Stay Vertical

by Layla Wolfe

  She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was small. “I can’t tell you. I’ll ask if it’s all right to tell you, but it’s extremely private, between Ford and Madison.”

  Her sister? Lytton had no clue what that could be about. He combed his hair with his fingers, looking at her tiny head, luminous in the indirect moonlight. “I can’t see anything that would justify that, June. If he really had a gripe he could just cut off relations with the guy, like I did with Ford. You don’t see me plotting to murder Ford just because I’ve got a beef with him.”

  She seemed to accept this, and Lytton slid under the covers and gathered her in his arms. Still, he was uneasy. He had to solidify his position. He spoke against the top of her head. “June, I’m a reprobate, the black sheep. An outcast. I know you can do better than me. But be fucking honest. If you don’t want to be my old lady, just tell me so.”

  June snuggled her face against his throat. “I want to be your old lady, Lytton. Now and forever.”

  Now and forever. That was a long fucking time. By the time Lytton drifted to sleep, he was already pondering on the job they had scheduled for two days from now. Revenge had occupied almost all of his thoughts. June was only a short detour off his path of retribution.

  It was hair-raising driving the Staples truck that had been driven by the murder victim.

  It would be worth it, though, when Turk or August, who both worked at A Joint Effort, went around to the warehouse doors and saw the truck that was supposed to deliver their Ochoa medicine sitting right there. Not only was the marijuana gone, but in its place Lytton and Toby had stuck some skeletons they’d gotten at the party store. Lytton only wished he could be there when The Bare Bones brothers got a load of the bare bones in the back of their stupid fucking truck. It was immature and puerile to pull a stunt like that, and totally worth it.

  The big fear was that they’d be stopped by the cops before leaving the truck in the alley behind A Joint Effort. Ochoa’s plantation near Show Low was supposed to be legitimate and certified, yet he hadn’t reported the truck stolen, much less the driver missing. Lytton knew the Ochoa family was involved in a whole slew of other illegal trades like the giant meth-making empire that the lawyer Slushy had once worked for. Ruben Ochoa was probably afraid of the scrutiny that would be brought onto their heads if they reported anything to the cops.

  Or, like most outlaws, they just weren’t familiar with asking cops for help.

  “Okay,” said Lytton as he slowly steered the big truck through Pure and Easy’s narrow streets. One of those ski masks with only eye and mouth holes was pushed back on his head, ready to be pulled down when they came within sight of Joint Effort’s security cams. And, of course, he was wearing gloves. “I don’t know who’ll be behind the counter, but whoever the budtender is, just start talking about edibles, flowers, concentrates, shit like that. Ask to see their menu.”

  “I think I’ll actually purchase some,” said Toby. “I’ve been curious for years what their Blue Widow Kush is like.”

  Lytton frowned. “You do know it’s been sprayed with bifenthrin and diazinon over there on Ochoa’s farm, and probably permethrin.”

  “Permethrin is safe for humans,” said Toby. “We use it to get rid of head lice.”

  “Yeah, but all of those things Ochoa uses are deadly to aquatic life, and I’m sure he doesn’t properly dispose of his wastewater. Consider we’re doing all the patients of medical marijuana a service, getting A Joint Effort shut down.”

  “Just coincidentally in time for the grand opening of The Buddy System,” goofed Toby.

  “The Buddy System uses only a hundred percent organic medicine,” Lytton recited. It was true. It made his system a lot more complex and labor-intensive, and he never got those super-mega-steroid Christmas trees that Ochoa got, but Lytton didn’t want that. His reputation for being green was sterling statewide. Even his friend Saul, the inspector always on the take who didn’t give a shit about organic, marveled at Lytton’s pristine methods.

  Lytton had just written The Buddy System’s business plan so all this self-righteous stuff was fresh in his brain. He continued lecturing Toby. “These patients are immunocompromised, they’re going through chemo, they’re sick with antibacterial loads. A Joint Effort is subjecting them to more contaminants when they’re just looking for something to make them feel better. Marijuana is basically safe. Corrupt growers like Ochoa are profiting off their crops by any ruthless and unsafe means. We know we can get rid of aphids and spider mites without that shit. There is nothing medical about Ochoa’s grow.”

