Carousel Court (25 page)

“You won't defend yourself? I could be wrong about you. It's possible you have secret talents or some as-yet-to-be-displayed heroic abilities, and you're just waiting for the last possible moment to save the day.”

He slides the wedges into a plastic container and seals it. When he opens the refrigerator door, she pops up off the stool, squeezes in front of him. She won't relent. He looks past her. The coolest spot in the house right now is here, in front of the open refrigerator. It doesn't help. The knife is on the counter.

“But I don't think that's it. Am I wrong about you? Tell me I've got it wrong.” She is inches from his face. She has new lines and dark swatches under her eyes.

His hand is open when it narrowly misses her jaw, connects with
the refrigerator door instead. The force with which the blow lands rocks the stainless steel appliance; a shelf dislodges, a container of sliced mango, a gallon of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, and a bottle of sparking apple cider crash to the tile floor, the fruit and juice spill, the bottle shatters, Phoebe slips, falls awkwardly to the ground, lands on broken glass. She is bleeding from the back of her thigh where the shard stuck her.

They'll kill each other. He realizes this. He used to see the stories, familiar cable news fillers about middle-class people stabbing each other to death, blunt objects, making up elaborate stories about home invasions or abductions when the body was actually rolled up in an Oriental rug and dumped in a nearby ravine or pond. They're not twenty-four, he thinks. They could have played this game when they were younger, had insane high-volume battles that spilled out into hallways or in bars and not worry about how it looked or long-term consequences because they'd be eating brunch two days later and have no recollection why they'd fought. Not now. Tonight he has no answer to the question: What separates him and Phoebe from cable-­news killers?

49

T
he text comes from JW at two o'clock on the Wednesday before Halloween. Phoebe, between appointments, races through light traffic from El Monte to West Covina. She finishes her second caramel macchiato and sucks on an ice cube. Her eyes burn from dry air and lack of sleep. Last night she made two phone calls to her mother in Florida. The first ended badly, her mother hanging up when Phoebe asked her to turn down the volume on the television and her mother snapped, “It's my goddamn volume.” When Phoebe called back, she didn't speak when her mother picked up on the first ring. The television volume was softer. Neither one spoke. Finally, her mother told her she would come to Boston to see her grandson. “We're not in Boston anymore, Mother.”

Phoebe changes lanes without signaling, needs to pull over: The exchange requires her full attention. She will not let him go without an answer, something concrete. The parking lot of a Del Taco. A painfully thin woman in cutoff shorts and a dirty white tank top is accosting customers, demanding money or food, spitting at them as they pass.

She reads the message from JW:
Well, well

??

Someone made quite an impression

And . . .

Stellar

That's only round one

You're fine.

Second round in couple weeks

You'
re good

The skinny woman, who has the sunken, sallow visage of a meth addict, is going from car to car, pulling on door handles. She's three parking spaces from Phoebe's idling Explorer.

This has to happen. Okay? I know there may be nothing more you can do at this point. Is there?

De Bent's a friend. He knows how high on you I am. It's a good fit for you.

Phoebe bites hard on her lower lip, stares through the smudged windshield at the five lanes of traffic and the hazy sky, and she's shaking, trembling.
This can happen?

This is happening.

She considers Jackson, what he's doing right now: finished with lunch, in Mai's living room, drawing with those fat scented markers. She'll get him early. She'll skip the drop-in in West Covina and the sit-down with the general practice in Hacienda Heights at four.

The pounding startles her. The woman is smacking the driver's-­side window with an open hand, screaming “Rich bitch”
over and over. Stringy hair and open sores on her face and neck. She calls Phoebe a vampire and a bloodsucking cunt and then plants her open mouth against the window. A dirty mist appears. From her Coach bag, Phoebe removes a sterling-silver pillbox, drops eight yellow Klonopin tablets on a Starbucks napkin and a twenty-dollar bill under it, folds it carefully two times. She opens her window. This startles the woman, who doesn't know what to do, so she just kind of staggers back. Phoebe hands the napkin to the confused woman, who grabs it and walks wildly away.

How can I ever ever ever repay you ;)

JW's response:
rolling eyes

I know what I said. Let me.

Congratulations.

Think of something.

Not necessary.

She presses:
Please. I can handle my shit.

I'll be in touch.

50

N
ick is drunk. He's been drinking since noon. He does this lately. When there's no work, when all the jobs are solo or with Arik, initials or rent collection, he'll have the day to himself, and after he cleans, tends the lawn, secures the house, climbs the wall, he drinks.

Jackson is spending the night at the nanny's because Nick simply didn't have the energy to avoid fighting with Phoebe and knew he'd need to sleep it off the next morning. It's nine thirty and dark and Phoebe is still not home and the cable is out and the Internet is down so Nick starts to thumb through images of Mallory, recalling the girl from that one afternoon, wearing thin white boxer shorts, lightly scratching her ass as she reached across Nick's body for the remote control, in the apartment she shares with Arik, lingering, her breast resting on his arm, the sweet smell of her hair in his face.

Hey
is the message he sends to her.

The response he receives isn't from Mallory. It's an email from Phoebe. She's forwarding a message from Serenos Montessori. In the subject line she writes:
Midyear maybe?

Nick sends her a text:
You're kidding, right?

We'll be here. So why not?

Are you high?

But it still works. Makes sense.

They won't have slots,
Nick writes.

They will. I called.

Whatever. The school cannot know that now—how many slots they'll have.

They usually do. And he's #4 on wait list.

He calls her. His shirt is off, tossed on the floor, and his jeans are unzipped. Through the bedroom window, he watches Metzger on a tall ladder, installing a new floodlight.

“What is this?” he says to Phoebe. “Some game?”

“You're so paranoid.”

