by Jack Bunker
“You’re still there? You’re telling me you’re still at fucking Hooters and with the guy that caused your accident? Are you fucking shitting me?”
“What’s the big deal?”
“Jesus Christ.”
J.T. hung up.
TWELVE
How had he ever gotten mixed up with such a pack of mindless turds? He was pulling the plug on this bullshit in the morning, that much was for sure. What had he been thinking?
He thought about driving straight to Al’s house, even though it was midnight. That cocksucker didn’t return his calls? The guy that put this whole thing together? Fuck Al.
Then J.T. remembered the five grand from the envelope. He’d already decided Al was only getting four back. Then it hit him. He’d just call Al in the morning and say he’d given the doc the money already. Can’t ask for it back; the guy would just blackmail us if we tried to pull that one. No, tough shit. This thing was a clusterfuck from the word go.
J.T. Edwards was done.
After a couple tumblers of vodka and the cell phone forgotten in the console of his car, Al just zoned out until 1:00 a.m., flipping around watching movies. When he finally did get up to go to bed, he still got no sleep. He would have carved his skin off with a steak knife if he could. The rash had now come into full bloom. Tiny blisters were erupting all over his ribcage and down to his waist.
He thought about calling in sick to work, but he was so punchy from the lack of sleep, he’d forgotten it was Saturday. He also remembered he’d never heard from J.T. What was he hiding now?
He noticed the car keys on the counter where he usually left his cell phones. Shit. He’d left the phones in the car all night. He went out to the garage. Sure enough, a missed call from J.T.
“I called last night. You didn’t call me back.”
“Yeah, sorry. I was in the shower and then got distracted. I got some kind of rash—”
“Save it. You playing golf today?”
“No chance. I told you, I got this rash and—”
“Whatever. You might as well meet me at the 19th Hole. I’ll be there at nine.”
“What are you talking about? You said we should never meet.”
Al grimaced as he reached for a coffee mug. The blisters felt like they were popping open and hot grease splattering his entire torso.
“That was before,” said J.T. “I’m out.”
Al got to the 19th Hole first. A few players were grabbing breakfast before they went out; others were loading up on screwdrivers and bloody marys in big white Styrofoam cups. As usual, Wanda was behind the bar.
“Jesus, don’t you ever leave here?” said Al.
Wanda smiled as she looked up from stacking mugs behind the bar. “Morning, Al. Doesn’t seem like it, does it? What can I get you?”
“Coffee, please. Black.”
Wanda turned a mug over and poured a cup of coffee. “Yeah, back when I was a paralegal, I used to get nights off, weekends off, had a dental plan—the whole works.”
Al lifted his mug. The right side of his torso felt hotter than the coffee. “Uh-huh.”
“I can’t afford to take a shift off now.”
“Yeah, well, recession hit everybody.”
“I’m just saying I wasn’t always a waitress is all.”
Al popped two more Advil in his mouth. He’d already taken two an hour ago. He pulled the waistband of his chinos away from his hip. The little blisters were now raised purple spots. Al ground his molars and winced. Wanda kept babbling.
“I remember once we had a case, some guy fell down an escalator at the San Bernardino mall. Broke his arm and his collarbone and busted his spleen. Had one of those braces on his arm out to here.” Wanda held her arm up at a ninety-degree angle. “We sued the mall and the escalator company. The guy not only got a jury verdict, his wife got her own claim for loss of consortium. You believe that?”
Al’s eyes were watering from the pain. He couldn’t believe he had to sit here and listen to this big heifer ramble.
“Jesus, you liked being a paralegal so much, why don’t you just go back to it?”
“Whoa. Somebody got up under the wrong rock this morning.”
“You realize every time you open your mouth, it’s about how you used to be a paralegal?”
“Okay, Al. I hear you.” Wanda’s eyes glistened. She blinked a couple of times and walked back to the kitchen. She returned a minute later with two plates of eggs that she took to some old-timers sitting by the window. She returned to the bar and continued putting away glasses.
