I find the keys to Dick’s car hanging off a wall in the kitchen. It’s also where I find Dick. And Larry, who’s shoving tomatoes and beets and watermelon and spinach into the hatch of a spotless stainless-steel Omega juicer.
I hear myself announce, “Mama’s ready.”
Larry stops, looks at me, and turns to the pantry. He opens the door, pokes around, and emerges with an enormous bottle of Wesson vegetable oil.
“Oh, there you go. Sounds like you two’ve—”
Larry turns and stares at me, those hollow brown eyes burrowing.
“Anyways.” I turn to Dick. “Mr. Rayborne, I’m afraid Mama wants me to borrow your car for a bit.” I look down at myself. “And this suit. And I think I need your briefcase and all that. But I promise I’ll bring it back.”
Larry flips on the juicer, puts a crystal glass under the spigot.
“Dick?”
Deep red juice drips into the glass. Larry stares at me.
“Dick? You okay?”
On closer inspection, Dicks seems a bit out of it. He offers a lazy sneer—his eyes slothful as he sways to and fro, holding an empty shot glass. His fine, thinning hair is pointed in different directions. Larry shows me his knife, says, “It’s important to be loose . . .” He looks at me, reaches over the counter island, and lifts a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. “. . . when you’re about to share your lover with another man.” Larry lifts his glass. “I have juice. He needs medication.”
I look at Dick. It’s like he doesn’t give a shit. Check that—it’s like he’s not capable of giving a shit. About anything. I look at the bottle again. Pappy Van Winkle? I’ve heard about that stuff—some of their bottles go for something like two thousand dollars a pop. Figures Dick would drink two-thousand-dollar bourbon. Then I notice the small Rx bottle placed beside the Pappy. “What’s this?” I say and swipe it up. “More pills?” I spin the bottle, so I can read the label. The prescription doesn’t list a name, but it does specify the drug—something called sildenafil. I look up at Larry for clues, and he says, “Tijuana.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tijuana Viagra.”
Oh. I look down at the bottle, put it on the counter, and wipe my hands. “Did you give him this?”
Larry inhales me with the eyes. Allows the slightest of nods.
Dick gazes into space, swaying even more.
“Dude,” I say. “You have to be careful.”
Larry puts away his knife and picks up the Wesson oil. “I’m preparing him.”
“Yeah, but—” I stop myself. “Who are you?”
He turns and faces me, devours me with those eyes.
I look away and mutter, “Okay, never mind. But those other pills Mama gave you. What were those?”
“Juárez.”
“The city?”
“Discount sedatives.” Larry says it so delicately. “From Juárez.” He picks up the Wesson oil and takes Dick by the hand, leading him out of the kitchen—he reminds me of a zoo trainer on a talk show, leading a chimpanzee offstage. I stand there and watch them, adding a final comment.
“No more Juárez, Larry.”
Larry stops and looks at me.
“Or Tijuana,” I say. “Okay?”
Larry says, “Leave us.”
I ask Dick, “Where’s the briefcase and badge?”
Dick gazes into space.
Larry says, “Think.”
* * *
Think. Think, Rick. Think.
Finally, it hits me. His briefcase and badge are probably going to be where he works: that basement office of his. I make the journey down there, creeping myself out all over again. The place just oozes dark, cold energy. I snoop around Dick’s desk area and find a black leather briefcase leaning against the side. I pull it up to the desk, where the light is, and start fingering through the inner pockets and pouches, and eventually find his white clip-on badge, which I might need in order to get through security at Robards International.
Am I really going to do this? No, I’m not really going to do this. No way. But let Mama think I will? Keep her away from my sister? Preserve the house-sitting gig so I can quit Robards and have the kid visit for a few months of normal childhood? See how I might be able to sabotage Dick’s paperwork machinery? Yeah, sure. I can play along a bit more.
A soft white light flashes on his desk, and I realize it’s a cell phone. I lean over to read the screen—the caller is “Shelley—Office,” and the accompanying photo reveals a face I’ve seen for decades. Round cheeks with dimples and a nice smile. Short silver hair. She’s an executive admin; I know that much. And suddenly, my heart begins to pound. What if Dick has sent out an SOS and Shelley is calling to do a welfare check or something? Now my heart is racing. I stare at the flashing phone. If I don’t answer it, maybe she’ll call the police or Robards security. Hell, maybe she tried to reach Dick’s home security team, and no one answered.
