The California Roll Part 18

We escorted Hines back to the clearing, where Vic's Song Serenade was parked behind Hines's GI sedan. I found Hines's handcuffs and snapped them on the wrists he obligingly stretched out to receive them. I could see the questions starting to form in his head, all of them amounting to one version or another of What the f.u.c.k? What the f.u.c.k?

"You're probably wondering, 'What the f.u.c.k,' 'What the f.u.c.k,'" I said. He didn't answer. Wouldn't give me the satisfaction.

"At the end of the day," said Allie, "it was a garden-variety snuke.

We all convinced you that we'd flipped on Radar, and you bought it because you wanted to."

"It's the sign of a good con, mate," added Billy. "Play into the mark's cherished beliefs."

I have to say that for someone held in handcuffs at gunpoint, Hines didn't look too worried. "So what now?" he asked. "Are you going to kill me? I don't think you have the stones. Allie, maybe. Not you girls."

"Murder is the last refuge of the unimaginative," I said. "So tell me if this works for you: We tie you to a tree or whatnot, pack our bags, and grab the first flight to anywhere. Our last phone call before takeoff tells someone where to find you, and you sleep in your own bed tonight."

"You'd better just kill me," he said.

"Oh, why? Because otherwise you'll track us down? Follow us to the ends of the earth?"

"You bet your a.s.s I will."

"I'm saying that's a bad idea." I pulled out the Hackmaster and tossed it gently back and forth from hand to hand. "Your whole sordid history is right here. And here it stays unless, you know, it doesn't."

"Naked bluff," sneered Hines.

"Maybe. But you can't afford to call. So: You keep your distance, we keep ours. It's a big world. No real reasons why our paths should cross."

A shadow of doubt pa.s.sed over Hines's face. "What about Scovil?" he asked, grasping at a certain straw.

"She's sorted," said Billy.

"Sorted?"

I flashed on the errand I'd run to the Blue Magoon. I hoped Scovil was okay. She was a b.i.t.c.h and all, but still ...

Vic, meanwhile, had fetched from his car a padlock and a coil of braided cable. He ran the cable twice around a suitably girthy tree and prepared to lock the loop ends to Hines's handcuffs.

"We'll leave the keys over there somewhere," I said, nodding to the far side of Hines's sedan. "It'll probably be dark before help arrives. I'll tell them to bring a flashlight."

"At least let me p.i.s.s first," said Hines. It seemed like a reasonable request, so I nodded my a.s.sent. Hines unzipped right there in the clearing, which seemed odd, but triggered the not-odd reaction of all of us momentarily looking away. As I studied a treetop, I had the vague sense that I was overlooking something crucial. Did I handcuff him right? Don't they usually handcuff behind the back? Did I handcuff him right? Don't they usually handcuff behind the back? The thought lingered on the tip of my mind, then floated away. I wondered how long I would have this b.u.t.terfly brain, or indeed whether I'd ever think fully straight again. The thought lingered on the tip of my mind, then floated away. I wondered how long I would have this b.u.t.terfly brain, or indeed whether I'd ever think fully straight again.

Then I suddenly remembered what I'd forgotten.

Mirplo's gun!

Too late. Hines already had it out and pressed against Allie's ear.

A frozen moment opened while the shock of the reversal settled in. Mirplo took a step forward, but a growl-literally, a growl-from Hines stopped him. Allie looked stoic. Knowing her history, I figured this wasn't the first gun she'd had held to her head. I've been there myself; needless to say, it's nothing you get used to, but if you're strong, you don't fall to pieces. I caught her eye, and she gave me a look like, If you don't get me out of this, we are If you don't get me out of this, we are so so over over. Billy, meanwhile, had taken a couple of steps to his right. For my part, I slid left, widening the angle.

This, apparently, was not an angle Hines would let us shoot. "Don't f.u.c.king move," he said. "Get down on the ground."

"Well, which is it?" I said. "Don't move or get down?"

