Crashed (5 page)

“Nice and quiet in here,” I said to Hacker.

“Keep it like that,” Wattles said, abusing a few more keys. “Or go wait outside, with Dora.”

“Dora.”

“The receptionist.”

“Does she get meal breaks?”

“Shut up.”

I shut up. After a couple of minutes, one of the phones that shared Wattles’s desk with the laptop lit up. It didn’t do anything as vulgar as ring; it just blinked a couple of times. Wattles picked it up and put it to his ear.

Then he said, “No.” He listened some more. Then he said, “Fuck you,” and hung up. He had a voice that was created to say, “Fuck you,” the kind of voice Tom Waits probably has when he’s just woken up and he’s got the flu. He went back to the computer.

I counted silently to fifty.

“Well,” I said, standing up, “this has been very interesting.”

“Sit,” Wattles said again.

“There’s a painting in my van——”

“Not no more,” Wattles said. “Long gone.” This time he looked up at me. His eyes were so deepset they looked like raisins someone had pushed into raw dough. “You’re way past fucked,” he said. “You know whose house that was?”

“Somebody named Hus—.”

“You know Rabbits Stennet? You just robbed Rabbits Stennet’s house.” As my stomach dipped all the way to my feet, Wattles pushed his chair back from the desk, leaned back, slapped the side of his gut, and let out a one-syllable bark that I supposed was a laugh.

I nodded. “ ‘Past fucked’ is accurate.”

“It’s worse,” Wattles said. “What you took is part of little Mrs. Stennet’s prenup. It’s her favorite thing in the world.”

“Her pre—”

“I don’t know how much you know Rabbits, but probably not much, right?”

“Right. And not eager to—”

“Well, old Rabbits didn’t used to be exactly a family values kind of guy. Four wives, probably put ’em together and they didn’t last six months. Took over running the hookers for the West Valley mainly so he’d always know where to find them. Used to take them four and five at a time, dress ’em up like Tinker Bell or Snow White. You know, like cartoons? Had a whole basement full of Disney costumes. It was, like, a life style choice. So when he married Bunny …” He broke off, looking up at Hacker. “Isn’t that cute? Rabbits and Bunny.”

“Cuter than hamsters,” Hacker said.

“Yeah, cute.” The phone nearest to Wattles flickered again, but he gave it the finger. “So when he married Bunny and she wanted a prenup, old Rabbits dug in. He figured she’d be gone before breakfast got cold, and he’d be back to the cartoons, and
anyway there was no way he was going to open the door for a bunch of divorce lawyers to come through and sniff around in his finances. But on the other hand, Bunny—you seen Bunny?”

“Not in person, but I’ve always had a thing for women named—”

“Bunny’s hot as Palm Springs. You been to Palm Springs?”

“Why ask? You’re not going to let me fin—”

“Hot,” Wattles said. He shook his hand as though flicking hot water from his fingers. “Bunny’s hot. So Rabbits, he looks at Bunny and says, no prenup, no fuckin’ way, but whaddya want? Something you can take if things don’t work out. In your name, all nice and legal, you keep the paper. And she said she wanted a couple of paintings by some European guy, and you just took the best one.”

“That was the
best—
”

“You know, you talk too much. Me, I like what Sam Goldwyn said. You know what Sam Goldwyn said?”

“He said, Don’t say—”

“He said to a bunch of yes-men, ‘Don’t say yes until I finish talking.’ I like that.”

“It’s hard to know when you’re finished. Sometimes you stop for—”

“I gotta breathe. Tell you what, when I’m finished I’ll say ‘your turn.’ Okay?”

I didn’t reply. Wattles pushed down the lid of the laptop and glared at me. “Okay?”

“You didn’t say ‘your turn’.”