I snatch the phone off the desk and answer it, trying to sound rushed. “Yes?”
Shelley says, “Sorry to bother you, sir.”
I try to channel my inner Dick, forcing an irritated sigh. “What is it?”
Shelley sounds a little weak. “I wanted to see if you’re still coming in today? I can clear all your meetings if you’d like.”
I think about it.
“Dick?”
Am I really going to do this?
“Dick?”
“Cancel all my meetings,” I bark.
“You sound—”
“But I think I am going to come in.”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Just a sore throat.”
“Oh, Dick.” She sounds like a very bad actor, pouring it on thick, trying too hard. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m ordering you a bouquet of balloons. Right now. I know that always makes things better for you.”
I’m about to stop her, but then I realize that would only raise more suspicion. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Of course,” she soothes. “Would you like the vibrant colors, or the ones that look like flowers?”
“I don’t care,” I mutter, cringing—I hate being a dick, even when I’m pretending to be one. “Listen, how hard would it be if I wanted to convene a meeting with the compensation subcommittee?”
Did that really just come out of my mouth?
Long pause. “Today?”
“Yes.”
Longer pause. “It’s later in the day, of course. And half of the subcommittee lives outside of California, as you know. But we could try to get everyone on the phone, and depending on schedules for Robert, Joyce, and Murray, we might be able to get them in the office. Is it okay if people call in?”
I have no idea. “Let’s just see what’s possible,” I say, “and we can decide.”
“When would you like to have this meeting?”
“Let’s try for five o’clock.”
“Absolutely,” she says. “I’ll get those balloons to you ASAP.”
“Good.”
“And I’ll start making calls about this meeting.”
I let a little bit of me slip out. “I appreciate all the help.”
Shelley’s voice brightens, and she sounds surprised. Maybe even shocked. “You’re very welcome,” she says, nearly emotional. “Very welcome.”
We hang up, and I think, There’s no way I’m ever meeting with that subcommittee. Then I have a disturbing vision, and I shudder and jerk at its very possibility—Mama and the boys paying a little visit to my sister and brother-in-law. Then I think of Bobby Flanduzi and the 75,000 other employees of Robards International who’ve been jerked around by the Dick Rayborne approach to comp and benefits. Then I think of getting arrested, and jailed. Then I think of disappointing Mama and losing my Years of Rick house-sitting gig. I think of not being able to instill some sanity into my nephew’s life. Then I think of Larry getting his hands on me.
Crap.
I swallow hard and gather Dick’s things, including the laptop computer on his desk. Whatever I end up doing, it won’t be down here.
* * *
In the kitchen, I gather my things—whoa, I mean Dick’s things—and try to decide what to do. One thing I know is, I sure as hell don’t want to be inside this house. Who’s to say Mama and Larry won’t grow bored of Dick after the ancient Japanese body-to-body massage? Or what if the Tijuana Viagra doesn’t kick in and Dick is useless? What would stop Larry from coming to look for me?
Oh, yeah. I need to get out of here.
My hand vibrates, and I realize I’m holding Dick’s phone. I squint at the screen; it’s Shelley again. I force a gruff voice, try to take on an annoyed tone. “Ye-es?”
“Dick, I have been able to secure Murray and Robert for the five o’clock. I have a call in to Joyce’s assistant. I’m still waiting to hear back from the others. Oh, and the balloons are on their way.”
The top of the house shakes.
I mumble, “Fine.”
“You can use Alcatraz.”
It sounds like something very large has landed on the roof. I’m taken by the sound of splintering wood and creaking joints and crossbeams. I squint up at the ceiling and cock my head, listening.
“Sir?”
It sounds like the Jolly Green Giant is on Dick’s roof.
“Yes,” I snap.
“I got you Alcatraz.”
Above, thunderous footsteps pounding across the roof.
“Sir?”
I squint and listen.
“Sir?”
The pounding is gone. I shake my head. “Excuse me,” I say. “Alcatraz?”
“The conference room,” she says. “I reserved you the Alcatraz conference room. San Quentin and Rikers Island weren’t available.” She weakens. “Sorry, sir. I know how much you prefer the other two.” She pauses. “I can look into the availability of Sing Sing or Tower of London.”
