“So what?”
“So I’m mulling it over.”
“What’s to mull?”
“For one thing, we do all the work and him and Stax get half.”
“Not if we roll the safe out the door and just keep rolling. Fuck half. The only thing we split’s town.”
goes with leather
“What about this one?” Karl asked PJ, sinking into the cushion, breathing that new-leather smell, checking the tag hanging from the arm. He stifled a yawn, tired from spending half the night tracking Miro’s whereabouts, a rental agent Joyce Young knew finally getting him the address, right down to the postal code, Joyce reminding him about coming for drinks and a hot tub.
“You with us here, cowboy?” PJ asked, sensing the distraction.
“Place is like the inside of a giant maze, everything blue and yellow.” Karl looked around for an exit sign. “Like buy something or you won’t find your way out of here.”
“You want to go?”
“No, no. Hey, let’s do this.”
“So, you like this one?” She pointed to the armchair.
“Yeah, it’s good.”
“It’s got to be better than good.”
“It’s great.”
“And you think it goes with the sofa?” The way PJ screwed up her face told him the answer. He said maybe not, but added it felt good on the back. The address he got for Miro was some flea-dive in Chinatown. He planned to scope it out tomorrow. He took a stab at pronouncing the name on the tag, getting up and angling around a couple checking out a room grouping, the woman correcting his Swedish.
Karl thanked her and sat on the Halmstad, picking up the tent card on the table that said something about a free gift certificate.
PJ sat opposite him on a Stjordal, asking, “Where are you?”
“Sorry—mind’s on work. Anyway, okay, so far we like that one, right?” Pointing at a sofa.
“The Bekvam, yeah, it’s a keeper. What we do, we focus around that, add accessories that go with it.” She gave up on getting him over to Antique Row; he just wasn’t ready for it. Probably be happy sitting at home and decorating from a catalog.
Along with the Bekvam, PJ had picked out an oak-veneered dining table and four chairs, calling it a good start, judging by his discreet yawning they were done. Time to go downstairs and arrange for delivery.
She tugged him past the restaurant, Karl saying the Swedish meatballs looked pretty good on the poster.
“You’re taking me someplace with chairs that aren’t plastic.”
dog eat dog
Wally was saying Ambleside was going to hell, counting the hair and nail salons along Marine. “Used to be you crossed the street and cars stopped, letting you walk, courteous as hell, people saying how you doing? Now, you step in the street, you get run over by fuckers never seen a crosswalk before. Racing to jobs they took from us.” He turned up Fifteenth, the mountains before them, the last of the snow disappearing from the peaks. He asked if Mitch ever worked a nine-to-five.
“Painted for my uncle back in the Hat,” Mitch said, thinking every time this guy got high, his mouth was moving.
“The Hat sounds like where Dr. Seuss lives.”
“Fuck you know about it.”
“Tried it once.”
“Painting?”
“Working. Sold cardboard chairs one time,” Wally said, checking street signs, looking for Chartwell.
“Who the fuck’d sit on cardboard?” Mitch pointed left.
“Lot, you know,” Wally said, making the turn. “My first outdoor gig I sold fifty of them. Some band nobody heard of, Sailin’ Shoes or something like that.”
Wally turned into a driveway, parked the hot Caravan with the Mr. Rooter decal on the door. A sprawling Tudor with the crisscross leaded windows and a portico with posts, flower baskets, a triple car garage and a view of Grouse Mountain. Fifteen-foot-high laurels hid them from Chartwell. Garden gnomes with red hats sitting in a bed of impatiens pointed the way up the walk. Right this way, boys; help yourselves.
“Looks like Artie’s doing alright,” Wally said, tugging at the serviceman blues, checking the clip in his Smith, laying it in the toolbox. Getting out, he wheeled the dolly up the walk, moving like he was expected, taking the soggy newspaper drooping from the wrought-iron railing.
Mitch followed with the satchel and plunger and stuck his thumb on the doorbell, one of those chiming ones designed to amuse the rich. “Been thinking about going back to the Hat,” he said, unsure why he would tell Wally, least of all now.
“Need to paint something?”
