond a few peaks and valleys. He sets the stethoscope aside, goes out, and returns a moment later with a hammer and chisel.

Mike’s mouth comes slightly ajar. ‘ Really ?’

Round Two. Shep starts beating the hell out of the safe. The ringing of course does not bother him. The others are all ostensibly at a Dodgers game, so Shep and Mike enjoy relative privacy.

Until the Couch Mother, who has been groaning through a bout of colitis in the mephitic fog of her bedroom, calls down the hall, ‘Michael dear, what’s that noise ?’ She has learned not to shout to Shep.

Shep says quietly, ‘I’m fixing a carburetor.’

Mike shouts, ‘He’s fixing a carburetor!’

Shep does not have a car.

‘Don’t make a mess!’ Couch Mother bellows.

‘He won’t!’ Mike has set aside his workbook. ‘What are you gonna do with your share?’ he mocks.

‘Vegas,’ Shep says. ‘Hookers. You?’

‘A house. Thirty-year mortgage, fixed. A yard. I want a garage workshop with tools.’

‘How old are you again?’ Shep sits back on his heels, arms sweat off his brow. ‘Look,’ he mutters, not really talking to Mike. ‘Look at that. Hammering off the hinges doesn’t do shit. I need to find where the lock-in lugs slide into the sides of the frame.’ He leans over, tongue poking from the side of his mouth, and jots something onto the back of the failed graph.

A few hours later, the safe looks exhausted, and Shep has sketched what amounts to an engineering diagram. He has been hammering at the seams, meticulously marking the lug locations and projecting new ones. Mike has watched this venture evolve from whimsy to science.

Sometime later Shep has created a hole in the back wall of the safe and peeled up the sheet metal. Beneath is a layer of concrete, which crumbles under the hammer, then sheet metal again. This is Round Eleven, and maybe Round Twelve as well.

From down the hall, the Couch Mother’s voice sounds exasperated and dehydrated. ‘Aren’t you done fixing that carburetor yet?’

Shep says softly, ‘Just about.’

After another flurry of force and leverage, the back wall finally gives way. Shep tosses the loot, a bunch of old coins, aside. He is not interested in them; he is interested in the safe. He mumbles to himself, checks the lugs he hadn’t guessed at, writes down the brand and make of the safe. ‘The concrete’s for weight,’ he mutters.

Mike asks, ‘Don’t you want your priceless coins?’

Shep chews his lip, marveling at the reinforced door. He says, ‘What?’

The next day they are walking past a pawnshop and Shep pulls one of the coins from his pocket and hands it to Mike.

Mike says, ‘Why don’t you?’ and Shep says, ‘They got my picture behind the register.’

Mike hesitates a moment. He thinks of that grandfather’s admonishment years ago and recalls his own wavery reflection in the unblemished forest green paint of the Wingate Dealership Saab, but it’s one old coin and it’s Shep, so he takes it and goes inside. The security camera behind the bulletproof glass makes him antsy, but he writes a fake name and address on the invoice ticket and tells himself again, It’s one old coin and it’s Shep . Mike comes out with twenty bucks, which he stuffs into Shep’s large hand. ‘That was worth it,’ he smirks.

Shep hands him ten back.

That night the cops roll up on 1788 Shady Lane. The senior officer brings a still shot from the pawnshop security camera, and this time the set of handcuffs he wields are adult-size.

There was no front-office woman, just a front office. No sign, no venetian blinds, no noir stenciled lettering announcing HANK DANVILLE, P.I. Mike stepped past the bare wooden desk, tapped on the inner office door, and opened it.

Hank was behind his desk, pants dropped, withdrawing a needle from the pale white skin of his thigh. He looked over his shoulder, grimaced, and barked, ‘Goddamn it!’

Mumbling an apology, Mike skipped back and closed the door. A moment later Hank yanked it open again. Tucking in his shirt, he returned to his desk, Mike shadowing him across the room on a cautious delay, both men avoiding eye contact. Hank slumped into his chair and gestured at the worn love seat opposite, where Mike had sat many times over the past five years.

Hank had an old-fashioned build, the kind they don’t make anymore – tall and lanky, scarecrow shoulders broad enough to hang a linebacker’s frame on. He was balding pleasantly and evenly, his hair receded midway on his head, which extended, turtlelike, on a ropy neck. It was an intellectual head – academic, even – built for peering at dusty tomes and longhand letters. It matched neither his powerful forearms nor the taciturn cop’s demeanor he’d perfected during the thirty-some years he’d spent behind a badge before going private to limited success.

Hank’s dry lips wobbled as he tried to come up with an explanation. No easy task, given what Mike had walked in on. Hank cursed under his breath, shoved back from his desk, and stood, cuffing his sleeves. Mike noticed that he was wearing his years a bit more heavily than when they’d last face-to-faced. Hank never gave his age. He was old enough to wobble here and there but young enough to get pissed off if you tried to steady his elbow.

He crossed to the window, shoved it open, and leaned on the sill, his suspenders drawing tight across his back. He’d quit smoking but still forgot sometimes, leaning out windows as if to exhale. His cat, an obese tabby, looked up from the radiator at him with indifference.

Mike cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I wanted to apologize for yesterday when-’

‘I’m dying,’ Hank said. He remained leaning over the sill, staring off at the Hollywood sign in the distance, the fabric of his shirt bunching between his shoulder blades. ‘Lung cancer. I gave ’em up, hell, fifteen years ago. Thought I was in the clear. Amazing how something like that can boomerang back on you.’

He strode over and tapped the little needle kit on the desktop. ‘That’s what this poison is for. Neupo-something. Supposed to stimulate my last two white blood cells.’

Hank eased down into his chair, his gaze shifting, unsure where to land. At closer glance he looked not just slender but downright gaunt. Mike had never seen him uneasy, let alone floundering. Empathy left Mike tongue-tied. It was always hard to find the right words when someone parted the curtains like that, when you were given a glimpse into the inner workings of a life. So Mike said the first thing that came to mind: ‘What can I do?’