To his vast annoyance Graveyard was awakened before noon by the chattering of his cell phone. It was his mother.
“Your sister’s been arrested,” she said.
He managed to mumble something in response that probably wasn’t even an actual word. He carefully opened one sticky eye. He checked his Elaboration. He couldn’t read the dial. The hands and all the numbers were blurred.
“Are you even awake yet? I’ve been up for hours. What is your problem? No wonder you can’t hold down a real job. I said, your sister’s been arrested. If you can rouse yourself to pretend you care.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. There’s more than one charge. They’re calling it domestic abuse or spousal abuse or assault or something worse. The lawyer said attempted murder’s been mentioned.” At which point she broke into tears.
“What—her boyfriend try to beat her up?”
“No, she beat him up.”
“Blood oranges and farrago beans,” he said. “Where is she now?”
“Here with us. Your father bailed her out. She wants to see you.”
“Be there in ten.” And he hung up and turned to Ambience. “Get dressed. We’ve got to get over to the house.”
“What’s up?”
“Major howdy-do at the ranch. My sister’s been busted,” he explained.
They struggled into yesterday’s clothes. The instant Ambience was outside the door she immediately lit up.
“So now we have to wait for you to smoke a cigarette?” Graveyard said.
“Just a couple puffs.”
“Give me a hit.”
She passed him the lighted butt. He inhaled deeply. He exhaled slowly. He handed it back. “Wish this stuff didn’t kill you,” he said.
Ambience shrugged. “We all have to go sometime.” She banged a couple more pulls, let the butt fall where it may, rubbed it out with the sole of her RavenMistressSideLaced boot. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go spring the kid from the slammer.”
When they arrived at the old homestead, Roulette, fronting full paternal mode, was buried in his big chair in the living room, dressed in his underwear and hiding his face behind a newspaper.
“Hi, Dad,” Graveyard said.
His father grunted. The paper rattled.
Carousel was in the kitchen opening and slamming shut cabinet doors in apparent random order, constructing a meal of some kind or other. The phrase “in a dither” came to Graveyard’s mind.
“Hi, Mom,” Graveyard said.
She looked as if the oxygen in the room had just run out. “Your sister’s upstairs locked in her room. She’s expecting you.”
Outside Farrago’s closed door Graveyard paused, then quickly knocked twice.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me.”
The door immediately opened, releasing an enveloping cloud of thick leaf smoke. Farrago stood before them, holding a neon-green glass bong in one hand and a lighted joint in the other. “Fuck me,” she said. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days and like there wasn’t a mattress in the world comfortable enough to provide any relief. She passed the bong to Graveyard, who took a healthy hit and passed it to Ambience, who seconded his judgment.
“Come in,” she said. “Welcome to private hell number ditto fuck. Excuse the mess. Maid’s day off.” She dropped onto the stained couch, peppered with cigarette burns, and began busying herself with the mouth end of the bong. She inhaled more than it seemed possible for normal lungs to contain. “I assume you’ve heard all the gory details from at least one of the parental units.” Extended breathy exhale.
“Actually, no,” Graveyard said. “Mom babbled out something about you beating your boyfriend up.”
“That’s the noodle version.”
“So,” said Graveyard. “Give us the restored director’s cut.”