I got an index finger pointed at the bridge of my nose, and Wattles got another pint of blood to the head, if the color of his face was any indication. “Don’t dick around with me. I’m the only thing between you and them dogs. Rabbits gives guys to the dogs sometimes, you know? Don’t answer. So you took the better half of Bunny’s prenup, and she’s going to be
pissed
. And when Bunny gets pissed, Rabbits loses it. Even after two years,
he loses it. I don’t know what she does, but she’s gotta do it good. He’s not ordering Cinderella or the Wicked Queen to get delivered any more, not even once, and he still gets all chesty when somebody even looks at her wrong. Oh, and you don’t know the best part.”

I waited, and Wattles said, “Your turn.”

“What’s the best—”

“Where the video footage from that surveillance camera is stored,” he said.

I looked over at Wattles, who had reopened the screen on his laptop and was glaring at it like it had stuck its tongue out at him. “Did Janice know about the cameras? Did she know—”

“Nah,” Wattles said. He lifted an edge of the computer and dropped it again, as if that would improve whatever was on the display. “She didn’t know nothing. She wouldn’t of played if she had. She thinks hummingbirds nest in your butt.”

“She hides her feelings well.”

“Why do you think she chose you?” He gave me the glare I was coming to recognize as his normal expression. “There’s a lot of guys. I tell her I need the smartest, and she says, ‘Gotta be Junior.’ I’m telling you, you’re halfway home. Buy some flowers, get a haircut, you’re there.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“What?” He was back to the computer, and he didn’t sound very interested.

“Why did you want smart? If you’re going to hose somebody, why do you need him to be smart? Seems to me you’d want the dumbest—”

“You’ll find out,” Wattles said. His head came up, and the movement set the two lower chins wobbling. “What’re you doing, Lyle? Waiting for the fuckin’ film to develop?”

“He’s what?” I asked, thumbing at Hacker. “Your pet policeman?”

Hacker flexed his suit at me. “I got two words for you. Three strikes.”

“I don’t have any strikes.” In California, the three-strike law means geological time for a third felony conviction.

“You have any idea how many open burglaries I’ve got?” Hacker said. “How’d you like to be the way I close two of them? And this one on top of it? Can you count that high?”

“Lyle,” Wattles said. “Bite one.”

“Sorry,” Hacker said.

“Show the man,” Wattles said.

“What?” I asked. “What are you showing me?”

“Rabbits is smart,” Wattles said. “Got great tech, you know? We live in the age of tech, tech’s what keeps the world safe from people like us. Unless we can use tech ourselves, like me. Old cocker like me, tech don’t come natural, but I learned about it ’cause I had to, and there
you
are, a lot younger than me and sitting on that shitty couch because you don’t know your tech. You shoulda spotted those pinhole cameras in a minute, but no. Walk in big as life with your face showing and everything. Rabbits got himself the best. That was cute, what you did with the foam, but not cute enough ’cause the camera got your face anyway and the video’s stored off-site. So you foam the camera but you can’t wipe the disk or steal the machine. Problem is, we know where he sends it to. So you’re screwed, and you know why?”

“Tech?” I ventured as Hacker slid aside a picture of some gauzy flowers, a half-hearted stab at Renoir, probably painted in Southern China, to reveal a good-size flatscreen.

“Tech. Like this screen. Betcha didn’t know it was there.”

“You win.”

Wattles made a restrained raspberry sound. “Show him, Lyle.”

Hacker took a remote off Wattles’s desk and pushed a
button. The screen lit up. I was looking at the Stennet bedroom. The picture was bright and crisp. I could see the glitter sparkle on the stirrups.

“High definition,” Wattles said, reading my mind. “Fuckin’ great tech.”

“It was humiliating enough to do this without having to watch it, too. I don’t want to see it.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Watch.”

The door to the bedroom opened. Someone came through it and crossed the room to the Klee. I felt my jaw drop. Looking behind him as though he’d heard a noise, the someone carefully took the Klee down from the wall. He didn’t look at the painting.

The someone weighed about 275 pounds and had a mop of blond hair like the Little Dutch Boy. He put the painting under one arm and left the bedroom, thoughtfully closing the door behind him.

I said, “I know people photograph heavy, but that’s ridiculous.”

The set blinked off and went black.

