“I don’t understand how Nick and you ended up together. You said you were going out.”
“Not everything is about you, Garrett. Oh, my God,” she groaned, “I would literally go down on somebody for a soy latte right now.”
“You can have some of mine.”
Pickle lifted up a large Starbucks cup from where it had been sitting out of sight on the desk behind the counter. He offered it to Marin. If she hadn’t still been wearing her sunglasses, thought Garrett, Pickle’s head would probably have exploded under her glare.
“Hey, check this out, man.”
Pickle was pointing at his television. Relieved for the chance to leave Marin’s side, Garrett ducked under the trap door at the end of the counter and came up beside Pickle. He was briefly overwhelmed by the stench of patchouli. Then he saw what was on the screen.
“That’s our room,” said Garrett.
“Woah, I wondered what show this was.”
The camera was looking down on their room from a corner by the door. Garrett tried to think what was hiding it from view, but he couldn’t recall. With how small cameras were nowadays, it could have been anything.
“I think my TV’s got a ghost,” said Pickle. “It does this sometimes. And then other times, I tell myself: naw, it’s just you. But that would be crazy, ’cause I’m not a ghost, man.”
In their room, Reagan had taken a seat on the bed facing the door. Nick and Sonny had their heads together and were arguing about something, glancing surreptitiously at Reagan in a way that said they were worried she might hear what they were saying.
Then, as Garrett watched, all three whipped their heads toward the door. Nick and Sonny exchanged glances. Reagan clutched her purse and scooted to the far side of the bed, but then stayed there, perhaps realizing that there was no place to run.
Not waiting to see more, Garrett tried to vault over the counter, failed, and was forced to scramble back under it. He pushed past Marin, cracked open the office door, and peered out into the dark lot.
“The door’s glass,” Marin observed. “Everybody can see through it. Just in case you thought you were being sneaky.”
A reddish-brown, early-Eighties Volkswagen camper van had parked in the spot directly out front of their. There was no way it was just a coincidence. Garrett’s first instinct was to hide, but Reagan was back in the room. Whatever was coming, he couldn’t let her face it alone. He slipped the rest of the way through the door and started across the lot, his heart pounding and his dress shoes clacking into the stillness of the night.
He had almost reached the room when the camper van’s door creaked open. A massively tall man in bellbottoms and a jean jacket, with a western bolo tie and a belt buckle large enough to hide Nebraska under, unfolded himself from the camper van and smiled an easy smile. He had mischief in his eyes, but it was the good kind of mischief, the kind that twinkled. Garrett sensed there was something wholesome about him, but not overly so, as if he might sleep with your sister when you weren’t looking and then cook everybody breakfast in the morning and leave with no hard feelings and a twenty from your wallet for the road. He had a tan face and thick, capable hands, a hard, protruding stomach, and bare feet clad in faded Crocs. He was almost entirely not the type of person Garrett would have expected to show up out front of their room.
The newcomer saw Garrett but reached back into his vehicle to snag a pack of bubble gum before speaking. Once he’d folded a stick into his mouth, he held out his hand, grinned and said, “Evening. I’m Tiny Johnson.”
The six-and-a-half-foot tower of a man seemed as comfortable in his name as he was in his own oversized skin, and the moniker fit him where on a lesser man it might have seemed laughable.
Warily, Garrett shook hands. At first glance, Johnson didn’t seem cut from the same cloth as Nerd Glasses, but showing up at a mostly-deserted motel shy of midnight was nothing if not suspicious.
Sonny and Nick joined them out under the lamplight.
Tiny Johnson started to introduce himself to everybody but then Marin belatedly walked up behind Garrett.
“Are you alright?” Nick asked her. “You shouldn’t wander off like that.”
She shrugged, unconcerned but happy to be the center of attention. Nick moved beside her, close enough that their sides were touching, and rested a hand on the small of her back. Taking her clutch, he dug out her menthols and lighter, lit one, and passed it to her.
