Six Bad Things Part 15

--You're lucky you didn't kill yourself in that thing.

--It's not that bad.

--Like h.e.l.l it isn't.

He sits behind the wheel of his perfectly restored 1962 British racing green MGB and stares in horror at my wreck.

--Well, let's get it over to the shop and out of sight.

I get out, start my car, and follow him over to Custom Specialty Motors.

CSM SERVICES and restores cla.s.sic, exotic, and performance automobiles. Says so right on the sign. This is the business Dad dreamed of owning his whole life, the one he created and built over the last twenty years after he threw in the towel as hotshot mechanic for a series of high-end dealers.h.i.+ps. His customers are mostly middle-aged men who finally have the money to buy the toys they craved in their youth, but who lack the mechanical apt.i.tude to keep them running.

He unlocks the big rolling garage door and I drive into the shop. He pulls the MG in behind me, closes and locks the door, and switches on the overheads. Fluorescent light bounces off of some very expensive paint jobs. I get out of my c.r.a.ppy car and go look at a 1953 Corvette Roadster, cream with red interior.

--Wow.

--Look at this mess.

I look over my shoulder. Dad has the hood of the BMW up and is peering into the disordered engine compartment.

--Jeez, Hank, your plugs are filthy, there's corrosion on the battery cables, the gaskets on the carb are rotting, there's oil everywhere.

He grabs a socket wrench from one of the big rolling tool cabinets and starts pulling the plugs.

--Dad, you don't have to do that.

--There is no way you are driving this car anywhere without a complete tune-up.

--Dad.

--No way. Now, you go home and get out of sight.

He's right. His customers may not know how to change the oil on all this steel candy, but most are retired and they love to come around and get underfoot while Dad is working. He goes into the office and comes back with a CSM cap and windbreaker.

--Here.

I slip them on, get into the MGB, grab his sungla.s.ses off the dash, and put those on as well.

He stands next to the car, not moving to open the door for me.

--Hey! Hey, we haven't talked about the Giants yet. Can you believe the season they had?

I know. I know they dominated the National League West, and won their first World Series since they moved to San Francisco. I didn't get to watch or listen to a single game, but I know.

--Yeah, I haven't seen much baseball, Dad.

--Oh.

--But maybe you can tell me about it later.

--Yeah, sure. At the house maybe.

He goes over to the door and pushes the big black b.u.t.ton that rolls it up.

--Well, take it easy in that thing.

--No problem, Dad.

I drive home, this town's most infamous son, dressed as my father.

MOM WANTED to skip her volunteer day at the elementary school where she tutors special-ed kids. I told her it would be better if she and Dad did everything as normally as possible until I left. The specter of my departure made her start to cry again, but she went. Now I'm alone.

When the landlord cleared out my apartment in New York, he sent the stuff to my folks. Mom donated some things to Goodwill, but I'm able to find a couple boxes of my old clothes. The jeans and thermal top I pull on are snug, but they'll do while the clothes I was wearing go through the washer. In the meantime I page Tim some more and try to distract myself by watching Monday Quarterback.

The guys on TV are breaking down just how bad Miami is without Miles Taylor when the phone rings. I reach for it. Stop myself. I'll let the machine pick up. If it's Tim he'll let me know. The machine picks up and whoever is calling hangs up.

OK, not Tim.

The phone rings again. The machine picks up. The caller disconnects. Maybe it is Tim and he doesn't want to talk into the machine in case . . . In case what? G.o.d, who knows what that pothead could be thinking? The phone rings again. Christ! The machine picks up. The caller hangs up.

Jesus F. Christ.

The phone rings. It has to be Tim, who else would do this? The machine picks up. Caller hangs up.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Timmy, you know I can't answer the f.u.c.king phone. Just talk to the machine, you burnout.

The phone rings.

f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k.

The machine picks up. The caller does not hang up.

--Mr. Thompson.

A voice I don't know, a caller for Mr. Thompson: my dad.

--Mr. Thompson? Are you there?

I stop holding my breath.

--Mr. Henry Thompson, please pick up.

Oh.

So yeah, turns out the call is for me after all.

