by Jack Bunker
“I guess I’ve got to pass. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. Stuff works out. It’s not like SAICO’s closing down the office tomorrow.”
Later that morning, Al received an e-mail copy of the press release issued by corporate and filed with the SEC announcing the merger. The press release e-mail was followed by a blast e-mail to hundreds of GSAC employees, informing them of a reduction in force upon completion of the merger with SAICO and including a link to the GSAC’s outplacement services webpage.
Al had felt that Frankie’s involvement had been a point of no return. He now realized he could probably have found a way to pay off Frankie and just walk away. Take the job in Weed. Run the claims office. Start over. Hell, the cost of living up there was probably nothing. His ribcage felt scalded.
J.T. called Hector’s office using the pretext of questions about discovery and pretrial motions. He wanted to get a sense of Hector’s doubts about the case and what GSAC really thought the settlement value of the suit was.
“Hector, this is J.T. Edwards. Do you have a minute to talk about discovery in the McMahon case?”
“I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, but I’m free right now.”
J.T. leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. “Listen, first I wanted to apologize for blowing up the other day over the contact with my client. It’s just that I’ve been burned before by insurance company lawyers, including GSAC lawyers, talking to my clients without authorization.”
“I see.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten emotional, though.” J.T. tried to use the most contrite voice he could muster. “I was out of line with some of my comments and I wanted to apologize.”
“Consider it forgotten.”
J.T. was hypnotized by a plane descending in the distance. He snapped awake. “So, I was going to send you my interrogatories, and I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I know you haven’t prepared a witness list yet, obviously, but just in terms of calendaring, I was wondering if you wanted to talk about blocking out some time for depositions.”
“Well, I suppose,” said Hector. “As you said, I really haven’t had an opportunity to develop a witness list yet.” J.T. could hear Aza’s keyboard clicking. “I have a trial scheduled for October, but I have a feeling that’s going to be pushed back.” More clicking. “I have depositions scattered throughout the rest of August, but there are a few open days I could work with in September. Again, a lot will depend on what happens with my October trial.”
“Don’t I know it,” said J.T. “That’s why I like to try to block these things out as early as possible. Anything comes up, we’ve got options built in.”
“Of course.”
“So, my end’s pretty straightforward: a representative from El Fuente Dorado’s landscaping company; the assistant pro; the surgeon that operated on Mr. McMahon’s mangled penis…” J.T. let that hang in the air, hoping the visual effect would be unsettling for Hector. “So did you have a ballpark idea of how many we might be looking at from your end?”
“Well, again, don’t hold me to this, but, um…well, the plaintiff, obviously, Mr. McMahon. His wife. His friend, Buddy Cromartie, who I understand played golf with him that day and witnessed the accident.”
So Aza definitely knew about Buddy. Okay, it wasn’t a surprise. J.T. still wondered if Aza’d talked to Buddy firsthand and Buddy hadn’t called J.T.
“Right,” said J.T. “So have you met with Buddy yet?”
“You know, I’m really not in a position to get into that right now,” said Hector.
J.T. bit his lip. The guy was tight as a clam. “Sure, I understand.”
“Oh, and the doctor, most likely.”
“The doctor?” So much for being a clam. “I’m sorry. I thought I just said I was calling Dr. Morris.”
“Oh, not the surgeon. I’m talking about Dr. Garvey. The physician who first saw Mr. McMahon at EMC.”
“Garvey?”
“Uh-huh.”
J.T. didn’t bother suppressing a chuckle. This guy Aza was a clown. Why would the defense depose a doctor who was so clearly a favorable witness for the plaintiff? “Really? I mean, it’s your call, but I must say I’m a little surprised.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It’s just that the medical evidence is so overwhelming. I’m curious what he’d have to say that could possibly help your case.”
“Well, when I talked to him—”
“You talked to him? You talked to Garvey already?”