  Toby wasn’t listening. “I know I’m stuck being Tobiah Weingarten of Mormon Lake ‘cause that’s what my medical pot card says, but I want to really build up my backstory. Since I’m supposed to be a nerd—”

  “’Supposed to be a nerd’?” Lytton queried.

  “—it’ll help if I say I graduated with a PhD from some nerdy school.” Tobiah had long been laboring under the stigma of having only gotten a master’s, not a PhD, from MIT. It bothered him more than it bothered anyone else.

  “Like MIT? Listen, Toby, I don’t think you need to get into elaborate detail about your backstory. Just convince whoever’s at the counter that you’re a nerd, which shouldn’t be hard to do, and get him to take the flash drive. Then we’ll meet back at my ride.”

  “Which you parked in the side lot of The Bum Steer.”

  “Yeah.” Lytton practically chortled with glee at the sheer beauty of the plan. Of course they couldn’t actually go inside The Bum Steer, the former clubhouse of The Bare Bones. They had an aversion to having their faces rearranged, but it would build up a vindictive and super-hilarious alibi when club brothers later realized Lytton’s bike had been in the vicinity of the massive Joint Effort job.

  “Okay. Here’s the alley that goes to their loading dock. Looks like the back doors are closed. I’ll just leave this shit in the dumpster and go get a coffee, meet you at my bike.”

  “Deal.” Toby had to jump out there so he could walk around to the front of the store and hand the security guard his marijuana card. Lytton had a different mission altogether.

  He idled the truck while watching Toby saunter off in his dork costume of white belt, boat shoes, and tight floodwater pants. It was essential that Toby convince whoever was the budtender that he had the new version of the popular Assassin’s Creed video game on a flash drive. It wouldn’t be released until midnight a few days from now, but Toby had mocked up a convincing version that would fool anyone long enough to download the virus onto their system.

  So not only had A Joint Effort’s new shipment of weed been jacked, their entire accounting system would be permanently fucked, causing them to eagerly embrace a new shipment of marijuana coming from Sinaloa, Mexico. The Cutlass’ brother club, The Dotards, had been willing to sell the shipment to The Bare Bones at a much smaller profit margin than usual due to a long-standing but obscure vendetta a Dotard old lady had with a Bare Bones old lady. Turk Blackburn had accepted the shipment, and it was due to arrive tomorrow, just in time for Lytton’s bud buddy, Saul Goldblum of the Department of Health Services, to make a surprise inspection.

  Not only would Saul use his microscope to find pesticides, it would occur to him to look in the back alley dumpster where Lytton was about to plant almost-empty bottles of parathion, DDT, and paraquat, banned pesticides Lytton knew would be found in the Sinaloa marijuana. Those were three of the “Dirty Dozen,” the world’s most hazardous agrochemicals. The Bare Bones’ pot dispensary would be literally shut down.

  It was the final touch in a truly evil plan that had mostly been concocted by Lytton, with Toby adding the flourishes about the midnight release of the video game. Now Lytton parked the Staples box truck off to the side of the alley so that it didn’t block any traffic but would be painfully visible to any Bare Boner who happened to drive by. Yanking the ski hat down over his face, Lytton gathered the pesticide bottles and left the keys in the truck.

/>   He had to be fast about this. Tobiah had claimed his virus would also take out the security cameras, but he’d probably only gotten in the front door by now, and who knew how long it took for the nerd inside to go check out the latest Assassin’s Creed update? So Lytton quickly padded to the dumpster with his bottles of poison, and was just about to lift the lid when he heard something alongside the dumpster.

  It sounded like smacking and chewing. Some animal was probably eating garbage. Instinctively, Lytton took a few steps to peek around the corner of the trash receptacle. What he saw stunned him so profoundly he fumbled the poison and nearly dropped the bottles.

  Turk Blackburn was on his knees hungrily gobbling down the erect cock of another biker.

  Lytton felt as though his brain was bleeding. Shocked to the core, his entire consciousness felt sucked from the top of his head.