MILL'S CAFE is the oldest restaurant in town. When I was in high school, Patterson was so small there wasn't anywhere else to go. Now there's a McDonald's and a Taco Bell and a Pizza Hut and G.o.d knows what else, all thanks to the Silicon Valley real-estate boom that sent people scurrying farther and farther east of San Francisco in search of affordable housing. We could have gone to one of those new places where all the employees are kids that I've never seen, but he wanted to try this place, where the waitress serving us is the same one who used to bring me burgers and c.o.kes after baseball games. I keep my shoulders slumped, Dad's sungla.s.ses on my face, and try not to look around too much.

He takes another bite of his egg-white omelet and keeps talking.

--Honestly, it's easier to explain in terms of political science rather than business.

He pauses, gathers his thoughts.

--OK, OK, I got it, it's like this. When a country gets a nuclear weapon, the first thing they do is to test it. Publicly. They don't do this because they want to know if the weapon works, but because they want everyone else to know that it works. For a country, having nuclear weapons isn't so much about being able to blow up your enemies, it's about letting your enemies know that you can blow them up. You test your new A-bomb where it can be seen and heard so that you can be sure that your enemies know what's coming if they p.i.s.s you off. Now Russians understand this kind of thinking because they pretty much invented it when they tested their first hydrogen bomb after the war. That's why your particular Russians never sent anyone to kill your parents. What would be the point? They kill your folks and it removes the biggest weapon from their a.r.s.enal and they don't get anything in return. What they wanted was for you to surface so that they could threaten to kill your parents unless you gave them back the money. Now, after that, they would have killed them, and then you of course.

A couple old-timers are at the counter reading the Patterson Irrigator. Other than that, it's just us. I'm drinking coffee, but I was only able to eat a bite of the English m.u.f.fin I ordered. When he mentions my parents, that one bite of m.u.f.fin flops over in my stomach.

--That was a sound strategy, and it was clear to me that it was one I should stick with. Except the part about killing your folks and you once the money is returned. That's just pure revenge. The Russians had their reasons for wanting revenge, but I could care less about what you did or who you killed. For me this is purely a business proposition, and revenge is a poor business strategy at best. If I get my money, that's all I care about. And I want no confusion about this: it is my money now. I paid for it.

He's just a few years older than me, and everything about him screams Manhattan. He's got one of those two-hundred-dollar haircuts that's engineered to look like he paid thirteen for it at Astor Place Hair, and the flecks of premature gray at his temples set off the t.i.tanium frames of the rectangular gla.s.ses he's wearing. His Levis look worn, but I'm certain they are a pair of phenomenally expensive historical replicas of a pair owned by some prospector in 1849. His feet are tucked into bright blue-and-yellow vintage Pumas, and over a designer T-s.h.i.+rt of some extra-clingy material that super-defines his razor-edged pecs he's sporting a black leather jacket of such ethereal smoothness that it almost feels like fur when I brush up against it. He's charming and affable, has bottle green eyes and a toothy Tom Cruise grin. I'd hate him even if he wasn't threatening my family.

--That's one of the things I need to be certain you understand. Whoever the money might have belonged to, and, believe me, I've done quite a bit of research on this, it is mine now. Sure, you could argue that ultimately it belongs to the depositors at the banks that the DuRantes robbed in the first place, but the insurance companies took care of those people long ago. After that, the most legitimate claim is the Russians, and for awhile they were committed to recouping, but after three years they pretty much gave up. They were ready to call it a day, write the money off, and kill your mom and dad out of principle. If you ever turned up later that would be great, but they were done looking. That's when I knew it was time for me to get involved. See, what you do is, you look at other businesses for a.s.sets you can pick up cheaply, especially from businesses that are struggling, and, believe me, the Russian mob is not what it once was. They had their heyday in the nineties. I mean, who didn't? But they're just not cutting-edge anymore, not sharp, and the market wants you to be sharp. So I saw that they had this great a.s.set, which is essentially owners.h.i.+p of a four and a half million dollar IOU, but no real plan for collecting on it. See what I'm saying? Great a.s.set, but they don't know how to make it work for them. I do. So, what I do is, I go to a guy I know and I make an offer. I'll buy your IOU for one hundred thousand dollars. Well, they balk of course, but then, I give them the kicker: one hundred grand to secure the IOU, which means that I become the sole agent licensed to pursue it, and, if I recover the money, a guarantee that they'll receive ten percent of whatever I recover, less the hundred they already have. But they keep that hundred no matter what I get my hands on. Well, h.e.l.l, at that point they have nothing, so it becomes a no-brainer. And trust me, when dealing with the Russian mob, a no-brainer is the only kind of deal you can make. So they take the 100K, and take the guys who had been looking for you and put them to work making money again. And I put my plan into action.

