by Jack Bunker
“They were saying that nobody had ever scaled Joe Frey Hill in an ATV before.”
“That the place over by Twentynine Palms?”
“Yeah. People hike up to the top all the time, but the Frooch guy was saying nobody could ride up the trail in an ATV.” Wanda kicked gently in the shallow water. “Then that guy Johnny Ho goes, ‘That sounds like a challenge, bro!’”
“Shit. The McMahon 3000 could take that fucker. Guaranteed.”
“I don’t know. Frooch was going to customize this special ATV for Johnny Ho.”
Mack sat up straight. “Did he do it on TV? Get to the top?”
“No, they were just going over the design of the ATV. I think they’re going to wait and keep showing Frooch building the thing, then go for it at the end of the season.”
“So nobody’s climbed that thing yet?”
“Nope. Still a virgin.”
“Not for long, darlin’.” Mack drained the last of the margarita he’d brought for Wanda. “I got a date tomorrow mornin’.”
The next morning when Al carried his clubs down to the car, there was no sign of a white BMW. J.T. was right. All his paranoid bullshit had finally gotten to Al.
Al was the first non-employee to arrive at Mira Vista. He hit a large bucket of balls, but he was so excited by the way the balls jumped off the clubface, he bought another small bucket. Thoroughly satisfied, Al took his clubs back to the car and went into the 19th Hole to get some breakfast.
When he returned from washing his hands in the men’s room, he saw someone sitting at a table with his back to Al, and opposite him, the unmistakable bulk of Frankie Fresh. Al wheezed as he tried to catch his breath. He wiped his hair with his damp right hand. Something felt weird. He looked down and the palm of his hand had at least thirty hairs stuck to it. Panicked, Al wiped the other side of his head with his left hand. Same result. The burning sensation again torched Al’s ribcage as he approached the table.
“Frankie.”
“Hiya, Al,” said Frankie with a wave of his meaty hand. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, listen, I understand you know my new friend here.” Frankie pointed to the guy with his back to Al. “Rog?”
Al coughed when Roger Ellis turned around.
“Hiya, Al.”
Hector hustled out to Van Slaters in Moreno Valley first thing to have a talk with the manager. After identifying himself as an attorney for the company’s insurance carrier, the manager, as Hector suspected, told him he wasn’t on duty the evening the accident had happened in the parking lot. There was, however, an incident report written up by the night manager according to corporate policy in the event a claim was filed. The report said that a blond man driving a Pontiac Firebird had been hit by a cluster of runaway shopping carts in the parking lot. The man had refused to give his name but had threatened legal action. The night manager, Jenny Calloway, did get the names and contact details for several witnesses and included the information in the report.
The plate number matched the one from Manu’s research into the bench warrant. Hector couldn’t necessarily put everything together, but maybe the night manager could fill in the gaps.
Hector called Al’s office, but the phone rolled into voicemail. Hector looked at his watch. It was early, but not so early that he couldn’t call Al’s cell phone.
“Have a seat,” said Frankie. “Join us for some breakfast and fellowship.”
“Yeah, thanks, but I’ve got to get moving. I just popped in for a cup of coffee.”
“Back to the office, eh?” said Frankie.
“You know how it is.”
Ellis sniffed. “Actually, Al, I don’t. Why don’t you tell us how it is?”
“Are you the one who’s been following me around in the BMW, Ellis?”
“Seems like a coincidence, I’ll bet,” said Ellis.
“Seems like fucking stalking is what it seems like,” said Al. “What is your deal?”
“My deal? My deal is I got fired from GSAC for some bullshit that you pulled. That’s my deal. What’s yours?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Al’s cell phone rang. He ignored it.
“Boys, boys,” said Frankie. “There seem to be some raw emotions here at this little conclave. Wanda,” Frankie bellowed, “can we get some bloody marys over here, please?”
Al’s cell phone rang again. Again he ignored it.
Wanda pulled three jumbo Styrofoam cups from beneath the counter. “Sure thing.”
Al’s cell phone rang again. He looked at it. It was Aza.
“I’ve got to take this,” said Al. “Work.”
