When I get back to my apartment, Toby is sitting on the couch, talking softly into his cell phone. As I enter the room he says into the phone, “I better go. That’s Dad.”
I close the door behind me. He says goodbye into the phone, snaps the clamshell shut, tosses it onto the couch beside him.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Mom.”
“What did she want?”
“Just checking up on me. Making sure I’m not dead.”
I put my keys down on the table near the entry, join Toby in the living room. He stares at my mouth.
“Your teeth look good,” he says.
“Dr. Chatchadabenjakalani.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s Thai.”
“You think that’s why they’re so backward over there, eating with chopsticks? They spend too much time saying each other’s names, not enough time inventing things, like the fork?”
I sit down next to him. “I think that’s a very racist thing to say.”
“But true, right?”
“Probably.”
“You mind if I ask you a question?”
I shrug.
“You wanted Napier to find out about you, right? You let him figure out who you were, that you’re a con man. That’s also part of the con, isn’t it?”
“Your never-ending quest for a con education.”
“Don’t you want to teach me?”
“I don’t want you to do what I do. I want you to be a doctor. Or an engineer. Or a dentist. You know what I learned today? They do very well.”
“It’s a little late for that,” he says. “I am what I am.”
I want to say: And what is that? But I manage to shut up and not insult my own son. Instead, I say, “It’s never too late to change.”
He smirks. “You mean, like you?”
I sigh. Sometimes he can be mean. Whose gene is that? Mine or Celia’s? Then I realize: my own father’s. Mean old asshole.
I answer another question. “Yes,” I say, “I expected Napier to find out about me. It’s the only way the thing’s going to work. He needs to believe he’s doing something illegal.”
Toby nods. “So that we can blow him off at the end of the con. Pretend to get arrested, or whatever. Right?”
I don’t answer. I rise from the couch. “I’m starving. You want to grab some lunch?”
“Just ate.”
“Fine. I’ll be back.”
I walk into town.
It’s Saturday, late August, and Stanford is in summer session. University Avenue, which during the autumn bustles with college kids and skateboarders, is quiet. The entire town seems empty and provisional, a movie set about to be struck. As I walk along the sidewalk, I take out my cell phone, dial a number.
After two rings, Celia picks up. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Kip.”
“Hi, Kip.” I hear her say something to whoever is in the room with her—something that sounds like “my husband . . .” Then I hear a man’s voice, and the sound of rustling sheets. Finally, she comes back on the line. “What’s the matter?”
“Toby asked me to call you. He wanted to apologize for hanging up so suddenly.”
“I’m sorry?”
“When you just spoke to him. He felt bad that he ended the call so quickly. He asked me to tell you he’s sorry.”
“I don’t . . . I didn’t talk to Toby . . .” She sounds puzzled.
“That’s funny,” I say. “Must have misunderstood. Anyway, how are things?”
“Are you calling to shoot the breeze?”
“Yeah,” I say, “sure. How’s Carl? Everything good?”
“Everything’s fine.” Icy now. Oh well.
“All right,” I say. “Sounds like this is a bad time.”
“No . . . it’s just . . .”
“I understand. We’ll catch up later. Bye, Celia.”
“Bye.”
I hang up, drop the phone in my pocket.
So it turns out: Toby is a pretty decent liar. He wasn’t on the phone with his mother. Maybe I was wrong about those genes. Maybe they’re mine after all.
I decide to skip breakfast and go directly to lunch.
On my way, I stick two quarters in a newspaper vending machine, grab a San Jose Merc. Then I head over to El Pollo Loco and order a fish taco and a Coke. The counter clerk hands me a receipt. “You’re number thirteen,” he says. “We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
I have a seat at a table and start to read the paper. As if I’m an actor in a giant, universe-wide karmic joke, I turn to the business section and see, above the fold, a photo of Ed Napier in a tuxedo, standing behind a roulette table. It seems I can’t escape Ed Napier, even when all I want is a fish taco. The article is about Napier’s battle to purchase the old Tracadero. What used to be a real estate story of limited interest has now apparently become a mainstream soap opera. Broad outline: The old Tracadero casino goes bankrupt. Ed Napier comes along as a white knight, and offers to buy the Tracadero, tear it down, and redevelop the site. On it, he will build the largest casino in Las Vegas, four times as large as The Clouds! (This is how the newspapers quote Napier—with exclamation marks after his excited pronouncements! The hotel will be big! The biggest in Las Vegas!)
