Jack
Saturday, June 5, 1:30 a.m.
“What the—” Oscar says in an agitated tone devoid of any accent whatsoever.
“How could someone take the car?” I ask Oscar. “We were gone for like five minutes, and you had the keys, right?”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this happened again.”
“Did he just say ‘again’?” Hallie asks me.
Oscar pats his pockets and comes up empty. “I must have left the key fob in the car.”
“Who would want to steal a Kia? No offense,” I say to Oscar.
“None taken,” he assures me. He looks slightly more panicked as he adds, “If you leave a review on Yelp or anything, please don’t hold it against the company. It’s entirely my fault.”
Actually, it’s my fault. None of us would be here right now if it weren’t for me and my half-baked idea.
“Well, they can’t get far,” Hallie reasons. “I mean—it’s a car with a giant Buddha head on the sides. Pretty easy to spot, which probably also shows you the level of intelligence we’re dealing with. I’m sure it won’t take the police long to find it. It’s like a beacon.”
“Statistically your best chance of recovery is within seventy-two hours of when a car is stolen,” I tell him. It’s as if all the useless trivia in my head has found its purpose tonight.
Hallie goes white as a ghost and shakes her head. She reaches into her purse, moving the contents around in search of something. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I can’t wait around here for seventy-two hours. I have to be on that bus to Medford tomorrow.”
I correct her. “It’s after midnight, so tomorrow is now today.”
She comes up empty-handed and visibly stressed. “Great. My phone is in my suitcase, which is in the car.”
Oscar pats at his pockets again. “Shit, mine too.”
The muscles across the back of my shoulders stiffen. We’re barely out of LA, and already things are not going according to plan. Of course, there is no plan…but if there were, this would not be part of it.
I’m good at thinking fast on my feet in high-pressure situations. Every problem has a solution. Another one of the reasons Dad said I’d make a great doctor. I pull my phone out of my pocket and click it on. My battery is down to 15 percent, but it’s enough to make a call anyway.
“First thing is to report it to the cops,” I advise Oscar. “And probably your insurance company too.”
Oscar shakes his head. “Hmmm. Not sure that’s a good idea.”
Hallie narrows her eyes and a V forms on her forehead. “Why not?”
He sighs deeply and then adjusts his glasses on the brim of his nose. “The short version? If I call the police and they find the car, they’ll need to inspect it to file a report, and if they do, there’s a solid chance they’ll find my weed stash in the middle of Terrapin’s ashes, and there’s probably at least a good two ounces. So that could be problematic. And the unpaid parking ticket is bound to come up, which, for the record, was not entirely my fault. And if GoodCarma gets wind of any of it, they’ll probably let me go because they already think I’m a liability after the falafel incident. Not to mention, if I end up in jail, I’ll miss breaking up the wedding.”
So many questions right now.
“Okay, who or what is Terrapin?” Hallie asks, putting her hand on her hip. Interesting she focused on that first.
“Nikki’s dog. Or was.”
“At least two ounces? Wow,” I say. My heart thumps in my chest. We could have been pulled over at any time. I find that simultaneously infuriating and thrilling.
My dad once went ballistic because he found half a joint in the ashtray of Alex’s car. Two ounces would have probably made him pop a vein.
“You ride around with your weed stashed in the ashes of your ex-girlfriend’s dead dog?” Hallie asks, stringing it together. It’s admittedly not the sort of thing one hears every day.
“It’s a pretty foolproof hiding spot. Not too many people are going to go digging around in there.” Oscar smiles, impressed with his own logic, and then realizes anew that his weed and the dog are gone. “He was a stray we took in, and he was already pretty old, so we ended up having to put him down. I got the ashes when we split up. I was bringing him with me because I thought seeing him might remind Nikki of how happy we were together.”
“That’s weird. But sort of heartwarming, in a way.” Hallie grins. “Isn’t marijuana legal in California? What’s the big deal if you were caught with it?”
“You can have up to an ounce,” I tell her, “but anything over that is a misdemeanor unless you have a license to sell it. Do you have a license?”
Oscar winces. “Not exactly.”
“Hmmm, then transporting it could be a separate offense. On a scale of one to Pineapple Express, this is definitely small-time but still not ideal.” I could stop there, but I feel the need to clarify how I’m so knowledgeable on the subject. “I was on the debate team and legalization of marijuana was always a hot topic. And my brother is a recovering drug addict.”
