Crashed

5

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.”