I decide to mutter. “No, that’s fine.”
“Anything else for the moment, sir?”
I listen for roof noises. Nothing.
“Sir?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
At the far end of the house, on the roof, a heavy thump.
“Those guys,” I say. “Those IT guys who are doing those skunkworks projects for me? The conhackers?”
“Sir?”
“Those guys we’re using to freeze up the computers of random employees who try to sign up for benefits?”
“Oh,” she says. “The Benefits-Control Tiger Team led by Peter Randell?”
“Yes,” I bluff. “Exactly. Have Peter plan to attend the meeting as well.”
“Sir?”
“Peter,” I snap. “I want him at this meeting with the subcommittee.”
Long pause. “Sir—I mean . . . Sir, I know you don’t usually have ‘jumpsuits’ present to—Sir, I guess what I am asking is, do you want him to change out of his jumpsuit for the meeting with the board members?”
On the roof, something lighter scampers from one end to the other.
“No,” I say. “Have him come in the jumpsuit.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Thanks, Shelley.”
There’s silence. And then, “Sir, I did want to discuss something with you.”
I listen for roof noises—nothing.
“Sure.”
“Sir, this is difficult for me to say.” A new series of thumps. I go to the kitchen window and look out, craning my neck for a view of the roof. Nothing. “But I need to say it. I need to let you know that I can no longer lend you cash from my purse.”
“What?”
“Sir, I’m sorry. And I know you’ve said you’ll reimburse me. But I’m sorry. I can’t afford to lend you any more money. I know you’re very busy and can’t get to the ATM, or you forget your wallet and whatnot. It’s just that, after two years, I’ve lent you nearly eight thousand dollars, and I just can’t afford to keep—” Her voice weakens, and she gasps. “I’m sorry to get emotional, sir. It’s just that as a single mom, I just can’t—”
“Shelley, don’t worry about this. He’s going to repay you every cent, with interest.”
“I’m sorry.” She sniffles. “But who’s ‘he’?”
I shake my face. “Did I say ‘he’?”
Sniffle. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, I meant, ‘I.’ . . . I will pay you back. . . . Today. With interest.”
She cries. “I’m sorry to bug you about this, sir. It just means a lot to me. I’m behind on payments, and—” She stops, takes a few big breaths. “Just, I really appreciate it, sir.”
I’m so mad, my vision narrows and the thumps on the roof seem distant. “Tell me, Shelley. What’s your salary?”
She sniffles. “Sixty-one.”
In the Bay Area, this not enough for a single mother.
“I can’t believe—I mean, I’m sorry about this, Shelley.”
“Sir, I just . . . I mean . . . Are you okay?”
* * *
Outside, there are howls of laughter.
I meander around the house and head for the backyard.
“Guys?”
It sounds like someone’s dumped a refrigerator into the pool.
Collin shrieks.
I turn the corner to find Dick Rayborne’s backyard pool. It’s long and inviting, with simple, classic lines and crystal-clear water sloshing everywhere, spilling over the lips and cascading across a slick deck of vintage red brick. I come a little closer and see Collin in his underwear wading in the shallow end of the pool, splashing and hopping and laughing. Bouncing beside him is Ernie, wearing fogged-up goggles and a faded orange life vest, a long strand of pool drool swinging off his chin.
“You guys,” I say. “What the hell are you—”
“Freeze,” Collin hollers.
I do. The thumps grow louder, coming up and above me, and then I freeze like a startled rodent. Collin smiles as a large dark object sails over me, and I jolt back, only to see massive, hairy legs and arms and buns flying through the air and over the deck, and then crashing into the water so violently—so authoritatively—a shock wave seems to percuss through the air. The subsequent watercourse shoots across the pool like a horizontal geyser, missing Collin and Ernie but drenching the deck, nearby chairs, and shrubs. The swells in the pool hit a good two or three feet, soaking the boys.
And I’m thinking, I can’t get my—er, I mean Dick’s—suit wet.