Actually, I have no idea if Alex is sober these days. I don’t know the first thing about him anymore.
I notice a black, glass orb hanging from the metal overhang above the gas pumps. I redirect the focus back to the situation at hand. “Okay, gas stations have surveillance cameras. Ask the guy inside to rewind the video, and you might be able to get a look at who did it or see what direction they went.”
“Yeah, but what if he’s required to call the cops?” Oscar points out. “If it happens on their property, I bet they have to get involved somehow.”
“Possibly. But maybe he’ll be cool. Less hassle for him, right?” I say.
Oscar plops down on the curb by the pump and holds his hands against his temples as if doing so will keep his brain from exploding. I know the feeling. He shakes his head. “They have cameras inside too that would record my conversation with him. I don’t know if I can chance it.”
“Look, I think two ounces is not gonna be a big deal. They may not even find it.”
“It may actually be slightly more.”
“Like how much more?”
“Maybe closer to three ounces. No more than half a pound.”
Hallie’s eyes widen. “Are you a drug dealer?”
“I think of myself as more of a mobile-operated, unlicensed dispensary. This is LA! Rent is expensive here. People are always asking if I know where they could go to buy weed, so I decided to cut out the middleman and provide the service myself. On holidays I also sell roses. You have to be one step ahead of your customer—to know what they want before they do—or you can’t make it in this town.”
It’s scary how that almost makes sense.
Hallie puts her hands on her hips. “So—you’re not willing to call the cops or look at the security tapes. How exactly do you expect to find your car? And what about poor Terrapin? Do you want him tossed in some dumpster like he’s nothing? You’ve only left one solution. We have to take matters into our own hands.”
We?
I realize she’s serious, so I tell her, “This isn’t Return of the Jedi. I hardly think we’re qualified to go after these guys on our own. We have no idea who we’d be up against. What if they have guns or nunchucks or something?”
“Good point,” Oscar says. “So, what do we do?”
My dad used to track my brother’s every move through his phone. He knew where he was 24-7, could easily catch him in a lie if he was somewhere other than where he claimed to be—at least, until Alex figured out ways to get around it.
“You said both your phones are in the car, right? We can use the Find My Phone app or log into iCloud. We should be able to track where the car is, assuming the phones are still inside it.”
Of course, that raises the inevitable question: Then what? I have trouble confronting the people at the counter at In-N-Out when they mess up my order and forget the grilled onions, let alone a ring of car thieves.
Oscar’s face lights up like a Christmas tree as I power up my phone. “Brilliant! Could that actually work?”
“It’s pretty straightforward.” I power it on and sit down next to him.
Hallie shakes her head. “I turned my phone off. It’ll just show the last known location. It’s useless.”
“Use mine,” Oscar says leaning in, anxiously waiting to get the process started.
Time passes agonizingly slowly as we wait for my phone to boot up. With every passing second, the gap between us and the car grows, as does the likelihood they’ve pitched the contents. Hallie peers over my shoulder as my home screen finally lights up and I search for the Find My Phone app. My battery indicator glows ominously red and dips to 13 percent. Hopefully it’s still got enough juice to let us locate Oscar’s phone. I silently chastise myself for not charging it in the car earlier.
The cell service here is terrible, and it takes forever for the screen to load. Once I get the app open, I pass my phone to Oscar, who punches in his ID and password with the texting speed of a ninety-year-old. We wait for the app to get a reading and load the map.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I say under my breath as if it might speed up the process any.
Finally, an animated map appears showing a web of streets and highway with a moving royal-blue dot. Bingo! Oscar’s phone appears to be alive and well and travelling north a few miles ahead of us on the 101.
“Holy shit! That’s them!” Oscar shouts excitedly, watching the dot on the screen as it appears to exit the highway and head east. “They’re getting off the highway.”
The dot moves another space and then seemingly comes to a stop. My phone battery diminishes further still to 12 percent. It could power down at any moment. Oscar looks to me for the next move as if I’ve done this before and have all the answers. “Now what?”
Before I can answer Hallie says, “Now we go get it.”
She adjusts her purse on her shoulder and starts walking away from us toward a silver, older-model Toyota pickup truck that pulled in alongside one of the pumps one island over.
Oscar and I exchange glances. “Wait, Hallie! Where are you going?” I yell after her. She doesn’t answer—doesn’t even so much as look back.