“You got a choice,” Wattles said. “Four days from now, Friday afternoon, when Rabbits and Bunny get home from whatever king-size bed they’re taking their vacation on, they’re going to look where that picture isn’t and then they’re going to check the recorder. If you’re a good boy, they’re gonna see a fat guy steal Bunny’s pre-nup. If you’re not a good boy, I hope you’re not afraid of dogs.” He leaned back, slapped the side of his gut, and let the one-syllable laugh loose again.

“Who was that?”

The deepset little eyes regarded me for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Name of Ed Perlstein. Works in Saint Louis mostly.”

“And he stole the—”

“And put it back,” Wattles said. “About an hour later.”

I sat back on the couch and wished I were anywhere else.
Working as a short-order cook in Denny’s, for example, up to my knuckles in hot fat. Sorting gravel at minimum wage. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

“You’re smart,” Wattles said. “Even if you don’t know tech from artichokes. Janice says so. And I needed to put together something you couldn’t dig your way out of.” He leaned forward and put both elbows on the desk. “See, it’s tricky,” he said with the air of someone who’s accustomed to explaining the obvious. “On the one hand, I need a guy who’s smart. Somebody who can figure out which way to jump without having to read the instructions on the box. On the other hand, he’s gonna get told to do something he’s not gonna want to do. A smart guy, he’ll figure a way to get out of it. So what you just seen, it’s like a cage to keep you in as long as I need you.”

I looked over at Hacker, who made a gun out of his fingers and dropped the hammer. “So tell me,” I said. “Why do you need smart?”

“Before we get to that,” Wattles said. “Let’s get something right out on the table. Right in the middle, next to this here low-tech ashtray. I
will
give you to Rabbits. I
will
make sure the right burglar is on that hard drive. Shit, I’ll come over for cocktails and watch the dogs eat you.” He flicked a finger at Hacker. “Lyle?”

“He will,” Hacker said.

“I will,” Wattles affirmed.

“You will,” I said. “I’m persuaded.”

“Good.” Wattles got up. It didn’t make him much taller. He twisted his shoulders a couple of times, reached behind to massage his lower back, and went, “Uuhhhhhh.” Then he put both hands on his belly and followed it to the window. By the time he got there, he was panting. He looked down at the street. “Nice day,” he said.

“It was,” I said. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Me?” Wattles said. “I don’t need nothing. I’m a broker, not a principal. You’re gonna be working for Trey.”

I suddenly remembered my parents’ old TV. When you turned it off, the picture shrunk to a bright little dot before the screen went black. I felt my life do that. “No,” I said hopelessly. “Not Trey.”

“You know Trey?”

“I know Trey the same way I know the herpes virus. I’ve never laid eyes on it, but I’ve seen what it does.”

“You’re a lucky boy,” Wattles said. “Here’s your chance to see it up close.”

A zillion years ago, the San Fernando Valley basin held a warm saltwater sea. It’s easy to imagine it as you crest the hill on the 405, and the Valley spreads itself below you. Squint a little, and you can see the ghosts of plesiosaurs swimming languidly through the smog, looking for the nearest McDonald’s.

Then, a little less than a zillion years ago, the sea dried up. A bunch of history happened in other places, but not here. Eventually, some people crossed over from Asia, pronounced themselves Native Americans, and headed for California like everybody else. Then there was a wave of people who spoke Spanish and stole the land from the Native Americans, and they were followed, in the 1910s, by Anglos who invented new kinds of legal documents to steal the land from the Spanish speakers. They parceled the Valley out into millions of acres of orange groves and tomato farms, and the air was perfumed with oranges. Then the movies came, looking for the same things they always looked for: cheap land and sunlight. Warner Brothers and Universal set up shop over the Cahuenga Pass from Hollywood and started cranking out dreams for people who’d never smelled an orange blossom. With the studios came the production crews, makeup people, extras, directors, and even a few stars. Finally, the rich old guys who already owned most of downtown made it a clean sweep by buying the Valley, too. They knocked down the orange groves
and plowed the tomatoes under and gave the world Instant Suburb. The stucco capital of the world.