Al shifted in his seat. God, they were all so fucking sensitive. “I’m sorry. I just—”
The door opened and J.T. walked in and straight to the bar.
“Wanda, can I get a cup of coffee, please, sweetheart?”
Wanda looked at Al, then back at J.T. “Coming right up.” She managed a weak smile as she poured the coffee.
J.T. took his coffee and headed for an empty table in the corner and sat down facing the wall. Al followed him.
“What’s going on?” said Al. “What happened?”
“What happened is that pinhead blew up the whole fucking thing, that’s what happened.” J.T. sipped his coffee. He was breathing fast through his nose like he’d just run in from the eleventh hole.
“How?”
“After he got hit by the carts, he went out drinking with Buddy…the supposedly random guy that accidentally hit him with a bunch of shopping carts in the Van Slaters parking lot.”
“Jesus.” Al sighed. Even that hurt. He hung his head and stared into his coffee. “Maybe nobody saw him.”
“The carts busted his headlight. He got a fucking ticket five minutes later for driving at night with his headlight out. Driving, I might add, to the fucking Hooters to drink beer with his assailant.”
“But if nobody can put them together—”
“You’re not hearing me, Al. I’m out.”
“But the five grand—”
“That’s gone. I had to pay Sonu up front.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Chugh. The guy that was going to play ball with us on the medical. I gave it to him last night. You remember—when you declined to return my call last night?”
“Listen, you need to get that back.”
“I can’t go back to him now. He knows what’s up. He’ll just blackmail us for more if we fuck around with him.”
“Blackmail us for what? Nothing’s happened.”
“I appreciate that you didn’t go to law school, but you do watch TV, right? You know how they always talk about conspiracy? It’s a real thing. This bullshit right here? Me, you, Mack, Chugh? That’s a conspiracy. You go to jail for that shit.” J.T. blew across his cup and sipped his coffee. “No. We are not fucking around with Sonu Chugh for five grand.” He sipped his coffee again.
The door to the 19th Hole opened and yellow daylight spilled into the room. Then it got dark.
“I think we got a bigger problem,” said Al.
“What’s that?”
“Howdy, partners.”
THIRTEEN
The chair that Frankie Fresh pulled up to the table groaned as he sat down. J.T. was sure it would splinter like a model airplane, but it held fast.
“Hey, Wanda?” Frankie hollered over his shoulder. “Can you set me up over here?”
Wanda gave Frankie a thumbs-up and turned to carry the order back to the kitchen.
J.T. looked at Al for some hint as to why this asshole was sitting at the table.
Frankie leaned forward onto his elbows. “So, boys, how’s ol’ Operation Flop Shot this morning?”
“Not good, Frank,” said Al.
“That doesn’t sound right.” Frankie clapped J.T. on the back, nearly causing him to spill his coffee. “That sound right to you, pard?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Why do you keep calling me partner and pard?”
“Well, why not? We’re all friends here, aren’t we? All co-ventu
rers in a for-profit enterprise.”
J.T.’s lips parted. He looked again at Al.
“Um, Frankie’s kind of on board with the scam,” said Al.
“Now what are you talking about? What scam?”
“Easy, counselor,” said Frankie, “we’re all adults here. Better you keep your voice down, lest any of the duffers get the wrong idea.”
“Al? What the fuck?”
“Frankie’s in for eight points. Plus he’s fronting us expenses.”
“For a modest consideration,” Frankie added.
“Yeah, for a modest consideration,” Al repeated.
J.T. sneered with the sardonic smile he used to give juries when he was cross-examining some defendant’s damages expert. He relaxed as it dawned on him that no matter what this idiot thought, J.T. himself would have no more responsibility for this farce. “Well, that’s great, but eight points of nothing is still nothing. I told you. I’m out.”
“Not so fast, counselor.” Frankie put his hand on J.T.’s forearm. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you and maybe I can help straighten out any kinks in the tactical approach.”
J.T. threw a blank look back at Frankie. “I am out.”
Frankie stared into J.T.’s bloodshot eyes with the same unblinking gaze he’d given Al the day before. “I’m sure I must not have been clear. Let’s start over, because there seems to be some confusion about things.”
