Carousel Court

by Joe McGinniss

You gotta drive us. And help. Boss wants YOU.

  You said he asked Greg and the Hondurans

  That was bs. Just come. Mallory and her girls want to chill after.

  Nick carries Jackson upstairs and lowers him into the crib, but the boy grips the back of his neck and won’t let go. Nick keeps him in his arm and walks to the window. Outside he sees Metzger smoking a cigarette, shirtless, pointing his shotgun at the sky.

  So you down or what?

  I don’t think so.

  EZ cash/merch.

  No.

  We need three, dude. This ain’t no trash-out

  Then what?

  Collection. Renter owes boss a shitload of money.

  Call Sean.

  We’re not allowed to do this without you.

  Nick inhales the clean baby scent of his son. He kisses his warm forehead twice as he lowers him into the crib, this time without waking him.

  25

  They’ve been driving for over an hour. Nick is sipping a can of warm Red Bull that Arik handed him when he got in, and a Dirty Beaches track drifts from the speakers. Arik approves by nodding. After calling Mai, despite the late hour and last-minute request, and asking if she’d stay with Jackson until Phoebe or he returned, Nick relented and said yes, he would join them tonight. The call to Mai was also after he’d spent hours online researching the quality of local pre-K and elementary schools and read nothing that gave him confidence they could do for Jackson what he and Phoebe both insisted they wanted for him.

  Nick had to drive out toward Redlands to get Arik and then turn around and head down to Riverside to pick up Sean. He was rushed all night, and arrived late after he fell behind on laundry and cleaning the pool, walking Carousel Court with Kostya to check on the empty house next to Metzger’s. (Marina was sure she saw three men in a white pickup truck idling in front of it, leering at her as she jogged past. Nick did find a few cigarette butts at the end of the driveway.)

  The house Sean and Arik need to hit tonight is in North Hollywood: Toluca Woods. It’ll be the three of them and a supposedly empty twenty-eight-hundred-square-foot five-bedroom gated villa that was rented to a man in his late twenties who left the house behind and owes thousands to the owner of the property, a wealthy colleague of Boss. The men—Nick, Sean, and Arik—are the muscle. They’ll divide the cash or possessions among themselves, change the locks on the doors so the owner can rent it out again.

  The property belongs to a casino owner in Rancho Mirage, the title holder of a handful of homes used for favors, bribes, for people who couldn’t go through conventional channels to get a place to live legitimately. They all paid in cash. They were all men, here illegally or in hiding, who would fail background checks because of crimes committed or IRS issues. The upside for the owner was the huge cash payments up front; the downside was the inability to enforce agreements. Nick and the casino owner have that in common, if nothing else.

  • •

  It’s just after midnight. The moon looks swollen. Like it’s going to burst. Arik rolls a joint and lights it.

  “What if it blew up? The moon? Tsunamis, right? I mean, the tides. Wouldn’t the oceans just roll over us? Waterworld.”

  Nick is driving tonight because he didn’t share the address with Arik or Sean and asked Boss not to, either, even if they bothered to ask, because they would have gone to the house first and gutted it or, if the man were still there somehow, collected if they could, and Nick would have lost his cut. Because in the end, Boss doesn’t care how the possessions are divided up, as long as the favor gets done. There will always be another job, another payout, according to Boss. And he’s right. This thing is just getting started.

  Arik gives up the front seat to Sean. “You’re late,” Sean says to Nick when he gets in. He smells like weed. All the lights are on in his ranch-style house. He’s been here for a month: since his wife left. He’s here for the schools, he says, and laughs because his only son, sixteen, is gone for good, went with his mother. Sean needs a lot of money and soon. So tonight Sean is missing his son’s concert (he’s in a band with some friends called Prisoner, and they’re playing a warehouse show). He sends messages to his son’s mother, who is uploading the concert on YouTube. “Bitch won’t text me back.”

  It’s almost one by the time they take the Universal City exit and Nick says, “Find Cahuenga, Cahuenga.”

  “There it is,” Arik says from the backseat, window down, leaning out, the warm night air washing over him.