Frankie waved an imaginary pest away from the table. “Of course. Of course. Business before pleasure, I always say.”
Al stood up from the table. “This is Alvin Boyle,” he said, and walked out to the parking lot. As soon as he got outside, he positioned himself out of the eyeline of Frankie and Ellis, but so he’d still be able to see if the door moved an inch.
“Hi, it’s Hector Aza. You got a minute?”
“Um, sure. Quick one.” Al wondered if Aza could hear Al’s pulse thumping through the phone. “What’ve you got?”
“McMahon. When I was out at Eisenhower, the doctor, Garvey, mentioned that McMahon had complained he’d hurt his shoulder.”
“Uh-huh.” Al was pacing back and forth, hoping he’d get Aza off the phone in time to call J.T.
“So it turns out that McMahon was injured in what I’d call a borderline suspicious incident at Van Slaters only a couple of nights before. In addition to El Fuente Dorado, guess who also insures Van Slaters?”
A tiny croak escaped from Al’s throat. Dried spittle clogged the corners of his mouth. He tried to swallow but it was like he had a neck full of sand. “Ohmigod.”
“Don’t get too excited. I mean, at this point it’s just a coincidence, but I thought it was interesting, how about you?”
“Jesus.”
“Like I said. Still too early to know much, but I’ll keep you posted.”
“Yeah,” Al gasped. “Thanks.”
He hung up the phone. He wanted to call J.T. but realized the dispose-a-phone was in the car. If Frankie saw him go to the car, it would be bad. Calling J.T. from Al’s own cell phone would be bad. If Al didn’t warn J.T., that would be pretty fucking bad too.
Being Al Boyle, he split the baby and jogged to his car. He reached in and grabbed the phone to call J.T. He started walking back toward the 19th Hole as slowly as he could, hoping he could buy a few more seconds before he had to go back inside. J.T. answered on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“Shit storm. Frankie’s got me collared here at the club. The guy that was foll—”
“Wait a minute, what the fuck are you doing at the club? Didn’t I tell you to stay away from that fucking—”
“Jesus, not now, J.T.! Just listen. The guy that’s been following me is the guy that got fired from GSAC. Ellis? Remember the internal investigation? They found the breach into the database and blamed Ellis. Now the fucker’s got me in his sights for losing him his job.”
“Okay, slow down, Al—”
“J.T.! Listen! He’s here with Frankie! That means Frankie knows about Mack’s dick! That means he knows we’ve been holding out on him!”
“Jesus. How the fuck—”
“Christ, J.T.! Shut up and listen! That’s not all. Aza just called. He found out about Van Slaters.” The door opened slowly, with Frankie’s enormous frame filling the space. “Okay, thanks, Lidia,” Al said, nodding. “I’ll call him back when I get in. No, no, no problem. Okay, hon. Bye.” Al shook his head as he glanced up at Frankie’s alligator smile. “Always a crisis.”
J.T.’s head was spinning. How had something so right turned so quickly to shit? Al Boyle had to be cursed. Everything the guy even remotely touched just melted into a surging, white-capped river of feces.
J.T. looked at the gas gauge of his Merc
edes. Not for the first time, he wondered: What if he liquidated everything—just got all the cash he could scrape together—and took off like O. J. toward Mexico? How far could he get? How much to buy a new identity and just disappear? Shit, he could be a bartender in Cancún or something.
Aza knew about Van Slaters. How the fuck was this possible?
Fucking Mack. What kind of asshole goes to Hooters with the guy who mowed him down? If only he’d been killed by that fucking tractor. No. Only devoutly religious people got that kind of luck, and it was too late for J.T.
How to neutralize Frankie? That would take some finessing. Depending on what he knew, it could be played off as mission-critical to maintain absolute secrecy. After all, Frankie was in for eight points, right? Eight points on seven hundred grand was a lot more than on a hundred. J.T. could lay the whole thing off on trial strategy. Tell Frankie he didn’t want to disappoint him with the news that this thing could go to trial; not so long as there was a real chance the thing could settle before that.