* * *
Collin and Ernie can’t stop laughing, and I rub my temples, trying to soothe my postbuzz headache. Cujo darts around the deck in a brown banana sling thong, launching himself into the pool—over and over. The water is choppy and rough. Ernie and Collin ride the swells until something ascends from the depths, ensnares Collin, and launches him high into the air. Collin screams with delight as he sails across the pool and lands in the deep end, cannonball style.
“Dude,” I say to Cujo, but he’s already resubmerged. In the shallow end, Ernie hops about, giggling, looking beneath him. But his goggles are so fogged, he’s practically blind.
I say into the phone, “The boys are completely out of control.”
“Boys?” Audrey asks. “Did you arrange a playdate?”
Ernie explodes out of the water, a toothy grin on his face as he sails through the air—his arms doing the chugga-chugga choo-choo, his white boxers riding far too low—as he comes down for a splash landing at the center of the pool, arms flopping.
“Long story,” I say. “Listen, I think I’m about to do something really crazy.”
“Rick, I’m totally cool about going to see the Beat with you. Just us.”
Ernie executes a belly-flop swan dive, and Collin follows.
“No, it’s not about that.” I hope it sounds like our screwed-up date means nothing to me. “I just have to make a big decision, and I’m not sure who else I can ask.”
And that’s true.
Cujo pulls himself out of the pool, and enough water drains off him to fill a kiddie pool. My lord, he’s hairy. The water beads and glistens, giving his fur an odd sheen. He backs up to the edge of the pool, reaches down, and executes an impressive backflip into the water. Collin shrieks in amazement.
Audrey says, “Try me.”
So I do. I tell her everything—about Mama, about the break-in at Bobby Flanduzi’s house, about the forty-five K, about Dick Rayborne and his paperwork schemes, about the tens of thousands of people who are getting screwed over. I tell her how much I’d like to house-sit my sister’s place for two years so I could quit Robards, write that book, and maybe give my nephew a few tastes of a normal childhood. I tell her that no matter what I decide to do—go into Robards as Dick Rayborne or walk away now—my feeble career there is over. I tell her that I’m confident Mama is willing to ruin—and capable of ruining—my house-sitting gig with my sister.
“So what do you think?”
“This probably sounds nuts,” Audrey says, “but maybe you just do what she says. I mean really, all things considered—seriously, Rick—does your job really matter at this point?”
It doesn’t. Hell, I’m hoping I can quit.
“Does it matter if they realize you’re not the real dude, and they call the police or something?”
“Yes, that part does matter.” I laugh. “I don’t think Ana will—”
“Ana doesn’t have to know if you get arrested. I’d come up with an explanation for your no-show tonight, and you could have that house-sitting talk with her on the phone next week. It’s not like she has a ton of other house-sitting options right now. Maybe it’s better to keep this Mama lady happy.”
“I suppose.”
“And keep the Larry guy and the ex-cons away from your sister.”
As silly as it sounds, she has a point.
“Or . . .” Cujo takes Ernie and Collin for a ride on his back, cutting effortlessly through the pool. “I guess the other option is, you could just take Collin—like, right now—and get the hell out of there. Take your chances with Mama, hope she doesn’t call your sister or show up at their house. I mean, it sounds like Mama is a bit distracted at the moment.”
I scan the area. “I could easily take Collin and leave.” I look down, feeling kind of crappy for even considering it. Call me foolish, but the idea of leaving this benefits crap unfinished? The thought of escaping before Shelley gets her money back? The possibility of letting things resettle so Robards can continue to rip off tens of thousands of hardworking employees? The idea of going through all of this—all this insanity—for nothing of any lasting value? It just sits heavy in my gut. Too heavy.
I mean, will I ever do anything special in my life? Ever?
Audrey says, “Maybe this is what you’re supposed to do. So maybe you just go for it.”
“Go for it?”
“Maybe you just go for it. Channel you inner Dick what’s-his-name. Make a few calls. Have that meeting. Screw with people a little.” She laughs. “You know it probably won’t work. But hell, have you ever had a day like this?”
“No.”
“Will you ever again?”
“No.”
“So maybe, you know, just go for it.”
There’s a pause, and I say, “That had been my plan for tonight at the Greek—just go for it.”
We laugh.
“You thought this was about getting to the Greek with me,” Audrey says. “And I thought this was about getting you to pay attention to Collin. But maybe we were both wrong.”
