STEVE, JORGE, JERRY, TOMMY, AND TOMMY’S BROTHER-IN-LAW, Lloyd, were huddled around a worktable in the construction company’s office on the work site. Before Tommy brought Lloyd over, the others had gone over the place carefully, stowing all signs, sigils, statues, throw pillows, and commemorative plates of Caleximus out of sight. Lloyd might be useful to their cause, but he wasn’t a true believer, and explaining how they wanted him to help speed along their plans to destroy the world might have made negotiations, by Steve’s reckoning, unnecessarily complicated. All Lloyd needed to know was that they wanted to get into the building where he worked. The group stood around the table looking down at Lloyd’s hand-drawn layout of the Blackmoore Building.
Jorge pointed to the side of one drawing. “Why are we meeting by a duck? Whose duck is it?”
“Yeah. A duck is a lousy landmark. They wander off,” said Steve.
“Not ‘duck,’” said Lloyd. “Dock. We’ll meet at the loading dock.”
“It looks like duck to me too,” said Jerry.
“Well, it says dock. D-O-C-K.”
“That makes more sense,” said Steve.
Tommy clapped Lloyd on the back. “You need to work on your penmanship, dude.”
“No, I don’t. I’m a janitor, not a . . . pen teacher guy.”
“You mean an English teacher?” said Jerry.
“Yeah,” said Lloyd quietly. He adjusted his shoulders. “I’m not used to this stuff, and now you’re getting me all agitated.”
Lloyd was in his gray janitor overalls. He had long slicked-back hair and biker muttonchops. Unfortunately, they didn’t make him look like a badass as much as Wolverine’s pool boy.
“It’s cool. No one’s coming down on you. We just want to know where we’re going,” said Jorge.
“Yeah. All right.”
“So, we come in through the duck. Then what?” said Steve.
Lloyd shot him a look. “I bring you in through the loading dock while the cleaning crew is on break. Then we go up the service elevator to the ninth floor.”
“What about alarms?” said Jorge.
“There won’t be any. We’re going in when the building is being cleaned, so it’s okay getting you in and upstairs because I work on nine.”
“Where’s the office?” said Jerry.
Lloyd took out a second piece of paper and set it on the table. It was spotted with grease stains. “Sorry. We had wings tonight.”
“Good for you,” said Steve. “Is this really how the ninth floor is laid out?”
“Sure. What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure exactly. It kind of looks—”
“Like the fat guy in that game. Operation,” said Jerry.
“Yeah. That’s it. It’s a fat man.”
Lloyd turned the paper around and pointed. “No, it’s not. Here’s the elevators and here’s the receptionist desk.”
“Right. By the Charlie Horse and the Funny Bone,” Jerry said.
“Look. I’m not an artist, okay? I’m a guitarist.”
“I thought you were a janitor,” said Jorge.
“Not on the weekends.” Lloyd flipped the map over. There was a grainy Xeroxed photo of five young men in very tight clothes striking surly poses. Lloyd was at the end of the line, holding a Fender Stratocaster like he was using it to harpoon a narwhal. At the bottom of the flyer it said PEARL SERPENT.
“What the hell is a pearl serpent?” said Steve.
“It’s Lloyd’s band,” said Tommy.
“We do Whitesnake covers. All the way from Trouble to their new stuff.
“They have new stuff?” Steve asked.
“They have old stuff?” Jerry asked.
Steve turned the paper over. “And this is what you chose to draw the plan on?”
Lloyd shrugged. “It was the only paper I had.”
Steve nodded. “Not being a pen teacher guy and all, I can see your dilemma.”
“What about the fat guy?” said Jerry. “Is he in the band?”
The others laughed.
“I said I wasn’t an artist. This is the best I could do. Anyway, there’s the office.”
“By the Adam’s Apple.”
“Whatever.”
“So, there aren’t any alarms to worry about in the building. What about the office?” said Jorge.