  Nick says, “Ledge, Ledge, Ledge.”

  “There,” Arik says.

  “Take a left,” Sean says. “When we cross Camarillo we’re there. It’s on the left.”

  “You know this how?” Nick asks.

  “I do my homework,” Sean says. “Toluca Woods. Keep going. About a mile.”

  The ranch-style houses on Ledge Avenue are similar to Sean’s, only much nicer, with manicured lawns and white picket fences, oleander and silk floss and short palms. They’re set close together, giving the street a neighborhood feel; Nick imagines streets blocked off for Fourth of July barbecues and Halloween parties or some kid’s fourth birthday party.

  Sean hits Nick’s arm. “Stop here.”

  • •

  The house is three stories and set farther back from the street than the rest, behind a ten-foot cast-iron gate.

  Nick called the Hondurans, but they refused to help. Only for Boss, they said. They do work for his properties, not “the collections,” too peligroso.

  If they’re able to collect the money owed from the tenant, he’s told by Sean and Arik, they’ll clear nine thousand. The three of them will split three thousand and whatever they can carry out of the house in one trip.

  “How likely is that?” Nick asks.

  “It’s not,” Sean said. “These assholes are never home.”

  Nick sighs audibly. “This isn’t your first . . . job?”

  Sean ignores him. “It’s a wild card. You can say no. Drop us and wait.”

  “If they’re home?”

  “They’ve got security and won’t let you get close enough to piss on the place. In that case, you just walk away.”

  “And if there’s no one there?” Nick asks.

  “Do us a favor: Stay in the car.”

  Ledge Avenue narrows where the house lies. The winds have slowed. The air is eerily still and so dry it seems to crackle. The bright moon seems larger than ever, closer somehow. Arik is staring up at it like a child. Nick breathes in the scent of smoke. Not a controlled burn, he thinks. Something started carelessly, like most of the wildfires, or with intent, and soon helicopters and sirens will fill the purple night sky. Stone walls and the black iron gate surround the property. Poised atop each of the two columns on either side of the gates: a pair of matching wild-eyed gargoyle statues.

  “The only house for ten blocks that’s gated,” Arik says. “That’s not a small gate, either.”

  Nick and Sean ignore him.

  “We’re going to get shot,” Nick says.

  “Then stay in the fucking car!” Sean roars.

  • •

  Sean spits fierce instructions, warnings, into Arik’s ear as they stand next to the car. Nick can hear Arik saying, “I know, I know,” and he sounds like a boy, “I will.” Sean runs his fingers through his long hair three times, walks around to Nick’s side, the open window, inches from Nick’s face, the liquor on his warm breath, skin pocked with acne scars and reddish-gray stubble, eyes glassy, as if they’ve been dipped in something yellow, translucent. “You’re not calling the shots on this one, chief. Your nuts come off if you screw around.”

  Nick and Sean pull themselves up so they can see over the wall as Arik sits on the hood of the car. The floodlights are turned off; the lawn is green; the sprinklers are on, watering the patchy green turf; the driveway is empty.

&nbs
p; “The bank could be turning the water on,” Nick says. “Keeping the place ready to show.”

  “No signs posted,” Sean answers.

  “Place looks lived in.”

  They drop from the wall.

  Nick checks the address again: 11290 Ledge. He calls Boss and gets voice mail. He leaves a message, then follows up with a text: Sprinklers ON. Sure about this address??

  Sean wears a grim expression, takes a drag of a cigarette. He motions for Arik, and from the deep side pockets of his black cargo pants: three white latex masks. Sean and Arik slowly slip theirs on. The effect is terrifying. The eyes are black plastic circles, the heads misshapen and white, like executioners from a fever-induced nightmare that Nick used to suffer as a child. This feels completely out of control.

  “Thanks for the ride.” Sean’s voice is muffled and tinny through the mask. He asks Arik if he’s ready.

  “I’m not wearing that,” Nick says.

  “They will piss their pants,” Arik says, too eager.

