Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  “The money drop is Friday,” Walczak said. “We have to find Sarah and Grace before then and need I remind you that your necks are on the line too?”

  “Well, you’re in charge, Mr. CEO,” Hawkins said. “Tell us. What’s the plan?”

  Walczak sipped his ice water and wondered if the help here washed their hands. A protracted pause. Forks clinked, there were chewing noises and the occasional throat clearing. Walczak felt the tension rise, everyone expecting him to say something and knowing he was out of his depth. Richter and the fucking Mexican were smirking and eating at the same time. They loved torturing him. They knew it was an impossible task, finding two people in a city of millions, assuming they were in the city at all.

  “We’re waiting,” Jimenez said, still with that fucking smirk.

  Owens smiled loopily over her margarita. “Hope it’s not too complicated. We country girls are simple folks.”

  “I have to think about it,” Walczak said.

  “Think about it?” Hawkins said. “What have you been doing all this time? Daydreaming about your polo ponies?”

  Jimenez wiped his mouth with a napkin and threw it down on his plate, the way he did it telling you he had something to say. “There’s a way to find them,” he said.

  “Oh really?” Walczak replied. “Are you some kind of clairvoyant? You can see them in your crystal ball? You can read their minds?”

  “I don’t need no crystal ball and I don’t need to be no mind reader.” Jimenez picked at his teeth with a thumbnail. “I don’t need to be nothing but me.”

  Dodson was in line at Mickey D’s. Nothing like a Filet-O-Fish and a Shamrock Shake to ease your worries. Deronda hadn’t come through. She said when Junior pushed her head into his lap she grabbed his sack and twisted it like a rusty faucet. When she got home, she washed her hands with bleach and disinfected the steering wheel in her car. She said she’d never put her fingers in her mouth for the rest of her life.

  How did this happen? Dodson wondered. How had his life come down to something as fucked up as this? It hadn’t started out this way. He’d been a good kid. A smart kid. He remembered being eleven years old and bringing home a report card with a solid B average and getting hugged by his mother and sister and high-fived by his father, who was home on leave. Joining a gang had never occurred to him until his father retired, came home from Afghanistan with two Purple Hearts, and got a job drinking full-time. A literal gloom fell over the house. His father liked the lights low or no lights at all. He’d sit in the La-Z-Boy, sipping cheap vodka with the TV on and the sound off. Maybe that was what his brain was doing, Dodson thought, reducing the world to crazy images. An easier place to leave behind.

  Dodson’s father had been his hero, but now he barely spoke and when he did it was usually in anger. Someone else was to blame for everything. His drinking, his rages, his joblessness, the solid B average that was steadily declining. Dodson’s mother was a shadow, as if making herself tangible would set her husband off. Dodson was afraid of him and wondered if it was his fault that everything had changed.

  Dodson spent more time out of the house with his new friends, some local hoodrats who smoked weed, got into fights, jacked people, stole anything that wasn’t under the direct gaze of a security guard. They only went to school when there wasn’t anything else to do. Dodson joined the Crip Violators, a gang that sold dope, got into shootouts, and went to adult prisons. In an infamous gun battle with the Locos, a bystander named Flaco was shot in the head and suffered brain damage. He was ten years old. Dodson felt responsible. He quit the gang and began his career as a hustler.

  He partnered up with Alonzo and worked out a Ponzi scheme. They sold shares in housing developments in Tustin that paid twenty percent. You could even visit one. The manager was in on the scam. Eventually, some unhappy investors went to the police and Dodson did a bid in Vacaville. It’s one thing to watch prison documentaries on MSNBC. It’s a whole other trip to be there, locked up with a thousand or so ruthless felons, most of them gang members; sleeping in bunk beds lined up like used cars and wiping your ass with toilet paper that still had wood chips in it and eating a corn dog, frozen succotash, and an orange for lunch. Dodson saw an inmate make a pizza out of a food packet from home. The crust was made from crushed Doritos and ramen seasoning. The ingredients were put in the empty Doritos bag, water was added, and everything was smushed into a dough and rolled out with a plastic shampoo bottle. You cooked it by putting the bag under your pillow for fifteen minutes. When it was done, you topped it with squeeze cheese and summer sausage you cut up with your prison ID card and wah-lah, pizza. Not exactly Domino’s but it was the best in the California prison system.