“I walk around in there all the time, so it’s easy.”
“And there’s a glass display case on the wall with valuable-looking objects in it?”
“Oh yeah. Little statues from like Africa or something, and jewels, and boxes and shit.”
“Is there a safe in the office?”
“I don’t know.” Lloyd put his hands in his pockets and looked nervously at the other men. “You going to go busting open a safe? Tommy didn’t say anything about that.”
Steve picked up the flyer and held it at different angles, trying to see it as a floor plan and not a naked fat man. “Don’t worry about it. What we want is probably in the display case.”
“Okay. ’Cause I don’t want to lose my job or anything.”
Steve set down the paper, having given up on Lloyd’s art. “Don’t worry, Stevie Ray Vaughan. We’ll be as quiet as a moth taking a dump on a daisy.”
“Cool. So, is there anything else you need?”
“Yeah,” said Jorge, turning over the flyer. “What the hell is a pearl serpent?”
“It’s my band.”
“I know that. But what does it mean? Like the Beatles spelled their name funny as a play on the word ‘beat.’”
“I didn’t know that,” said Steve. “That true?”
“I swear to Caleximus,” said Jorge.
Steve and Jerry stared at him.
“To God. I swear to God,” blurted Jorge.
“What’s a Caleximus?” said Lloyd.
“It’s a kind of booze,” said Jerry looking at the others.
Jorge nodded. “Yeah. Cheap south-of-the-border stuff. You swear to it and if you’re lying, you’ve got to drink a shot.”
“It gives you a bitch of a headache,” said Steve.
“Awesome,” said Lloyd. “You have some? I have some beers outside. We could party.”
“Maybe later,” said Steve, shooting Jorge the evil eye. Jorge returned the look with a grim, hangdog nod.
“So, is there anything else?” said Lloyd.
“We never really resolved the Pearl Serpent question,” said Jorge.
“Are you serious?” said Steve.
“Sue me. I want to know.”
“It’s just the band, man,” said Lloyd a little desperately. “You know. Whitesnake. Pearl Serpent. Get it?”
“Oh yeah,” Jorge said. “What kind of music is it?”
“Metal.”
“Hair metal,” said Jerry.
“Hey man, metal is metal,” said Lloyd.
“Not if you’re dressed up in a leotard like my mom doing aerobics.”
“It’s Spandex and it’s expensive. And chicks dig it.”
“In 1989. You guys play a lot of old-folks’ homes?”
“Pearl Serpent kicks ass,” shouted Lloyd.
Steve put up his hands. “Let’s everybody take a breath and talk this over. Now Jerry, even though hair metal isn’t your favorite, you have to admit that some of it is, in fact, capable of kicking some amount of ass.”
“If you say so,” mumbled Jerry.
“What?”
“Hair metal kicks ass. Some.”
“And Lloyd,” said Steve. “You have to admit that hair metal is a bit on the nostalgic side and a boy like Jerry, raised on more contemporary forms of the metal arts, might not immediately be able to appreciate all the nuances of your particular version.”
“I guess so,” said Lloyd uncertainly. He took his hands out of his pockets, crossed his arms, stood there silently. He went up on the balls of his feet, then down again. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “So, um, about the other thing Tommy mentioned.”
Tommy bumped his shoulder against Lloyd’s. “He’s being all shy about it, but he wants to know what we’re prepared to give him for all his awesome help.”
But something had caught Steve’s eye. He pointed to a spot on the drawing. “What’s an Eric?”
Lloyd looked and said, “Exit. It’s an emergency exit.”
Steve nodded. “The grease stain makes it look like Eric. Emergency Eric. Hey, that should be your name in the band. It’s a little more rock and roll than Lloyd, don’t you think?”
“That’s actually not too bad.”
“So, what is it you’d like, Emergency Eric? What’s getting inside going to cost us?”
