The Big Get-Even

by Paul Di Filippo

  “I know when I’m outclassed,” I shouted back.

  Sandralene grinned lasciviously at me, in an impartial way. “Glen, I will cook you the biggest goddamn steak tonight!”

  “Accepted. I bribe very easily.”

  I had to leave then or go mad with lust.

  * * *

  Back at the cookhouse, I found Ray, dirty and drenched, sloshing off the table with a final spray from the hose. The planks gleamed golden, as if fresh from the mill.

  “Holy crap, Ray,” I said, “that is an awesome job! Well done!”

  Ray didn’t precisely smile, although his expression did change in some indefinable way. “I was not certain it was acceptable until you confirmed it, Glen. Thank you for this confirmation.”

  “Let’s just move it out of this muddy spot.”

  We established the table in its new location, still close to the kitchen, and I erected the canopy over it.

  “Go clean yourself up, Ray. It’ll be time to eat soon.”

  “We will have supper when Mr. Hasso is done playing grab-ass with Miss Parmalee?”

  I looked at him closely, but he betrayed not the faintest spark of humor.

  “Yes, that’s more or less the parameters of the situation, Ray.”

  “I understand.”

  17

  Eating at the clean picnic table was practical and easy and fun. Ray exhibited a quiet pride at our appreciation for his labors.

  I hadn’t eaten with such gusto since Stan Hasso entered my life—maybe not even during the long, bored postprison stint before then. Sandralene had broiled the steaks to perfection, and Vee had produced a green salad with a tasty homemade dressing. It had been Stan’s idea to get a fire going in the stone ring and roast the potatoes in the coals. They emerged from their foil jackets as lightly charred lumps of pure smoky-earthen goodness, further enhanced by gobs of butter and plenty of salt and pepper.

  When Sandralene emerged with the platter of steaks, she made a big show of giving me the largest.

  Stan watched the display with a grimace. “You are such a damn pussy-whipped traitor, Glen. Remind me never to count on you against any female opponents in the future.”

  I put down my fork and said, “When push truly comes to shove, unless Nancarrow has a sex change, you can rely on me as your loyal ally.”

  Vee didn’t participate in any of our banter, using the moments to cut her steak into precise bite-size pieces of almost machine-produced uniformity. Ray exhibited a hearty fascination with his food that verged on animal grossness without quite teetering over the edge.

  Stan had also brought back beer, wine, and spirits from Centerdale. The ice-cold PBR tasted like pure heaven. Stan drank three to my one, while Sandralene only doubled my intake. Vee sipped at a small glass of pinot grigio, making it last for the whole meal. Ray had several Cokes.

  After two days of cookies and soda, we hardly spoke the entire time. Maybe it was just hunger and the woodsy atmosphere that made everything taste so wonderful. I felt suspended in a kind of lost interval between one stage of demanding action and another. We had set the physical stage for Nancarrow’s downfall but hadn’t yet shifted into high gear to bring about that desired outcome. For now, responsibilities had temporarily ceased to bother us.

  Stan and I had raided the rental units and hauled out five chairs that were comfier than the picnic table’s wooden benches, and now the five of us sat under a night sky glittering with intensely bright stars. I inhaled the rich primordial tang from the dense leaf litter beneath the trees and from the black waters of the lake, along with the wood smoke from the fire before us. The flickering light was supplemented only by the glow of Ray’s iPad shining on his face. Oblivious of his surroundings, the kid was focused utterly on what I could only assume were more baseball videos. He was politely using his earbuds, though, so I couldn’t say for sure.

  Stan roused himself enough to send Sandralene off to the cookshack, and she returned with a chilled bottle of champagne and some tumblers. Stan twisted off the wire, firing the cork off into the darkness, and poured five glasses and passed them around. Ray unplugged from his device and studied his drink as if it were an extract from some alien world.

  “Here’s to twenty million dollars!” said Stan. “And getting even with a major-league prick!”

  We clinked our tumblers and drank. Ray took a tentative sip, then, evidently liking the taste and the fizz, downed the rest. Stan refilled our glasses.

  “So, Ray,” he said with a slyness that maybe only I caught, “what are you planning to do with your five million?”