I can’t help saying, “I know I was certainly wrong.”
“Maybe this is what it’s really all about. Maybe the universe is saying, This is Rick Blanco’s chance to make the world better, to make a real difference. Maybe it’s about going a little crazy.”
Crazy?
Why can’t this woman like me back?
Crazy?
A bedroom window opens, and Mama announces, “We need more oil.”
Yes, crazy.
* * *
Mama says from the window, “I’m gonna send Larry out there. I need some alone time with Dick.” Her voice goes raspy, lingers on the words. “One last romp—just the two of us. Things are starting to kick in for Dick here. Just keep the boys busy, will you? And keep them off the roof.”
Dick’s bedroom window sits in the shade behind a large rosebush, directly behind the pool. With the sun in my eyes, I’m having a hard time seeing Mama and her fellas. I squint at the window and try to make sense of the figures within. Finally my vision corrects and the shapes begin to make sense. Mama is in front, topless—maybe fully naked, for all I know—with her glasses off, and she’s glistening in vegetable oil. Behind her is Larry—shirtless—slathered in oil, caressing her arms, smearing his beard against her neck, eyes lidded.
I didn’t need to see that.
“Don’t worry, Dick’s fine.” Mama’s so shameless there in the window—in all her sagging, wrinkly imperfection—and I find myself admiring her freedom. You know, Mama actually is pretty cool. “Larry babe, why don’t you put on your bottoms and take a dip?” She adopts a guttural tone, slows it down, nearly moaning. “Dick and I . . . We need one last time. Okay, babe?” She slows, trying to be sensitive. “And don’t get me wrong. The Nuru massage was nice, just the way I like it. And then—babe, I swear it—you were won-der-ful. You gave it to Mama real good, just the way she likes it. But . . .” She sighs as if she’s thinking about it. “. . . a gal deserves one last time with her husband, don’t you think? You know, for the road. And plus . . .” She releases a dry chuckle. “. . . I guess Mama wants more.”
Larry doesn’t seem to care. “I will photosynthesize,” he says. “And think.”
“That’s right, babe,” Mama soothes. “Soak up the sun and do your thinking.”
“About the paperwork,” he says.
“Of course, babe. Now why don’t I see you in a bit, okay?” They ease back into the shadows and return to the windowsill with Dick Rayborne, and I gasp. Dick still has that not-capable-of-caring look—slathered in vegetable oil, staring into space, his upper lip curling on one side, his eyebrows frozen in disharmony, his shoulders hunched forward, his hair shooting in all directions. He sways far left, takes a step to stabilize himself.
“Of course,” Mama says, “he resisted at first. But we got him revved up after a while.” She presses into him, their Wessoned bodies slipping and sliding as she hums suggestively and runs her bony fingers up his belly, pinches his nipples. “He might be a little subdued here and there, but I’ll tell you what—there’s one thing here that’s definitely not subdued.” She turns to him, pulls back to look him in the eye. “Although I do recall you being a lot bigger.”
* * *
Dick’s bedroom window is closed, and the shades are drawn.
I’m reclining in a chaise lounge watching the boys. Ernie has put Collin on his shoulders, and now Cujo is swimming underneath Ernie to put him on his shoulders.
I glace at Larry. Is he meditating?
Cujo surfaces, and Ernie and Collin rise out of the water.
Larry is seated upright in a pool chair—hands on his knees, chin up, eyes on me—sunning himself. His golden skin is moist, like an overheated glazed donut. The only thing on him that isn’t glistening is his Speedo.
I think he’s just chilling.
The Cujo-Ernie-Collin stack eases across the pool, teetering.
Or is he looking at me, as in, You’re next?
Like a felled redwood, the Cujo-Ernie-Collin stack plunges into the pool.
That’s nuts. He’s just superfocused on the paperwork.
Larry’s eyes seem to burrow deeper into mine.
“Okay, boys.” I sit up. “Everyone towel off. Time for a snack, and then we hit the road.”
They ignore me.
I think of what Mama and Audrey said: Time to get a little crazy.
Just don’t get arrested.
“Boys—out.”
They splash around.
“Boys? I say. “Get out. Now. C’mon.”
They whine and mope.
The bedroom window opens, and Mama sticks her head out, looks around. Sweat is streaming down her temples, and she seems winded. And pissed off.