“Like I said, I’m not going to get into my work product. Of course, as I’m sure you know, Dr. Garvey mentioned that Mr. McMahon had quote-unquote ‘fucked up’ his shoulder just before the incident at El Fuente Dorado.”
J.T. bit at a piece of cuticle on his thumb. How the fuck could Mack have mentioned the shoulder to Garvey? More troubling, how had Aza tracked down Garvey and gotten that information? Of course. The release was for Eisenhower Medical Center. J.T. had been so excited by Morris’s notes, he hadn’t even thought about anyone else at the hospital.
And who was this fucking guy Aza, anyway? J.T. noticed that when he said El Fuente Dorado, he said it like a white guy, not a Mexican.
J.T. wondered how long he’d been breathing into the phone. He leaned forward in his chair. “Oh, yeah, Garvey. I’d forgotten about him. I tell you, I was so caught up in the pictures and the medical report by Dr. Morris, the guy that was President Gerald Ford’s urologist, that I really hadn’t focused on Garvey myself.”
J.T. leaned back in his chair again and let that sink in.
“Anyway,” said Hector, “don’t hold me to it, but that’s all I can think of right now.”
J.T. thought he heard a little bell jingle. Guy was probably working out of a fucking pet shop.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” said Hector, “it looks like my meeting’s actually going to start on time for a change.”
J.T. could hear Aza’s chair squeaking. Must be standing up.
“I’ll have to get back to you on the discovery,” said Hector.
J.T. resumed gnawing on his cuticle. “Sure, no problem.”
No problem my ass. Fucking Mack.
With the blender going full bore, Mack hadn’t even realized Wanda had left the apartment until he felt the rattling of the cheap construction when the front door closed. As he flopped on the couch and started looking for something on TV, he felt kind of bad about calling Wanda a dude. But who the fuck was she to call him a bum? He had a job. It was that asshole J.T. told him to stay home. Hell, if Mack had it to do over again, he’d never have signed on for even the first fall with the shopping carts. Shit, he’d be in Cape May this very minute, probably being recognized as the top candidate in his class, and with his choice of any assignment he wanted—even Hawaii.
Sitting in front of the TV, Al surfed through a hundred channels, searching in vain for anything to distract him from the miserable turn his life had taken. He stepped into the kitchen to freshen his vodka when he heard an explosion, then another, bigger blast. He walked back out to the living room expecting to see Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson rappelling from a flaming skyscraper. A commercial for fabric softener was on the screen. From the corner of his eye, some movement from the window caught his attention.
The house behind his, the only other completed house even remotely close by, was on fire. He’d read about these assholes—cooking up crystal meth and always blowing themselves up. As Al watched the scene from his dining room, the hot summer wind stoked the flames that were already pouring out of the second-floor windows.
As if his day hadn’t been shitty enough.
Al stared out the patio door, feeling the fire’s warmth through the glass. He wondered if anyone had called the fire department yet. Then he realized, of course not. If the junkies in the house hadn’t already been incinerated, they were probably halfway to Mexico. No way were they sticking around to answer a bunch of cops’ questions. There weren’t any other nei
ghbors anyway. Al was the only one who could call.
Not that it was going to do any good, he thought as he picked up the phone. With all the furloughs, sequesters, RIFs, and layoffs, the fire departments in the Inland Empire had been decimated. By the time anyone got out here, the fire would have destroyed the house. Probably Al’s too.
Jesus Christ. Al dropped the phone on the counter. Could it? He opened the patio door and felt an instant blast of heat. Odd bits of flaming debris floated over into Al’s scraggly backyard. The fire, however, while still blazing on the other side of the wooden fence, looked like it might be burning itself out.