The bondholders of the old Tracadero, who just weeks earlier thought they would see only cents on every dollar of investment, agree to the deal. Unfortunately for Napier, at the last moment, another investor group swoops in and makes a competing bid. This bid comes from a little-known consortium of European and Japanese investors. So Napier raises his bid, and changes it from an all-equity offer to equity plus cash. The Tracadero bondholders agree to Napier’s new terms. But then the Europeans and Japanese raise their bid to include more cash. Napier matches their bid yet again. Now that we have a bidding war, the newspapers smell a story. Some report that maybe Napier doesn’t have the cash he claims, after all. Because his company is private, almost no one knows its financial position, but rumors circulate that it is precarious. Building The Clouds nearly bankrupted Napier, some say. Some politicians begin to rumble about Napier’s ties to organized crime. Still other politicians begin to rumble that the Tracadero—the last potential development site along the Strip—shouldn’t be sold to European and Japanese foreigners.
What is clear, behind all the smoke screens and payoffs to newspapermen and politicians, is that two companies are locked in a mortal battle for a billion-dollar payday. Ed Napier is running low on cash, and he needs more of it, and fast, to claim the prize.
That, of course, is where I come in.
As I digest this, I notice a figure slide into the chair across from me. I put down the newspaper and see Dmitri, Professor Sustevich’s employee.
“Hello, Dmitri,” I say. “How’s the evil henchman business?”
“Please come with me,” Dmitri says.
“Sorry, Dmitri,” I say. I reach into my shirt pocket, pull out my Pollo Loco receipt, show it to him. “I’m number thirteen. I’m waiting for a fish taco.”
“Professor Sustevich wants to see you.”
“And I want to see him,” I say. “After I eat my fish taco.”
The public address system crackles and a voice announces, “Number thirteen. Number thirteen.”
“See?” I say.
I rise from my seat. I am surprised to feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Hovsep, Sustevich’s match-head specialist, standing behind me. Where did he come from? I feel a long cold finger in my back, poking my kidney. It takes me a moment to realize that it is not a finger.
“What are you going to do?” I say. “Shoot me in the middle of El Pollo Loco?”
Dmitri looks puzzled. “What is that?”
It takes me a moment to realize: He thinks I’m talking about a body part he’s never heard of. “No,” I say. “I mean: You’re going to shoot me in the middle of a restaurant?”
“Yes,” Dmitri says, simply.
“The P
rofessor told you to do that? Shoot me in public?”
“Yes,” Dmitri says again. He stares at me without expression.
“Okay,” I say. “I can eat later. Your car outside?”
I’m led to a black Lincoln Town Car. We drive north on I-280 into the city.
Thirty minutes later, we pull up to the gate of Sustevich’s Pacific Heights mansion. A burly man walks out of the security booth, leans over the car door. Dmitri rolls down his window and says something in Russian. The two men laugh. Maybe they’re exchanging Moscow League hockey scores, or reminiscing about that night they so enjoyed in the strip club. Or maybe they’re laughing about what is going to happen to me next.
The security guard returns to his booth, and the wrought iron gate swings open. The Town Car pulls in and the gate closes behind us with a solid clang.
On the portico outside the mansion, I am met by the same beefy blond man who—many weeks ago—felt up my testicles while patting me down for weapons. “You again,” I say. “After last time, I was hoping for at least a phone call.”
“Cell phone please,” he says, and holds out his open palm. I reach into my pocket, pull out my Motorola. I slap it into his hand.