"That's right, a.s.shole, keep making jokes. Trust me, there's plenty of bullets to go around."

Bullets. Now why did that ring a bell? Again, I had a thought I couldn't immediately finger. I made a mental note to get a CAT scan at the first opportunity. Again, I had a thought I couldn't immediately finger. I made a mental note to get a CAT scan at the first opportunity.

But you know what? If you're in the game, you play the game, even when you're not feeling game, so I struggled to view the situation from Hines's point of view. I suppose he was weighing a number of factors. Like: was the Penny Skim really real, and if it was, was there any way he could trust us to deliver a decent slice? If not, what plays did he have? He could arrest us, but then what? He'd be virtually arresting himself. No man is more dangerous than when he's drowning in bad choices. The least worst of which, unfortunately, looked like start shooting start shooting.

Except ...

Bullets! Ha-ha! "Here's what's what," I said suddenly, pointing Hines's own gun at him. "You're going to let Allie go." "Here's what's what," I said suddenly, pointing Hines's own gun at him. "You're going to let Allie go."

"Excuse me?"

"Uh-huh. And then you're going to shackle yourself to that tree like a good boy. Want to know why?"

"Why?" asked Hines, belligerently.

"Because I hate guns. I hate them so much that when I have one around-stashed in my closet, say-the first thing I do is unload it. So if you'll just be so kind as to-"

Blam! A shot whistled past my ear. It took out the windshield of Vic's car. A shot whistled past my ear. It took out the windshield of Vic's car.

"f.u.c.k, man!" shouted Vic. "Shirley Temple!"

"What the h.e.l.l?" I added.

"f.u.c.king moron," said Hines. "A gun can't be reloaded?"

Oh. Oh, I hadn't thought of that. Definitely not clicking on all cylinders.

Long story short, Hines held the gun to Allie's head till I caved in and gave up the other piece. Then he made a truss line out of Mirplo's braided cable, bound us waist and wrist, and tossed us down together in a puddle of mud and snow. A bad mix of concussion sickness and bruised regret swamped my mind. As I sat there on the ground, snow seeping through my pants, I couldn't help thinking, This is so f.u.c.ked up This is so f.u.c.ked up. I'm not saying I made a deal with G.o.d or anything, but the thought did cross my mind that if I managed to get out of there without being dead and whatnot, I would definitely start looking for another line of work. Something that didn't involve the risk of guns or, more prosaically, the cold discomfort of a clammy a.s.s as you sit on the ground in the mud in the woods. I knew things weren't entirely my fault. Elide the concussion from the equation and this endgame spins like a top. Ah, well. You can't unbreak an egg.

There's a certain sort of scam I've always hated, one where the grifter acts like a victim and preys on the misplaced sympathy of the mark. Admittedly, some of these can have a certain elegance, like where you call a bookstore masquerading as an author who's due in for a reading this week, only you've been robbed, mugged, whatever, and need some Western Union succor ASAP. In a typical filigree, the bad guys stole your laptop with all those pictures of your mother on the hard drive. For some reason, that detail turns the mooks' screws. At the end of the day, though, it's such a lame and needy thing. Basically, you're telling the mark that you've failed as a human being and that he, as a human being, somehow owes it to you to bail you out. Behind the whiff of faux desperation lies the whiff of real desperation. It's just too pathetic for words.

But I was feeling authentically sorry for myself just then. Besides, Hines had just relieved me of my Hackmaster and smashed it to bits with a rock. As a grifter, you pride yourself on always having other cards to play, but I was definitely running down to deuces in my deck. "Hines," I said, "can we talk for a second?"

"Kinda busy now," he said. And busy he was-siphoning gasoline into an empty soda bottle and dousing the upholstery of Vic's clunker. I had a premonition of the four of us packed in there like flambeed sardines.

Vic saw a different sort of vehicular manslaughter. "Hey," he yelped, "leave Shirley Temple alone. She hasn't done anything to you."