So she did. Last year she’d begun detecting other scents on Loophole’s clothes and skin, scents not originating with her. Loophole explained the aroma as a by-product of his new job. He’d supposedly been hired as a part-time bartender at TheRancidSaddle, out on the NobodyGoesThere Pike, where staff and patrons were all “superfriendly huggy types.” Okay. Dubious, but conceivable. Then his hours began getting unexpectedly extended and he’d have to go to work on nights he’d already claimed he had off. So she finally called the place on a Thursday he was supposed to be subbing for someone named FaultyBrakes and they’d never heard of him or FaultyBrakes. He hadn’t even had the respect to deceive her with an inventive lie. She waited until the next gaming session, when her mother was out at her stupid book club gossiping about the who’s-on-who erotic byplay of Good Girls at Home with the End of the World or some such shit and when Loophole was thoroughly locked into the meanest section of Level XII of that ultimate fanboy favorite, The Ruby Caskets of Melanthia, to initiate her interrogation. He ripped off into a rage, blew the game, which made him even madder, and then started threatening her like she was one of his curb puppies or something. Then he called her an ungrateful cunt and bitch-slapped her across the mouth. She slapped him. He slapped her again. So she clocked him across the face with a game controller, cutting his right cheek. His face went all red and he grabbed her by the throat with both hands and started choking the life out of her. She was gasping for breath but still managed to knee him hard in the nuts and after he let go of her and while he was doubled over in pain, she seized the entire game console, lifted it high above her head, then brought it down with all her strength onto the back of his skull. He dropped to the floor like a side of beef. She was so mad; she’d never been that mad in her whole life. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t think. She just yanked the game’s power cord out of the wall socket, wrapped it around his neck, and began tugging on the ends like she was trying to kill a rabid animal. Which she was. He made some sort of pathetic gagging sounds. When the sounds stopped and he quit squirming around like a stuck pig, for good measure she bashed him in the head with her favorite giant glass ashtray. He groaned and blood started running out of his hair. Then she pulled his cell out of his back pocket, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it until it cracked. When he started moaning and trying to get up, she clobbered him again in the head with the ashtray. Then he stopped doing anything. She ran out of the house, hopped into her MileWolf, and fled the scene. She raced on over to Dad’s place, where the cops picked her up two days later. She’d been locked up, slapped with all kinds of fake charges, and it didn’t look good.
“But he assaulted you first,” Ambience said. “What you did wasn’t anything more than self-defense.”
“Not according to his lawyer.”
“Fuck lawyers,” said Graveyard. “All these ridiculous charges should be dropped immediately.”
“That’s what Dad’s trying to do.”
“Who’d he hire as an attorney?”
“FlintyWhiteShoes.”
“From across the street?”
“Yeah.”
“He doesn’t know how to put on a pair of pants. We need to introduce some crisp lettuce into this settlement sandwich. His office still located above the WhoDoYouTrust? bank downtown?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“What about this Dupehole or Asshole or whatever the hell his name is? Can he be bought?”
“He likes money.”
“Who doesn’t? Where’s he live?”
She told him.
“Listen, Farrago. No more worries, okay? This problem is solved. Give me a hug.”
So she did.
FlintyWhiteShoes was old. He was as old as the word old ever meant. His skin was like papyrus. His voice a creaky whisper. His body an assemblage of bones. His hair was white. His spottily shaved beard was white. Even his eyes were white, the irises so pale as to appear colorless. His office was a collection site for teetering heaps of paper, all important documents, no doubt. Dust drifted in heavy slow-motion curtains through shafts of sunlight falling from the unshaded windows. The room smelled of the past. Graveyard actually found the overall effect rather impressive and reassuring—in a movie-feel sort of way. Here was a real attorney. This was what authentic acquired experience looked like. Didn’t it? And above all, FlintyWhiteShoes was convinced that Farrago’s case was, if not rock solid, at least plaster solid. “Or I wouldn’t have accepted it,” he said in a voice so weak that both Graveyard and Ambience had to lean physically forward to even catch it. “But I have represented the law for the whole of my adult days and I might as well admit to you that the law, as you may or may not know, is not about truth or justice. It is about the law, and that is often something else entirely. It is a specialized game with its own unique set of rules and its own peculiar language. And I happen to be somewhat adept at playing said game. Still, having said all that, the outcome of any case is far from assured.”
“Yes, sir,” said Graveyard, “that’s the reason we’re here. We’ve come to assist you with the case.”
“I don’t ordinarily require much assistance.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But if you could just let me explain. I’ll try to be brief.”
He did and he was.
In response FlintyWhiteShoes was, well, flinty. But the sheer amount of cash Graveyard offered in support of his proposal was sufficient to produce a suitable spark. WhiteShoes, who appeared to have no staff or aides of any kind, personally typed the agreement Graveyard had requested, guaranteeing the document was all legally dank and aight and like that. Graveyard left him a packet of fresh Benjamins as a tip. Which he accepted with much polite cordiality.
“For one as green and untested as yourself,” he said to Graveyard, “you do seem to possess an innate grasp of the fundamentals of the law. I predict much success in your adventure.”
“You know what?” Graveyard said. “I do, too.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ambience felt compelled to say. And she meant every word.
“I liked him,” she said once they’d returned to the car.
“I did, too. It’s not often you meet a fictional character in real life. But if my scheme goes according to plan, we probably won’t be seeing him ever again.”