The tall man’s eyes studied the pair idly. Leaning to Garrett, he asked, “How long have those two been dancing the horizontal howdy-do?”
Garrett looked at him.
“Playing hide-the-salami?”
Garrett cleared his throat. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Johnson snapped his gum. “Believe what you will.” He stuck out his foot. “Pull this leg and it’ll play ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’”
“What the hell’s going on,” said Nick. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“Working,” said Johnson. He greeted everybody again with his full title and offered his hand. Neither Sonny nor Nick offered their own hands in return.
“Not much of an advertisement, your name,” said Sonny, sneering.
“I haven’t had any complaints.”
“What do you do?” said Nick.
“For a living? I’m a private investigator.”
Sonny smirked. “I could have told you he was a dick.”
“There’s words coming out of your mouth,” Johnson told Sonny. “You should do something about that.”
“Fuck you. I don’t care if you’re the goddamn King of the Dicks. We’re in the middle of something here, so why don’t you just take your Tiny dingdong and mosey the hell on out of here? Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying. We’re handling this situation just fine on our own.”
“Situation?”
“There’s no situation. None. We’re handling it.”
“Where I come from, a stranger shows up it’s polite to introduce yourselves, inquire as to whether you might be able to help him.”
“Right,” said Sonny. He hiked his thumb at Nick. “His name is ‘Fuck You.’ I’m ‘And Your Mother.’ Can we help you find your way back to the land of the other Tiny Dicks so you’ll feel at home with your people?” Sonny turned to Nick. “First they toss the phone, then Bill Silverman ends up all over the news, and now this yahoo comes snooping around? I need a drink. I was supposed to be in bed, not in motherfriggin’ Oakland.”
“Cool it,” Nick said. Then, to Johnson, “We’re not trying to get rid of you. We’ve got a lot going on right now, is all. We don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
“Never crossed my mind,” said Johnson. “Figured you were just about to invite me over for dinner and introduce me to your only daughter, hand me the keys to your hot rod and call me ‘son.’”
Nick’s salesman’s grin slipped briefly, but then he switched it back on with a vengeance and asked, “Did you need something?”
“A decent retirement plan. Different president in the White House. Good reach-around. But right now I’d like to speak with the lady inside the room.” He nodded to the door.
“Not a chance,” said Sonny. “We don’t know you from Adam. Except that Adam would be normal sized and not nearly so butt-ass ugly.”
Johnson smiled tightly. “You’re beginning to make me think you and I are in the same profession.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
As cautious as Garrett felt given that Johnson had shown up out of the blue, he preferred the big private eye to Reagan’s sleaze-ball fiancé and his blustery friend any day.
“Sonny has a card,” said Garrett. He reached across and handed the World’s Biggest Prick to the private eye.
Johnson laughed long and hard.
Fuming, Sonny snatched back the card and returned it to his shirt pocket.
“Hey, Paul Bunyan,” said Sonny, “get lost. And who still wears pants like that these days?
God meant for pants to flare at the bottom, he wouldn’t have killed off all the hippies. My advice is, go and get a real job. And wear some product in your hair. A man who doesn’t wear product in his hair doesn’t care about what kind of impression he makes. You hear what I’m saying? You wanna be taken seriously, you gotta get yourself a hard-man hairstyle. That’s free advice. You hear me, Paul Bunyan?” he repeated. “You can thank me later.”
Johnson listened patiently, but didn’t speak. Instead, still smiling, he unzipped his jeans and jiggled until his tool flopped out. Semi-flaccid, it was nevertheless nearly the length of an upside down Coke bottle (the thin kind with green glass—Garrett had never been a fan of the new, more stubby plastic design, and sought out the made-in-Mexico glass bottles whenever he gave in to his craving for criminal amounts of sugar).
“Timber,” said Johnson, and he commenced to pee all over Sonny’s shoes.
“Jesusfuckingchrist!” yelled Sonny, dancing backwards. “What the shit?”
