True Grift

by Jack Bunker

  Mack paced around the apartment. Aside from lingering post-op discomfort, he felt fine. He procrastinated as long as he could hold out, but he finally broke down and called his Coast Guard contact. The recruiter confirmed Mack’s injury was fatal to his chances of joining the Guard.

  Having run through every program on HBO at least twice, Mack sulked on the couch and flipped through a couple of off-road magazines he’d picked up at the Kwik Stop. One of them had a feature story about Pete Fruccione and his customizing business in Fontana. Frooch, as he was known, was standing in his spotless garage the size of an airplane hangar, his bare arms sleeved in tatts, a radically customized dune buggy in the background. The reflection from the chrome in the photograph looked so vivid, it almost hurt Mack’s eyes.

  Mack took the magazine into the kitchen with him as he mixed up a batch of margaritas in the blender. He missed the sounds of engines. He mashed the turbo button on the blender, the tiny motor shrieking as it crushed ice at 1,000 RPM. He poured a third of a bottle of Cuervo Gold into the sea-green vortex and watched it coast to a stop when he turned off the blender. He filled a stadium cup and went back out to the couch.

  Mack continued to flip through the story on Frooch. Not much of a story, just a bunch of pictures. There was one picture of Frooch with his arm around Johnny Ho that led to another story, an interview with Johnny Ho himself.

  Johnny Ho was the godfather of extreme desert sports in Southern California. Motocross, ATVs, dune buggy rallies... what Tony Hawk was to skateboards, Johnny Ho was to desert motors-ports. Mack read the story, scrutinizing the sidebars, looking for tips. There was a picture of Johnny strapped into an ultra-light as he flashed the shaka sign, his signature dragon helmet covered in sponsors’ decals, and the snow-capped peak of Mt. Baldy in the background. Johnny claimed his next goal was to get a drone, but fly it himself from the inside. Mack wondered how much a drone cost and where you got one.

  Al hated this part of the day, the part where he pulled into his driveway. The warping trusses and dusty studs of abandoned homes leered at him, his house standing out like a depressing afterthought. It reminded Al of those pictures in the paper when a tornado wipes out an entire town in Kentucky except for one house.

  Noticing a missed call from J.T., Al took a deep breath and rang back. When J.T. answered the phone on the third ring, it sounded to Al like J.T. was cooking spaghetti or something.

  “Saw a missed call,” said Al. “Left the phone in the car, sorry.”

  “That’s the least of our problems.”

  Al tossed his keys on his kitchen counter. “What now?” He opened a Coors Light from the refrigerator and sipped the foam escaping from the tab.

  “You talk to your friend Aza lately? Seems like he’s been sniffing around at Mira Vista.”

  Al choked on a mouthful of beer. “Are you serious?”

  “I thought you GSAC guys stayed on top of things. I’ll have to remember that next time I’m looking for a policy.”

  “Are you fucking with me? Aza was really out there?”

  “Heard it from Wanda herself.”

  Al couldn’t believe how calm J.T. was about this development. “He was talking to Wanda? Without you? Can he do that?”

  “Hell no, he can’t do that. Unfortunately, neither he nor Wanda seemed particularly concerned about it.”

  “You’re not concerned?”

  “You’re goddamn right I’m concerned. The thing is, even if I bring a beef to the ethics committee, if it went down like he and Wanda say it did, it’s not a violation. Neither one of them claims to know the other one was connected with the case.”

  “And you believe them?” Al rubbed his side where the rash felt like it could be coming back.

  “You’re missing the bigger picture.” J.T. expired one of his patronizing sighs on the other end. “Let’s give Aza the benefit of the doubt and say it was an innocent misunderstanding, that he really didn’t know it was Wanda he was talking to. Do you not see the problem?”

  “Why was he out there, then?”

  “Ah, so you do see it.”

  “Well?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. That’s why I called you in the first place.”

  “How the hell should I know? If he’s not allowed to talk to Mack or Wanda, what was he doing out there?”

  “He was looking for Buddy.”

  “Buddy? How would he know about Buddy?”

  “I don’t know, Al. That’s why I called.” Another sigh. “I’m thinking maybe somebody at Fuente Dorado tipped him off.”

