“Yeah,” said Jorge, turning over the flyer. “What the hell is a pearl serpent?”
“It’s my band.”
“I know that. But what does it mean? Like the Beatles spelled their name funny as a play on the word ‘beat.’”
“I didn’t know that,” said Steve. “That true?”
“I swear to Caleximus,” said Jorge.
Steve and Jerry stared at him.
“To God. I swear to God,” blurted Jorge.
“What’s a Caleximus?” said Lloyd.
“It’s a kind of booze,” said Jerry looking at the others.
Jorge nodded. “Yeah. Cheap south-of-the-border stuff. You swear to it and if you’re lying, you’ve got to drink a shot.”
“It gives you a bitch of a headache,” said Steve.
“Awesome,” said Lloyd. “You have some? I have some beers outside. We could party.”
“Maybe later,” said Steve, shooting Jorge the evil eye. Jorge returned the look with a grim, hangdog nod.
“So, is there anything else?” said Lloyd.
“We never really resolved the Pearl Serpent question,” said Jorge.
“Are you serious?” said Steve.
“Sue me. I want to know.”
“It’s just the band, man,” said Lloyd a little desperately. “You know. Whitesnake. Pearl Serpent. Get it?”
“Oh yeah,” Jorge said. “What kind of music is it?”
“Metal.”
“Hair metal,” said Jerry.
“Hey man, metal is metal,” said Lloyd.
“Not if you’re dressed up in a leotard like my mom doing aerobics.”
“It’s Spandex and it’s expensive. And chicks dig it.”
“In 1989. You guys play a lot of old-folks’ homes?”
“Pearl Serpent kicks ass,” shouted Lloyd.
Steve put up his hands. “Let’s everybody take a breath and talk this over. Now Jerry, even though hair metal isn’t your favorite, you have to admit that some of it is, in fact, capable of kicking some amount of ass.”
“If you say so,” mumbled Jerry.
“What?”
“Hair metal kicks ass. Some.”
“And Lloyd,” said Steve. “You have to admit that hair metal is a bit on the nostalgic side and a boy like Jerry, raised on more contemporary forms of the metal arts, might not immediately be able to appreciate all the nuances of your particular version.”
“I guess so,” said Lloyd uncertainly. He took his hands out of his pockets, crossed his arms, stood there silently. He went up on the balls of his feet, then down again. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “So, um, about the other thing Tommy mentioned.”
Tommy bumped his shoulder against Lloyd’s. “He’s being all shy about it, but he wants to know what we’re prepared to give him for all his awesome help.”
But something had caught Steve’s eye. He pointed to a spot on the drawing. “What’s an Eric?”
Lloyd looked and said, “Exit. It’s an emergency exit.”
Steve nodded. “The grease stain makes it look like Eric. Emergency Eric. Hey, that should be your name in the band. It’s a little more rock and roll than Lloyd, don’t you think?”
“That’s actually not too bad.”
“So, what is it you’d like, Emergency Eric? What’s getting inside going to cost us?”
Lloyd shuffled from foot to foot. He started to say something and stopped. Finally, he crossed his arms and said, “Ten thousand dollars.”
Steve and the others laughed lightly.
“Son, do we look like we have ten thousand dollars lying around? The last time I saw ten thousand dollars was in a Clint Eastwood movie.”
“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” said Jerry.
“That’s the one. Now, tell me what it is you really want so we can get things rolling.”
Lloyd swallowed and looked at Tommy, who gave him a thumbs-up. With the plan suddenly getting real, Lloyd wasn’t sure he wanted to be there anymore.
“You know, I blew off band rehearsal to come here tonight,” he said.
“And we appreciate that,” said Steve. “But we still don’t have ten thousand dollars.”
Lloyd was sweating. What he really wanted to do was go home, open up the sofa bed, crawl in, and pull the covers up over his head. Instead, he stood up straight.
“Five,” said Lloyd.
Steve shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
“Be serious, Lloyd,” said Tommy.