“Some things never change,” she huffs. “What was that? Five minutes? Three minutes?” She grimaces, snarls, and grips the window ledge, staring into space. “There’s a reason I always called him the Three-Minute Dick.”
Larry stirs, announces, “Time for some paperwork.”
* * *
Leaving Dick’s cottage compound is quite the production.
Mama has the boys buckled and ready and bouncing in the wagon. She sticks her head out the driver-side window and hollers, “C’mon, Larry. Show on the road, babe.”
Larry’s own station wagon—a brown Chevy Malibu and not much newer than Mama’s Fleetwood—is backed up to the entry path of the house, idling. Finally Larry saunters out of the house in his Speedo, flip-flops, and opened dress shirt. He scans the compound and reaches back to the doorway to pull out an oiled Dick Rayborne in a bath towel, leading him toward the waiting Malibu. Dick zigzags toward the wagon with that lazy sneer, those slow eyes.
I stand next to Dick’s Porsche, his briefcase slung over my shoulder as I press my fingers against his suit. I will admit it feels good to be in this suit. And that bothers me, considering everything.
“Listen, Larry.” I take a few steps but stop when Larry gives me those eyes and pulls aside his shirt to show me the buck knife holstered to his Speedo. “Listen, Larry . . .” He freezes, tenses his body, and devours me. “What are you gonna . . .” Those eyes, burrowing deeper and deeper. “Okay, never mind.”
“Okay,” Mama says, irritated, and gets out of the Fleetwood and heads toward us, zeroing in on me. “Listen, kid. Don’t worry about Larry and Dick, you hear? You just worry about that meeting with the subcommittee.”
Larry pops the back hatch of his Malibu and leads Dick into the bay, where the Headcount darling reclines slowly into a full sprawl, letting the bath towel slide off. Larry shuts the hatch, adjusts his Speedo, and turns to give me one last stare.
“That was the agreement,” Mama says. “If I get to have a little alone time with Dick, so does Larry.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No yeah-buts.” She slaps my face, light but firm. “Dick’s gonna be fine.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hey,” Mama says. “Do you think I’d be sleeping with a homicidal psychopath?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Listen, kid. Larry isn’t a killer.” She cocks her head, gazes into space, thinking. “As far as I know. You see, he’s a teacher.”
“Please don’t tell me he teaches kindergarten or something.”
“Or, better—he’s an artist.”
“Artist? Maybe.”
“Only, instead of clay or watercolors, Larry’s medium is people.” She looks down, shakes her head. “People like Dick. Or, I should say, Old Dick. Someone like the New Dick?” She points at me, smiles. “Larry couldn’t care less about the New Dick.”
“I’m not New Dick. I’m Rick Blanco, and I don’t even know why I’m—”
“Listen.” Mama shuffles closer, leans into me. “You’re my New Dick, and you’re wonderful.” She reaches out, straightens the lapels of my—I mean, Dick’s—suit, and gives me a playful punch in the arm. She lifts her chin and smiles. “You’re going to do just fine today, honey. And as your wife—because I of course get New Dick as part of the package. As your wife . . .” She inches closer, adopts that low, raspy voice. “. . . it’s only fitting that I get a little kissy-poo goodbye.”
I push her away, and she grabs my head, pulls it in, and sticks her tongue in my mouth. I jerk away, reeling from the taste of cocoa butter—Larry’s cocoa butter—and spit onto Dick’s cobbled driveway. Mama wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Smiles. “And as the loving wife of New Dick, it’s only fitting that I’m there for you today at Robards. The boys and I. We’ll be there. Maybe we’ll start out at the Playroom, but you will let me in so I can help you.”
I’m still spitting. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes,” she says and heads back for the Fleetwood. “I suppose big-shot executives like you can bring in anyone they want. Which reminds me—I want you to include an employee at the subcommittee meeting tonight. His name is Carl Blakenship.”
Larry gets into the Malibu, shuts the door, and shifts it out of park.
“And remember what we said, right?”
“And that was?”
“We’re never gonna survive unless—”
“—we get a little crazy,” I finish.
“You got it.” Mama gives me wink and whispers, “Go get ’em.”
