– Well?
I sit back on the couch.
– Yeah, it works.
– Shit yeah right it works.
He takes a last beer from one of the cases, tosses it high in the air, hops to his feet, kicks the fridge door closed, and catches the beer.
– Ye-haw!
He grins at me, waxy skin sheened with speed-sweat, eyes popping and dark ringed. Jesus, did he sleep at all? He cracks the beer open and guzzles half of it. Then he hunts through the pile of shopping bags and grabs one with something heavy sagging the bottom.
– Got these for you, too.
He upends the bag and the contents bang onto the coffee table. Two boxes.
9 mm.
.44 Magnum.
T STARTED going gray in high school, so he’s been dyeing his hair since he was twenty. He uses a set of clippers to shave my beard, leaving a long drooping cowboy ’stache down to my chin, and sideburns to my earlobes. I wash my hair and he combs in the same black dye he uses himself, then does the moustache, burns, and my eyebrows. He speed-raps the whole time, giving me a rundown on his life in Vegas, a detailed Godzilla filmography, and his top-ten porn-star list.
I rinse and wash and dry and go in to the spare room and put on my cowboy gear: BVDs, Levis, wife-beater, clean white socks, pointy-toed boots, pearl snap shirt, black leather belt with a big silver buckle, and the hat. It all fits. I step out of the room and T takes a long look at me.
– Bad. Ass. You’re like Sam Elliot and Greg Allman’s secret love child.
I look in the mirror. Badass.
I’VE REMEMBERED Tim’s address. It’s a wonder what a little sleep and medication will do for a concussion. We park in front of a stucco fourplex on King’s Way, me and T up front and Hitler in the back. T kills the engine and the headlights.
– This is it.
I look up and down the block. It’s a street full of driveways that lead into apartment complexes. Only Tim’s building and a couple others front the street itself. I look at T.
– Kind of early. Maybe we should come back later, when people are asleep.
T shrugs.
– It’s a 24/7 town, man. Doesn’t really matter what time it is. But the good news is, people pretty much mind their own business.
– OK, OK. You, uh…
– Wait here?
– Yeah. You wait here and…
– Honk if someone shows?
– Yeah, that’s good.
– Yeah. That Xanax still cooking? You seem a little out of it. You want something to give you an edge?
No, no more pills.
– No, no, I’m cool. I mean, I’m mellow. I’m just not exactly sure what to do. Can you, if I can’t get in, can you pick the lock?
T looks at me sideways.
– Shit, man, I’m a dealer, not a thief.
I don’t want to bring the guns. I don’t want to bring them, but I know I should. So I split the difference. I leave them in the plastic grocery bag with the ammo, tucked under the passenger seat of T’s car. I feel safer without them.
Tim’s apartment is #4, upper right corner. I climb the stairs and ring the doorbell. I ring it again. And one last time. There’s a kitchen window. I push on it and it slides open, unlocked. Great, Timmy. I look up and down the empty street, and boost myself through the window.
I land on the kitchen counter, my hat tumbles to the floor, and I slide after it. I get to my feet and turn on the lights. The kitchen has one of those pass-through counters that opens on to a small living room. The living room has a sliding glass door that opens on a tiny balcony. There are two bar stools at the pass-through. The place looks pre-furnished, lots of black leather bachelor stuff that is not Tim’s style at all. But he’s been at work here. The walls are covered in jazz and blues posters. And there’s a brand-new stereo, the box full of foam packing still sitting next to it. It’s one of those hunks of Japanese engineering that only an audiophile like Tim would buy. I walk down a short hall to a large bedroom. The bed matches the living room furniture. More posters here, a nice boom box, more CDs, an orange iMac on a desk, and a beeper and a huge bong on the nightstand.
There’s a knock at the door. Shit. Concerned neighbor? Girlfriend? Russian mafia? Why did I leave the guns in the car? I sneak up to the door and press my eye to the peephole. T is on the landing. I open the door and he comes in, followed by Hitler.
– What? Is someone here?
– No.
– What’s that matter?
– I couldn’t sit out there, I’m way too jacked-up, man. I was about to fucking vibrate to death.
– Jesus, T. You’re the lookout. I mean, fuck.
– You were right, superstar, you don’t need anything to give you an edge.
– Yeah, I’m on edge. And, Jesus, what about the dog? What if it starts barking?
He rubs the top of Hitler’s head.
– Hitler don’t bark. Ever. Only time this dog makes noise is when it farts.
– Great. Look, just, just see if you can find anything out here or in the kitchen. I’ll be in the bedroom.
I head down the hallway.
– And what am I looking for?
– A really big box full of money.
It doesn’t take long. I don’t find the money or any indication that Tim was kidnapped or killed. The place is a mess, but that’s just Tim.
T is on his knees in the kitchen, his head stuck in the cabinet below the sink. I kick the sole of his shoe.
– Anything?
He pulls his head out.
– This.
He tugs a blue day pack from the cabinet and unzips it, revealing about twenty small, colored plastic boxes. This is Tim’s dealing stash. Each box is stuffed with hydro-grade buds of varying quality. The color of the box indicates the content’s price. Hitler sticks his nose into the pile of boxes and shoves them around.
T shakes his head.
– I don’t know your boy, but speaking as a dealer? I generally take it as a bad sign when a professional disappears without his stash.
T FINDS a couple bottles of Tullamore Dew in one of the cabinets and breaks the seal on one of them. I get a glass of water from the tap and flop on the couch. T takes a slug from the bottle of whiskey and starts flipping through Tim’s CDs. Hitler rolls around on his back.
– So you think he ripped you off?
I stare at the wall.
– Could be.
– Think maybe the Russians found him?
– Could be.
– What now?
