CHAPTER 24
TERMS OF ESTRANGEMENT
Cassiopeia dropped Dalton off after he’d gone over the plan a final time.
“Are you sure this is how you want to do it?”
“It’s the only thing I can think of that might actually work.”
She revved the engine. “I’d wait around for you, but I’ve got to prep.”
“It’s okay,” Dalton said, half in love with the determination in her eyes, clear and natural and unforced. And the other half remembered what a failure it had been the last time he was half in love with her. “Besides, we can’t take a chance on someone seeing you out of costume.”
“I feel very naked like this.”
“I’ll bet.”
“It’s liberating to be naked,” she said, driving away.
Dalton walked across the playground. Dark clouds loomed over the trees as a slight mist began to fall. Kids screamed unabated. Moms sat tiredly on benches, texting one another or handing out cheese sticks. Beyond the sandbox, older kids were tossing Frisbees or hiding the plumes from their cigarettes. Girls and boys entwined found a marginal privacy behind the tall grass. A snack shack was open in the corner, impatient kids twenty deep, all of them rubbing quarters and staring malevolently at the person in the front of the line.
Dalton waited by the swings. He took a deep breath, running through his speech one last time, wishing the Sit ’n Spin were a teleprompter. Chuff came first, from across the field, his bulk forming a long shadow that scythed across children and parents in turn. He approached Dalton with a smirk, stopping five feet away.
“This better be good, fish. Where we left it last night? Not satisfactory, I have to say. I might even need to grab you like a chicken bone, make a wish, and extract a refund.”
Before Dalton could answer, three little kids ran over and began vroom vrooming with their toy trucks, burying Chuff’s feet in mounds of sand, instinctively attracted to him in the same way they were to Barney or Grimace.
“It is good,” Dalton said. “If by good you mean likely to make you a lot of money and simultaneously remove your archnemesis. If not, it probably sucks.”
Chuff laughed. “You’ve got a way with words, fish, I’ll give you that. You really should be a sploet. Maybe I’ll pull some strings and get you in.”
“Just play your part, okay? Tarot thinks you’re already on board.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle my end.”
Tarot came from the east, almost seeming to glide on a slick of distaste, hands shoved deep into leather pockets. No kids approached him, instinctively repelled by his sour countenance in the same way they knew to avoid poison sumac or leprosy. In fact, they cleared the area, laughing and playing one second, then bailing like someone spotted a turd floating in the deep end of the pool.
“So here we are,” Dalton said.
Tarot yawned. “Not for long.” The shirt under his trench coat read THROUGH A SCANNER PINKLY.
“Yeah, make with the plan, Stan,” Chuff said.
“It’s a job. A heist.”
“So pull it yourzelf. Why am I here?”
“Muscle.”
“So pull it with Chuff. Why am I here?”
“Numbers. I need both cliques for it to work. And so do you, given all the arrests at the party.”
They both grunted.
“How many Balls got picked up last night?”
“Too many. And most of the ones that weren’t arrested have been grounded.”
“Caskets too?”
Tarot nodded grudgingly.
“So manpower’s at a premium. We all need each other. Which, as it turns out, is the only thing likely to keep everyone honest anyway.”
“Why should I want to be honest?” Chuff asked.
“Change of pace,” Dalton said as Tarot noticed the red duffel between his feet. Dalton had intended to bury it in the sand, but he hadn’t had time. Chuff noticed Tarot noticing.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Money. It’s packed with folding green.”
Chuff laughed. Tarot rolled his eyes.
“Listen, you guys want your own duffels full of cash? What I have in mind is a score that’ll make your rackets seem like carp feed. I mean, how many girlie mags can you sell in a semester? How many cracked iPods?”
They both shrugged defensively.
“Exactly. This will set both cliques up with enough cash so that you don’t ever have to worry about a takeover. You’ll each have an army and a bankroll. One job. One night. And then you’re set. For life. Or at least until graduation.”
“We do need a new van and a PA.”
“We do need new equipment and helmets.”