They then stopped at the nearest Pens, Paper, and Panoply, out on Round Moon Road across from Liquor Auditorium, purchased the most expensive black attaché case in stock, and drove around to the deserted parking lot in back. As Ambience kept watch, Graveyard stuffed the case with as much crispy cash as he could fit inside.
He settled himself behind the wheel and turned to Ambience. “Ready?” he said.
“Do it.”
He and Ambience peeled out of there like people either escaping from or entering into if not an adventure, then at least a knotty situation. They found Loophole in his rathole of an apartment, as described, above the GrinAndBearIt Medical Supply Store. He only answered the door after Graveyard refused to quit knocking. He was also still in his underwear past one in the afternoon. There was an ugly cut on his left cheek, which was inflamed and swollen, and a couple of nasty ligature marks around his neck.
“Yeah?” he said. The door had been opened only wide enough to reveal his head. “Whaddya want?”
“We’d like to talk to you.”
Loophole’s eyes, attempting to take in the presence of strange visitors, seemed to shift in and out of focus. “Who are you?”
“I’m Graveyard,” said Graveyard. “This is my wife, Ambience.”
“Aw, hell,” he said. He closed the door and they could hear the lock click.
Graveyard stepped closer and began banging on the door.
“Go away,” said the voice behind the door.
“We need to talk to you.”
“I don’t need to talk to you.”
“It’s about your case.”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
“We’d like to speak with you. We’d like to offer you a proposition I think you’d be very much interested in.”
“Listen, there’s absolutely nothing your sister can say or do to make me change my mind. Only thing I’m interested in is getting that bitch behind bars, where she belongs.”
“It’s about money.”
There were a couple more clicks and the door opened wide. Loophole stepped back, allowing them just enough room to enter. “This better be good,” he said. He picked up a pile of dirty clothes off the couch and tossed them carelessly into a corner. “Sit,” he said. So they did. He took a seat on a duct-taped leather chair, his chair, facing the too-big-for-the-room TV tuned to Dollars for Dumps, a trending afternoon game show in which contestants were shown color photographs of assorted apartments in Mammoth City and asked to guess the actual inflated market price on each rental. The game was harder than it looked. Big winners were almost always slightly certifiable. That’s why it was so popular. And hilarious. Once seated, none of them in the room could stop watching that hypnotic screen. They tried to talk anyway.
“So what’s this all about?” Loophole said.
“We’re here to bring a touch of closure to this unfortunate incident,” said Graveyard.
“Don’t know how you’re going to manage that. As I’ve already explained—to the police, the prosecutor, your father’s attorney, the news media—there’s nothing Farrago can do or say to make up for the enormous pain and suffering she’s inflicted upon me. Nothing, understand?”
“We do and she does. The hideous extent of your physical injuries is clearly obvious. I can only try to imagine the severity of your invisible wounds. And Farrago agrees. She wishes to apologize. She wishes to convey to you how sorry, deeply sorry, she remains to this day.”
“Lot of good that does me sweating in pain at three in the morning.”
“Yes, I know. The apology is only words, but it is sincere. And we are prepared to offer further restitution if you’d be willing to drop all charges against her.”
“Twelve hundred,” said Loophole.
“What?” said Graveyard.
“I’m sorry,” said FerretCheeks, the porcelain-toothed host of Dollars for Dumps, from inside the TV. “That’s incorrect. The actual monthly rent on that particular item is a shade higher, at twenty-two fifty.”
The audience groaned.
“Twenty-two fifty for that piece of shit?” Loophole said. “I could lease an eight-room house in Randomburg for less than that.”
“But you’d still be in Randomburg,” said Ambience.
“How much do I have to pay to live in a decent place in that fucking Mammoth City?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Ambience.
“But we’re here today,” Graveyard said, “to help lighten your burden.”
“I’m going to need a lot of lightening.”
“We understand. Would, say, ten grand help?”
“To do what?”
“We’re serious. I’d hoped you be, too.”
“You want your sister off the hook, right?”
“Why we’re here.”
“You love your sister?”
“Of course.”
“Know who I love? Me. That’s who. And I’m lucky to have such a devoted lover. See, I’ve got no family rushing to my side to fix things up, to fix me up. I’ve got to do all that shit for myself—the bed, the blankets, the chicken soup, the tuck-in, the hugs, the kisses. So I need something special. I need to be wrapped in dollars. Understand? Suffocated in them. Ten grand’s only enough to cover my knees.”
“I’m not MondoBank.”
