Six Bad Things

I look at the clock on the VCR. It’s almost nine.

– I need to make a call.

I take the cell from my pocket. T sits on the floor with his back against the wall, empties Tim’s day pack in his lap, and starts looking at the little boxes.

– Dylan?

– Yeah.

– What ya gonna tell him?

I don’t know, so I just dial the number. It rings once.

– I thought we agreed to updates every twenty-four hours.

– Hi, Dylan.

– Did we not agree to that?

– Yes, and it’s not quite twenty-four.

– That’s cutting it very fine, Hank, very fine indeed.

– Sorry.

– No, no, you’re right. We said every twenty-four hours from nine PM pacific. You’re right. So what have you got for me?

– Not much.

– OK, well, that’s fair, but this is supposed to be a progress report so why don’t you tell me what progress you’ve made.

– Well, I haven’t been captured.

– OK, sarcasm aside, that is progress. What about my money, Hank? Any progress there?

T is trying to juggle three of the little colored boxes from Tim’s stash.

– I haven’t been captured.

Pause.

– Yes, we covered that.

Pause.

– You haven’t asked about your parents, Hank.

Pause.

– How are my parents?

– Have you been watching the news?

– Yes.

– Then you may have seen that they were released from custody and taken to an undisclosed location.

– Yes.

– Well, you’ll be happy to know that they are staying at the Days Inn at the Los Banos rest stop. I’m told by my employees that the security at a Days Inn is somewhat lax, and shouldn’t present any difficulties for them. You understand?

– Yes.

– Good. So, have you made any progress on my money?

T drops the boxes, gets up, and walks back to Tim’s bedroom.

– Yes.

– Good. Tell me, please.

T comes back down the hall carrying Tim’s bong.

– I am lying low while I ascertain if my position here is tenable.

T looks at me and crosses his eyes. I listen to Dylan.

– Good. And?

– I expect to make contact with my “banker” in the next twenty-four hours.

T is shaking his head. He cracks open one of the little bud boxes and starts filling the bong.

– And?

– Within twenty-four hours of that, I expect to receive your money and have it in your hands shortly thereafter.

T puts his lips to the top of the bong, holds the flame of his lighter over the bowl, and rips.

– Good. That’s good. See, this is the kind of clarity I’m looking for. Like I told you, Hank, I’m a control freak. The more information I have, the more in control I feel. And that makes me more comfortable. None of this is about you or your abilities, it’s about my personal weaknesses. And I want you to know how much I appreciate you dealing with them so well.

– Sure.

– And… I guess that’s it?

– It is.

– OK, I’ll expect to hear from you in the next twenty-four, and look forward to seeing you in the next forty-eight to seventy-two.

– Yes.

– Well… good-bye.

He hangs up. T exhales and starts hacking.

– What? Hack! What the fuck was that? Hack! Bullshit?

– That was the kind of bullshit he wants to hear.

– Fuckin’ A. Hack! What a prick he must be.

I nod, and lie back on the carpet. T comes over and stands there looking down at me, bong in one hand and one of the pot boxes in the other.

– What now?

I stare at the ceiling. What now? Fucked if I know. Why can’t someone just tell me what to do for a change? Why can’t someone tell me how to stop all of this?

– T, I get it that you’re not a criminal mastermind or anything.

– Thanks, asshole.

– But do you know how to get information? About people?

He smiles.

– Shit, yeah. No problem.

T SITS in front of Tim’s iMac. I sit on the foot of the bed and look over his shoulder as he scrolls through the Google results for “Dylan Lane.”

– There’s a shitload here, man. Guy’s got a record

– What for?

T clicks around.

– SEC violations.

– What?

He clicks on the heading.

– Looks like he was investigated for insider trading and some other shit.

I shake my head.

– I don’t think that’s him.

He clicks a couple times and a photo starts to resolve on the screen.

– This your boy?

I look at the pic. It’s Dylan. He’s a few years younger, standing in a big, partitioned office space, surrounded by a group of very young and geeky-looking men and women.

– Yeah, that’s him.

T clicks through a series of articles from the New York papers.

– So dickhead here was some kind of financial whiz kid in the stock market. Kind of a flavor of the week broker in the early nineties, but then he got busted for manipulations and shit and disappeared for a couple years. Didn’t do jail time, of course. Fuckos like that never go to jail. Then he pops back up just in time for the fattest part