“Okay, good,” Dalton said. “Truce. Shake hands and we’ll go over the details.”
Neither of them moved. A dad walked by with his son. “Nice game last week, Jeffrey.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Chuff to Chugg… touchdown!” the kid said, slapping Chuff five.
Tarot made vomity sounds.
“Eff you, Assy Assbourne.”
“The game player playing his games.” Tarot yawned. “The zeventeen-year-old who plays with his balls.”
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #48
Arabs, meet your new friends, the Jews. Jews, meet your new friends, the Arabs.
“Hard to believe me and Assbourne used to be buddies,” Chuff marveled. “Isn’t it, fish?”
Tarot’s expression changed, just slightly.
“All up through sixth grade.”
“Shut up,” Tarot said.
“Sleepovers, candy bars, rides to school. Kurt over there used to have a flattop and a milk mustache. He used to collect baseball cards. He used to—”
“SHUT YOUR CAKEHOLE, YOU BLOATED CARDIGAN!” The gaggle of moms and nannies looked up nervously. A few kids dropped their toys. Dalton laughed like it was all a big joke, putting his hand on Tarot’s shoulder and waving to the parents. “Laugh!” he hissed through his teeth. “Before some nervous mom calls the Snouts.” Tarot gave a sickly smile. Chuff did a fake ho-ho-ho, holding his belly as the moms went back to their cell phones.
“Kurt always did have self-control problems,” Chuff said quietly. “I guess it was right around the time they put him on Ritalin we had our first falling-out.”
“Yeah,” Tarot shot back, the skull in his tongue bobbing frantically. “And you know what Jeffrey used to do? Before he realized he could put his bulk to use crushing smaller boyz into the end zone dirt? Theater. Oh, yes, he was terrific onstage. You should have seen him in hiz tights, Hamlet this, Hamlet that. And not just Shakespeare. Singing. Musical theater.”
“Yeah, and you know what Captain Z’s real name is?” Chuff pointed at Tarot’s forehead. “Kurt Tarot? Are you kidding me? Like, where did he find that name, the Disgraced Magicians Union? Issue number sixty-three of Green Lantern? His real name is—”
“Don’t,” Tarot warned, arms extended like a bat’s wings, the leather jacket spreading out behind him.
“His real name is Herbie Lum.”
The two of them flew at each other.
“STOP!” Dalton yelled as they grappled, pushing them apart. Chuff barely moved, but Tarot took a step back, almost tripping over the edge of the sandbox. This time the moms stood, getting their strollers and bottles together, the little kids all repeating, “Shut up shut up shut up! Lum Lum Lum Lum Lum!”
Tarot glowered. “You have broken a zolemn vow, Chuff. It will not be forgotten.”
“You two want to mature up and get this thing done?” Dalton hissed. “This is your last chance.”
“Listen to the new fish, Herbie. Let’s make some money, and you can cast spells on me later.”
Tarot’s eyes burned steaming holes in Chuff’s neck, but he said nothing.
“So what are we boosting?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
“All of it. TVs. Electronics. Jewelry. Lawn mowers
.”
“Yeah, and where do they have all that stuff?”
It was a good question. Where did they have it all, plus hundred-gallon tubs of marinara sauce and fifty-packs of discontinued toothpaste? Where did they have all that, and also happen to be the place that fired dad and refused to pay his health insurance?
“BoxxMart.”
“Impossible.”
“Ridiculous. It’s like a steel fortrezz.”
“Yeah,” Dalton said, revving up to the unintentional genius of it himself. “That’s why we need both cliques. BoxxMart has four separate entrances. Each one needs to be covered. We need drivers. We need guys hauling and loading. We need a guy monitoring the police band. We need guys on the roof to clear any Lee Harvies. We need guys down the street watching the exit ramps and the entrances to the parking lot.”
“Terrific,” Chuff said. “So we set all that up. Is someone gonna just knock on the door all Jehovah’s Witness and ask can we come in?”
“I’ve got an entry code.”