Wanda came over with her tray and rested it on an adjacent table. She served Frankie a plate of six eggs over a double order of corned beef hash, plus a basket of toast, a side of hash browns, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee.
“What, you’re out of wildebeest?” said J.T.
Frankie exploded with a deep bellow and slapped the table, shaking it. “Wildebeest!” He clapped J.T. on the shoulder, laughing. “That’s a good one.”
Wanda picked up the carafe of coffee and warmed J.T.’s cup. Al slid his cup toward her to be topped off too. Wanda ignored him and walked away.
“Wildebeest,” Frankie said, still chuckling, still jiggling. He picked up a piece of toast and speared one of the egg yolks resting on the steaming mound of hash. “You are a funny guy, counselor.”
“Thanks,” said J.T. Al fidgeted in his seat like ants were crawling on him, annoying J.T. still further.
“Here’s the deal, Ace,” Frankie said. “Your friend and I had a long talk yesterday about spheres of influence, zones of enterprise, and the like. Bottom line is, I will be participating in your score. Boyo here says you’re looking to bag a hundred large.” Frankie stirred some ruptured yolk into a crispy edge of corned beef. “A typical finder’s fee is ten percent. I’m a fellow golfer and sportsman, so I’m only taking eight.” Frankie used a piece of toast to push a heap of hash onto his fork and looked up at J.T. as he shoveled it into his mouth. “As I explained to young Alvin here, I can assure you that my own associate, Mr. Fegangi, would himself insist on a far, far larger share.” Frankie speared another egg yolk and crammed the triangle of toast into his mouth. “A far larger share.”
And there it was. The magic word. Fegangi. The terror J.T. could now see in Al’s eyes now not only made sense, it paralyzed J.T. himself. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. J.T. had never even considered that Frankie was really connected. How could J.T. have been so stupid? How could he have been taken in by that idiotic Irish blather act? Of course if he was making book, he had to be Mobbed up somehow. Why had he never seen it? Vinnie Fangs. Fuck.
“I hear you,” said J.T., his pulse throbbing inside his collar. “I really do. But you’ve got to believe me, this is a total fuckup. You don’t want any part of it. Our patsy is a complete idiot. He’s going to get us all sent to prison.”
“Okay, counselor. Now I hear you.” Frankie scooped up a bale of hash browns with his fork. He shoved the wad into his mouth and chewed a couple of times before he started talking again. “A couple of things.” Frankie ran his tongue around his cheek and swallowed. “First, I don’t go to prison. Maybe you do, I don’t know. But I don’t, so let’s take that off the table right away.” Frankie sipped his coffee. “Second, you tell me this thing is hopelessly fucked up and won’t work, I guess I got no choice but to believe you.”
J.T.’s shoulders relaxed. Al sighed. Frankie scooped up a mouthful of hash dripping shiny yellow egg yolk.
“But here’s the thing. I know you guys saw Goodfellas. You gotta know how this works. You don’t want to go ahead with the deal, that’s your prerogative.” Frankie finished chewing his hash and swallowed it. “I still get paid, though.” He stifled a demure burp while he gazed at his plate, trying to decide between the hash and hash browns.
J.T.’s jaw dropped. “You’re shaking us down for eight grand for a scam we didn’t even run?”
Frankie stopped chewing the hash browns that puffed out his left cheek. His eyebrows converged in a malevolent V shape. “I’ll give you a moment to reflect on what a poor choice of words that is to impute to your business partner.”
J.T. looked at Al. “Say something.”
“I got a rash.”
J.T. looked up at the ceiling. Who did I murder in a past life? He looked at Frankie. “Even if I wanted to go along with this, I don’t have eight grand to give you.”
“Thirteen.”
“Excuse me?”
“Eight plus the five I fronted Patient Zero here.”
“What?” Now what the fuck is he talking about? Am I losing my fucking mind? Is this really happening?
“The five grand you gave the doc,” said Al. “That was from Frankie. Like I said, he’s fronting the expenses.”
“When were you planning to tell me all this?”