“Yeah. You might as well ask for one of our trucks,” said Jerry.
Lloyd looked around, trying to think, but he didn’t have a lot of business experience. A week earlier, he’d bought a color TV off a guy in a truck and when he got home all he found inside the box were bricks and a pack of Skittles, and even those were stale.
Steve leaned on the table. “That’s not a bad idea, son,” he said to Jerry. “What about it, Lloyd? That band of yours have a van to haul equipment? I bet a truck would come in handy.”
Lloyd scratched the back of his neck. “Huh. A truck? You serious?”
“As the clap, Lloyd. There’s one right outside. It’s not brand new, mind you. It’s got a few miles on it, but it’s clean and runs like a dream. It even has a camper shell you can put over the back so your tight pants won’t get wet.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jerry. “That sounds like my truck. You can’t give away my truck.”
Steve took Jerry’s arm and steered him over to a far corner of the room.
“I know it’s your truck, but don’t forget. The Apocalypse is coming. The end of days. When Caleximus gets here and turns this world into burnt toast on a hot road, where you going to drive the thing? Give the baby what he wants. Until we summon Caleximus, you can borrow your mom’s car.”
Jerry looked over at the men and back at his father. A note of desperation crept into his voice. “I can’t drive around town in that little shoebox. It’s yellow. And why my truck? Why not yours or Jorge’s?”
“Jorge didn’t lose the boar and try to feed our Lord corn chips. This is your chance to step up for the cause.”
Jerry sighed and looked at his father, feeling utterly defeated. There was no talking him out of anything when he was in Crusade mode. “Okay. Let him have it.”
“Good boy.”
“But you’re never going to bring up the corn chips again, okay?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Okay.”
Steve went back to the table with his arm around Jerry’s shoulder. “The boy has something to tell you, Lloyd.”
Jerry mumbled, “You can have my truck. It’s the F-150 by the gate.” He pulled his key ring from his pocket slowly, like he was hauling a body out of a swamp with a fishing hook on a piece of string. He handed the keys to Lloyd. “The registration is in the glove compartment.”
Lloyd smiled and took the keys. “The band’s going to love you for this, man,” said Tommy.
“This is so cool. Thanks,” said Lloyd.
Steve folded up the floor plans and put them in his back pocket. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.” He held out his hand and the two men shook.
“Let’s go have a look at your new truck,” said Tommy.
Before they left the office, Lloyd said, “Don’t lose those flyers. We’re playing a show this Saturday night. You ought to come. The flyers will get you half off the cover charge.”
“That sounds swell. Looking forward to it,” said Steve.
After they left Jerry said, “We’re not really going to see Lloyd’s band, are we?”
“Hell no,” said his father. “If things go like we planned them, by Saturday the world will be one big ball of fire and we’ll take our place with the other chosen ones.”
“Hail Caleximus,” said Jorge.
“Hail Caleximus,” said Jerry.
“Hail Caleximus,” said Steve. “And fuck hair metal.”
THIRTEEN
COOP HAD
HOPED HE’D NEVER FIND HIMSELF IN THE Grande Old Tyme again, but the drinks were cheap and it was easy for everyone to get to and in a bar full of career drinkers, the lightweights like the bunch at his table were generally ignored. He and Morty were there, as well as Sally Gifford and Tintin. They were at a table in the back corner of the place. Coop sat with his back to the wall, a habit he’d picked up in Surf City. But he was trying hard not to think about prison right now.
“This is a charming place you picked out,” said Sally. “You two big spenders must be knee-deep in pussy.”
Looking around, Morty said defensively, “It’s not that bad.”
“Yes, it is,” said Coop. He looked at Sally. “We didn’t choose the place for its ambiance. It’s low key and no one we know comes here.”
“Color me shocked,” said Sally. She had short hair dyed sapphire blue and wore a gray and black Pendleton shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Too bad this isn’t up in San Francisco,” said Tintin. “Those tech types? They love dive bars. You could charge them twenty bucks for a can of Pabst. Call it an ‘artisanal classic.’”