  It was evidently Turk giving head to the rough-and-tumble, teddy bear animal of a biker. Lytton knew right off by the man bun at the back of his head, some locks of which had slid out in the biker’s eager mauling of his skull. Turk gripped the guy by the hips and pistoned his head back and forth with such vigor, it was obviously not his first time. The teddy bear’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and the muscles of his hairy, well-developed chest and abs rippled and tensed with pure pleasure.

  It took Lytton a few seconds to fully recover and take a breath. He soundlessly tiptoed around to the front of the trash bin. He just prayed the teddy bear hadn’t seen him. He lifted the lid. He was in luck—the trash already in there was filled almost to the brim, although he knew it wouldn’t be picked up for another two days—he’d checked. He could easily reach over and place the bottles somewhat quietly atop the apple cores and empty envelopes already inside.

  He quietly lowered the lid and made tracks in his Nikes. Holy shit. That wasn’t the first thing I expected to see while doing this job. He mentally filed the sight away under “Blackmail to be Used Later.” So Turk Blackburn was an inspector of manholes? Lytton knew right off the bat that would not go over well with the outlaw biker crowd. That was probably the reason the couple was literally skulking in back alleys kneeling at the altar. Interesting. Very interesting.

  Now Lytton’s heart started pounding, a bit belatedly, as he power walked past the Staples truck, whipping his ski mask off and tossing it into some bum’s lair.

  He wanted a drink. This retribution business wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JUNE

  You know those events where you look back and go, well, maybe if I just wouldn’t have done XX, then XX wouldn’t have happened? They explore that in science fiction all the time. I think they call it “probable realities.” In some of my probable realities, I didn’t study hydraulic engineering but maybe nursing, like my sister. In one of her probable realities, maybe she was the engineer, and so on. In some of mine, I’m already dead. I died in Kenya during one of those tribal cattle raids. Or, really, during any of the dozens of dodgy border crossings where boys armed with machine guns rob you of your last cigarette.

  Or maybe it’s just called “second guessing.”

  It started out just being one of those dumb-ass things. I’d left my phone at Lytton’s.

  I was almost to Mormon Lake in my rental car when I realized that, so it was natural to go back to his house. He’d already gone out on his bike with Toby on some sort of errand. I had the impression it had to do with sabotaging Ford in some way. He’d been obsessed with retaliation against Ford ever since finding out about Cropper’s death. The night before last, I’d asked Lytton if he could ever, under any circumstances, see forgiving Ford.

  No fucking way. That was basically his response.

  I knew I’d break down Lytton eventually. One move in the right direction was him asking me to be his old lady. I was shocked and overjoyed to accept his plain brown leather cuff. He didn’t say anything about love, but then, tough guys like him rarely do. We had basically been fucking the past thirty hours, the next few times with rubbers, so I had plans to go back on the pill.

  Lytton had to know that blood was thicker than water. After all he’d been through with his tribal identity, that girl he mentioned who’d dumped him when she found out he wasn’t a full-blood native, I imagined he’d give more weight to the few people he discovered who truly were his blood relations.

  I wanted to ask Madison permission to tell Lytton about Ford’s reasoning behind the murder. It would have been betrayal to tell him without permission.

  I didn’t exactly want to do that over the phone, but that’s what I was thinking about when driving down toward Mormon Lake when I realized my phone was back in Lytton’s bedroom.

  It was a Saturday, so Crybaby’s “rice rocket” Suzuki wasn’t in the driveway, just Helium Head’s Prius and Toby’s Camry. I couldn’t find my phone in Lytton’s bedroom, which was strange, so I went into the family room to look for it. This was basically the Leaves of Grass’ office, where they printed pot accounting reports off their marijuana program and played video games. It was also where they ate. Chemists were predictably notorious for disorderly conduct in their housekeeping, so I sifted through stacks of bar and pie charts that were spotted with hamburger and other grease.

  I’ll keep a tidy house when Lytton and I live together. I stood tall and looked blankly at the wall. What am I thinking? Live together? He hasn’t even bought me a proper collar yet. Lytton was so dead set in his retaliation against his brother, I knew he didn’t have the right amount of space in his brain for me. It would take time for him to get over it and stop obsessing on revenge. In the meantime, I’d be there for him.