  “Let’s keep talking,” Sean steps to Nick. “Until someone comes along walking their goldendoodle.”

  Arik leans against the car, rhythmically tapping the passenger-side window with his thumb, a thick silver ring making a clicking sound against the glass. Nick leans over to get Arik’s attention, tells him to move when Sean motions for Arik to stop tapping the glass. A masked face presses against the smudged window and a hollow-sounding voice commands: “Now!” Nick grabs the white mask from Arik.

  They’re at the back door. Nick refuses to wear the mask. “These masks will get us shot,” he says to Sean, whose grunt indicates a deeper, more fundamental issue with Nick. When they peer inside, they see the house is completely dark except for glowing red and green lights from various clocks and electronic devices and alarms. Someone’s obviously living here.

  Sean and Arik speak in muffled tones through their masks.

  Nick says, “We don’t even know if this is right.”

  They stare at Nick for a beat, clearly surprised that he’s wearing the mask.

  “You don’t get it,” Sean says. “This is the house.”

  “What if it’s not?”

  “This is the house we’re doing.”

  “And if it’s the wrong house?”

  “No such thing.”

  Sean wedges the end of a crowbar through the door and frame, pops it open. Nick pulls the mask over his head, adjusts it so the slits align with his eyes. He understands something the moment the glass door cracks open and he glimpses his reflection in the glare from moonlight, the stark white latex mask and blackness from the neck down: He’s not here at all.

  • •

  Sean moves across the room to a small panel of lights on the wall and pushes some buttons, deactivates the alarm. It’s cold inside. The air-conditioning is on and Nick can’t hear well with the mask on, a steady hum in his ear. Sean and Arik move quickly. They pick up various pieces of electronic equipment: laptops, a juicer, two flat-screen televisions, a painting they struggle to remove from the wall, what looks like some kind of award, a Grammy or an Emmy. Nick doesn’t know where Sean got the duffel bag, but he’s filling it with cutlery and shoes and Nick finds a barstool and sits down because he’s queasy, as Sean and Arik disappear upstairs and Nick stares at the flashing green light on the wall panel, watches it turn solid red.

  He walks around in the dark, looking for a bathroom. A door he pulls open leads down a flight of carpeted stairs. The room he finds himself in is huge and dimly lit with orange recessed lighting. It’s a game room. Pool table, air hockey, two pinball machines. There’s a cotton candy machine in the far corner and vintage air travel posters in large black frames on the walls. Nick picks up the cue ball, slides it in the deep pocket of his cargo pants, finds a bathroom.

  Nick hears loud voices coming from upstairs.

  There’s someone here. Men are yelling over each other. No one sees Nick, who stands in the stairwell doorway that leads to the great room. Sean and Arik still wear their masks, stand over a thin man, maybe thirty, in his boxer briefs, facedown on the leather sectional. His hands are bound with electrical tape. Arik stands back, waiting for instructions from Sean. In their white masks, they intimidate. Tonight is some kind of game for them. Maybe Sean will cash in, extort the man. It’s clumsy and crude, seems haphazard. When Sean kicks the man twice, hard, and he falls to the floor, retching, it confirms something for Nick: The man may or may not be guilty of something, may deserve what he’s getting, but they’ve crossed a line that he can’t and won’t. Nick grabs Arik by the upper arm. “I’m gone.” A pause. “Are you coming?”

  Arik is watching Sean press his knee against the neck of the man on the floor.

  “Go then,” Arik says.

  “I’m your ride.”

  “We’re taking the Land Rover.”

  “What Land Rover?”

  “His.” He motions to the man whose neck Sean is now straddling. Sean is bellowing, “Don’t pick your nose. It’s not polite to pick your nose and eat it!” He’s sticking the man’s finger up his own nose and forcing it in his mouth.

  “No worries,” Arik says, laughing along with Sean. “We’re supposed to take the dude’s Land Rover.”

  • •

  Nick tosses his mask on the passenger seat of his car, keeps the windows down, the air cooling his sweaty head and neck as he drives. He inhales deeply through cleared sinuses the faint smell of Arik’s mari­juana and something vaguely floral. He sends a message to Mallory.Will have keys for your friends tomorrow. Let’s get them in the house. Call me.

