Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [48]
—Which neighbor?
—Hey now, that would be telling.
WE SIT in his rental car in front of my parents’ house. I look at the other houses on the street and watch for someone peeking from behind a curtain or over a fence, someone advertising their guilt. No luck. The car is a nonsmoker, which should really come as no surprise. He hands me a cell phone and a recharge cable.
—We could do this a lot of ways. I could have someone sit in the house with your mom and dad while you go and get the money or arrange to have it sent from wherever it is. I mean, assuming it’s not here. It’s not here, is it?
—No.
—I figured not. The thing is, that’s not my style of business. I really prefer to manage in a hands-off kind of way. Keep my distance until my presence is required. What I want to do is back off. Let you get the money together and give me a call when you have it. That phone has my number programmed into it, and I’m talking about my personal number here, so please don’t go giving it out. Just to be clear, there will be people here, employees of mine, and they will be watching your mom and dad. And I’m not talking about neighbors this time, I mean professionals. Understand? I do need an answer on this, Hank. Understand?
—Yeah.
—If my employees see your parents try to leave town, etc? Well, to return to my metaphor, if they leave, they can no longer be detonated, and they are no longer of value to me. I need them here where they can be watched, where I can get to them in case you fail to bring me my money. So if my employees see any indication that your parents are trying to leave or to seek shelter, I’ll have no choice but to detonate my “weapon.” You understand all of this?
—Yes.
—Good. So, you go get the money in what we will simply call a reasonable amount of time, and call me. After that, you pay off your IOU and I disassemble my arms, so to speak.
He sticks out his hand.
—Deal?
I look at his soft, well-manicured hand.
—What’s your name?
—Jeez, did I do that again? Sorry. I’m Dylan, Dylan Lane.
His hand is still sticking out.
—Dylan?
—Yes?
—Keep my parents safe.
—Trust me, that’s in my best interest, too. And hey, I won’t even bring up the police, because they would be in no one’s best interest.
I shake his hand, it’s almost as soft as his jacket, and he drives off.
I stand on the curb and imagine all the things I could do to make myself dead. I remember all the drunken times in Mexico that I thought about trying to swim to Cozumel, knowing that I would drown long before I got there. And I never did it. I sobered up and stayed alive long enough to kill a man who threatened my folks. And then I ran home to protect them. And by doing those things I have put their lives at greater risk than they ever were before.
Looks like it’s a good thing Dad is tuning up the BMW, because I can’t wait around here any longer for Timmy’s call.
But I do have something I’d like to do before I go.
—SO, MOM, how have the neighbors been, any of them come around?
She looks up from the pasta Dad made for dinner.
—Pat and Charley used to check in on us, that first year, when it was especially hard. But, then they moved last year to . . . Oh, where did they go?
Dad is over at the stove, serving himself seconds from the big pot.
—Vacaville.
—Vacaville, they moved to Vacaville.
—Anyone else, what about the new people?
—I don’t know, Henry, they know about us, but I don’t think. It’s not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation. A couple of my friends at the school, they ask, if we’ve heard anything, if we know how you are. But.
She sighs. Little Dog wanders into the kitchen and starts snuffling at her feet.
—Oh, get away from there. You know you’re not supposed to be in here.
But she scratches Little Dog behind the ear. Dad sits back down at the table and gently kicks at Little Dog.
—Don’t encourage her.
Now Big Dog comes over to see if any treats are being handed