  “His name wasn’t in the file, was it?” Al lifted his shirt and held his beer can against his skin. “I’m sure it wasn’t. I’d remember if it had been.”

  “Aza probably pieced it together. Buddy was with Mack when he pulled up in the golf cart. You don’t think maybe a couple of jamokes from the pro shop would remember a redneck and a black dude playing golf together on a course that costs three hundred bucks a round? Especially when the redneck gets his dick maimed by a tractor?”

  “So how does that lead Aza to the club?”

  “Jesus, where would you start if you wanted to look for a friend of Mack’s? It’s not like Aza’s a fucking mind reader. It’s a logical place to look.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Al shook the little remaining beer in the can. “So you think Buddy told him anything?”

  “I met with Buddy this morning. I asked him how the accident went down, but he said it just happened. Guy’s not much of a raconteur.”

  “So then everything’s okay? Jesus, you gave me a heart attack for nothing.”

  “Not so fast, my friend. First off, we don’t know if Aza talked to Buddy. If he has, there’s no telling what he might pick up.”

  That’s what Al had been worried about. Why was J.T. making him out to be such a dumbass?

  “Second, what we need to be doing is coordinating on what Aza’s strategy is. You see what I mean? Does he think causation’s the hook? He’s got to. The medicals are immaculate.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know you don’t know. What I’m telling you is that you need to find out. Aza’s not going to tell me, not yet anyway. You need to talk to him, figure out what weak spots he’s probing. Then we go to work on him. Convince him he’s off the mark and that this thing needs to settle before I go thermonuclear on his ass.”

  J.T. hung up. Al flopped on his living room sofa.

  Why couldn’t he have just gone to Weed?

  Unable to find Buddy in the greenskeeper’s shed, Hector returned to the pro shop and left his business card with the pro. After seeing a stack of scorecards by the register that showed a slope rating of 137 for the course, Hector also made a mental note to schedule a tee time in the near future.

  Hector drove the Crown Vic back to his office at the strip mall on Archibald. He lifted the file from the front seat and carried it into the office with him. He couldn’t deny that the injury was gruesome. Pictures aside, it was an awfully thin file on which to pay out nearly a million dollars.

  He waved at the Filipina girls in the nail salon as he opened the door to his office, converted from a former pet shop. Hector’s partner, Manu Kakar, sat at his desk, a desk like all the furniture in the office, picked up secondhand at a bankruptcy auction in San Bernardino. Manu was transfixed by the computer screen and didn’t react to Hector’s entry.

  “No news, I’m guessing, Manu,” said Hector.

  “No news,” said Manu, staring ahead at his screen.

  Hector thought about the guys at Fuente Dorado and their earthquake theory. He couldn’t deny it was conceivable. Tractor left in neutral on a hill. Minor seismic event starts the tractor into motion. Conceivable, maybe. But was GSAC really willing to pay out without even interviewing the only witness?

  “Manu,” said Hector. “You got a minute to research something for me?”

  Manu didn’t look up. “Yes.”

  “You follow earthquakes and hurr
icanes and stuff, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s got to be some website that has all kinds of earthquake data, right?”

  “U.S. Geological Survey. USGS.gov.”

  “Would you mind looking up for me whether there was an earthquake—even a minor one—on June tenth? Anywhere in Southern California.”

  “Okay.” Manu didn’t look up from his computer.

  Hector sat down at his desk with its chipped veneer. He spun around in his chair and pulled a Diet Coke from the mini refrigerator. He opened the file on the desk and flipped through the pages, ignoring the photographs of Mack McMahon’s disfigured penis.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Hector.

  “No seismic activity in Southern California on ten June. Quake in Iran. Temblor in Chile. Tremor in China. Nothing in California.”

  “Just like that? You already checked? You sure?”

  Manu was chewing on a plastic ballpoint pen and still staring at his computer screen that was again showing a giraffe stretching his tongue to reach leaves on a Joshua tree. “Yes.”