  He removes the cue ball from the deep front pocket of his jeans, white like the moon, and squeezes it. A text message from Mallory reads: Awesome!! When are we going running?? Or whatever ;) The approach to the freeway is deserted. Nick merges easily with the traffic. He grabs the latex mask off the passenger seat and slowly pulls it over his head until it’s fully on again. The left lane of the freeway opens up. All blackness and bright white strips of light and wind. Nick feels a rush of adrenaline, the left lane somehow his alone. He guns it.

  26

  The elderly black couple from Torrance sits on a plastic-covered couch in a plastic-covered living room in a too-warm house on a deserted strip of asphalt in a place called Lakewood. The man, mocha-colored and bald, wears an ironed blue oxford, khakis, and clean white sneakers, and hands Nick cash: all twenties, fresh from the ATM. Nick tries very hard not to picture the couple standing at the bank machine, the husband pressing smudged steel digits with an arthritic index finger.

  Nick met them last week. The man told him what they went through, about the Bank of the West representative who convinced them they should borrow against the house because real estate was safe: Values always rise. Nick wondered if it was Metzger who told them this. Nick offered to move their belongings to the new house, the rental he found for them from Boss’s list in Lakewood, the neatly manicured lawn on the well-lighted street. Nick paid three of the Hondurans a hundred dollars each to help with the move.

  “All that bank bullshit,” the man says. He sits back in his plastic recliner, clears his throat. “All their tricks and products.” He grabs a glossy blue folder and hands it to Nick. Inside are glossy photographs of housing developments in Nevada. “Lake Mead,” the man says. “Swore to us it was going to explode. She warned me, of course.” He motions to his wife, who is standing now. They were pressured into borrowing two hundred thousand against the new-construction mortgage they secured with an interest-only adjustable rate.

  “Not one year in the past sixty-two that housing prices didn’t appreciate,” the man says to Nick, his eyes yellow and tired. “Four percent at worst. Then eleven, twelve. You’re a fool not to cash in on that.”

  The wife carries a cardboard box of bathroom items past them, up the stained carpeted stairs. It’s the two men now.


  “They were so slick,” the man says. “Too slick. I laughed at those assholes when they said, ‘Everyone wins, Alfred.’ ” The man inhales sharply through his nose. “They use your name. Keep calling you by your first name to make you feel like you’re in it together.”

  “I hear you, Alfred,” Nick says.

  Alfred shakes his head.

  Nick counts out half the money that the man gave him: five hundred dollars. He places it on the glass coffee table. “This month is half price.”

  The man stares at Nick.

  “Painters are coming by next week to finish up. Call if you need anything.”

  27

  Do you trust me?” Nick asks Phoebe.

  “Of course not.”

  Nick stands over her, facedown on the unmade bed, and contemplates the arch in her back. A line of little knobs pushes through her tan skin from her neck to the small of her back. He’s muscular now, stronger than he’s ever been. T-shirts stretch across his chest and at the shoulders where they were once loose. Phoebe is withering away.

  Nick rests his hand on her spine and presses down and, as he does, wonders how much more pressure it would take for him to snap it.

  “Tell me again why we can’t burn it down?” she says.

  “Fraud. Prison. Might kill some people.”

  “Who would know?”

  He kisses her lower back, moves up her spine. “Burn it down then,” he says.

  “I might,” she says.

  “Wake me before you do?” He slides his leg over her, pulls her underwear down. She doesn’t react.

  “Maybe.”

  He kisses the knobs of her spine, which feel sharper than they should.

  “You should call them,” she says.

  “Who should I call?” he asks.

  “Your employers. The reason we’re out here,” she says. He stops kissing her, continues, then stops again. She doesn’t seem to notice or care. “The people who are responsible for these golden days.” She exhales and lifts herself onto her elbows, staring at the pillow, stretching her face with the heels of her hands. “It’s been three months.”