Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [35]
“I got to get in there,” Terry said.
“Why?” Paul asked.
“I just need some information.”
“Can you ask for it?”
“Nope.”
A figure passed by the window.
“What’s the plan?” Paul asked.
“Follow me,” Terry replied.
They snuck over to the building, then duckwalked around the side. Standing on their toes they could see through the window. An old man in a wheelchair was facing Jay Babalato, who sat behind his desk. The conversation was barely audible above the chirping crickets.
“We Care takes care of its own, Mr. Portis,” Jay said. “There’s no need to worry about the IRS.”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” Mr. Portis said, and shook his head sadly.
“No, of course not. And we don’t want that either. I just need a little more information from you about your financial affairs. Then we can provide the IRS with all they need to sort out this little mess. Of course, that will require some work by a professional, which isn’t free.”
“What do you want from me?” said Mr. Portis.
“A check made out to Franklin Fisher for twenty-five hundred dollars. He’s our community accountant. He’ll sort out this matter for you. He’ll simply need your bank statements for the last few years.”
“My son usually handles that stuff. This doesn’t feel right.”
“Why don’t you give me his number and I’ll explain everything to him.”
The sound of heavy footsteps on dry leaves interrupted the eavesdropping. Paul turned his head to the left, toward the approaching sound, and then froze with fear. When he managed to turn his head back toward Terry, Terry was gone. Paul started scurrying toward the trees.
He’d gone a couple of steps when Big Marv turned the corner and caught sight of him in the light of the window. Marv just stared at him silently, then walked over slowly.
Paul waved casually, but he couldn’t hide his nerves. Or the night-vision goggles around his neck.
“Hey, Marv.”
“What are you doing here, Paul?”
“I was just hiking around, trying out these goggles. I thought I’d stop by and show them to Lito. Is he around?”
“Nope,” said Big Marv, cocking his head to the side. “You alone?”
“Yeah.”
A cat howled and Paul jumped. Marv didn’t take his eyes off him.
“That’s Mr. Skittles,” Big Marv said.
“Ah. Who?”
“We Care’s longest-residing resident,” said Big Marv with a smile.14
“All right. It’s been nice running into you,” Paul said.
“My pleasure,” Marv replied.
Big Marv seemed more bemused than angry. He took Paul by the shoulders and looked him in the eye.
“Listen, Paul. I know you sell pot at my place, and I let you do it. I have no problem with it. I suggest you take a similar attitude toward my affairs.”
“Okay,” said Paul. The clear thing to do was to leave it at that and hope to slink away unscathed. But something about the man in the wheelchair wouldn’t let him. He heard himself adding: “It’s just that . . . these people have put their lives into your hands. I just hope—”
The last thing Paul saw was Marv’s eyes closing as they launched into Paul’s forehead.
Paul woke up standing with his cheek against a hard wall, wearing an uncomfortable scarf, and then realized he wasn’t standing, the wall was a parking lot, and the scarf was his night-vision goggles. He rolled over and recognized that he was in the parking lot at Diner, a good twenty miles from We Care. His cell phone and wallet were in one front pocket.
Paul dusted himself off and went into Diner. He sat down and ordered a coffee and fries. In the reflection of the napkin dispenser, Paul saw the welt on his forehead, shining like a supermarket Braeburn.
Paul had never been headbutted before, or even knocked out. His introduction to both experiences was serving as a convincing argument to heed Marv’s suggestion to mind his own business. Paul could take issue with Marv’s chosen manner of punctuating it, but the suggestion itself had some indisputable merit. Maybe it was time to start acting like a minor-league pot grower again. No more trying to help anyone out but himself and Lacey.
After he finished his fries and coffee, Paul went outside and called