Hines just sneered. "You should have thought of that before you f.u.c.ked me."

"I didn't f.u.c.k you," protested Vic. didn't f.u.c.k you," protested Vic. "He "He f.u.c.ked you." Meaning me. "You think I thought up any of this s.h.i.t?" f.u.c.ked you." Meaning me. "You think I thought up any of this s.h.i.t?"

Well, that was a good point, but Vic's plaintive lameness wasn't doing him any good now. I didn't see anyone pa.s.sing out get out of jail free get out of jail free cards. cards.

Which, of course, was exactly what Hines needed. But would he take one from me? This, in a nutsh.e.l.l, is the downside of being such a d.a.m.n lying liar. By the time you're authentically ready to surrender, no one believes you anymore. Still, it was worth a shot. "Seriously," I said. "We really need to talk."

He crossed from the car and stood over me, gun in one hand, bottle of gasoline in the other. "What's on your mind now, smart guy?"

"I'm just wondering what it'll take to buy us out of this. I mean, you know that you have to run, right?"

"Well, obviously."

"You'll never see the Penny Skim. And the Merlin Game, that's gone, too."

"I have my own resources."

"I'm sure you do," I said. "But wouldn't, say, a hundred thousand, cash, improve the picture?"

Hines squatted down beside me. "And where would I find this windfall?" he asked. "Tucked inside your BVDs?"

"I have it," I said. "Buried back at my place. It's my dash cash." Okay, so I added a zero. You bait what hooks you've got.

"Your dash cash," he repeated. "You have a way with words, bub. I'll give you that." He thought for a minute. "Maybe I'll deal," he said. "Answer one question first."

"Shoot," I said.

"What's your real name?"

I answered without hesitation, "Radar Hoverlander."

Hines stood up, accidentally baptizing me with a slosh of gas. "See, that's the problem," he said. "It might be. It might not be. You might have a hundred grand in dash cash buried in your backyard. You might have a dead goldfish." He shrugged. "There's just no way for me to know. So we'll do things my way." He walked back to the Song Serenade. "And oh, by the way, if you had had been capable of, I don't know, thirty seconds of honesty anywhere along the way, I wouldn't have to kill you now." been capable of, I don't know, thirty seconds of honesty anywhere along the way, I wouldn't have to kill you now."

See what I mean?

Anyway, Hines splattered more gas inside the car and this maddened Mirplo to the point of action. He leapt to his feet, but the steel braid connecting him to us flopped him back down. He landed in the snow and mud with a goopy sploosh. Despite everything, I had to laugh.

Hines glared at me. "What's so funny, funny boy?" Well, that made me laugh even harder. It was a syntax thing. Funny, funny boy Funny, funny boy. That just cracked me up.

I suppose I was becoming hysterical.

But whatever, it was contagious. First Vic got it, as he tried to wipe the mud off himself, but just succeeded in smearing it around. "I'm a mud man!" he shouted. Next Billy went off, muttering under his breath, "Shirley Temple? Shirley b.l.o.o.d.y Temple, mate?" Finally, Allie started, with a chuckle that morphed into a cackle, then unstoppable serial laughter. For no reason I can think of, she flicked some mud at me. It hit me just above the eye and resounded with a soft splat. I fell back melodramatically, as if shot. Thwacking down hard into the mud, I sent up a cratered cascade, much of which landed on Billy.

"Mate!" he howled in protest, and started flinging handfuls of mud at me. I returned fire. Allie and Vic got caught in the blowback, and soon joined in.