“I go back, I go back rich.” Mitch pressed the bell again.
“Good attitude.” Wally put a finger in the air like he was making a point. “Worked for this gimp one time named Ward Clark—had a wife he called Junebug, chunky but a nice pair of tits.” He showed the size with his hands, leaning to look in the front window.
“So, what’s—”
“I’m talking about attitude. Ward, see, guy put out a rag for and by the handicapped.” Wally went down the steps first, pulling the dolly around to the side door, the wheels squeaking, kept right on talking, “Helped him out raising money, calling people from a stack of cards—some we hit up twice a month. Ward being the only gimp that ever saw a cent, minus my commish.”
They passed a gate at the side, both of them looking around, Mitch wishing he’d shut up.
“Guy drove a Coupe de Ville, the thing rigged with special hand controls. Had a place like this by some lake, the wife walking around looking fine.” Wally glanced at an upper window.
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“Told you, attitude. A guy like that. Come on. Got to hand it to him, being a gimp and all.” Wally stepped around the trash can, saying, “Hey, how about we shoot the shit later?” Saying it like Mitch had been doing the talking, Wally got to work with the glass cutter, feeling a good score coming. He’d take Sunny to Umberto’s tonight, let the maître d’ pull out her chair, put a white napkin in her lap, call him sir. Then take her home, do her on the screened-in porch, all that blonde hair hanging down.
Sunny’s leads got them slipping into the homes of Chickie’s finest customers. The details came from Chickie’s mailing list, the one he used for his Christmas e-cards. The same photo year after year of the diner with Santa Chickie and the plastic reindeer out front of the diner, red and blue lights strung around the windows, tinsel icicles and candy canes. Sometimes Sunny threw in an address because some stingy prick didn’t tip her. Have his house broken into, teach him a lesson.
Chickie’s diner, it’s where Wally first ran into Mitch, the two of them the only customers on a wet Tuesday, doing justice to the all-you-can-eat chili and garlic bread. Mitch needing food energy after working at L’s place, putting it to her between coats. It started with small talk, Wally getting around to making easy money. Mitch asked how that would be, Wally saying there was a pancake joint in Deep Cove that did a righteous trade. Mitch said he wasn’t into doing dishes, Wally saying it would be tough to do with a gun in his hand and a ski mask over his face.
Sunny overheard them, asking if they ever did more than talk about it, setting down their Jell-O.
Pushing the glass in, Wally slid a scrap of tinfoil between the alarm sensors, thinking a palace like this and all that was guarding it was a Radio Shack do-it-yourself wireless, a single sensor any first-time punk could get past. How fucked was that? Likely Artie Poppa figured he was too much of a badass for anyone to break into his place.
The stress showed on Mitch’s face, Wally knowing what was coming next. Sliding the door open, his footfalls echoed on the mudroom tiles, the air in the kitchen rank like someone had been boiling gym socks.
Mitch’s stomach flipped as he stepped in. “Uhh, man, what do these people eat?” He pulled the Mr. Rooter jacket over his nose, looking p
ast the granite counter at the open door to the basement.
Wally took the Smith and a couple of satchels from the toolbox and said he was going up, telling Mitch to check the basement, tossing him a satchel. Mitch said first place he was going was the can and followed the plastic runner down the hall past a grandfather clock. The living room was a shrine to an old-school widescreen, the thing the size of a Smart Car. Opposite was a shapeless brown sofa and a religious painting over the fireplace. The dining table was set, looking more like Artie was expecting guests than getting ready to flee the country. Wally snapped up an open bottle of Pepe Lopez off the trolley, not booze savvy enough to go for the Chivas. He took the stairs after Mitch, a skylight illuminating the upper hall, rain starting to patter on the dome. Wally guessed they didn’t have much time.
Mitch took the bottle, hoping to settle his stomach. Taking a pull and spitting it against the wall, he checked the label, looking for something that read bear lure, handing it back.
Stepping into the master bedroom, Wally nearly drew on the four-foot archangel above the headboard. The wooden figure held its arms out like it was welcoming them, sword at its side, wings spread out above it. Welcome, boys, take what you want.