Al watched the flames for a minute, transfixed. He thought he heard a siren in the distance, but it was just the fire whistling through the studs. Was he going to get this close only to have the fire die out? He looked at the gas grill on the patio. He opened the glass door wider and felt the rush of hot wind pour into his house. He stepped out onto the concrete, grabbed the grill’s handle, and dragged it out into the yard almost all the way to the fence. He opened the gas jets and threw the lid back, then ran back to the house. He’d give it another minute for the gas to catch, then another five for the house. It would take the fire department fifteen minutes to arrive in the best of times; now it might take thirty. Judging from the way the first house went up, in twenty-five minutes, his place would be cinders.
The way the first house went up. The meth lab. The cops and fire marshal would figure that out in about two seconds. Al looked out at the yard, the grill spewing invisible liquid propane into the night sky. If they could figure out a meth lab, they could damn sure figure out a gas grill in the middle of the yard with the jets on.
Al sprinted back out to the grill. He could feel the heat from the fire intensifying. God, don’t blow this up while I’m trying to get the jets off. He dove on the ground to get to the tank. Even the dirt was hot. He reached up for the tank, fumbling for the knob. When he found it, he turned it one way, then the other. God, don’t let me shit my pants while I’m trying to get the jets off. He could hear the flames screeching through the cheap shingles next door. Completely discombobulated, he lay face down in the sandy patch of scrubby grass. He pulled himself up to his knees, confirmed the tank was closed, and then dragged the grill back to the patio. If the tank blew up once it was on the concrete, well, that’d be too bad.
Sparks were still floating over the fence when the wind freshened and a gust blew down off the San Bernardino Mountains, showering Al’s roof with embers. Al was standing in the yard, his fists clenched, his knees bobbing like he was watching a Tiger Woods putt circle the cup at Augusta. Thirty seconds later his own house was officially on fire.
Al walked back inside and grabbed a six-pack from the fridge and the bottle of vodka from the counter. He put his hand on the doorknob to the garage. He’d have plenty of time to move the car to a safe place away from the fire. Hold on. Fuck that. He topped off his vodka one more time, adding extra ice and pouring it all into a big cup from Qualcomm Stadium. He scooped up the cell phones and threw them into a biodegradable plastic bag with the beer and the vodka and strolled out to the front yard to call 911 and wait for the fire department.
When, as Al predicted, the fire department arrived half an hour later, there was no chance the house could be saved. It had gone up like a movie set. Al watched the firefighters attempt to water down both houses, but like the firemen, Al knew it was futile. His biggest disappointment was that his beer had gotten warm while he watched his house burn.
Once it was obvious there was nothing to do for the house but contain the embers, one of the firefighters strode over to Al, who told him about the explosion he’d heard and his suspicion about a meth lab in the unoccupied house.
“Yeah, we’re seeing this a lot these days. Cheap houses. Assholes playing chemist. Fire departments gutted by the fucking tax rolls evaporating. Only a matter of time until the whole Inland Empire is one giant bonfire.”
“Yeah.”
“Our guys aren’t finding any bodies in the house over there, so at least that’s something,” said the firefighter.
Al was almost delirious from his newfound freedom. The white elephant was no more. “Yeah.”
“Glad you made it out, pal,” the fireman said, extending his hand. “It’s the insurance company’s problem now, am I right?”
The smile that Al had been suppressing finally emerged. “Well, I guess that’s something, isn’t it?”
The firefighter returned to his truck, talking into the radio Velcroed to his suit. Al was free. Free from having to go to Weed with its bullshit snowy winters. Free to stay in Southern California. Free to play golf whenever he wanted as his own boss, running his own consulting business.
Al stared at his house. Tears began to gather in the corners of his eyes.
With the steam and smoke rising from the creosote ruins, Alvin Boyle was now free to watch his computer—containing all the stolen GSAC information he’d risked his job, loan sharks, and prison to exploit—melt in the dying embers of the white elephant’s ultimate revenge.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Buddy backed into a spot in the parking lot of the apartment complex where Wanda stood outside waiting for him. He unhitched the trailer before pulling away and parking his Monte Carlo in a nearby space. Wanda walked around the McMahon 3000, the buggy itself strapped down on the trailer and covered in a tarp bungeed onto the roll cage.