  Stan had suggested that maybe we could cut Ray a smaller slice of the loot. I figured he was counting on Ray saying something stupid or inconclusive in front of us that he could later use to justify not giving the kid a full share. But Ray did not hesitate in his reply.

  “Mr. Hasso, this is a very good question, and I’m glad you asked. I have given a lot of thought to this very good question, ever since Vee told me of this opportunity, and this is what I have decided. I am going to take my money—which is a very lot of money, I know—and I am going to open up a school. It will be a school for people like myself, who have special abilities and special needs. At this school of mine, we will teach people like me how to have a job and how to live on their own. I predict that this will be a big success.”

  I have to give Stan credit. I could tell that he accepted Ray’s answer instantly. He was not a greedy guy and didn’t necessarily want more than his cut. I think he was only concerned that the kid wouldn’t know what to do with such a huge sum and might waste it on something stupid. He just didn’t want to throw five million dollars down the toilet.

  “Well, kid, I think that’s a swell idea. Maybe you can name the school after your biggest donor, Barnaby Nancarrow.”

  “Mr. Hasso, that is probably not a good idea, since we are stealing the money from him.”

  “Noted, kid.”

  I said, “You and Sandralene still planning to leave the country, Stan?”

  “Yeah, and I know just where we’re going. I been scoping out a lot of countries before I settled on this one: the Cape Verde islands.”

  “Cape Verde? What’s that all about?”

  “Well, number one, they got no extradition treaty with the USA. Number two, they’re not some third-world hellhole, even if they are just off the coast of Africa. They’re a nice, stable country that’s also a beautiful place—a kind of tropical paradise, really. Yeah, their economy sucks—not enough jobs, which has sent a lot of their folks overseas. But that’s not gonna bother someone with five million in the bank. It’s close to Europe, so we could sneak across for some fun if we don’t end up on any watch lists—maybe even if we do. I’m still not counting on Nancarrow pressing any kind of charges against us after we scam him. He’s going to be pissed, but too mortified. And the Gulch code of honor don’t favor snitches. Anyhow, Cape Verde is looking like my dream spot. Sandy agrees.”

  Sandralene said, “I’m really sick of winter.”

  “The only major headache is the language. They speak some kinda weird Portagee dialect. But here’s the final thing that pushed me into thinking we should definitely go for Cape Verde. Just a weird kinda coincidence. Turns out there’s a bunch of Cape Verdeans living right up in Centerdale! A whole little community. I figure we can use part of our time up here to get tutored in the language. Should help kill the boredom factor while we’re waiting for Nancarrow to bite.”

  Stan’s choice of exile sounded pretty good to me. I had no other destination in mind after we brought off our coup, and like Sandralene, I was sick of cold and snow. The thought suddenly recalled to mind that chill December night when I saved Stan’s life. It seemed ever so long ago.

  “You mind some company?” I said.

  “Shit, no! The more the merrier!”

  I looked acr
oss the flames to Vee, who was sipping thoughtfully at her second glass of champagne. “What about you, Vee?”

  “I think I need to stay here, to help Ray with his plans. And for another reason.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I want to see Nancarrow squirm and hurt up close, once we’ve screwed him. I want to hear him wail and see him look like an incompetent jerk in front of all his big-shot pals. I want to watch him try to explain how a brilliant operator like him got taken. For me, that’s a big part of getting even.”

  “Jeez, that’s stone cold,” said Stan. “But I approve. Just make sure he doesn’t catch you enjoying his misery. I seen how he lashes out when he thinks people are making fun of him, and it’s not pretty.”

  Vee regarded us with a stern, unflinching gaze. “I’m not pretty, either, when I’ve got someone I hate down on the ground.”

  18

  I had a long list of chores to tackle.

  Get Elbert Tighe, the recommended local well-and-pump expert, on the phone and see about having him come by to give our filtration system a once-over. I didn’t care to be drinking any more fish poop or brain-eating amoebas out of Nutbush Lake than I had to, and I suspected the others felt the same.