“Seriously?” said Sally.
“Seriously.”
“Fucking idiots.”
“Which is why I’m down here with you nice people, getting a breath of fresh, clean L.A. air.”
Tintin was a large, bearded man in a black dress shirt and chinos. Coop tried not to stare, but he had a hard time picturing a store where a guy as big as Tintin could find such non-comical clothing. He imagined a special boutique for giants, one where the clothes racks had elevators, the shoes could double as canoes, and eagles built their nests high up in the light fixtures.
“Did everyone have a good flight down? How’s your hotel?” said Morty.
Sally and Tintin glanced at each other.
“I’ve stayed in worse places,” Tintin said noncommittally.
“So have I, but I didn’t think it would be on this job. There’s hardly any hot water and the ice machine is so old I think I found a dinosaur skull inside,” said Sally.
“Okay, so it’s not the most up-to-date place in L.A. Sorry,” said Morty. “Our client is financing the job, and you know rich people. Penny-pinchers, all of them.”
Coop took a swig of his whiskey sour. It didn’t taste any worse than the last time, just sadder. Like it was embarrassed to be there. He made a mental note to never let Morty order drinks for them in the future. “With luck, you won’t be suffering long. The job happens tomorrow night.”
Sally frowned. “Really? What’s the rush?”
“Because the client wants it before the next new moon, and we want his money, correct?”
The others nodded.
Coop handed large brown envelopes to Sally and Tintin. “These are copies of the layout of the Blackmoore Building. Take a look at them. Memorize them if you can. Getting inside looks pretty straightforward, and I’d like everyone to get out, too. Especially me.”
“Ditto that,” said Sally. “Except for the me part. I’m my me part.”
“Me, too. Me, that is,” Tintin said.
“Me—” Marty started.
“I get it,” Coop said. “Let’s focus.”
“How long do you think the job will take?” said Tintin.
“In and out should be less than thirty minutes, but there’s some dead time between when we go in and when we do the job.”
Tintin leaned his enormous elbows on the table. “What kind of dead time?”
“Well, there’s a distraction to keep the heat off us,” said Morty.
“What kind of distraction?” said Sally.
“The loud kind. There’ll be alarms going off somewhere else,” said Coop. “Once Morty gets us through the door, we’ll head up the service stairway on foot.”
“How far up?” Sally sipped her martini, made a face, and pushed it away. “How can you fuck up a martini?”
“Bad gin,” said Tintin. “You ever taste the stuff that comes with a plastic top? Forget it. It’s like sucking on a G.I. Joe.”
Morty raised his eyebrows. “You suck on G.I. Joes a lot?”
“When I was a kid,” said Tintin. “They didn’t make pacifiers big enough for me, so mom got used action figures at Goodwill for me to gnaw on.”
“Used ones? That’s gross,” said Sally. “Who knows what kind of germs they had?”
“Looking back, I’d have preferred new ones.”
“It looks like the germs didn’t stunt your growth, so you’re probably fine,” said Coop. “Can we get back to the job?”
“Sorry,” said Tintin.
“Like I said, once we’re inside, we’ll go up on foot to the ninth floor. We can’t use the elevators. When the distraction happens, security might lock them down.”
“Or use the elevators themselves,” said Sally.
“That would be good for us. We can cut the electrical system and lock them inside.”
“How?”
“We’ll have Jiminys with us.”
“They’ll gobble up everything electrical,” said Morty.
“I know. And everything else,” Sally said.
Tintin held up his hands, palms out. “As long as someone else carries them and you keep them clear of me. Those things make my skin crawl.”
Sally made a face like she’d just tried to gargle with kimchi. “Me, too. I know they’re little and all, but they remind me of those giant bug movies I watched with my dad. The Beginning of the End. Black Scorpion.”
“Earth vs. The Spider,” said Tintin.
“Mothra,” said Morty.
Sally stared at Morty. “Mothra scared you? It’s about a giant moth. They’re the teddy bears of the bug world.”