“You crazy fuck,” said Nick, aghast. “What’s wrong with you?” He took a step backward as well, just in case Sonny wasn’t the big man’s only target.
Garrett found that he was laughing uncontrollably. Ignoring Nick and Sonny both, Johnson shook off the last few dribbles, retucked, and zipped up.
Marin stared. The cigarette Nick had just lit for her dropped from her lips. She ground it out automatically under her heel, took out her menthols, removed another, and lit it.
Johnson took out another piece of gum and thrust it into his mouth along with the first. He blew a bubble. “You really shouldn’t smoke,” he told Marin. “Bad for the teeth.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” said Sonny.
Garrett couldn’t tell if Nick’s goateed friend was more pissed about the urine on his feet, or about the way Marin’s eyes seemed to drink up the big private eye like he was an ice water she’d found waiting on the counter after a long, hot jog down the pier. Both Nick and his friend were looking confused, as if Marin’s one-eighty with Johnson had taken the wind from their sails and they no longer knew how to play things.
Reagan chose that moment to emerge from their room. Garrett wished she’d stayed inside even though it was probably safe enough for her to come out. If Johnson had wanted to harm Reagan there were a lot of things he could have done to ingratiate himself with them, and urinating on Sonny’s shoes wasn’t on the list.
“You didn’t need to be that literal about it,” Reagan told the newcomer. She alone seemed indifferent to Johnson and all the stir he was causing.
“Ma’am,” said Johnson, in such a way that Garrett imagined he would have tipped the brim of his hat to her had he been wearing one. “You mean about this being a pissing contest? Not really. Wasn’t much of a contest.”
Reagan’s expression made it clear she didn’t think it was funny. “Why were you looking for me?”
Johnson paused, as if trying to decide what to say. “Your parents hired me, Miss Gaitskill,” he said finally.
When the private eye didn’t elaborate, Garrett prompted, “Reagan’s parents?”
Garrett had known Marvin and Rebecca Gaitskill growing up. He hadn’t seen them in years, hadn’t thought to ask after them in far too long. He imagined Marvin probably still dressed like a college professor. That would never change. Reagan’s father never acted aloof like other professors Garrett had known, despite his wardrobe. It was one of the things Garrett had liked about him. They had shared an enthusiasm for movies, too, an enthusiasm Reagan always pretended to have less patience for than she really did. Mrs. Gaitskill—she’d never been Rebecca to him—used to cup a mug of sludge-like coffee in her hands, day or night. Garrett remembered Reagan’s mother being more reserved than her husband, but she had an allure to her and a gentle way with words, and Garrett had easily been able to imagine her as his mother-in-law. Moreover, they had raised Reagan right, and now this tower of a man was saying that those same parents had retained his services. As strange as it was, that fact was a point in Johnson’s favor, and Garrett was finding himself more than a little glad that the big man had showed up.
Reagan, however, was less than impressed. “Hired you? To do what? Come to motel rooms in the middle of the night and scare me half to death?”
“Not at all. How much do you know about the man you plan on marrying?” asked Johnson.
“What are you implying?” said Nick quickly. “How much do any of us really know somebody? You show up and piss all over everything and now you’re gonna sling some shit, too? Where do you get off making wild accusations? She doesn’t need to put up with being interrogated in a parking lot by the likes of you.”
“Are you finished?” asked Johnson. “Let the lady speak for herself. How much do you know about the man you plan on marrying?”
“Nick’s my fiancé,” said Reagan. It wasn’t an answer, and she knew it.
“There, I’d say that means she knows me pretty well,” said Nick. “Are you satisfied?” He beckoned. “Reagan, come here.”
She didn’t move.
“Here’s what I know,” said Johnson. “Your fiancé, along with his co-investment backer and longtime friend Federico ‘Sonny’ Sullivan—”
Sonny cut him off. “Like we believe a word that comes out of your mouth. Nosey goddamn bastard. What?” he said, realizing that everybody was staring at him. “He just peed all over my fucking shoes.”