J.T. had only filed a few days ago. He could just explain to Frankie he hadn’t had a chance to tell him personally. He hadn’t been anywhere near the club, not that he could remember.
Buddy. He’d forgotten he’d come by that day to talk to Buddy; J.T. had made a point of getting the hell out of there expressly to avoid Frankie. That would make for a tougher sale if Frankie knew about J.T.’s visit. One thing about Frankie: he acted like an idiot, but the guy was two steps ahead. So long as J.T. could stay five steps ahead, everything would be okay.
Al. It always came back to Al. Heading over Diarrhea Falls in a fucking barrel.
FORTY
Beneath the scorching August sun of Twentynine Palms, Mack released the straps securing the McMahon 3000. He reached over the driver’s seat, dropped the machine into neutral, and pushed it gently backward until it rolled off the parallel ramps.
As he put his fingers on the key to turn the motor over, he thought he heard artillery fire in the distance. For all the glory that would come with being the first vehicle to scale Joe Frey Hill, getting blown to shit by U.S. Marines would clearly suck all the fun out of it. Mack thought about it and figured with all the civilians out this way, it would take a colossal clusterfuck for some kind of ordnance to land that far off course.
He was disappointed that no one was around to witness his feat. On weekends the place was crawling with dune buggies, hippies, bird watchers, and thirsty Mexicans dumped out of semis. He looked up the path to the hill’s first switchback. For something supposed to be a tough climb, the trail looked awfully fucking wide to Mack. The next level up the path got narrower, but looked doable. Given the slope of the hill, though, the McMahon 3000’s independent suspension, the clingy knobby tires, and the vehicle’s proven balance, Mack realized what his geometry teacher had been trying to explain back at Pershing High in Van Horn: the shortest distance between two points was indeed a straight line.
Mack walked halfway around the hill’s northeastern slope. There didn’t look to be any boulders in the way. A few rocks, but nothing to knock the McMahon 3000 off its wheels. Shit, he wished Wanda were here with a video camera or something so they could send this to CNN.
When he turned the engine over, the buggy barely made a sound. Like a Prius or something. Quiet. Almost scary-quiet. Mack started up the hill in first gear. The McMahon 3000 just walked up the side of the 2,200-foot-high mountain like Spider-Man. Mack rose halfway out of his seat to look for rocks or holes, bracing himself with his right hand on the roll bar and his left on the steering wheel. He was making great progress. He looked over his right shoulder at the switchbacks bent like bobby pins cutting the slope from the hill. Bunch of pussies.
With the vehicle still in first gear and no visible obstacles, Mack felt his pulse quickening. He was almost at the top. Goddamn, I wish Wanda was here with a camera. He saw condors circling above, riding thermals in big lazy arcs. He turned his head quickly to look directly behind him. Things looked smaller, but not like ants. He couldn’t believe that the baddest extreme motorsports expert in California was afraid of this little hill.
“Fuck Johnny Ho!” Mack yelled to the condors. His voice boomed over the roll bar; it soared above the coloratura whine of the McMahon 3000’s tiny engine. His proud cry floated over the abrupt peak of Joe Frey Hill and down the 260-foot sheer drop of the hill’s southwest slope, with the McMahon 3000 and Mack McMahon himself hurtling through the fading echo.
Frankie laid a beefy arm on Al’s shoulder and steered him back toward the table. “I haven’t seen our friend the counselor around the club of late, have you?”
“No. Not lately.”
Ellis sat in his seat watching his coffee cool as Al and Frankie approached the table and sat down. The three bloody marys Wanda had brought over sat untouched on the table.
“Listen,” said Al, “I really do have to get into the office.”
“Lot of activity over there, is there?”
“Just trying to wrap things up before the merger’s finished.”
“You know, it’s funny,” said Frankie, splashing a few drops of Tabasco sauce in his bloody mary, “I understand things have been really interesting over there at GSAC.”
“Well, it’s a big merger.”
“I was thinking more in the field of interesting personal injury claims.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Young Roger here was telling me of a recent claim in which a young fellow was traumatized by a—what was it, Rog? A penile fracture?”