“Thanks for bringing it out,” Wanda said, as Buddy walked toward her from his car.
“No problem,” said Buddy. “Sure nice a you to get him that. He been wanting one forever. What it set you back?”
“Guy in Banning was asking eleven hundred on Craigslist. I got him to bring it to the club for a thousand cash.”
Buddy couldn’t believe it. Not only was Mack getting paid to be married to this fine woman with that killer body, she bought him thousand-dollar presents, even though he acted like an asshole to her. Shit, if he’d known Wanda was going to be part of the package, he would’ve made that first trip out to J.T.’s office after all.
“Look here,” said Buddy, “Mack say anything to you about investin’ in my business when he get his check?”
“Not really. You know he’s onto that dune buggy–customizing idea now. Of course, he can only focus on something for so long before he gets distracted.”
Buddy shook his head. “I know that’s right.”
“So your invention? It’s some kind of golf ball–retrieving contraption, right?”
“Yeah.” Buddy hadn’t thought about it before, but maybe Wanda was the way to go. If she was married to Mack, she’d be getting some of that settlement check too, right? “I got it rigged up so you can get all the balls off the bottom of the lake without having to go dive in there.”
“Sounds like that would save a lot of time.”
“Save a lot of gator and moccasin bites too. Not out here, maybe, but back home? Shiiiit. You won’t catch my ass jumping in no Florida lake for no golf ball. My cousin, Donnell? Fuckin’ gator hopped out the water and ate his dog whole, man.”
Wanda laughed and sat down on the trailer’s fender. She was still almost as tall as Buddy.
Buddy had been completely serious, but when he thought about it, it did seem kind of funny—especially out here, where they wouldn’t know a gator from a possum. Is she not wearing a bra? “So J.T. say when y’all can expect your settlement?”
“Nah. These things take a while sometimes. When I used to be a paralegal, we had some claims that took years if they went to court.” Wanda looked at the bungee cords that secured the tarp. “So what’s the story with your invention? You got a company set up and everything?”
“I got a shell LLC. Set it up as a Subchapter S. I ain’t done nothing with a patent yet, though. I was hopin’ Mack would invest when he got his check, but if it’s gonna be years, then…”
Wanda stood up from the fender and unhooked the bungee cords on the tarp.
“You
never know,” she said, dragging the canvas off the McMahon 3000 in a smooth veronica. “These things have a way of working out.”
Mack woke to the sound of Wanda cleaning up the mess from the margarita mix and tequila bottles.
“Jesus, what time is it?” he asked, stretching his arms and walking into the kitchen. He’d learned his lesson the first couple of days after the surgery and conditioned himself not to instinctively grab his junk the first thing upon waking.
“Almost noon.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, about yesterday. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothing.”
“Forget it. I know you didn’t plan on any of this. I know you’d rather be working. I’m sorry I said anything. How about we call it even?”
“All right then. Works for me.”
Wanda tied up the plastic garbage bag, hefted it out of the can, and shook open a new one. “Okay, put a shirt on. I’ve got something to show you outside.”
Pulling a T-shirt over his head, Mack grabbed a cap and followed Wanda out to the parking lot where in an empty parking space the McMahon 3000 sat perched on a white trailer.
“Holy shit!”
“I was feeling bad about everything, even before last night, so I bought the trailer so you could take the McMahon 3000 out to the desert.”
Mack ran his hand along the wire mesh sides as he walked around the trailer.
“Sorry it’s used,” said Wanda. “I couldn’t afford the new one.”
Other than during his marriage blackout, it was the first time Mack had actually hugged Wanda.
“Man, that’s awesome! How’d you get it up on the trailer?”
“Buddy.”
“That fucker,” Mack said, smiling. “He musta cleaned it up too.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I wish I could take this sumbitch out right now.”