Joe McGinniss Jr. - Carousel Court

Bank-sanctioned home invasions. When Nick and his crew of six from EverythingMustGo! arrive at a location, it’s never a surprise, but it’s always unwelcome. Men hauling and tossing leather sectionals and flat-screens from a home into Dumpsters or the back of a pickup truck makes neighbors uneasy, even suspicious. Nick keeps work stories to himself because there is nothing about his vocation that Phoebe wants to hear.

On a hot Wednesday morning last week on a cul-de-sac in Chino, a gold minivan slowed to a crawl while the men worked. The driver stopped, got out, and without saying a word, started whipping cans of tuna fish and then a full bottle of marinara sauce at Nick’s crew. She missed everyone. As she threw, Nick noticed her diamond engagement ring and wedding band. One of the tuna cans went through the living room window. Out of breath, unsure of her next move, she yelled, “ Fuck B of A!” and the crew laughed, relieved, having learned to expect worse.

The next day, a hot morning, the crew was rushing through a trash-out on Del Torino in Lake Elsinore. On the front lawn of every house on their side of the street was a freshly planted Bank-Owned sign. The car that crept to the house where they worked, turned slowly into the driveway, was a red Dodge Challenger. It idled for too long; the driver leaned sideways into the passenger’s seat. From the airless, empty living room, Nick watched as the crew stood in the shade from a thicket of wilting palms, drinking Red Bull. They all studied the car. A man got out; forty, maybe younger. He was shirtless and walked casually through the open front door of the house. Around his head, like a turban, he’d wrapped a blue towel with white stripes. Nick realized when he saw it that it was from the set of towels that he and Phoebe had at home, purchased when they first arrived, along with emerald-green tumblers and a wicker patio set from Crate & Barrel that they couldn’t afford. It had something to do with the heat, Nick thought. Maybe the towel was soaked in cold water. The man fumbled with his keys, pointed them in the direction of the car, set the alarm, dropped them on the marble foyer floor. He was barefoot, unshaven, and he carried something sharp in his left hand. In the other, a silver revolver. Before the ambulance and police arrived, it was Sean who found the keys to the car, opened the driver’s-side door, pocketed something he pulled from the center console. Loose change? A cell phone? Nick didn’t bother asking.

Nick can’t understand why he froze in the narrow hallway between the kitchen and the man. He should have run. Turned a corner, found the back door, barreled through it, and run. But he did nothing. He watched as the man, who acknowledged none of them, took the sharp object — a small blade — and sliced his pale, hairy chest from the left shoulder to his abdomen. He winced, and the blood distracted Nick until he realized that the man was swallowing the barrel of the gun, and Nick’s hands rushed involuntarily to cover his ears and head and all he heard was the explosion. There was no mess. The towel trapped the skull and bits of brain. Nick gave a statement to the police. Trying to push the image away, the man’s bloodshot eyes, the echo from the single shot, the dull thud of the body collapsing on the dirty marble floor.

All Phoebe wants to hear from Nick these days, all she can handle, is news of a job prospect comparable to the one they came out here for: his production manager position with the boutique Encino firm. The career he trained for. But no one is hiring, he reminds her. His voice will rise when he’s defending himself: “There is no position to pursue !” And when they exhaust the subject yet again, Phoebe moves seamlessly to the next item on her list: reassurance that their own investment experiment on Carousel Court is appreciating well beyond the eighty-seven thousand dollars in upgrades. Because if it’s not, or won’t be soon, what are they doing? The answer is clear: It isn’t and won’t be anytime soon.

• •

Tonight’s work goes quickly. The house in Agoura Hills lies on a deserted street of matching middle-class houses. It’s late and dark, the electricity still flows, and all the lights are turned on inside.

Nick’s not in charge this time, just helping out. This is not his regular crew. He’s never met these guys. None of the four men except Nick speaks English, and even though the men don’t speak, there’s a sense among them that they dodged a bullet tonight. If the house were somewhere else, somewhere harder-hit, with no power, the mood would be tense.

A neighbor in a bathrobe appears with two Weimaraners. The dogs sense something, seem agitated, growling, pulling on their leashes.

“What the hell?” the neighbor says, eyeing the green Dumpster, the furniture, and the rolled-up carpets being carried out of the house. He’s cursing his dogs before Nick can answer. They’re ignoring him. The dogs don’t want Nick but whatever is around the right side of the house, which is all blackness.

“Just tidying up,” Nick tells him.

“They’ve been gone a week,” the neighbor says.

“Two, actually,” Nick corrects him.

The man surveys the items, a stained red leather recliner, a walnut entertainment console, a Dyson vacuum cleaner. “Help yourself,” Nick calls out over the insane barking of the dogs. The man shakes his head, yanks the leashes hard, disappears down the orange-lit street.

The sound coming from behind the house: voices, urgent. Nick finds the other three members of the crew, one directing the beam of a flashlight into the dry brush at the edge of the property. Another man hurls a rock in the same direction. Whatever set the neighbors’ dogs off is back there and has everyone on edge. The third member of the crew, young and skinny, produces a black pistol, points it at the brush. The oldest of the three slaps him.

“Pendejo!”

The gun disappears. A bottle is thrown, shatters against a rock. There’s no sound. The oldest, the crew leader, instructs the others to go inside, finish the job.

When they’re gone and Nick is alone in the backyard, he turns on his own flashlight, approaches the dry brush. Chained to a headstone-sized boulder is a terrified, emaciated black dog. The animal makes itself as small as it can, low to the ground, squirms toward Nick, cowering. Three dirty Tupperware dishes and a porcelain bowl with a trace of brown water surround the animal. Nick cleans caked yellow crust from its eyes. The animal wags its brittle tail, ears tucked back. Pink and festering red skin where the collar was pulled too tight around the neck. Nick loosens the choke chain.

He takes a picture of the neglected thing and sends it to Phoebe with a message:

Owners left it behind.

The image: a sickly dog that is all matted fur and bones with white flecks around his chin and muzzle and his pleading brown eyes.

Nick calls Phoebe. “What do you think?” he asks.

“About what?” she responds.

“He’s sweet. Well-trained.”

She sighs.

“We have plenty of room. Jackson would love it,” he says.

“Where does it come from?” she asks.

“What?”

“A dog, Nick?”

Silence. He lowers his voice. “There are so many of these houses, Phoebe. Deserted.”

“So what?”

“People are scared,” he says. “They’re desperate and have nowhere to go. You know what they need?”

The dog drinks from the hose Nick has turned on.

“A place to collect their thoughts, make a plan,” he continues. Nick directs the hose on the back of the dog, fresh cool water cascading over the infected skin and matted fur.

All someone would have to figure out was the logistics: how to get the houses ready, how to get people in, how to collect and move on. All the homes are new construction. All he has to do is slap on fresh coats of paint, clean the carpets, drain and refill the pools. Where would an anxious family rather plot its next moves: some Motel 6, a friend’s basement, or a three-bedroom house with a pool and Nick as their landlord?