“How do you do the wife with the Jewish carpenter hanging over the bed?” was what Wally wanted to know, looking at the portrait of the couple above the dresser, a Korean woman gone pear-shaped and an old guy who had to be Artie. Wally thought he looked like Juan Valdez, the coffee guy.
“Isn’t Jesus—guy’s got a sword.” Mitch went to the walk-in closet, looking behind a row of shirts and pants on hangers, a couple of suitcases at the back.
Framed photos on the nightstand on the left showed the couple’s plug-ugly offspring in jerseys with Artie’s All-Stars lettered across their chests. Pocketing a ten tucked between prescription bottles, Wally checked the labels for anything good, dropping a bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, then a ring, guessing it hadn’t dropped out of a Beaver gumball machine. Knocking over a Florida ashtray overflowing with butts red with lipstick, he went through the dresser drawers like a bear at a picnic, clothes piling on the floor. Coming up with a Handycam, he shoved it in his satchel.
En route to the ensuite, Mitch yanked open the other nightstand’s drawer. A box of condoms, a bible and a rosary. A key was taped inside the bible. Under it was a stack of hundreds, new bills, banded. Went right in his pocket. He palmed the key and undid his belt, everything below feeling liquidized. He fairly ran for the toilet.
Wally called what he had Mount St. Helens of the asshole, bitching about having to do all the work again. He took the book of matches Miro gave him and dropped them on the rug—Dancin’ Bare on the cover, a strip joint belonging to Bumpy Rosco, a guy big into meth, a little flesh trade on the side. The matches would send Artie in the wrong direction, have one of his boys toss a pipe bomb in Bumpy’s meth lab, make it look like Bumpy was having trouble finding people who knew to cook that shit.
Tipping the Pepe Lopez bottle, Wally went to the next bedroom, bitching again about working with a guy needing to get his o-ring replaced. The same thing every time, Wally doing the heavy lifting while Mitch left his gravy floating in a toilet, like it was his calling card. The West Van cops sending the forensic guys running to the lab with their baggies.
“Nothing funny about Crohn’s.” Mitch shut the bathroom door, pretty sure he had it. And if he had any brains, he’d be at the walk-in clinic at Park Royal instead of here right now. Then he took out the banded bills and counted—a thousand bucks. The key had to be for the safe.
Wally poked his nose in the upstairs den, feeling the tequila, looking at a cluster of photos on the wall by the desk: Artie’s kids, the girl uglier than the boy, the boy hugging a mutt the size of a mule. “Where you fucks hide your safe?” He came up with a Leica D-Lux in the desk drawer. Sucking back another mouthful, feeling it burn and loop like a midway ride, he slipped the camera in with the HandyCam. Checking the second-floor laundry room, he called to Mitch, said he was going to the basement. Starting down the stairs, he heard a creak from the main level. He froze.
Gassing like a zeppelin, Mitch squeezed and grunted, tossing his jacket off. He laid the Glock on the vanity, his head between his knees, feeling he was about to throw up and do a rectal tie-in. Rotting from the inside out, it had to be the Crohn’s. The whole time thinking about how much was in the safe.
“Get me some TP, man,” he called, cursing Poppa for not replacing the roll.
A thump over the patter of rain on the skylight. Wally backed up the stairs, into the master bedroom, looking at the savior with the wings, like he was wondering if he heard it, too. Something stirred downstairs. A footfall. Sure of it, Wally felt his heart going double-time. Had to be Artie home early from the nude beach.
Easing the bedroom door closed, he flicked the lock. Pulling the Smith, clicking off the safety, he backed into the bathroom, locked that door too, raising the barrel to his lips, going shh.
“Where’s the TP, for Christ’s—” Mitch looked up at him, Wally trying to open the window.
A crash and the bedroom doors flew back. Snarling outside the bathroom door. Mitch tugged up his pants, TP or no TP. No mistaking the size of the dog.
Wally tore away the blinds, smacking his palms at the sill. Mitch grabbed his Glock and shoved Wally aside, hammering against the frame, getting the window open. The thing outside was throwing its weight against the splintering door. Mitch climbed, twisting to get his shoulders through.