  When Dodson got out he went to stay with his parents in Oakland. His father was sneering and self-righteous but still in the La-Z-Boy, drinking vodka with the TV on and the sound off. Dodson’s sister Lavinia was off to college. His mother was overjoyed to see him. She cooked him his favorite meals and fixed up a room for him and asked him what he was doing. He said he was back in school taking classes to be a paramedic. She probably didn’t believe him, but the idea of it made her happy. He didn’t tell her about Vacaville.

  He’d been there a week when his father said, “You can’t stay here, you know. You’re a grown man and I got enough mouths to feed.”

  “I never intended to stay,” Dodson said. “I just came by to see how y’all were doing.”

  His father sneered. “We’re doing fine—and now you can go back to your paramedic school.”

  Dodson borrowed some money from his mother and returned to East Long Beach. He partnered up with Alonzo again. They tried to rob small-time drug dealers like Omar Little did on The Wire, but they weren’t Omar Little on The Wire and usually got shot at before the robbery even started. Dodson fenced stolen goods he bought from junkies and sold fake Social Security cards and cars that weren’t his and Gucci handbags that weren’t real. He made money, but it wasn’t sustainable and the fear of going back to the joint was scarier than ever. He’d never really had time to think about what he was doing or where he was going, always caught up in the fight for survival. He went to stay with his Auntie May, temporarily he told her, until he got a job. But slouched on her velvet sofa surrounded by dark furniture and the smell of potpourri, without weed to smoke or liquor to drink or money to party with, there was nothing else to do but think. Truth be told, he was running out of energy for the game. Maybe it was time to retire. There’s no such thing as a new leaf, he thought. Turn yourself over.

  He went to see a friend of Auntie May’s, a man named Cosell who ran an employment service. The waiting room was crowded, noisy, and full of people whose résumés could fit on a Post-it.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Cosell said, “but you’ve never held a regular job?”

  “When I was in high school I waited tables in a restaurant,” Dodson said.

  “For how long?”

  “Three days. They caught me stealing tips.”

  “And since then you’ve been—”

  “I was in pharmaceuticals for a while,” Dodson said, “and after I got out of the joint I was straight-up hustling.” It sounded pitiful when you said it out loud. He went on, “Look, I know I ain’t the best prospect you ever had, but I’m quick, I pay attention, I can read people, and I could sell a Confederate flag to the niggas on my block. All I need is a chance.” Cosell leaned back in his chair and seemed to think about it. Dodson got up to leave. “I appreciate your time.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry,” Cosell said. “There are all kinds of people who are looking for an experienced hustler. You’d be surprised.”

  The next day, Dodson became an employee of Pinpoint Marketing Services, a telemarketing operation located in the windowless basement of an office building. Operators with headset mikes and desperate faces were pitching with smiling voices, the din filling the room. The supervisor, Casper Agnew, was a sullen, pockmarked white boy with a curved snout like a sandpipe
r and a collection of polo shirts with logos nobody had ever seen before. An ox, a shoe, a fire hydrant, a sprig of poison sumac. “This job is not hard,” he said like he couldn’t believe anyone would think it was. “All you have to do is read the script. If the customer asks a question, read the script. If he says he wants to think about it, read the script. If he says he has to ask his wife—”

  “Read the script,” Dodson said.

  “You catch on fast, I like that,” Casper said. Dodson couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. “Okay, let’s say you get somebody on the phone,” Casper continued. “The first thing you say is—” He was suddenly ecstatic, the transformation was Oscar-worthy. “Congratulations, Mrs. Smith! You’ve won the California Starlight Sweepstakes Grand Prize and you are the owner of a brand-new Mercedes convertible!” In an instant, Casper was sullen again. “Like that, you know? Like you’re really happy for them.”

  “And all they have to do is pay shipping and handling?” Dodson said.