  While Manu’s Asperger’s syndrome had put him at a disadvantage in job interviews, his monomania and laconic small talk made him the ideal partner for Hector Aza.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The bottle of Cuervo was nearly empty by the time Wanda came home on Saturday evening. Mack had Willie Nelson blaring on the CD player when Wanda opened the door.

  “Jesus, turn that down, will you? What about the neighbors?”

  “Aw, fuck the neighbors,” said Mack. “This is Willie.”

  Wanda stepped over to the console and turned the volume down herself. “C’mon, it’s inconsiderate.”

  “Awright. Hell, you sat around this motherfucker by yourself all day, you’d be losing your mind too.”

  “Well, if I hadn’t been on my feet since five-thirty in the morning, I might be able to appreciate what a burden it is watching TV all day.”

  “Oh, I get it. This shit’s my fault.”

  “That’s not what I said.” Wanda pulled a glass, fork, and plate from the sink and loaded them into the dishwasher. “You talk to J.T. today?”

  “No, why?”

  “A lawyer for the insurance company came by the club today looking for Buddy.”

  “You serious?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he told me.”

  “Told you? You talked to him?” Mack took a long sip from his tequila.

  “Yeah, I talked to him. The guy ordered lunch and we started talking. That’s when he said he was working for GSAC and investigating the claim.”

  “Investigating? He said investigating?”

  “No, he didn’t say investigating. I said investigating. It’s called paraphrasing. The guy wanted to talk to Buddy. You think he was looking for tips on how to charge a golf cart?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Maybe you should call Buddy. Find out if he talked to the guy.” Wanda finished wiping down the kitchen counter and spread the dishtowel over the faucet. “I’m going for a swim.”

  While Wanda changed in the bedroom, Mack dialed Buddy’s cell phone. “Yo, man, you talk to that lawyer from the insurance company?”

  “Naw. I heard he’s looking for me, but I never saw him. Been out fucking with the irrigation all day. I ain’t called him yet.”

  “Look here,” Mack said, looking down at the pool from the kitchen window, “why don’t you swing by the crib? Wanda’s getting ready to go down to the pool. I’ll make us up some margaritas and shit.”

  “You serious?”

  “Shit yeah. Why not?”

  “Awright then.”

  “Oh, and Buddy…stop off and get a bottle of tequila, would you?”

  Wanda was still swimming laps when Buddy arrived with a bottle of some off-brand silver tequila. Mack shook his head. That’s what I get for asking a black guy to pick up tequila. Mack mixed up another pitcher of margaritas and filled three stadium cups to the rim. He and Buddy carried them down to the pool, and Mack set down one of the cups on the mottled safety-glass table near the rubber-banded chaise lounges.

  Wanda glided into the wall on her final lap and stood up in the waist-deep water of the pool’s shallow end. She shook her head and waved when she saw Buddy sitting with Mack by the table. There was no one else at the pool.

  “Brought you a margarita,” said Mack.

  “Thanks,” said Wanda. She crossed her arms and leaned on the edge of the pool. Her maroon bathing suit was stretched taut front and back. She laid her head on her arms and blew out her cheeks. “Getting old,” she said.

  “Not hardly,” said Buddy, grinning.

  Mack picked up Wanda’s drink and carried it over to where she kicked her legs gently in the pool. Her legs were long enough that her lampshade thighs were still in proportion. Her back and shoulders were clearly bigger than either Mack’s or Buddy’s.

  Buddy shook his head as Mack walked back to the chair. “Man, I still can’t believe you wound up with that,” Buddy said out of the side of his mouth.

  “Yeah. That and a broke dick.”

  “I hear you,” said Buddy. “Still, you finish your rehab or whatever, you gonna be sitting pretty, you know what I’m saying?”

  Mack shook his head. “Shit. She didn’t want nothing to do with me before. Only thing I’m getting from this is out of the fuckin’ Coast Guard.”

  Wanda climbed out of the pool and wrapped herself in a light blue bath sheet. She bent down to pick up her drink.

  Buddy clucked his tongue. “Unh!”

  “Shit, maybe you shoulda married her ’stead a me.”

  “I know that’s right.”

  “’Course you’d have to get a new wardrobe when she stretched all your clothes out.”