I stand back and give her one last look as she chuckles silently, bites her tongue in that old way, and winks. And I fold my arms, realizing that there’s so very little that I do know, and that my world—my life—is forever changed. That no matter what happens next, I have indeed already gone 129 percent crazy.
Crazy?
Fine.
And then—Oh, yeah. Crap.
I run after the Malibu, waving. Mercifully, it stops. The side window descends, and I squat to meet his cold gaze. “Actually, Larry.” I reach into my—I mean, Dick’s—briefcase and pull out the personal check I’d written to his admin, Shelley, and show it to him—thirteen thousand dollars, to reflect interest on his original debt to her. “I need Dick to sign this. He’s been forcing his admin to pay some of his personal expenses the last few years.”
Larry looks at the check, then at me, and then back at the check.
“Just a little signature from our buddy back there.”
Larry seems to be studying my jugular.
“Larry.”
The back hatch pops.
It takes five minutes—and a visit from Larry—to make Dick sign.
* * *
Dick’s Porsche handles well, but I really don’t see what the fuss is all about. There are so many other things I would rather do with this kind of money. The Bluetooth is nice, though. I’ve Googled “Crazy” on Dick’s smartphone, and now the song is thumping thick and sweet as I cruise down El Camino Real, leaving Atherton.
Miracles will happen as we trip
I turn the volume up, feel my head bopping, and punch the gas.
But we’re never gonna survive unless
We get a little crazy
No we’re never gonna survive unless
We are a little
Cray cray crazy
I speed past Teslas and Mercedes and Toyotas as the beat shifts into a deeper groove. My chest swells, and I breathe in through my nose, let it out slowly.
Miracles will happen as we speak
I pull a left onto Willow, heading for U.S. 101, and the music quiets. My dashboard screen lights up, announces that I have an incoming call from “Shelley—Office.” I fiddle with the steering wheel buttons until I can hear Shelley.
“Sir?”
“I have your check,” I sing, a little too happy.
“Sir?”
I force a tight voice. “Your check. To pay you back.” Okay, channel that inner Dick. “The loans you were moaning about.”
Silence.
“Shelley?”
“Yes, sir. I’m here.” She clears her throat. “I really appreciate that. Really.”
“Just remember what I’m saying here. Moving forward, if I ever ask you for more money—for lunch, for dinner, for whatever—I want you to say no. Okay?”
“Ummm.”
“Consider it a test. You need to learn to say no.”
“So. . . . In the future, when you say you’re too busy to run to the ATM and need some dinner money, you really aren’t?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re just testing me?”
“That’s it. No matter how much of a dick I am, I want you to stand up to me. You hear?”
Long silence.
“Sir, are you sure that cold didn’t turn into a fever?”
“I’m fine. Listen, Shelley, I need you to reach out to someone for me. Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
“And I need this person to attend the five o’clock, okay?”
“Sure.”
“His name is Carl Blakenship. Does that name ring a bell?”
“Sounds familiar,” she says. “Let me look him up. . . . Oh. Looks like he’s in the Invitation to Cooperate program. He works in customer support under Russell Hampton. Is that him? Carl Blakenship in customer service?”
“I assume so. Mama just said she wants him to attend.”
“Sir?”
Mama? Crap. “Sorry, Shelley. That’s just a nickname I have for someone.”
“So, should I invite Carl to the meeting?”
“Please.”
“And, sir, I was calling about the catering.”
“What are you talking about?”
“For the five o’clock. Would you like the usual?”
“The usual?”
“The Brie and crackers and bottled water with a carafe of fresh guava nectar?” She waits, and I search for words that don’t come. “Or . . . I could have them bring something new. Like those goat cheese pockets.”
“Oh.” I can’t believe this guy. “You know what, Shelley? Let’s skip the catering this time.”
“Sir?”
“Yeah, let’s keep it really simple.”
Long pause. “So, no catering?” She sounds shocked. “Really?”
“Really,” I say. “No catering, okay?”
“Absolutely, sir.” She pauses. “And I just want to say I really appreciate how respect——I mean, how nice you’re being today.”
I accelerate onto the 101 and unleash the Porsche. “Today’s today. I can’t make any guarantees, but . . .” I think of Dick Rayborne splayed out in the back of Larry’s station wagon. “. . . something tells me things will never be the same.”