“He thinks you’re an asshole,” Reagan told the private eye. “And so far I’m inclined to agree.”
“You want me to apologize for doing my job?” asked Johnson.
“I don’t much like that your job requires you to invade my privacy. Have you been following me?”
“No.”
“But you have been digging into my life.”
Johnson shrugged.
Reagan sighed, her anger abruptly spent. “Well? What have you found out? That I lie on my taxes? That I have a twin sister? That I’m marrying an axe-murder?”
“Nope,” said Johnson. “But I do know that your fiancé’s business is going under.”
XXII: SNAP, CRACKLE, POP
“All those purple mustache whaddayacallits,” continued Johnson. “You see them all over town. They’re upsetting life for traditional taxi services, your fiancé’s business included. To wit: he’s heavily in debt.”
“That’s hardly reason to condemn him,” protested Reagan, obviously surprised but taking the revelation in stride. “A lot of people are struggling right now.”
“I’m not judging,” said Johnson placidly.
Nick cleared his throat.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” said Reagan. There was such sympathy in her voice that Garrett had to remind himself that this was Nick Polito they were talking about. Douchebag Nick.
“But Nick’s loaded,” said Marin.
Reagan’s fiancé looked suddenly interested in the splint on his left pinky finger.
Reagan remained sympathetic; it was Marin who crossed her arms. “You bastard,” she said. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Tell you?” said Garrett. “Why would Nick tell you? He doesn’t even know you.”
“That’s point number two,” said Johnson, making a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointing it at Marin.
Nick came at him then, swinging, but Johnson easily sidestepped and stuck out a foot, sending Nick to the ground.
Reagan stood by the door, unmoving, her expression betraying nothing.
“Nick told you,” Johnson nodded toward Sonny, “that both of you were up shit creek if you didn’t drum up enough capital to keep the company afloat. Both of you have a sizable investment sunk into his business, and in your case a second mortgage thrown in to boot.”
Sonny licked his lips, trying to decide how concerned he should be about what the big man might say next.
“So you, Mr. World Class Prick, came up with a way to make a quick dollar. Scuttlebutt from the frontlines that Nick ha
d shared with you at some point in the past.”
Johnson reached out and offered his hand to Polito. With a dirty look, the other man grasped Johnson’s proffered wrist and hauled himself to his feet. No sooner had he done so then he took another swing. This time Johnson reacted too slowly and took a glancing blow to the jaw. He stood his ground squarely.
“I was helping you up. Are you done?”
Nick looked disgusted. “Asshole.”
“As I was saying,” continued Johnson, “you’d heard stories about mysterious fares picked up out front of Century Tower. About their nonsensical ramblings as witnessed by your drivers. Men, still obviously drugged, and so much so that they had to be helped into the backseats of their cabs. Men who later showed up in the tabloids as the latest in a long line of one-night flings for reclusive media darling Michelle Lyon. Things didn’t add up. She was hiding something, and it was Sonny who saw the angle. With creditors breathing down your neck, things were getting desperate. You hatched a plan.
“Somehow you met and enlisted the aid of formerly up-and-coming screenwriter Bill Silverman, who was about to make a pitch at Michelle Lyon’s penthouse. Silverman had the idea to bring in some schmuck to do a singing telegram. Exactly the kind of schmuck—no offense—who Michelle Lyon would typically drug and send off in a taxi. Silverman would wait behind, snap some blackmail photographs of whatever she was up to, and then hightail it out of there. Then you would all split whatever you managed to squeeze from Lyon. Chump change for her, but enough to float the company for a few months while you figured out what came next.”
“Michelle Lyon’s gay,” said Garrett. “That was what she was hiding, but how do you know all this?”
“It’s called the internet,” said Johnson, “and if you’re smart, you don’t use it for planning blackmail. Email isn’t as private as you might think.”
Sonny scowled, a wordless admission of guilt.
Johnson continued. “Things started going wrong from the very beginning. Silverman booked a singing telegram with the only agency in town that still does that sort of thing—”
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