“Didn’t say you were. But I understand that lottery you won buys a lot of clover.”
As Loophole talked his legs had spread slowly apart, causing the cloth halves of the fly on his boxers to slowly part. Ambience found her attention being drawn again and again to that dark opening. Although she really couldn’t see much of anything at all, she continued to peer brazenly, curious about what might be lurking in there. She couldn’t help herself. It was an area of interest.
“She tried to kill me,” Loophole was saying. He noticed Ambience checking out his junk. He smiled back at her.
“She was defending herself,” Graveyard said. “Anyway, let’s not replay the incident over and over again. It’s done. In the can. I’ve got money here with me.” He held up the black case. “Cash on hand. Let’s not haggle anymore. It drains us needlessly. It’s more than ten grand, more than double ten grand, more than you can multiply by ten grand. Sufficient salve to heal all your wounds.” He opened the case, displayed its contents. The multitude of fresh, clean bills seemed to be smiling at all of them. “I will ask you to sign a statement promising to relinquish all further legal and criminal claims against Farrago. Okay?”
“Let me see the money again.”
Graveyard opened the case and turned it toward him. Loophole looked extra hard. “Pass it over,” he said. Graveyard did. The case propped open on his lap, Loophole gazed admiringly at the contents. He picked up a stack, ran his thumb along the edges.
“Please note those are all hundreds,” Graveyard said.
“I’m noting.”
“Deal?”
Loophole continued to stare into the case. He seemed in a trance. Seconds passed. And passed. “It is cash in hand, the stuff in this case you’re willing to hand over, not a check.”
“That’s correct.”
Finally he stopped studying the money and looked over at Graveyard.
“Yes?” said Graveyard.
“Yes.”
Graveyard reached out a hand and they shook. Then he passed Loophole the agreement and a pen.
“I’d also like you to pay special attention to clause number five, which stipulates that should the prosecution decide to proceed with the case, even after you’ve informed them you refuse to press charges, you will also refuse to testify against Farrago.”
Loophole leaned forward and read.
“Fine with you?” Graveyard said.
“A-okay.”
“Now, if you’ll just autograph the dotted line.”
Loophole did. Graveyard took the paper, folded it, and placed it in his shirt pocket. “I detest clichés,” he said, “but sometimes they’re the perfect way to button up a situation, so I’ll say it anyway. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Loophole. I would even go so far as to say I hope we may meet again under better circumstances. And I mean that. But you and I both know that’s never going to happen. So I’ll just say good day and goodbye.” They shook hands again.
“Nice to meet you,” Ambience said.
“Same here,” said Loophole.
Outside, as they approached the car, Graveyard said, “The legerdemain of money. See it once, see it twice, see it forever. Works every time. Problems, like stubborn stains, go away justlikethat. Poof!” He spread his fingers dramatically before him and then waggled them with what he hoped was as mysterious an air as he was capable of producing. “You can break into applause at any time.”
“With repetition, though, the trick loses its luster, don’t you think?” Ambience said.
“You kidding me? I can explain what I’m going to do, explain how I do what I’m going to do, do it, and they’ll always be like, ‘We’ve seen it before, we want to see it again. Now.’ Impossible to wear the shine off the hocus-pocus of boodle. A perpetual crowd-pleaser.”
“For the rubes in the cheap seats, maybe.”
“For the rubes in the box seats, too. Count on it.”
After they left, Loophole opened the case and again peered inside. The sight of all that lovely cash made him feel ravishingly alive. He closed the case, popped a beer, sat down in his chair, and tried watching TV again for a while. And what was on TV now? Nothing, nothing, and nothing. The case was lying on the table in front of him. It had the clean, sleek, elegant appearance of the sort of case that movie bad guys always left in restaurants, offices, banks, or whatever enclosed space they wanted blown up. He picked the case up and balanced it on his lap. He couldn’t contain himself. He could literally feel the money with his eyes. He was trying desperately to get his churning mind used to two separate things: (1) the sheer size of the amount of loose cash spread out before him and (2) the simple and amazing fact that all of it was his and his alone. He closed the case, stood up, walked back into the bedroom with it. He set the case down on the bed. He stretched himself out beside it, pulled down his boxers, and proceeded to give his jerky an award-winning Loophole Special—that’s long and slow, long and slow, until the sweet bomb explodes and covers the sky in sugar. When he finally came, the cum shot into the air higher than it had ever gone before.