“How?”
“My old man worked there fifteen years. Before he got canned I used to hang out all the time, watch the employees use the swipe machine. It takes an employee card, but a lot of times the strip wears away or gets scratched, so there’s a numerical override. I have it memorized.”
“And we just waltz in?”
“Nope, that only gets us in the foyer. Then there’s thirty feet of linked security gate you have to open manually from inside.”
“Who’s gonna do that? The security guard? You gonna ask him real nice while he’s dialing the Snouts?”
“Nope. I’m gonna hold my piece on him while he does what I tell him to.”
“No good,” Tarot said. “You can’t zhoot through safety glass.”
“Won’t be shooting through it. I’ll be inside.”
“How?”
“I’ll be persuasive. Meanwhile, the Balls go first, start pulling goods off shelves. Caskets wait in back, ready to load the dozen band vans you’re going to borrow or steal from the practice space. After they’re full, the vans take off like they’re on their way to gigs. They drive across the state line and meet at my fence. He buys the whole load at forty cents on the dollar, prenegotiated.”
“Forty cents?”
“That’s a good price. The fence has to turn around and move the stuff himself. He’s got to store vans full of hot merch until he can. He’s got to file serial numbers. Meanwhile, all we have to do is drop it off, get paid, and walk away. You two kick the proceeds down to your people however you want.”
“And how do you know this mysteriouz fence?”
Good question, Count Blackula.
“Worked on a case for him once. Tracked down a stolen butterfly hairpin.”
“What about cash registers?” Chuff asked. “BoxxMart’s got forty of them, easy.”
“No good. The money goes into a hydraulic tube up to a counting room in the rafters. Double steel doors. Even if you had the tools, it would take too long to get in. We go for goods, split the money three ways, that’s it. Until then, truce. No more bloshite.”
“Got to hand it to you, fish, it’s not bad.”
“You got a cheater?” Tarot asked.
“I got a cheater.”
“Not that toy?” Chuff said. “Not the lighter?”
“You thought it was real.” Tarot laughed, holding up his hands in mock fear. “Oh, pleaze don’t shoot me, sure I’ll clean off your scooter, just don’t shoot!”
“Eat me.”
“Pass.”
“So we go tonight. Midnight. Either of you doesn’t show, it’s off. And that’s it, my end is finished. No second chances. And no extra cliques. Just Balls and Caskets. Agreed?”
“I’ll be there,” Chuff said over his shoulder, already walking away. Tarot said nothing, striding in the opposite direction.
And then it was just Dalton.
And his red duffel bag.
CHAPTER 25
RIVER SHALLOW, MOUNTAIN LOW
He stood by Route 6, thumb out. There was no sign of the Snouts or Elisha Cook’s Diktatorat LE. Even so, Dalton remained ready to jump into the bushes if they came by.
Cars zoomed past for an hour or more before a red one finally stopped. It wasn’t a Nova. The passenger window rolled down. “Guy!” Mole said. “You need a ride or what?”
The Kia pulled back onto the road, doing a steady twenty miles an hour.
“So I woke up and started calling around to see what I’d done last night, you know? The whole thing is, like, a movie effects blur. Am I hungover? Guy, you have no em effing idea how utterly hung I am. I feel like I’d been rode hard and hung up wet.” Mole laughed and popped open a plastic bottle of Rush with his teeth, draining half of it. “This is the only stuff that helps.” He swilled the second half and then tossed the bottle out the window, dried spit caked in the corners of his lips.
“Where’d you get that?” Dalton asked, grabbing an empty bottle off the floor and sniffing it. It smelled like the ammonia swab in a chemistry set.