“Please lift your arms,” the blond beefcake says.
I lift my arms. The Russian man pats me down: along my arms, then down my rib cage. He squats, pats from my ankles to my inner thigh, then swings over for a quick squeeze of testicles. He stands. “Come with me,” he says.
He leads me to the foyer, the big room with the expensive black and white marble floor and the sweeping circular staircase. On the center table is a spray of gladiolas, like a funeral arrangement. Professor Sustevich is walking down the stairs as I enter. “Ah, Mr. Largo,” he calls down to me. “Thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Sustevich says, “Please, come with me.” He walks across the foyer into the living room. I follow.
He says, “You want something to eat?”
“Fish taco,” I say.
“Fish taco?” He looks puzzled. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Just an expression. Whenever you’re happy, shout out, ‘Fish taco!’”
“I see.”
“It’s what all the kids are saying nowadays. The MTV Generation.”
“Hmm.” He regards me carefully. “A drink?”
“Fish taco, yes!”
He nods. “I understand.” He walks to the side table, unscrews a bottle of JW Blue Label. “You drink scotch?”
“I do today,” I say. I point to my teeth. “Just had some dental work.”
“Really?”
“Two goons knocked out my front teeth.”
He looks at my teeth. “I can’t tell.”
“Dr. Chatchadabenjakalani,” I say. “Not really the kind of name you want to say missing two front teeth. But he’s a master. Only five hundred bucks.”
“I see.” He pours two glasses of scotch, hands me one. “Do you know why I asked you here today?”
I down my scotch in three swallows. I figure I’m going to need it. “I’m guessing you’re going to threaten me, tell me to repay the money I borrowed. Or else.”
“Yes,” the Professor says. “That’s exactly right.”
“No offense, but couldn’t you have called? Did I have to come all the way up to the city?”
“But I mean to demonstrate.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” I say.
Sustevich turns to his right and speaks to the empty room. “Dmitri,” he says. He says the name quietly, as if Dmitri is standing beside him. For exactly one second, Sustevich appears insane, talking to an invisible friend. Then, like magic, Dmitri appears from around the corner and walks into the exact spot where Sustevich stares.
“Yes, Professor?”
“How much more time does Mr. Largo have? To repay our twelve million dollars?”
“Eight days.”
The Professor nods. “Eight days. Not much time. Will you be able to repay me?”
“I think so. But let’s say—just for the sake of discussion—I asked for a few more days. Is it negotiable?”
“Yes,” Sustevich says.
“Well, then,” I say, thinking the Professor is reasonable, after all.
“But I will cut off one of your fingers for each day you request.”
I nod. “I see. So ten days is really the upper limit.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I think I’ll try to meet that original deadline.”
“Very wise. Dmitri, please take Mr. Largo to the basement and demonstrate the importance of timely repayment of debts.”
“You know,” I say, “that’s not really necessary.”
Dmitri pulls a pistol from his pocket and smiles at me. “Please,” Dmitri says, “come with me.”
“Listen,” I say to Sustevich. “We’re business partners. There’s no need for violence.”
“I understand the other day you went to the Palo Alto Airport. You boarded a jet plane. Twice in two days. I hope you don’t try to leave without repaying your debt to me. That would be unwise.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“Please,” Dmitri says, “come with me.”
“I’m not coming with you,” I say.
Dmitri pushes the barrel of the pistol against my forehead. He cocks the trigger sloppily with his meaty thumb.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” I say. I lift my hands slowly into the air. “Let’s calm down with that trigger. Looks cool in the movies, but not a smart thing to do, pulling it back with your thumb like that, safety off. Where the hell did you learn that?”
“Russian army,” Dmitri says.
“Oh,” I say.
“Dmitri is very jumpy,” Sustevich says. “You should go with him.”
“Fine.”
Dmitri raises the barrel of the pistol, away from my forehead.
The Professor says, “I’ll see you in eight days. You’ll be here?”
“With bells on.”
