Six Bad Things

– Are you fucking nuts?

– Look, I’ve thought about this.

I have thought about it. A lot. And it breaks down like this:

A) Tim is an ex-junkie. He is an alcoholic. He is a deliveryman for a drug dealer. He lives in Las Vegas. He is clearly the last man on earth any sane person would send four million dollars to.

B) Tim knows where I am. He knows about the money. He knows about the several rewards available for information leading to my capture. He knows about the money the Russians would pay for my head. And for the years he has been privy to this information, he has kept his mouth shut.

C) I am going to cross the border into the United States illegally. I cannot be caught with the money. If I am caught with the money all bets are off. If, however, the money is out there, I will have something to bargain with. I will have a tool with which to bargain for the safety of my parents.

D) I. Can. Not. Be. Caught. With. The. Money.

– I DON’T care if you’ve thought about it, I don’t want that shit anywhere near me. This is fucking Vegas. Did you know people out here train themselves to smell money? No fucking joke, I mean, I was happy to get outta Gotham and lie low and all, especially seeing as it’s on your dime, but I am not planning to spend my life here, because, basically, this town sucks. People are fucked up here. It’s all the money floating around, they can see it and play with it, but they can’t have it and it just makes ’em want it more. So the minute they smell it on you they come after it. Do not send me that fucking money, because I love you, you know that, but there are fucking limits to what a man can do. OK? Are we cool on this?

– I already sent it.

– What?

– I already.

– Where?

– To your apartment. It should be there the day after tomorrow.

– Man. Man! I cannot believe you fucking. Fine! Fine! It can get here whenever it wants, but I will not be here to receive. You got me? I will not be here. Good-bye.

But he doesn’t hang up.

– Did you hear me? I said good-bye.

I take a last drag off my smoke, drop it on the ground, and crush the butt.

– Someone found me, Timmy. He found me and threatened my parents and I killed him. And now I’m coming home.

– Oh, shit.

I EXPLAIN how it will work. How FedEx employs customs brokers who usher their customers’ goods through U.S. Customs, pay all duty and taxes, and have the package delivered right to the recipient’s door along with a bill for services and fees. I tell him all the paperwork is in more than shipshape, that the only danger is if the package is singled out for a random search. I tell him I don’t know the odds against that, but he’d have a better chance hitting the jackpot on one of those million-dollar slots.

– I’m not sure how long it will take me to cross over, but I hope to be in California by early next week. All you have to do.

– Shit, maaaaaaan.

– All you have to do is hang on to the package, just stick it in a closet until I call and then you’ll just call FedEx and have them pick it up and bring it to me.

– Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!

– I’ll… listen. When you get a page from number code four-four-four followed by a phone number, that’ll be me. Just call me at that number and.

– Can’t you come get it yourself?

– I need to stay with my folks, Tim. Until I can figure out a way to deal with the Russians, I need to stay and keep an eye on my folks.

– Yeah, OK.

– And, Timmy, listen to me. If someone does come for it, I mean the law or the Russians, all I want you to do is give it to them and just sell me out. Nothing is gonna happen, but if it does, do whatever you have to do to stay alive and out of jail. Anything they want. Got it?

– Oh, I got that part, you bet I do.

– OK. So what else, is there anything else?

– Couldn’t you come straight here instead and just?

– No. You know I can’t.

– Yeah, right. Look, just take care of your folks. I gotta go.

This time he does hang up.

THERE’S THE usual collection of sunbathers spread around the beach, and a few hanging around the bar. Pedro is flipping burgers on the grill. I park the Willys next to The Bucket and get out. Pedro waves his spatula at me.

– Hola.

– Hey.

I go behind the bar, grab myself a seltzer from the tub, and go stand next to him at the grill.

– You get a chance to talk with your brother?

– I called.

He gives the burgers a flip. They look good. I open the cooler, rip off a lump of ground chuck, and start kneading it into a patty.

– What’d he say?

– Nada.

– He can’t help?

– He didn’t say anything.

I throw my patty on the grill as Pedro crumbles queso blanco on top of the ones he’s making.

– He didn’t say anything?

– Si.

I watch the cheese melting.

– Why didn’t he say anything?

– He was not home.

He chortles as he scoops the patties off the grill and onto buns. I grab the spatula from him as he places the burgers on paper plates with a handful of tortilla chips on the side and takes them to the folks at the bar. I poke my burger around the grill while he opens a few beers for his customers. He comes back and takes the spatula from me.

– You have to… You move it and… aplastar?

– Uh.

– Aplastar. Like this.

He makes little pressing motions with the spatula.

– Squash?

– Yeah! You squash the poor thing. All the juice, the good part, you squash it out. You got to wait. Tranquilo.

So I wait while he lets the burger cook, puts the cheese on it, toasts the bun, and hands it to me when it’s all done. And he’s right: I do try to rush the things and they’re never as good as his. Pedro makes a great burger.

– So do you know when he’s gonna be back?

– Back?

– Leo.

– He’ll come tonight. Talk to you.