Six Bad Things

  —Like what?

  —It’s . . . eight forty-seven PM, Tuesday night. Let’s call it nine PM. I want my money in five days. And, so there is no confusion, that means in my hands no later than nine PM this coming Sunday. Understood?

  —Yes.

  —And, I’m sorry to ask for this, but I’ll also want progress reports. That means at least one call every twenty-four hours. Understood?

  —Yes.

  —OK. Well, that looks like it. Hank, I want to thank you for being patient while I blew off steam and I want to thank you for your problem-solving skills. Thank you.

  —Sure.

  —And . . . I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

  He hangs up. Rolf points at the phone.

  —Dude?

  —This guy is keeping an eye on my folks for me. I owe him some money for it.

  He nods his head.

  —Money.

  —Yeah.

  —There gonna be enough for both of us?

  —Yeah, there’ll be enough.

  But there isn’t. Dylan wants it all, and Rolf will want it all, too, when he finds out how much there is. The difference is that Dylan has Mom and Dad. Rolf just has Henry Thompson, and I don’t care much what happens to him.

  I get myself to my feet. I wobble and Rolf puts a hand on my arm.

  —What now?

  What now? I could try calling Tim again. But who’s fooling who here? Something’s gone wrong in Vegas and Tim is not going to be returning my calls. So what now?

  I point into the room where Sid is watching the Winter X Games.

  —TV.

  The story isn’t getting full-blown, nonstop coverage, but CNN has given it a title: Henry Thompson: The Return. I am a sequel.

  When we tune in, they’re showing tape shot earlier in the day in front of Wade’s house. The two trucks are being untangled, yellow tape is strung everywhere, sheriff’s deputies and State Police and guys in dark suits are walking around. I catch a glimpse of a chalk outline at the base of the garage door. They cut to more tape from the strawberry field off of Las Palmas: the wrecked Monte Carlo, a sheriff’s car parked next to it, cops combing the ground for evidence. Cut to an earlier shot at the same scene: a covered body on a gurney being loaded into the back of an ambulance. On the bottom of the screen, a name: Deputy Theodore T. Fischer.

  Sid points at the screen.

  —That’s him, that’s him.

  Rolf puts his hand up, hushing him.

  —Cool it.

  —Dude, that’s my guy.

  I look at him.

  —You shot the deputy?

  —Yeah. My first.

  —Your first?

  —My first kill.

  He’s staring at the screen, eyes sparkling. I give Rolf a look. He shrugs. Kids these days. Great, Sid the Junior Psycho is stoked because he just earned his Murder Merit Badge.

  More tape: the outside of Emanuel Medical Center in Turlock, three ambulances unloading, and the back of a head between two state cops. Danny. The reporter is listing names and injuries and legal statuses.

  Hector Barnes (aka Fat Guy): lacerations, abrasions, contusions; in good condition. “No charges as yet.” Kenneth Pitlanske (aka Ponytail Boy): abrasions, contusions, multiple fractures; in stable condition. “No charges as yet.” Willis Doniker (aka Mullet Head): DOA. Unidentified female eighteen (aka Leslie): abrasions, contusions; released from hospital. “In police custody.” Daniel Lester (aka Danny): facial lacerations, contusions, abrasions; released from hospital. “In police custody.” Unidentified female minor, six (aka Cassidy): facial laceration, minor concussion; in fair condition. Wade Hiller: DOA.

  And more tape: the front of my home, cops, Mom and Dad being led to a sheriff’s car by two deputies, reporters shouting and shoving cameras into the air to get a shot. They’re in custody, uncharged, but being questioned.

  The punch line comes last, a statement from the San Joaquin County Sheriff taped a few hours ago.

