Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [71]
“Drop me at the Tarpit,” said Sook when they reached town. “I could use some coffee—and some time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with myself.”
“Sure,” Paul said. “But don’t tell Lacey about the Sundstrom stuff, okay? She doesn’t know anything. I’ll tell her when I know for sure what happened. Or maybe she’s better off not ever knowing. I’ll figure it out later.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” said Sook.
As he drove the few blocks from the Tarpit to the Timberline to look for Rafael, Paul’s phone rang—“American Woman,” Terry’s ringtone.
Paul pulled over, startled. “Hello?”
“Paul, my brother. Harry Lakes, Esq., at your service.” The man pronounced it “esk.”
“Uh . . .”
“Terry’s cousin. The one he left his house to.”
“Oh, hey, Harry . . . I take it you’re out at Terry’s already?”
“Yep. His phone ain’t been cut off yet and I been meaning to call you since I got in yesterday. I’m havin’ a bit of a private send-off over here since I missed the official memorial.”
“I actually was just on my way to meet a—”
“You sound a little shaken up, my friend,” said Harry. “You okay?”
“It’s just . . . you sound exactly like Terry.”
“Man, we been getting that since we were fifteen. I used to make dirty phone calls to all the moms of Terry’s friends, acting like I was him. One of them called him back. That’s actually how he lost his cherry. If you don’t count hookers.”
Paul didn’t know whether he counted them or not.
“Come on, brother. Terry would have wanted us to get together mano y mano. He told me you were the smartest dude he knew. Other than himself and me, of course.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “I’ll stop by.”
Outside Terry’s place, the air was thick with the strong, sour smell of healthy plants. Nepalese Kush, maybe, Paul thought. Harry must have brought his own plants to his new estate. Paul heard singing from inside the house, in a high voice like Terry’s:
I’m leavin’ everything I hoped for
Cause the road has called my name
Paul knocked on the door for a while, but the singing didn’t stop. It was impossible not to picture Terry in there.
Harry finally came to the door, pointing to his ear. “Sorry, man, hearing aid on the fritz,” he explained. Harry was wearing overalls ripe with resin, ladies’ white après-ski boots, and a purple mustache. Paul recognized the boots as Terry’s. Harry wasn’t quite a dead ringer for Terry, but he carried himself the same way and had the same rickety frame, uneven walk, and ragged teeth. He embraced Paul and invited him in.
“Mi casa is su casa,” Harry said. “I mean literally.”
“Thanks, man,” said Paul. “Wish we could have met under better circumstances.”
They sat down at the kitchen table and Harry poured a couple of Winner’s-Cup-and-grape-sodas, no ice.
“So, how you holdin’ up, man?” Harry asked.
“Not so great, actually. On top of Terry and everything, somebody hermaphroditized my plants.”
“I had some plants go Herm Edwards on me once,” said Harry. “Wiped me out. I gave up on everything and went to Thailand. Turned out to be the best five years of my life. One door hits you in the face, another one opens.”
“Right,” Paul said.
“Look, man, what we have here is a case of fortune smiling on us in our darkest hour. I need your help. For starters, I need to get Terry’s old Air Scrubber up and running. As you probably noticed outside, it ain’t scrubbin’ shit. You help me get things up and running, I’ll get you back in business. We’ll be partners.”
It was the best offer Paul had heard in a long time. They shook on it, and Harry raised his cup.
“Opportunities multiply as they are seized,” Harry said.
“Sun Tzu?” Paul asked.
“Ted Nugent.”
Paul couldn’t wait to tell Brandy about his day. In a strange way it was almost comforting to think that there might have been some intention behind his parents’ death, rather than utter chance.
When he got to her place, Brandy was tense and cool.
Paul tried to defuse the tension with a joke. “Look, I’ve known for months that you’re a DEA agent. I’m willing to work around it.”
Brandy wasn’t laughing.