He shrugged. “Bears scare me too. Did you know more people are killed by bears every year than by sharks? That’s what bears are: furry sharks, but with hands.”
“Them,” said Tintin. “Giant ants under L.A.”
“Oh God. Don’t get me started on that movie. I swear, I slept with my parents for a week,” said Sally.
“Tarantula,” said Morty.
Tintin groaned. Sally shook her head as he said it.
“I’ll carry them,” said Coop as forcefully as he could without shouting. The other three looked at him. “I’ll carry the Jiminys. Problem solved.”
“Sorry,” said Morty.
“Touchy,” said Sally.
Coop shook his head. “We’re each set to make seventy-five grand from this job. With that kind of money, we can all take vacations, watch Attack of the Giant Ladybug, and talk to a shrink about our various insect phobias.”
“Fine,” said Tintin. “Let’s talk about me. I get that you need a Handyman on the job, and I’m as good at spotting and killing supernatural traps as anyone. But Morty made it sound like you might want more than that.”
“Not if things go according to plan,” said Coop.
“And if they don’t?”
Morty swirled the ice in his glass around. “The thing is, we haven’t exactly worked with this client before. I have it on good authority that he’s totally, one-hundred-percent legit, but if he isn’t . . .”
“Or if there’s something wrong with the plans,” Coop added. “Or if the Jiminys don’t take out all the alarms and security shows up. It would be nice to have a plan B.”
“And that’s me,” said Tintin.
“Right.”
“I thought I was plan B,” said Sally. “On the way out, I’m going to fog anyone’s brain in the vicinity. No one will see us coming out of the building. I can do it as long as we need.”
“No. You’re part of plan A. Plan B is where things mess up bad.”
Sally shook her head. “You have such a downer attitude these days, Coop. You used to be a lot more fun.”
“Jail has a way of sucking the merriment out of you,” he said.
“Then that’s what you’ll do on your vacation. We’ll lie on the couch and talk about bugs and you can see a shrink abou
t getting un-Scrooged.”
Coop fished the cherry out of his drink and was about to toss it on the floor, but Sally plucked it from his hand. “Waste not, want not,” she said.
“That’s what they say,” Coop said. “And I’m not a Scrooge. Besides, what does it matter? It’s after Christmas.”
“Yeah, but with an attitude like that who’s going to be your Valentine?” said Sally.
“I thought we were leaving the shrink stuff until after the job.”
Sally got up. “I’m going to the bar to see if there’s anything I can drink in this joint. The rest of you should all feel free to join me. Except for you, Coop. You don’t need a drink. You need to get laid.”
Coop gave her a sour smile. “Don’t worry about me. With money in your pocket, it’s easy to find friends.”
“I don’t mean paying-for-it laid. I mean actually laid. Less Scrooge. More screwed. By, like, a person you connect with.” At that, Sally turned and headed for the bar. Tintin gave the others a brief smile and went to join her.
Coop and Morty didn’t talk. Morty finished his drink. Coop swallowed his as fast as he could. It tasted like gummy bears and rubbing alcohol.
“I’m no Scrooge. I’m just being cautious,” Coop said.
“Exactly,” said Morty.
Coop looked at him. “You think I used to be more fun?”
Morty looked uncomfortable. He stared into his empty glass wishing he’d gone to the bar with the others. “It’s not a question of fun.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s just you’re a little . . .”
“What?”
“You’re just more wound up than you used to be. Sally might be right. Maybe you do need a girl. I can introduce you around to some I know.”
“I already told you. I don’t want any setups.”
“Sure. Sure. But if you should change your mind. Maybe to celebrate after the job.”
“Please erase this entire line of thought from your mind. This conversation never happened.”
“You can’t pine away for what’s-her-name forever.”
“I’m not pining away. I’m just . . .”
“Cautious. I know,” said Morty. “Why don’t you come up to the bar with us? We’ll have a treasure hunt to see if they have people drinks.”