  —We are still investigating the incidents in Patterson that occurred early this morning, but we do have some information. Um, there have been three deaths, two in an apparent automobile collision and the other a shooting. Deputies responding to the collision were informed that shots had been fired at that location and, and, wait, I’m sorry, and T. T., uh, Deputy Fischer was responding to that call when he was redirected to an alarm call that we had reason to believe might be, uh, connected with the earlier, uh, earlier call. The collision and shots fired. He, uh, gave pursuit. He gave pursuit to a vehicle fleeing the scene of the alarm call, and the suspect vehicle, uh, crashed, and while the deputy was, we believe at this point, that while the deputy was apprehending the suspect in the, uh, suspect vehicle, another vehicle arrived at the scene and one or more people shot T. T., shot Deputy Fischer at that time and fled with the suspect, the first suspect. Uh. Just give me a . . .

  He turns from the microphones and wipes at his tearing eyes.

  —Um, at this time, we believe that the suspect that fled, the second scene, the alarm call? We believe that suspect had already fled the scene of the collision and shots fired and that, we have eyewitness testimony at this time that this suspect is Henry Thompson, the suspect wanted for several murders in New York, uh, three years ago.

  There is a great deal of hubbub from the reporters. Sheriff Reyes, a man clearly out of his depth, raises his hands for silence.

  —I’m not, we’re not going to answer any questions, no questions. We do have, we do have some pictures we want to show and a number for information that we want to give out.

  Reyes holds up a sheet of paper and the camera zooms in on it. It’s my booking photo from New York.

  —This is a photo of Henry Thompson as he looked three years ago. Based on our, uh, witness, this is what we think Henry Thompson may look like now.

  He holds up the other paper. It’s a sketch based on the photo, a few pounds and years added, along with more hair and a beard.

  —We have copies for the press and the number is there at the bottom and we’d like you to run that number at the bottom, the bottom of the TV screen. And, this man is armed and very, very dangerous and we, as I said, we do believe at this stage that he has at least one accomplice and.

  I turn it off. Sid jumps off the bed.

  —Cool! Cool! Dude, is this what it was like in New York, is this what it was like?

  —Yeah, this is pretty much what it was like.

  —Cool!

  He starts jumping around the room, punching the air. I turn away. Rolf picks up the remains of the grilled cheese I took three bites of, and tosses it in the trash.

  —Sorry ’bout your folks, that’s harsh.

  I don’t answer. Instead I point at Sid. He’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, unaware of us, doing his best Taxi Driver.

  —You talkin’ ta me?

  I shake my head.

  —What the hell, Rolf?

  Rolf shrugs.

  —Yeah, he’s a handful.

  Sid catches us looking at him and points at me.

  —Well, I don’t see anyone else here, so you must be talkin’ ta me.

  He laughs, quick-draws pistol-fingers, and shoots them at me.

  —You the man! You. The. Man.

  Then he closes the bathroom door and we can hear him pissing. Rolf laughs.

  —And like I said, dude, he kind of has a crush on you.

  I want to leave right away, but Sid insists that we sweep the room to leave the fewest possible clues.

  —Dudes, I can tell you right now, the cops are all over your mom and dad’s neighborhood asking about suspicious vehicles and shit. And someone always sees something. Sooner or later, someone’s gonna say something about my camper being parked on the street. They’re gonna look into it, and dudes on the block are gonna be all, nope not mine. Next, they lift a tire track from the field where I kacked that deputy.

  He’s going around the room with the liner from one of the wastebaskets, fill
ing it with every scrap of trash he can find, along with strands of my hair that were on the pillow and any other bodily effluvia laying about.

  —Where we get lucky, dudes, is that I have some custom Pirellis on my ride. So the tracks won’t really point at the funky ’72 Westy people saw around your folk’s place. ’Course, that only plays if we didn’t leave a track in a oil puddle in front of their house or something. Which is why I’m doing this shit, ’cause if the cops start telling people to keep their eyes peeled for my ride, the guy up at the desk might remember it. Next thing ya know, this room is wrapped in plastic, vacuum-sealed, and they’re running swabs over the rim of the toilet looking for our DNA.

  Rolf and me help him clean up.

  SID HAS a copy of The Man Who Got Away that he wants me to sign. It’s in a milk crate full of true crime books in one of the cabinets in his Westphalia.

  The Westphalia rings a bell somewhere in my scrambled brain.

  —Rolf, how did you find me?