“Bought a Coal Train’s final stash. Said he’d been saving it for band tryouts but needed the money. Anyhow, I was calling around and everyone was like, whoo, dude, can you party or what? They’re all like, MOLE THE BOTTOMLESS HOLE! and LESTER THE INGESTER! And then someone starts being like, and oh hey, that new fish? Buddy of yours? That dude got shot. He’s carcassed. I’m all calling the hospitals, these nurses answering the phone all bored, blah, forms, blah, files, Nope, we don’t have a record of any young Dean Martin admitted with a gunshot wound, now leave me alone so I can get back to my crossword. But then I call this other dude and he goes it’s true, the scooter kid got ventilated. He got pinched, along with half the Balls. So I got in Mom’s Kia and punched it over to the Snout Hut to see if you were either muerto or muy bien.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t there. Nada Rev. Was I about to give up? No sir. No way. Well, actually, sorta. But just long enough to swing by home for a snack. And then there you were, all tall and cool by the side of the road, standing with your thumb out and your big red bag, and I’m all, I wonder if Coolio needs a ride?”
“I did,” Dalton said, looking in the side mirror, where a long line of cars had already backed up behind the barely moving Kia. “I do.”
Mole reached between the seats and twisted open another Rush. “Hey, so what’s in the red duffel, anyhow?”
Dalton had slung it between his feet, forcing his knees so far up, his chin practically rested on them.
“Laundry.”
“No, seriously. What’s in el duffelo?”
“A hundred grand.”
Mole laughed. “Okay, fine, you don’t need to tell your old friend and possible lifelong sidekick if you don’t want to.”
Dalton shrugged.
“But I know you got something going.” Mole tossed another empty out the window. Faster cars laid on their horns and gave him the finger as they roared by. “I can practically smell it.”
“Yeah, actually, I do. But I’m not going to tell you.”
“Guyfriend! Why not?”
“Listen, Mole, I want to apologize for getting you involved in this stuff to begin with. You don’t need to be a part of what’s coming down, even if it wasn’t going to be a disaster.”
Mole wiped his bloodshot eyes. Three trucks tore around the Kia, beeping and swerving.
“Nice of you. Thinking of me and all.”
“Yeah.”
“Speaking of which, I saw Macy. She really wants to talk.”
“She does?”
“Something happened at the party, huh? You try to kiss her or what? Push the envelope? Lorenzo your Lamas? Not a smart move. That’s a girl who needs to go slow, and I should know.”
“Why should you know?”
Mole’s face was pale. There was sweat on his forehead.
“If you want, we could cruise by her place, you could ask her.”
“No, bring me to Footer’s.”
“Hair of the dog, huh? A little unfinished business?”
“My scooter’s there. I hope.”
Mole pulled the Kia next to Dalton’s ride and revved the engine. “Love you, man.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Okay, guy? What’s that all about? Where’re the warriors expressing their true feelings in a manly but totally expressive way before going into battle?”
“We’re not going into battle.”
“Yeah, we are. It’s written all over you like a book.”
“Go home, Mole.”
“Know what, guy?” Mole said, before slowly driving away. “You need to get in touch with your emotions.”
The scooter didn’t start on the first or second try. After the third backfire, Lu Lu Footer came out to watch, sitting on the steps above Dalton’s head. She was wearing a tight terry-cloth bathrobe and no makeup. Eighteen feet of unshaved legs were crossed over a pair of cheap rubber slippers. She looked like a different person.
“You went upstairs. I told you not to go upstairs.”
“You lied about Wes Payne. I didn’t tell you not to, but you did anyway.”
Lu Lu retied her robe. “Maybe. But I didn’t lie in any way that really matters.”
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #49
I can see your green polka-dot underwear from here.
“Maybe not that mattered to you. That’s when it’s easiest to lie.”
Dalton handed her the old yearbook. She looked at the hole in the cover, sticking her finger in it.
“Where’d that come from?”
“Long story. Just look inside.”
Lu Lu flipped through, read the inscription, then tossed it onto the lawn, which set off the sprinklers.
“Doesn’t prove anything. Besides, I—”
“You kissed Wesley Payne.”
“What?”
“Were you his girlfriend or not?”
Lu Lu looked at Dalton, shocked. She shook her head. A little too quickly, he thought.
You Killed Wesley Payne Page 19