  “Shipping and handling are included, but there is a three-hundred-and-forty-nine-dollar import tax. The cars come from the factory in Germany.”

  “If you don’t give ’em something isn’t that mail fraud?” Dodson said.

  “It would be, but we’re legit here,” Casper said like he almost believed it. He nodded at a stack of small boxes containing brand-new Mercedes toy cars. “They’re real craftsmen over there, don’t you think? And look, people are going to give you all kinds of sob stories about why they can’t spend the money. I lost my job, I’m living on food stamps, I’m at my mother’s funeral—doesn’t matter. Be merciless, and whatever you do don’t let them off the hook.”

  “I’ve never let anyone off the hook in my entire life,” Dodson said.

  “A lot of rookies say that, but when the chips are down and some old lady is crying about eating cat food for dinner they fold like a Denver omelet.”

  “You don’t know me yet,” Dodson said. “But I don’t fold.”

  Dodson made hundreds of calls but mostly got voice mail and hang-ups. He would have done better if he wasn’t restricted to the script, and his commissions weren’t much more than he’d make flipping burgers. All of the people he scammed were elderly. Many of them couldn’t remember entering the sweepstakes because they never had. “You’re Bessie May Atkins, aren’t you?” Dodson would say. “At 4455 Grove Avenue? Well, I have your application right here in my hand and by the way, did you have a color preference for the Mercedes?” Then they’d say something like Oh my goodness, my memory isn’t what it used to be and then they’d tell you their credit card number, going slow so you wouldn’t miss anything. There was one old dude named Ezra Sanders who thought he’d be smart and asked for a picture of the car. Casper was ready for situations like this. He had a photo of his own Mercedes draped with colorful streamers and a program on his laptop for adding titles. This one said: CONGRATULATIONS TO GRAND PRIZE WINNER EZRA SANDERS! Ezra sent the money via Western Union.

  Dodson hated the job. It wasn’t any different than what he was doing before: taking money from people who couldn’t afford it. The definition of a street hustle. He felt even worse about himself. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t a loser like the rest of these bums. He was special, he just didn’t know what his specialness was. He thought about going back into the crack business but that took more blind determination than he had these days.

  It was the end of his shift and Dodson made his last call of the day. He tried to drum up some enthusiasm and dialed.

  “Hello?” the voice said. A young man from the sound of it. Something off about his speech.

  “Matthew Bunce?” Dodson said. “Is this Matthew Bunce of 338 Latimer Drive?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Matthew, this is Ted Rogers from the California Starlight Sweepstakes and I have wonderful news! You are this month’s grand prize winner and the proud of owner of a brand-new Mercedes convertible!” There was a crashing sound, followed by arms and legs getting tangled up in a table or a chair. “Are you all right?” Dodson said. “Matthew, can you hear me?”

  “Sorry,” Matthew said. “What did you say before? I won a prize?”

  “Yes, you did, Mr. Bunce. You won the grand prize. A brand-new Mercedes convertible direct from the factory in Germany!” There was a pause. “Hello? Are you there?”

  “I’m not allowed to drive a car,” Matthew said.

  “You’re under sixteen?”

  “No, I’m nineteen and four months.”

  Dodson was starting to get the picture. Matthew’s score on the Stanford-Binet was a little below average. So what? he thought. A mark was a mark and he was working on commissions.

  “We’ve got all kinds of other prizes,” Dodson said, going off script. “Is there something else you want? We’ve got iPads, PlayStations, TVs, all kinds of stuff.” He could hear Matthew breathing, tense, like he didn’t want to say it. “What is it, Matthew? You can tell me.”

  “A dog. I want a dog.”

  “We got all kinds of dogs,” Dodson said, smooth as heavy cream. “Big ones, little ones, any kind you want. Do you have a credit card?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Matthew. There’s a mandatory canine documentation fee and we only take credit cards.”

  “Oh, okay,” Matthew said. Dodson was about to hang up when Matthew added, “I can sign checks now. I have a trust fund but I’m only allowed to write one if Nana can’t because of her arthritis. Nice talking to you, Ted.”

  “Hold on there, Matthew,” Dodson said. “Did you say trust fund?”