Lloyd shuffled from foot to foot. He started to say something and stopped. Finally, he crossed his arms and said, “Ten thousand dollars.”
Steve and the others laughed lightly.
“Son, do we look like we have ten thousand dollars lying around? The last time I saw ten thousand dollars was in a Clint Eastwood movie.”
“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” said Jerry.
“That’s the one. Now, tell me what it is you really want so we can get things rolling.”
Lloyd swallowed and looked at Tommy, who gave him a thumbs-up. With the plan suddenly getting real, Lloyd wasn’t sure he wanted to be there anymore.
“You know, I blew off band rehearsal to come here tonight,” he said.
“And we appreciate that,” said Steve. “But we still don’t have ten thousand dollars.”
Lloyd was sweating. What he really wanted to do was go home, open up the sofa bed, crawl in, and pull the covers up over his head. Instead, he stood up straight.
“Five,” said Lloyd.
Steve shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
“Be serious, Lloyd,” said Tommy.
“Yeah. You might as well ask for one of our trucks,” said Jerry.
Lloyd looked around, trying to think, but he didn’t have a lot of business experience. A week earlier, he’d bought a color TV off a guy in a truck and when he got home all he found inside the box were bricks and a pack of Skittles, and even those were stale.
Steve leaned on the table. “That’s not a bad idea, son,” he said to Jerry. “What about it, Lloyd? That band of yours have a van to haul equipment? I bet a truck would come in handy.”
Lloyd scratched the back of his neck. “Huh. A truck? You serious?”
“As the clap, Lloyd. There’s one right outside. It’s not brand new, mind you. It’s got a few miles on it, but it’s clean and runs like a dream. It even has a camper shell you can put over the back so your tight pants won’t get wet.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jerry. “That sounds like my truck. You can’t give away my truck.”
Steve took Jerry’s arm and steered him over to a far corner of the room.
“I know it’s your truck, but don’t forget. The Apocalypse is coming. The end of days. When Caleximus gets here and turns this world into burnt toast on a hot road, where you going to drive the thing? Give the baby what he wants. Until we summon Caleximus, you can borrow your mom’s car.”
Jerry looked over at the men and back at his father. A note of desperation crept into his voice. “I can’t drive around town in that little shoebox. It’s yellow. And why my truck? Why not yours or Jorge’s?”
“Jorge didn’t lose the boar and try to feed our Lord corn chips. This is your chance to step up for the cause.”
Jerry sighed and looked at his father, feeling utterly defeated. There was no talking him out of anything when he was in Crusade mode. “Okay. Let him have it.”
“Good boy.”
“But you’re never going to bring up the corn chips again, okay?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Okay.”
Steve went back to the table with his arm around Jerry’s shoulder. “The boy has something to tell you, Lloyd.”
Jerry mumbled, “You can have my truck. It’s the F-150 by the gate.” He pulled his key ring from his pocket slowly, like he was hauling a body out of a swamp with a fishing hook on a piece of string. He handed the keys to Lloyd. “The registration is in the glove compartment.”
Lloyd smiled and took the keys. “The band’s going to love you for this, man,” said Tommy.
“This is so cool. Thanks,” said Lloyd.
Steve folded up the floor plans and put them in his back pocket. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.” He held out his hand and the two men shook.
“Let’s go have a look at your new truck,” said Tommy.
Before they left the office, Lloyd said, “Don’t lose those flyers. We’re playing a show this Saturday night. You ought to come. The flyers will get you half off the cover charge.”
“That sounds swell. Looking forward to it,” said Steve.
After they left Jerry said, “We’re not really going to see Lloyd’s band, are we?”
“Hell no,” said his father. “If things go like we planned them, by Saturday the world will be one big ball of fire and we’ll take our place with the other chosen ones.”
“Hail Caleximus,” said Jorge.
“Hail Caleximus,” said Jerry.
“Hail Caleximus,” said Steve. “And fuck hair metal.”