The waitress brings the pot over again. He covers his cup with his hand.

--No more for me, sweetheart, I'm about to float away. You want anything else?

I shake my head. He smiles up at her.

--Guess that's it, just the check when you have a sec.

--Got it right here, hon.

She scribbles on her pad, tears off the check, sets it on the table, and walks back to the register.

He looks at the check.

--Unreal. You know how much that omelet would be in New York?

He takes out a twenty and drops it on the table. Leeann comes to pick it up.

--Be right back with your change.

--It's good like that, sweetie.

--Thanks.

--It OK if we hang out here just a little?

--Sure, long as you like.

She leaves. He smiles after her.

--Sweet lady. Where was I?

--a.s.sets.

--Right. So now I have this a.s.set, this IOU, but, and here's the rub, no way to collect. Well, I've already spent a hundred thousand on this project, I'm not about to sink more capital into sending a bunch of headhunters out to find you. So what do I do? Do you know what I did?

--You had my parents' house staked out until I came home.

--No. Because I had looked into that, and do you know what I found out? Stakeouts, a real stakeout in a suburban neighborhood, that is both constant and imperceptible, is very difficult and expensive. So that's not it. Any other guesses?

--No.

--OK, here it is, this was my multimillion-dollar idea: I paid one of your parents' neighbors to watch the house and call me when you turned up. Brilliant, right? I mean, not to blow my own horn, but this is a recurring expense of five hundred dollars a month with a possible, if not likely, return in the millions.

There's no smoking in Mill's, there's no smoking anywhere in California these days, so I've been fiddling with an unlit cigarette for about half an hour. I snap the filter off and break the rest into little quarter-inch pieces.

--Which neighbor?

--Hey now, that would be telling.

WE SIT in his rental car in front of my parents' house. I look at the other houses on the street and watch for someone peeking from behind a curtain or over a fence, someone advertising their guilt. No luck. The car is a nonsmoker, which should really come as no surprise. He hands me a cell phone and a recharge cable.

--We could do this a lot of ways. I could have someone sit in the house with your mom and dad while you go and get the money or arrange to have it sent from wherever it is. I mean, a.s.suming it's not here. It's not here, is it?

--No.

--I figured not. The thing is, that's not my style of business. I really prefer to manage in a hands-off kind of way. Keep my distance until my presence is required. What I want to do is back off. Let you get the money together and give me a call when you have it. That phone has my number programmed into it, and I'm talking about my personal number here, so please don't go giving it out. Just to be clear, there will be people here, employees of mine, and they will be watching your mom and dad. And I'm not talking about neighbors this time, I mean professionals. Understand? I do need an answer on this, Hank. Understand?

--Yeah.

--If my employees see your parents try to leave town, etc? Well, to return to my metaphor, if they leave, they can no longer be detonated, and they are no longer of value to me. I need them here where they can be watched, where I can get to them in case you fail to bring me my money. So if my employees see any indication that your parents are trying to leave or to seek shelter, I'll have no choice but to detonate my "weapon." You understand all of this?

--Yes.

--Good. So, you go get the money in what we will simply call a reasonable amount of time, and call me. After that, you pay off your IOU and I disa.s.semble my arms, so to speak.

He sticks out his hand.

--Deal?

I look at his soft, well-manicured hand.

--What's your name?

--Jeez, did I do that again? Sorry. I'm Dylan, Dylan Lane.

His hand is still sticking out.

--Dylan?

--Yes?

--Keep my parents safe.