  Turns out Rolf, not being wanted by the police, flew back to the States on a commercial flight, took a bet that I’d try to cross at the busiest port of entry on the border, and started hanging out in T.J. And he found me. Motherfucker actually saw me walk out of the border station, jumped into Sid’s Westphalia, followed me into San Diego, where they almost ran me over, and then tracked me up the I-5. And can you believe that shit?

  —Can you believe that shit, dude?

  No.

  —I mean, I hopped online at the airport before I flew out of Cancún. Got all kinds of stuff about you, like where your folks live and all. You being a novice at border hopping and probably headed for Cali, I figured T.J. was a no-brainer. But the stakeout at the border? That was Sid.

  Rolf is driving, Sid is in the passenger seat and I’m on the bench-seat behind them. Sid raises his hand.

  —The stakeout was mine.

  —Yeah, ’cause I was all about heading for Patterson and looking for you there, ’cause there was no way I figured we’d spot you coming across.

  —And I was all, Dude, what if he doesn’t go to see his rents? Then what?

  —Turns out we were both right.

  —Yeah, but come on, give me props.

  Sid holds out his fist and Rolf punches it lightly.

  —Props.

  The lighter on the dash pops out, Rolf hands it to me. I light the cigarette I’m holding, hand the lighter back, and he clicks it back into its slot.

  —Then we just kind of hung back to see what was up.

  Sid turns to face me.

  —We didn’t want to freak you out, and Rolf was all, Dude, we need to wait till he makes a move for whatever ducats he has stashed.

  —We drove by the house every hour or so. Hung out at the Mickey D’s by the highway and then parked up the street after dark.

  —We had the beds down and our bags out when we heard that crash, and then the shots. I was all, Hit it!

  —Took us a couple turns to find the scene. By then the fire department was there, so we cruised by and went around the block to your folks’ place.

  —And, dude, there you are, comin’ out the front door. Like, total kismet.

  —We lost you when you hopped the fence, but we had seen you take your car to the garage, so we went there.

  —And there you are blastin’ away from that cop. Damn! Wicked!

  —So we followed.

  —And I took care of that deputy dog and here we is. More props.

  He sticks out his fist and Rolf props him. He offers his fist to me. I look at it.

  In the cabinet with the true crime books, Sid also has some of the most rancid and violent porn I have ever seen, a stack of Soldier of Fortune back issues, the boxed Faces of Death DVD set, and some other shit that makes me suspect central casting called and requested a potential serial killer. He’s waiting, his fist held out for props. I give him props. Now is not the time to get squeamish. I just have to make sure to kill him before he can hurt anyone else. That should be easy. Look at how much more experience I have at it than him.

  IT’S ABOUT a hundred and fifty miles through the Mojave to Vegas. Even at the Westphalia’s putt-putt top speed, we should be able to do it in three hours. After that? We go to Tim’s, I pay off Rolf, and he and Sid disappear. I take the rest to Dylan, and he accepts it even though it’s a bit light. I walk into a police station and turn myself in, and my folks stop getting hassled. And I begin what will end up being years and years of trials and appeals and . . .

  But it won’t work out like that. It will never work out like that.

  For now I focus on getting a step closer to the money, and keep smoking cigarette after cigarette because they seem to help just slightly with the massive headache I’ve had since Rolf and Sid started talking football.

  They’re both San Diego Charger fans and are looking for help this week from my precious Fins. Rolf is still behind the wheel, Sid is in the living space of the van, stripping and stuffing all his clothes into a plastic garbage bag.

  —Dude, if they can just beat the Raiders, and we take the Broncos, we clinch the AFC West. That’s all I’m asking for, one win.

  As he drives, Rolf is taking hits off a sneak-a-toke that’s camouflaged to look like a stubby cigarette.

  —Ain’t gonna happen, dude. And you shouldn’t be thinking like that anyway. It’s so negative. Our destiny is in our own hands: win the last two games and take the West. Don’t be looking for help from other teams, especially not the Fish, and, dude, not without Miles. Without Miles they’re rank.

  I keep my eyes closed and pinch the bridge of my nose, which also seems to help a bit with the pain.