“Schools? Plans to be here? Doesn't sound like Phoebe. You should be planning your escape.”

“I'm tired of the negative vibes. I'm exhausted from being exhausted all the time.” She laughs. She is high, Nick thinks. This isn't Klonopin or Percocet talking. Maybe something new.

“Can't afford it,” he says.

“Again with the negativity. News flash: Down-and-out Nick is not nearly as sexy as ‘I got this' Nick.”

Silence.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Phoebe.”

“Come on. Send me one of your buff bod.”

“Are you driving? You sound high.”

“Buzzkill.”

“I work tonight. So you need to be home to get Jackson in the morning.”

“Can we have the rest of the night together?”

“So if you could come home and pick up Jackson tonight so he's not sleeping over there yet again. It's not cool to keep doing that.”

“One dick pic,” she says. “Then I'll do whatever you tell me.”

“Just sleep it off wherever you are. And don't drive.”

His phone beeps.

“I adore you, Nickels.”

“You're a nightmare,” he says, ends the call. He calls Mallory, then drops it before she picks up.

The text that arrives isn't from Mallory, and he's disappointed. It's from Phoebe:
don't fret, lovebug. igotthis ;)

51

I
t's Mischief Night. Nick sits by the pool, legs dangling over the edge of the filthy, empty concrete. He notices one of their floodlights is out. He'll change the bulb tonight. There's a man yelling over the music from next door. Phoebe is actually home and putting Jackson to bed. Nick hasn't spoken more than a couple of sentences to her other than in passing, about Jackson, since she returned from her three nights away. The text that arrives on Nick's phone is from Boss:

Angel Duty. Need you. Time and a half.

Cool

Empty 5 br in Sunland.

Fine.

Couple of break-ins to be perfectly honest. But it's quiet now. We need a presence in the house. Keep lights on, car in the driveway.

Of course.

And you're on today with Arik @ the house in Chino Hills.

Roger that.

And let me know if Sean shows up today or any other day.

Why?

He's no longer with the company.

Why not?

Call me if he shows. There was an incident.

• •

Later, close to ten, Nick walks the block with Metzger. The men are waiting for Kostya, who can be heard singing loudly to his children, who squeal with laughter. Metzger carries the Mossberg pump-action by his side. The gun is the reason Nick is out here at all. He returned it when Metzger got home from his second Buffalo trip. Nick wants it back.

Metzger hacks something up, spits. He laughs as he says, “Dumped my father's ashes over Niagara Falls. Blew back and hit a buncha Jap tourists, thought it was spray from the falls. Dim sum dipshits.”

“I need your gun.”

“Of course you do.” Metzger's eyes are yellow. He's heavier than he was, hair thinner. He looks ghostly in the dim orange light. “When?” he asks.

“What?”

“When do you need it, and who are you going to shoot?”

He could take it now, bring it with him to La Puente where he's meeting Sean.“Tomorrow,” Nick responds, and he's walking without seeing and the soft asphalt feels like it's giving way and he's sinking in it when he realizes he's no longer sure what he's capable of.

52

S
ean is in the kitchen of the La Puente foreclosure. He's shirtless and sunburned, a sweaty beast whipping tuna cans at the hornets that have nested in the kitchen. He's not supposed to be here.

Sean keeps missing the nest but comes closer each time. The nest is a misshapen gray balloon. And it's humming. Arik is shaking his head, but he's smiling, too, because Sean is getting pissed and cursing. Each time he grabs a can of green beans or tuna or soup and whips it at the nest, his baggy jeans fall lower. He's agitated and so are the hornets, brown and yellow monsters, bigger than any Nick has ever seen. The hornets sense that they're under assault and grow louder. They come and go through a living room window that's been shattered. Boss warned Nick about the hornets. And Sean. Arik was supposed to bring Black Flag but forgot.

“Shouldn't you do this on your way out?” Nick asks.

He came for an initial assessment. It was supposed to be just him and Arik. Nick's plan was to show up, assess whether he could take some pictures and list the house after the trash-out. He didn't bother to check the location ahead of time—he's not as focused these days—and
the house is a ranch-style in a gang-infested blue-collar barrio. He'll never rent it.

“Tell me this,” Sean says, clutching a bottle of ketchup in his meaty right hand, an edge to his voice. “Do you think we're idiots?”

Nick says nothing.

“You think we're doing this for flat-screens and microwaves? Like we don't see what you see?”

Nick watches the hornets. Arik moves behind him, out of his sight line, which makes him even more uneasy, as though something's going to happen and he's not sure what: the hornets or these two men in this hot, empty house. But he's not in a mood to be dictated to. Nick hacks something up, spits on the floor, and wipes his mouth using a towel he grabbed from the granite countertop.

“My turn,” Arik says, and reaches for the ketchup bottle. Sean keeps it from him, stares at Nick for a beat. Nick swallows hard, stares at this insane long-haired man from Orange County who has a kid facing trial for putting another kid into a coma, whose Jet Ski business is failing, who seems to have some strange attachment to Arik. They are standing in a hornet-filled kitchen of a foreclosed house in La Puente, California. The room feels too small. Nick breathes in Sean's body odor and the stale marijuana from Arik, who has moved closer to Nick.

“Thing is, dude, we're doing this,” Sean says.

“Doing what?” Nick says casually.

Sean turns to Nick. The hornets are going insane now, poised to attack. Sean looks older, his thin lips tight, deep lines across his forehead and around his eyes like cracked glass. “Stay out of the way. Better yet, find something else.”

Nick is silent.

“You don't want this. We got this. You're too late.”

Nick has the addresses to the foreclosed properties. It's a growing list. So many properties to rent. Sean and Arik see it and want it for themselves. Sean is here for a reason. This is the message they're sending: It's over, it's their thing now.