Plan B

While we’re still on the 22 freeway and in Orange County, Sergei decides to call Harry Fudge and let him know we have found twenty-two names on his list.

“But Carr’s gone,” I say. “He won’t find him at that address.”

Maggot Arm Joe says, “We don’t want it to look like we were holding out on the man.”

“But we were holding out on the man,” I say, though I don’t suppose there’s any way he would know we didn’t intend to put Frank Carr on the list.

Maggot Arm Joe says, “We? Fuck we—you were holding out, Nick. And I’m still not sure why.”

“What does that mean?” I say.

“Since the start, you’ve been pulling for Frank Carr—and now we find you’re talking to the man behind our backs.”

I say, “Behind your back—fuck you. I haven’t been pulling for anyone—we made a deal with the man and I wanted to hold to it, that’s all.”

“And maybe you did okay with that deal, Nick,” Maggot Arm Joe says.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“That means that you met with the man, had a talk, and now the man’s safe and sound, just like you wanted all along.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say.

“Is it?” He stares at me. “Where’s the ten grand, Nick?”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “I wouldn’t do that,” I say.

“You would, too,” Maggot Arm Joe says. “This is business. Anybody will fuck anybody. I just thought your price might be higher.”

“Fuck you,” I say. “We’re done.”

“Stop!” Sergei yells. “What the shit is going on?” He turns around and looks at Maggot Arm Joe and then to me. “Cannot happen, this. Same side—same team. No fights.”

“Same team my ass,” I say.

“Where’s the money, Nick?” Maggot Arm Joe says.

“Stop,” Sergei says. “Enough.”

“Ask the man why he’s protecting Mr. Frank Carr,” Maggot Arm Joe says.

I look in the rearview and say, “I’m not protecting anyone. Call up Harry Fudge and give him the address. Hell, for twenty grand, I’ll drive Frank Carr door to fucking door and let crazy Harry Fudge freeze him to death or whatever the hell he wants to do.”

No one says anything for a moment. Mr. Bird squawks and chirps.

Sergei says, “Good. Same page?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Same page.” And I’m thinking same page, the page that ends up with Mr. Frank Carr dead, with his Martha Stewart wife and his polished kids without a dad, even if he’s a weasel. Let’s synchronize our watches; let’s kill people. I wonder how and why I ever got involved with this. I need to cut loose. Nothing’s worth this—surely not money, of all things.

Sergei says, “Same page?”

I see Maggot Arm Joe nod in the rearview, but he still looks pissed.

Sergei says, “Nick Ray do the talk.” And he holds out his phone to me.

“Nope,” I say. “Not when I’m driving—I’m not going to be one of those phone drivers.”

“Give me the damn phone,” Maggot Arm Joe says. “I know the man best.”

Sergei shakes his head. “Too angry for business.”

“Just give me the goddamn phone.”

Sergei gives it to him and Maggot Arm Joe dials. The bird chirps a couple of times. Maggot Arm Joe clicks the phone shut. “No answer.”

“No machine?” Sergei says.

“Zip.”

Sergei says, “Let’s go to Fudge house. Things must be dealt with.”