“When you were in a better mood, I guess.”
J.T. looked up at the ceiling again. He bit his lip.
“And don’t forget the vig, boys.” Frankie had inhaled the entire platter of food and was now wiping his plate with his last buttered piece of rye toast. “A point a week on the principal.”
Frankie knocked back his cup of coffee and started working his chair away from the table enough for him to stand. He steadied himself as he rose, using J.T.’s shoulder to lean on. J.T. almost collapsed under the weight.
Frankie wiped his mouth with a green linen napkin. “I’ll leave you two alone to sort this out.” He dropped the napkin in his chair and lumbered out to the parking lot.
Al jumped up from the table. “I gotta go to the bathroom. These things are killing me.” He trotted down the hallway toward the locker room. “I’ll be right back,” he hollered over his shoulder.
J.T. sat alone facing the wall. The greasy carcass of Frankie’s breakfast cooled on the table. Wanda came over and topped off J.T.’s coffee.
J.T. couldn’t even look up.
FOURTEEN
Al took off his shirt, unzipped his pants, and stood in front of the mirror in the locker room. The rash had now completely covered the right side of his torso. The little red bumps had become blisters, then little purple spots. Not to mention they hurt like hell. Al imagined some kind of jungle rot Marines would have gotten at Guadalcanal. But the closest Al Boyle had been to Guadalcanal was Pismo Beach.
The only thing that distracted him from the discomfort of the rash was imagining the hurt that a disgruntled Frankie Fresh might be willing to lay on him. Al was shamed by the knowledge that if he hadn’t been such a chickenshit, he could’ve held onto that five grand. At least then they wouldn’t be thirteen grand in the hole. Christ, if he’d had thirteen thousand bucks, he wouldn’t have bothered approaching J.T. with the scam in the first place.
J.T. was going to go nuts now, that much Al knew. He wanted to bail on the thing, and now Frankie’s telling him he can’t. Al also knew that J.T. would blame him, even though it was J.T. who’d been responsible for selecting and then coaching Mack; it was J.T. who’d handed $6,000 to Dr. Taliban, no questions asked. Or so he claimed. Al was beginning to wonder: if he was as broke as Frankie suggested,
where did J.T. come up with a thousand in cash to make up the difference?
Al stood half naked in front of the mirror, reworking the breakdown of the splits. If they tried again and could settle for 110, but told Frankie it was only 100, that still meant a net of 97. If they split that three ways, that meant a little over thirty-two grand each. It was tempting to try to push the envelope of the settlement, but with all that seemed to be dooming this scam, Al knew, if anything, they should be going lower, not higher.
He thought about J.T.’s lecture about conspiracy. Not only were they in a conspiracy, now they’d even gotten the Mob pulled in with that warthog, Frankie Fresh. It was too bad he couldn’t sign off on a higher settlement and stick that fat fuck with his eight points on a hundred grand. Al had been hungry when he woke up, but seeing that gelatinous mass choke down a five-thousand-calorie breakfast had killed his appetite.
He pictured Wanda turning around when he’d stuck his coffee cup out for a refill. What was her problem? It wasn’t Al’s fault she never shut up. He pictured her holding her arm out like a broken puppet. Then it hit him.
He winced as he zipped up his trousers. His eyes watered when he slipped into his shirt. He gritted his teeth walking back to the table where J.T. sat still staring at the wall.
Al whimpered slightly as he pulled out a chair and sat down. He leaned toward J.T. and said in a stage whisper, “I’ve got an idea.”
“Have you and the universe not fucked me enough for one lifetime?”
“Listen, unless you’ve got thirteen grand that I don’t have, it might be in your interest to pay attention.”
J.T. turned his head and glared at Al. “What?”
Al leaned in closer and whispered, “Loss of consortium.”
FIFTEEN
In researching the Van Slaters flop, Al had chosen the grocery store as the simplest claim to manufacture. Now that the claim was to be more complicated, the whole strategy was due for a makeover.
“Are you familiar with El Fuente Dorado in Palm Desert?” Al asked J.T.