  Buddy frowned at Mack as Wanda approached. “Man, you need to shut the fuck up,” Buddy whispered.

  Mack took a quick sip off his margarita. “Hey, you see the latest copy of Off-Road?”

  “I’m around golf carts all fucking day. What I want to look at a bunch of trucks for?”

  Wanda sat on a chaise lounge and adjusted the back. The sun was setting and lightning bugs were starting to appear.

  “They got a big fuckin’ spread of Johnny Ho in there. Guy’s gonna get himself a drone, man. Just fuckin’ buzz all around the desert and shit. Probably start a whole drone-racing circuit.”

  Buddy was staring at Wanda’s cleavage as she unwrapped her bath sheet and toweled off her hair. “Uh-huh.”

  “Shit, man, now that the Coast Guard’s fucked, maybe that’s what I’ll do. Open up a customizing place like Frooch.”

  “See?” said Wanda. “There you go.”

  “Anyway,” said Mack, “I get Johnny Ho wearing some of my decals and shit and I’ll have motherfuckers coming out of the woodwork. Hell, I already got the McMahon 3000. That can be my launching pad.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Buddy, smiling at Wanda as she again wrapped the towel around her torso and tucked the remaining bit between her breasts.

  “That sounds like a great idea,” said Wanda.

  “Yeah,” said Mack, sipping his drink. “So did getting married.”

  “Wow,” said Wanda, “you did have a tough day at the office.”

  “Yo, man, chill,” said Buddy.

  “Fuck that, man. What do I have to chill about? That asshole J.T. don’t want me to leave the house. Stuck in a fucking one-bedroom apartment all day with a broke dick, and now my wife wants to bust my balls about not working?”

  “Relax,” said Wanda. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck that. You think I asked for this shit? Goddamn, man.” Mack shook his head. “I just wanted to join the fucking Coast Guard, not wind up married to some dude and be a fucking cripple.” Mack threw back the rest of his drink.

  Buddy looked at Wanda. She tucked her lips within her teeth for a second, then offere
d a wounded smile to Buddy before she stood up and walked through the gate and back to the apartment.

  “Man, that shit was uncool,” said Buddy.

  “What? Shit, man, she thinks I like sitting home all day? I ain’t no fucking bum, man. I work.”

  “Why you want to say that foolishness about her being a dude, man? That shit was not nice.”

  “Aw, hell, ain’t like she’s never heard that before.”

  “That don’t make it right.” Buddy stood up. “I gotta get going anyway.”

  “C’mon, man, stick around. I’ll make some more margaritas. It’ll be cool, don’t worry.”

  Buddy shook his head. “Naw, I gotta pick up my auntie anyway.” Buddy slapped hands with Mack and slipped through the gate, leaving Mack alone on the pool deck with three empty plastic cups.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Marino Vargas leaned on the wall of Al’s cubicle. “You’ve got to give me an answer. They’re going to announce today that the merger’s going through.”

  Al rubbed at his side. God, it sure felt like the shingles were coming back. “I know, I know.”

  “Just tell me: What’s holding you back? Are you interviewing somewhere else or something? You can tell me.”

  Al’s shoulders slumped. “No, it’s not that. It’s just the fucking house, man. I’m underwater by a hundred grand, and I know I’ll never rent it for enough to cover my nut.”

  “I hate to do this, but time’s up, man. Shit or get off the pot.”

  As he rubbed his ribs, Al thought about trying to start his Camry in the dead of winter in Weed, California. Fuck it. He’d have to get a 4x4. In those mountains? With that snow? Before he’d started with J.T., he’d thought about looking into a short sale, but he’d given up on that once he’d convinced himself that a $50,000 payday was just a month away. Now it was too late for a short sale to make a difference.

  “I guess I’ve got to pass. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it. Stuff works out. It’s not like SAICO’s closing down the office tomorrow.”

  Later that morning, Al received an e-mail copy of the press release issued by corporate and filed with the SEC announcing the merger. The press release e-mail was followed by a blast e-mail to hundreds of GSAC employees, informing them of a reduction in force upon completion of the merger with SAICO and including a link to the GSAC’s outplacement services webpage.