“Yeah,” said Ellis, glaring over his bloody mary at Al.
“Yeah, that’s a very interesting claim,” said Al. “Problematic, but a potentially large payout.”
“Problematic?” said Frankie, sipping his drink. “How so?”
“Listen, I’d love to tell you all about it, but I really have to go.”
“Relax,” said Frankie, “they’re not going to fire you.”
Al turned to face Ellis, even though he was talking to Frankie. “They already did.” Al turned back to Frankie. “What, Wonder Boy didn’t fill you in on that? Yeah, I lost my job. I’m out. My fucking house burned down three nights ago. I’m getting laid off at the end of the month, and now I’ve got this nutjob driving around stalking me like a teenage girl.”
“Jesus, Al,” said Frankie, “I had no idea. I’m really sorry about that.”
“Thanks, but can we pick this up later?”
“Sure, sure.” Frankie turned to Ellis. “Rog, you’ll excuse us for a minute, won’t you?”
Ellis nodded and got up from his chair and took his drink out toward the pro shop.
Al leaned in toward Frankie. “What the fuck? What does he know?”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s just pissed about losing his job. Thinks you set him up to get fired.”
“He got fired because he’s obviously a dumbshit. Not that it would matter anyway. I been there seventeen years and I’m getting laid off with the rest of them.”
“Sorry to hear that. Really and truly. Makes it a little awkward, but you know what’s coming up, right?”
“Yeah. I don’t have the vig on me right now,” Al lied, “but I’ll bring it out tonight after work.”
“That’s terrific,” Frankie said, laying his swollen paw on Al’s shoulder. “Then maybe you can fill in the blanks on how our young maintenance man is walking around with a million-dollar wound, and your good friend and partner, Frankie, is the last to find out about it.”
That afternoon, for the second time since the sun came up, Hector found himself crawling in traffic along the 60. He finally reached Moreno Valley, pulled off at the Perris Boulevard exit, and made his way back to the Van Slaters parking lot.
The night manager, Jenny, recognized Mack’s photograph from the file. A piece of paper slid out of the folder Hector held, and Jenny picked it up. She jumped when she saw the photo of Mack’s deformed penis. She gasped, squeaked, and looked up at Hector.
&
nbsp; Hector gently took the paper from her hand. “Sorry about that. Should’ve left that one in the car.”
Jenny confirmed that Mack had indeed been hit by the carts. “He was still on the ground when I came running out. A couple of witnesses claimed they saw a black guy give the carts a shove before driving off.”
Hector raised his chin. “So you didn’t see the guy yourself?”
“No. I couldn’t even say whether it was intentional or just an accident.” Jenny was unconsciously looking at the folder in Hector’s hand. “I’ve been telling these guys it was only a matter of time until this happened.” She shook her head. “The bag boys think it’s fun to stack ten carts together and come hauling ass down that slope. Not going to be so funny when some old lady gets knocked over and killed.”
Hector thanked her, climbed back into his Crown Victoria, and drove back up onto the 60 and headed home. He’d wait until the morning to call Al. The guy sounded like he could use some good news.
Al’s heads-up, while panicked, had given J.T. a chance to digest what was happening. Aza was onto the Van Slaters fall. Not good. Not good at all, but not prima facie evidence of fraud. They’d never filed anything. The only thing Aza had was that Van Slaters was a GSAC policyholder and that Mack was a jerk-off. If there were a law against being a dumbass, J.T. would have long been California’s leading bounty hunter.
Unless someone saw Buddy in the grocery store parking lot. That would be a real pig-fuck. J.T. didn’t even want to consider that possibility, so he turned his focus to his more immediate problem.
Frankie.
The Frankie thing was disturbing. J.T. couldn’t quite follow Al’s convoluted story about being followed by a disgruntled ex-GSAC employee who thought Al had gotten him fired but Al hadn’t and….It gave J.T. a fucking headache.
J.T. left the office early and beat the traffic home. He opened one of his last two bottles of the thirty-nine-dollar cabernet from La Bodega, cranked up the volume on KCBS on the sixty-inch flat-screen, and climbed into the Jacuzzi.