  Sit down with Ray and learn more about what he could do on the internet. I had a bunch of ideas for subtle items that could be planted online to convince Nancarrow of the imaginary reality of Steve Prynne’s interest in Bigelow Junction and the desirability of buying us out here. Hooking him and reeling him in was really no different from how I had convinced so many clients at Ghent, Goolsbee & Saikiri to let me invest their funds in projects of dubious merit so I could turn that cash into heroin destined for my arm. But we had to be subtle about this and make sure none of our insertions were traceable back to us.

  Call Uncle Ralph and Suzy Lam and see how they are doing. Not only had I discovered that I truly missed them, but they were investors in this scam, on however small a scale, and deserved to be kept abreast of things. Also, as the registered owner of this property, Uncle Ralph had to be reminded to stay alert for anyone approaching him and deflect any inquiries to us. Naturally, Stan’s phone could never be referenced, the name Hasso being anathema to Nancarrow and Company, and so my ridiculous antique would have to serve as our switchboard.

  In fact, as we got closer to enticing Nancarrow up for a visit, Stan would have to lower his physical profile as well. And considering the force of nature that Stan was, this would require some real self-restraint on his part, and constant reminders on mine. I wondered whether, when the time came, we should perhaps get him lodgings up in Centerdale.

  But that raised the next item on my to-do list: contact Parole Officer Wilson Schreiber. I imagined he would want to come out for a visit, to check that we were really living and working here. And he could choose to drop in for further surprise inspections anytime he felt like it. Anton Paget had warned us that Schreiber was a hardnose. How to square that with getting Stan an apartment elsewhere and thus violating his stated residence?

  The necessity of keeping up the charade that we were reopening Bigelow Junction for business—a charade that provided Schreiber with the justification for our being here—meant that I had to conduct a lot of other tasks. I would have to contact grocers and laundry companies, employment agencies and tourist bureaus and advertising outlets, letting the news spread that we were serious about starting up the lodge again, and not just squatters sitting on a spec investment. Of course, when dealing with Nancarrow, we would let on that we were here only because we believed Prynne had his eye on the property, and that was how we knew to set such a high value on it. But Nancarrow would also find it quite reasonable that we had maintained such a facade of innocent, suspicion-diverting commercialism in the eyes of the world. After all, that was exactly how he himself, real estate shyster that he was, would have concealed the property’s real value to prevent any other speculators from getting wind and horning in.

  It was all such a convoluted bluff within a bluff that my head began to ache, trying to keep straight who could be allowed to learn what.

  The only thing to do was to approach each task one at a time and make sure we covered each step the best we could. Otherwise, you could get balled up in overthinking.

  So I left my room at nine thirty that morning after dissipating a slight champagne hangover with a shower running alternately hot and cold. (The truth came out last night that Stan had brought back not a single bottle of champagne but a case, and we had gone through several more bottles under the stars.) I followed the smell of coffee to the cookshack.

  Vee sat under the canopy with a mug of coffee and a piece of toast, a book in her hand. I could hear Stan and Sandralene laughing and chatting inside.

  “What are you reading?”

  She angled the cover so I could see the title better. A novel by some Italian gal, Elena Ferrante. “Do you know her work?”

  “I haven’t read a novel since law school,” I said, “and that was something by John Grisham.”

  “I appreciate your honesty.” She returned to reading, and I went into the tiny snack-concession building.

  The limited space between stove, sink, fridge, and fryer meant that the large bodies of Stan and Sandralene were in intimate proximity—which seemed to suit both of them and their roving hands.

  “Hey, get a cabin!” I said. “Preferably at the Bigelow Junction Motor Lodge. I understand they could use the business.”

  Sandralene disengaged long enough to pour me a mug of coffee. “I hope you like it strong, Glen.”

  “Nuclear,” I said. “Stan, I want to run some things by you if you’ve got a minute—about Ray’s activities and some other stuff.”

  “Sure.” He swatted Sandralene’s butt, squeezed past her, and followed me outside. He spoke to Vee first.

  “Where’s the kid?”

  “He always stays up late and sleeps late.”

  “Well, get him awake pretty soon, if you can. Glen needs to talk to him.”

  As Vee went to wake our IT guru, I said to Stan, “Don’t you want to sit in on this strategy session, too?”