“Hurry the fuck up,” Wally screamed, pitching the Pepe into the shower stall, glass smashing, shoving Mitch by the belt loops. Whatever it was was coming through.
Grabbing a branch, Mitch pulled himself out. Freaking with black fear, Wally fired a round through the door as it flew apart. Jumping on the vanity, he threw Mitch’s jacket and the satchel out ahead of him, diving for a branch.
Going out the window, he felt jaws clamp on his heel. Blindly, he kicked his leg and lost the shoe, slipping on the branch, stepping onto Mitch’s fingers, losing his handhold and tumbling. Bouncing from branch to branch, he passed Mitch on the way down, landing on his back, the wind knocked out of him.
Mitch shimmied down, bark sticking like quills in his palms. The dog snarling and barking out the window. Mitch dragged Wally past the gnomes to the van, his knee bleeding, both arms stinging. Blood mixed with the rain. His ear felt like it had been ripped from his head.
Wally sputtered, tripping on his torn pant leg, his shoe missing, sock half off. He got in the driver’s side, fiddled with the ignition wires and gave himself a shock. The dog barking out the window.
Getting in the passenger door, Mitch clutched Wally’s sleeve, the Glock not in his pocket. “Fuck me.”
“What, forget to flush?” Wally grabbed the wheel, following Mitch’s gaze to the tree. His satchel dangled from a branch, the same branch he left his skin on.
Voices sounded from across the street, and he was backing down the driveway. No safe, no dolly, no satchel, no gun, no shoe.
Driving down Chartwell, they were silent, the rain coming harder now, rivulets rushing along the curbs. Mitch figured now wasn’t the time to say he lost his piece, Wally driving with one hand on the wheel, clutching his bleeding leg with the other, foot in a wet sock riding the brake pedal all the way down the hill, nearly side-swiping a Cadillac coming the other way.
If Looks could kill
Miro put on the “my fist your lips” look and told her to get some clothes on, saying, “Don’t want to tell you twice.” He liked seeing Bruna frocked out in just his plaid shirt, the paw print tat showing on her thigh. But it was just for him to see, not for Stax banging like an asshole at the door. It was early in their fling, still time to set her straight.
The dysfunction had him worried, Mr. Johnson having trouble keeping the faith. Could be the stress of working with Stax, or mixing weed and meth with the
booze. But still, with a number like Bruna . . .
He’d get rid of Stax pounding at the door, get the impending extradition out of his head, toss her on the bed and put it to her. That or start popping those little blue pills.
“Last time I’m telling you,” he said, pointing to the bedroom, putting on the pissed look.
Bruna threw him one of her own. “You keep talking like that, you can cuff yourself to the bed next time you’re feeling frisky.” Ruffling his hair, she topped his mug, told him to drink up like a good boy. She rolled the Chatelaine under her arm, leaving the pot of coffee laced with saltpeter, her way of making sure Mr. Johnson took his power nap. “Sorry if I’m pissy, sugar. That prick Leonard sacking me still’s got my panties in a twist.” She said he was manager of the Bar None, the last place she served drinks and sometimes worked the pole.
His eyes trailed her, that great rack, those tanned legs, that Jennifer Lopez ass. Smooth move, letting her shine his Lamas that first day, getting her drunk, asking her upstairs, listening to how she got fired and took the shoeshine job until something better came along. Miro told her he might be that something better, said if she wanted, he’d go down to the Bar None and teach this Leonard prick a thing or two about employee relations. She clearly liked that he offered to stick up for her, told him she’d think about it, showed her appreciation just that one time with the handcuffs, been hanging around ever since.
The knock came louder, and Miro went and swung the door open, looking at the no-neck, a foot shorter than he should be with his massive upper torso set on stumpy legs. The serpent tattoos over his folded arms. The guy could be Danny Trejo’s twin.
“You deaf?” Stax asked.
Miro pulled at his fly, giving Stax the sly grin, the guy with the anger-management issues written all over his face. He guessed his meaning didn’t register, figuring it would take a slug from a .45 just to get through the thick hide.
Ride the Lightning Page 7