Even from here I can see the naked ladies on the mud flaps and a bumper sticker in the same font as the Subway logo that says “Zombies: Eat Flesh.” Below it is another that says “Horn broke, watch for finger.” The only thing that gives me any hope he’s not a total asshole is the decal on the back window in the shape of Yoda that says “Toyoda.” The driver is a heavyset older man with white hair and a ZZ Top–esque long beard wearing an oversize, button-down Hawaiian-print shirt. He eyes Hallie cautiously as she approaches.
She starts chatting the guy up, but we can’t hear them. She turns around and points in our direction. He looks us over. There’s no arguing that, visually, we’re like three pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit together—Hallie with her purple pixie haircut, Oscar with his man bun and Clark Kent glasses, and me looking like a walking Target ad in my nondescript black hoodie and matching brand-new Vans high-tops. The guy strokes his long beard contemplatively and nods with a smile. Hallie turns around excitedly, gesturing to us to come over.
We scramble to our feet and begin walking toward them. Pickup Truck Driver Dude grins as we approach. His cheeks and nose are rosy in the light. Up close he looks like an edgy, off-season Santa Claus.
“Guys, this is Dale. I explained our situation, and Dale has kindly offered to give us a ride to help us try and find our car,” Hallie explains and introduces Oscar and me.
Dale extends his beefy hand and pumps each of our hands in turn like we’re conducting a business transaction. “Nice to meet you. So y’all got your vehicle stolen, huh? That’s a bitch. Happens around here quite a bit. We get a lot of bored teens jacked up on drugs looking to joyride. They usually just drive ’em around for a while and then abandon them when they hit something or get bored, whichever comes first.”
“We really appreciate it,” Oscar tells him. “It looks like they’re only a few miles away up the highway here. We’ve been tracking them on Jack’s phone.”
“No trouble. Happy to help. I’m heading that direction anyway. Glad for the entertainment and the company. Did two tours in Vietnam… I’ll be damned if I’m scared of some two-bit, teenage car thieves.” He chuckles, and his eyes twinkle. “Let me finish up here, and we’ll go hunt down those scumbags.”
I ignore the fact that the bed of his truck is loaded with tied-off green garbage bags that could be filled with anything from yard waste to human body parts, and we open the passenger door to climb into the cab of his truck. There are only two seats up front, making for a tight squeeze…and there’s also a gun rack attached to the ceiling that holds a wooden baseball bat wrapped in what appears to be barbed wire. Hallie sees it too because she grabs my arm and squeezes it like she’s a human blood pressure cuff. I swallow hard.
Dale registers the expression on our faces and chuckles. “That’s Lucille. I take it you’re not big Walking Dead fans.”
All three of us shake our heads as Dale goes on to explain, “I’m not much for guns, but if anyone messes with me, pulling that out seems to do the trick just fine. Go on and touch it if you want. It’s a plastic replica. Got it at Comic-Con a few years ago. Looks real though, right?”
I touch a spike gingerly, and it gives and bends ever so slightly. I have a replica of Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber. It has real die-cast metal parts and motion sensor–controlled sound effects. I’m guessing it probably wouldn’t make anybody crap their pants with fear, but it’s still pretty cool.
Dale jerks his head toward the rear of the truck. “Two of you can sit in the back there. Just keep your heads down so highway patrol won’t see ya, and one of you can sit up here and navigate. Trust me, I’m harmless as a kitten.”
He winks and removes the nozzle from his gas tank and screws on the gas cap. Then he walks around to the driver’s side of the truck and climbs in.
“You should sit up front so you can be on the lookout for it,” Hallie tells Oscar. Also, everyone knows that whoever sits up front is the first to go if this guy is some sort of serial killer. We’d have a better chance to escape in the back.
“Here, take my phone.” I hand it to him. “It’s got next to no battery left, so fingers crossed it doesn’t crap out. Maybe this guy’s got a charger.”
Oscar thanks me and puts his hand on my shoulder with a solid thunk like we’re saying goodbye before heading into battle.
Hallie and I climb into the bed of the truck. We nestle ourselves side by side between the mountains of bags, our arms and legs mashed up against each other. Whatever is inside the bags is lumpy and hard and pokes into my hip, and I feel compelled to apologize for her discomfort.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I’m sorry I got you into this. I mean—you were waiting for a bus, and now you’re in the back of a pickup truck on a reconnaissance mission for a stolen car. This was not as advertised.”
She smiles. “It’s better.”