  I was about to go down to the greenhouses and ask Helium Head if he’d seen my phone when I heard crunching footsteps coming down the back path toward the house. I was staring dully at a profit and loss spreadsheet when the back kitchen screen door banged shut and heavy boots stomped into the adjoining kitchen.

  “Helium Head,” I yelled, “do you know where my phone is?”

  The voice coming from behind me in the kitchen doorway startled me deaf, dumb, and blind.

  “No, but if you hum a few bars, I’ll fake it.”

  Twirling around, I gasped to see Iso standing there. He was his usual greasy self, only dirtier. I didn’t think he’d taken a shower since before murdering that driver. The guy gave me even bigger creeps than that old Neanderthal himself, Cropper Illuminati. Although to my credit, the times I’d seen Cropper I’d probably been too young and naïve to recognize danger.

  Iso was simply grimy and unkempt, absolutely contaminated with every stray stain, growth, and blotch known to man. From ten feet away, he smelled like a stew of body odor and motor oil, and a tincture of something I identified as a Ugandan train station. I knew Lytton had to hide the fugitive for a few days, but as far as I knew, the heat had blown over. There was no talk of the murder in the news. I knew. I had googled it. So Iso could fucking bloody well crawl back to his cave now and stop bringing liability down on the Leaves of Grass.

  I asked mildly, “Do you want a ride back down the hill? Back to your clubhouse?”

  He wasn’t even laughing at his own lame joke. He had that sort of permanent sneer, as though his lip had gotten snagged on a tooth. His teeth were a marvel. “Meth Mouth” had destroyed the enamel and the constant teeth-grinding of the addict had twisted them every which-way. He looked like he munched a box of broken Chiclets. I should have noticed that when he came in from the back, he’d tossed a heavy hammer on the kitchen table. But I wasn’t made aware of that until the following day. Hindsight and all that.

  “Yeah, sure,” he slurred. I was so used to Iso being perpetually wasted that it didn’t stand out to me that it was eleven in the morning. Eleven in the morning, drunk, with a bloody hammer. Not a good recipe for success. “But first why don’t we have a little fun?”

  It still didn’t sink in to my brain what he was driving at. Fun? No, thank you. I wasn’t in the mood for
fun. My sister was expecting me at her McMansion to babysit, and I desperately wanted to ask her permission to tell Lytton the impetus behind Ford’s game-changing actions of last year. I was convinced I could smooth over the deathly Cain and Abel game Lytton and Ford had been playing. In my eternal role as arbitrator and counselor, I could get Lytton to understand Ford’s motivations. Within weeks we would all be one big happy family, going on picnics together, visiting vortexes, swimming in Ford’s kidney-shaped pool.

  What a fucking moron I was.

  “No thanks. Have you seen my phone around?”

  Iso actually grabbed his crotch then. Was that a tip-off for me? Not really. I just figured he was being his usual repulsive self. “You sure you’re not in the mood for a few squat jumps into the cucumber patch? A little ol’ bury the bone? You look like you could use it, especially after riding that egghead’s pecker for so long.”

  I was incensed. How dare he refer to Lytton’s penis? The two men didn’t exactly go hot tubbing together, so what did Iso know, anyway? Then I shuddered, thinking of a hot tub’s water after Iso had boiled in it. “Never mind. I’ll find my phone myself.”

  I took off down the hallway. The three bedrooms of Lytton, Helium Head, and Toby were upstairs. I assumed the remaining downstairs bedroom was an office or storage, where I assumed Iso was sleeping.

  “Hey, I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,” Iso called out as I stormed down the hall.

  I shouted over my shoulder, “Why, because you took my phone? Iso, I don’t have time to play your games. I seriously need my phone. Do you want me to tell Lytton that you made me late for babysit—”

  I shut the hell up when I opened the door.

  What sort of room was this? A den of torture?

  Handcuffs dangled from bolts in the ceiling. A giant human-sized X looked like a medieval torture rack. A padded sawhorse could almost be some kind of gymnastics device, if I brainwashed myself into thinking that. In a certain light, it could have looked like a workout room, were it not for the wall hooks holding paddles, whips, and floggers.