  “Glen boy, if I knew how to plant seductive shit on the internet, what would I need you or Ray for? No, you’re the expert at these kinda mind games, and I trust you totally. Either you come up with a winning plan that lures Nancarrow into our trap, or we try our best and still fall flat. Either way, I can’t contribute anything. I’m just the muscles and motivator and general heavy lifter and watchdog. I thought up the whole get-even scheme, didn’t I? That should be plenty.”

  “Okay, I’m going to take you at your word. Just don’t come whining if I fail.”

  Vee said, “I can help with this, I think.”

  Stan said, “Way to go, Vee! Two heads, and all that shit. Man, ol’ Barnaby doesn’t stand a chance now.”

  “I’ve got other stuff that needs doing, though. Maybe you could help with that.” I outlined my other chores.

  Stan took the business card for Elbert Tighe from me. “I’ll go visit this well digger and tell him what we need. Size him up and make sure he’s not a busybody. Gotta take the car into Centerdale anyhow.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, coupla things. You’ll see.”

  I regarded Stan dubiously, but he projected an air of innocent cooperativeness. “You’ll be back for supper?”

  “Sure. Sandralene’s coming with me, but she don’t mind cooking for us when we get back.”

  Soon, the Impala had rattled off in a skitter of dry pine needles and gravel. Vee and I, sitting side by side at the picnic table with a pad and two pencils, began to chart Nancarrow’s entrapment.

  Around noon, Ray joined us, still looking a little sleep-befuddled.

  “Hello, Glen. Hello, Vee. This country air is very conducive to drowsiness, I feel.”

  Armed with a mug of
coffee, he turned to his iPad. We wouldn’t need him till we had gotten things more nailed down.

  Working with Vee proved smooth and efficient. She had a sharp mind yet wasn’t attached to her own ideas, and we made good progress. We had ham-and-pickle sandwiches for lunch, then hit it again till midafternoon.

  I wanted a swim and almost asked Vee to accompany me. But nothing in our working together had softened the standoffish vibe she radiated, so I decided not to push.

  * * *

  My first plunge into Nutbush Lake was wonderful. The water was cool and slippery and refreshing and clean. I felt like a kid again and could see how Stan and Sandralene had been so giddy and boisterous in the water yesterday. The shoreline trees laid zones of darkness on the surface, surrounded by glimmers of sunlight. The world seemed complete, with no need for striving. I had a fleeting moment’s unease about the elaborate, dicey, probably dangerous scheme we were embarked on. Did we really need more than what we had right here? I floated on my back for a while, luxuriating in the sensation of cool ripples and warm sun. Then the urgency of our dwindling funds, and the allure of a cool five million and all the wonderful stuff it could buy, bestirred me. I swam for a bit, then emerged from the water.

  Barefoot, bare-chested, with a towel around my shoulders, I was heading toward my room when the Impala returned.

  Stan got out, Sandralene got out, and then a third person got out of the back seat.

  The newcomer was a young woman, holding a small duffel bag. Petite, trim figure, explosion of frizzy black hair, mocha skin, with an easy, uncoerced smile. She wore cutoff jeans and a ruffled purple crop top that exposed a smooth midriff.

  “Glen boy, this is Nellie! She’s gonna teach us Cape Verdean creole, night and day!”

  19

  Nélida Firmino, age twenty-one, was a nice girl from a nice family. Her father, Ivanildo, was a school custodian in Centerdale, beloved by all the children at Ronald Reagan Elementary. Her mother, Zahira, did not work outside the home but had her hands full raising Nellie’s four younger siblings: Adelma, Leidira, Roberto, and Justin. The youngest had apparently been christened after Justin Bieber. Mãe Firmino was also kept busy preparing large pots of cachupa that simmered more or less continuously on the stove top, filling the Firmino house with enticing scents of garlic, manioc, and plantains. The family had its roots in the city of Praia, on the island of Santiago. Nellie enjoyed the traditional morna music of Cape Verde, as typified by the singing of Cesária Évora, but she also favored modern American and K-pop girl bands such as Little Mix, AOA, and Fifth Harmony. Her best friend was another Caboverdeana named Celina, and Nellie would certainly miss their outings together to the mall, where they patronized Popeyes, Hot Topic, Wet Seal, and Hollister while scoping out the hot guys.