“Fish tacos, then, Mr. Largo,” Sustevich says, tipping his fingers in a rakish salute. He turns and leaves the room.
“Yeah, fish tacos to you, too.”
Dmitri leads me down a dark flight of stairs into a basement. It’s a bare concrete room, forty feet square, with a single light bulb in an enamel socket and a pull string switch. I suspect this room is the last thing many men see.
“All right, Dmitri,” I say. “What’s the plan? You’re going to beat me up?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no need for that. I’m partners with your boss. I’m making money for him. I’m working for him.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Dmitri,” I say, “maybe punching employees is how you handle things in Russia, but this is Silicon Valley. This is the New Economy. Everyone’s a freelance employee here. The Internet changes everything. We’re all working on ‘Project Me.’”
“Yes,” he says. With this as a warning, he delivers a right hook into my jaw. I fly backward and land on the concrete floor. I feel a bolt of pain shoot from my coccyx to my neck. Perhaps I’ve broken my hip?
“Goddamn it,” I say. “I just paid five hundred bucks for fucking dental work. Are you crazy?”
I immediately regret the question, because apparently Dmitri takes it as a kind of workplace suggestion. He delivers a solid kick into my teeth. If it wasn’t so painful, I would laugh, because there goes Dr. Chatchadabenjakalani’s work, skittering across the concrete floor: a front tooth rattling into the far wall like a ball into a roulette wheel.
“Oh,” I say, sadly, as I touch my index finger to the new gap in my mouth.
“Okay,” Dmitri says. “That’s it. You have eight days. Next time I make you drink acid.”
“Drink acid?” I say. I shake my head. “You Russians are out of your mind.”
“Yes,” Dmitri says. He bends down, offers his hand. Now that he has punched me and knocked out my front tooth, he’
s my buddy. He pulls me to a standing position, pats me on the back. “Eight days,” he says again. “You need to pay us twelve million dollars.”
“I know,” I say. “Or else you’ll kill me with acid.”
“And your son,” Dmitri says, raising his index finger. “Don’t forget your son.”
The taxi ride home costs a hundred twenty dollars, which is, I decide as I leave the cab and slam the door shut, ridiculous. Since the car accident I’ve spent more on taxis than I paid originally for my used Honda.
When I get back to the apartment I make two quick phone calls: the first to Hank’s Service Station to ask about my car (“three more days”). The second, to Dr. Chatchadabenjakalani (“come right over”). One more taxi ride to San Jose (twenty-three dollars) and two novocaine injections later, I have a new new front tooth, which is—unfortunately—only an approximate color match to my old new front tooth. After the cap is bonded into my gums, Dr. Chatchadabenjakalani holds a mirror to my face, like a barber showing off a new flattop.
“Okay?” he asks.
I stare at my new two-tone smile, a taupe and white color scheme like an Ed Napier hotel lobby. What the hell, I think. My days of seducing women are long past. “Good job, doc,” I say.
The doctor escorts me to the reception desk and rings the charges on his computer terminal. I’m expecting some kind of bulk discount—I’ve bought three teeth in twelve hours, after all—but Dr. Chatchadabenjakalani hands me an invoice of $250 for the single tooth, which is exactly half what he charged me for the original two.
I must admit that the “it’s-a-business-expense” equanimity I felt when leaving the office for the first time has rapidly dissipated. When Dr. Chatchadabenjakalani joyfully calls after me as I leave the office, “See you later tonight perhaps!”—I wave my hand over my shoulder and grunt goodbye.
That night, Toby and I watch wrestling on television. I have a newfound appreciation for the sport. It occurs to me, as I watch the two long-haired muscular men prancing around the ring, their chests glistening with oil, that I have a lot in common with Killer Eight Ball and Frankie the Fist. The men are actors, of course, following a script; and much of the cartoonish violence is fake—mere choreography. But every now and then something unexpected happens: a punch thrown too far to the right, a slip on the canvas, a mistimed jump or forgotten roll. Muscles are bruised, bones broken. There even have been times, I know, when men have died.
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