  “Yeah, that’s where we get our money. Nana says it’s a lot.”

  “You know what? We got some new dogs that just came in.” Dodson put his hand over his mike and said to the operators around him, “Bark!” They looked at him, puzzled. “I got a live one! Bark, goddammit! Trust fund.” The operators started barking like a pack of strays. “You hear that, Matthew? You can have any one you want.” Drawn by the commotion and the words trust fund, Casper and the other operators drifted over. Dodson put the call on speaker.

  “Do you have a beagle?” Matthew said excitedly. “A brown-and-white one?”

  “Wait a second, let me see,” Dodson said. “No, that’s a Doberman…that’s some kind of sheepdog—wait, there’s one. A beagle, Matthew, and it’s brown and white!”

  “Oh my God, oh my God!” Matthew exclaimed. Casper was frowning, like he might put a stop to it.

  “Now tell me about this trust fund. You said you can write checks?” Dodson asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is Nana home all day?”

  “Yeah. Except when she goes to play bridge.”

  “When’s the next time she’s playing?”

  “Tomorrow,” Matthew said. “The driver picks her up at three o’clock.”

  “All right, listen closely now. According to the contest rules, this has to be a secret. Break the rules and you don’t get the beagle.”

  “Don’t worry, Ted,” Matthew said solemnly. “I’ll keep it a secret from everybody.”

  Dodson gave him instructions about writing the check and made him write them down.

  “I’ll call you back tomorrow at ten after three,” Dodson said.

  “Okay, Ted. I’ll talk to you tomorrow!”

  The call ended. Casper and the operators broke into applause. “Sorry I didn’t stick to the script, Casper,” Dodson said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Casper shook his hand. “You’re the best salesman I’ve ever had.”

  Dodson couldn’t sleep. He should have been excited, but all he felt was an overwhelming sense of doom, like he was standing on the edge of the Empire State Building and his reward was on the pavement a hundred stories below. He got up, watched TV, read the paper, and drank some of Auntie May’s Chateau LaSalle Pink Sauternes. He fell asleep as the sun came up.

  At 3:10 that afternoon, Dodson called Matthew, the operators gathered around, Casper standin
g by with his cell phone.

  “What’s up, Matthew?” Dodson said in that breezy way he had. “How’s everything?”

  “Have you still got my dog?” Matthew said.

  “Yes, he’s right here and he can’t wait to see you.” One of the operators panted and mewled. “Is your nana gone?”

  “She just left.”

  “Do you have the check?”

  “Yes, Ted, I have it.”

  “Read it back to me,” Dodson said.

  “I made it out to Pinpoint Marketing Services,” Matthew said proudly. Dodson made him spell it. Matthew continued. “Five-zero-zero-zero-zero dot zero zero. Then I signed it at the bottom.” Dodson and Casper had argued about the amount. If two people could live off the trust fund and they had a driver, there had to be big bucks in there. On the other hand, if the check was too big, the bank might question it and call Nana.

  “You did good, Matthew,” Dodson said. Casper was on his cell talking to somebody. He nodded. “Okay, Matthew,” Dodson went on. “A man’s gonna come to the door and I want you to give him the check. I’ll drop by later and bring you the dog.”

  “Nana said not to open the door for anybody.”

  “It’s all right, we’re friends, aren’t we?” Dodson said. There was a pause. “Matthew, are you okay?” He heard sniffling. Matthew was crying.

  “I don’t have any friends,” he said. “But now I’ll have my beagle…and you.”

  There was a sudden emptiness in Dodson’s chest, like an earth mover had rolled through and shoveled out his heart. The doorbell rang. “That’s him, Matthew,” Dodson said, his voice notably softer.

  “Okay, I’m gonna open the door now.” The chain rattled, a door opened.

  A man’s friendly voice said, “Hi, you must be Matthew. I’m Ted’s buddy. He told me all about you. Is that check for me?”

  “Should I give it to him?” Matthew asked. Dodson sat there, looking down at his hands. He’d negotiated a fifty percent commission. Casper grumbled but twenty-five grand was good money for one phone call.