  —Actually, Sid, he’s right. The Dolphins have a long history of choking in December. Win your own division and let me worry about mine. I mean, after we lose this week, we have to go to New York and get really humiliated by the Jets to finish the season.

  —Dude, losing to the Jets sucks.

  —Yes, it does.

  Sid climbs back up front. He’s changed into bright red hemp jeans tucked into fringed moccasin boots, and a short-sleeved, blue Lycra rash guard.

  —Your turn.

  —Right.

  I climb around him into the back and start taking off my tattered clothes. I’m still in the thermal top and ragged jeans I had on at Wade’s. The clothes I cleaned at Mom and Dad’s got left in the Monte Carlo. Now Sid wants us all to change and bury the stuff we’re wearing so we don’t “leave a chain of physical evidence.” I drop my dirty clothes into the plastic bag.

  The bandage the EMT put on my leg is expert and still holding firm. It has a large red stain on it. The wound throbs in time with my heartbeat, but it’s a much more manageable pain than the rods of agony that shoot through my concussed head. There’s not much I can do about that right now. The only real treatment for a concussion is rest, and that’s not an option.

  I look through Sid’s duffel bag and cabinets for something to wear, but, at five nine and about a buck sixty, Sid is five inches shorter than me and forty pounds lighter.

  —None of this is gonna fit.

  —It’s all baggy shit, try it on.

  I end up decked out in a pair of drawstring pants that just go over my waist, the cuffs dropping to the middle of my calves, and one of those hooded surf tops with the kangaroo pocket in front. There’s no way his shoes are gonna work for me, so I stick with the trail sneakers I put on way back at the bungalow.

  I stop, pull my Levis out of the bag, and go through the pockets. Nothing.

  —Rolf?

  —Dude?

  —Do you have my cash and stuff?

  —Yeah, sorry, man, kind of went through your pockets while you were out. Look in the zipper pouch on my day pack under the sink.

  I open the sink cabinet and take out Rolf’s red, white, and blue day pack. In the pouch I find the cash, the Carlysle ID, and the Christmas card I took from Wade’s kitchen table. I also find the Anaconda and Danny’s pistol. I stuff
the card and money in my pocket. I look at the ID. I don’t recall the border guard making any record of my name when I crossed, but with my face all over the TV who knows what he’ll remember. I dump the useless ID in the garbage bag and leave the guns in Rolf’s pack.

  —You’re up, Rolf.

  He scoots out of the driver’s seat and Sid scoots in under him, a smooth and practiced move. He comes back and I sit on the floor while he strips naked except for the money belt. Up front, Sid slips System of a Down into the stereo and cranks it up.

  Rolf dumps his clothes and finds Sid’s black leather pants.

  —Haven’t worn a pair of these since I moved to Mexico.

  He’s Sid’s height, but a couple pounds heavier. He has to lie on his back, kick his way into the pants, and suck in his stomach to button them.

  —Sweet.

  He shrugs on a yellow long-sleeved T-shirt with black stripes running down the arms, and gets his feet into a pair of Red Wing work boots.

  —Kinda metalish for my taste, but fuck it, we’re incognito, right?

  I don’t say anything, just tilt my head toward Sid. Rolph looks over his shoulder toward the front of the van. Sid is singing along to “Chop Suey!” Rolf looks back at me.

  —What’s up, dude?

  —Where did you get him?

  —He’s the kid brother of this chick I used to hook up with in San Diego. Couple years ago he came to Mexico on a surf trip and looked me up. We stayed in touch. I needed a ride and some help here, so I called him.

  —You know he’s a psycho.

  —Dude. I knew he could get pretty violent. I mean, his pop kicked him and his sister around pretty fuckin’ hard, so that’s like his socialization, right?

  I don’t say anything. He licks his lips, nods.

  —OK. Yeah, dude, I know. He’s psycho. Why do you think I brought him along?

  —What?

  —Dude, no way I’m gonna go bustin’ a cap in any more people. I most especially don’t intend to be doin’ it now that I am north of the border. That would be unwise. But there may be killin’ to be done.