Pause for a moment to view this scene from above. Four young grifters are bound together by coils of cable cinched snugly at their waists and wrists. All of their actions are two-handed, and none of them can move far without moving the others. Being good grifters, they have a finely honed understanding that random times call for random actions. Being on the verge of death, they seem to have lost all sense and reason, but that's bluff. They dive on each other, hurl mud, try to stand, fall down, drag each other down, flop around like beached flounders, and generally make idiots of themselves. Off to the side stands an FBI agent with two guns but no clue. Should he fire a warning shot? Into someone's leg, maybe? Just start killing indiscriminately? He'd rather not put bullets into people if he can avoid it. Bad for the evidence trail. He can't understand how people could take so dire a moment and turn it into a mud fight. Maybe he doesn't know how to have fun. Maybe he hasn't grasped what every good grifter knows: that the best offense is a good pretense. Nor does he notice that the fight is developing its own rhythm and cadence. First one grifter is standing, then brought down. Now two are up, now down. Three get to their feet; the other drags them down, reeling them in by the fistful. They're laughing, carrying on, having a wonderful time. The fibbie yells at them to stop. His problem, he's not a whimsical person.

His other problem, he didn't hear someone call shenanigans.

We were Brownian motion, a Heisenberg uncertainty principle, bouncing and jouncing and flinging mud like chimpanzee dung. Some hurled insults with the mud. Vic seemed to have had enough of Billy's mockery. Allie aspersed my manhood. Me, I just sang. Hines thought we were nuts. It made him lower his guard.

Our random movements finally brought all four of us to our feet at the same time.

That's when we rushed him.

It was a clumsy charge, not exactly a pro blitz, but it had its desired effect. In a second we had him face down in the guck, with the weight of four bodies and a considerable quant.i.ty of mud holding him there. I saw one gun go flying, but the other was ... where? Underneath him? Lost in the mud? And where was the key to the padlock? In his pocket, I supposed, but how to get at it without maybe giving him the chance to gun someone down? It was an odd little impa.s.se. One that I apparently could have bought myself out of with thirty seconds of plain honesty somewhere back down the line, but the next sound you hear will be the barn door slamming behind that particular cow. I didn't even have the Hackmaster, which meant I'd lost my leverage. I supposed I could vamp about backup files on hidden hard drives, but see above: barn door; cow.

I was starting to think that honesty was a surprisingly powerful card, and one I should really try to play more often.

"So what do we do now?" asked Vic. "Just lie here till we all freeze?"

"That could take a while," a voice said. "Maybe I'll just put everyone out of their misery now."

I looked left, and there were the no-nonsense black boots of Detective Constable Claire Scovil. She bent into my field of vision and scooped Hines's pistol from the muck. "Let's see ..." she said, brushing off the snow and mud, "Milval's gun. Milval's bullets ... I'm thinking murder-suicide," she said. "How does everyone fancy that?"

the hot tub of truth.

I 'm saying I didn't fancy it at all. All my life I've tried to (well, had to) hold on to things fairly loosely. Homes, cars, possessions of all kinds. The way grifters roll, they need to be ready to drop everything and run. I thought I held on to life the same loose way. It was a fine party and all-the best I ever crashed-but every party ends, and anyone who doesn't acknowledge this is just not being realistic. You can fantasize that you're immortal. You can hold out the hope of heaven, if you like. Me, I was always just 'm saying I didn't fancy it at all. All my life I've tried to (well, had to) hold on to things fairly loosely. Homes, cars, possessions of all kinds. The way grifters roll, they need to be ready to drop everything and run. I thought I held on to life the same loose way. It was a fine party and all-the best I ever crashed-but every party ends, and anyone who doesn't acknowledge this is just not being realistic. You can fantasize that you're immortal. You can hold out the hope of heaven, if you like. Me, I was always just enjoy the ride, and turn in your ticket when you're done enjoy the ride, and turn in your ticket when you're done. But finally staring death in the face-or from this p.r.o.ne perspective, staring it in the chunky Doc Martens-I found that I wasn't holding on so loosely any more. Why the change of heart? My something to lose, of course, sprawled there beside me in the mud. Having finally found love, I would be royally p.i.s.sed off not to get to enjoy it and cherish it for the next sixty or seventy years.

Want to hear something really weird? Much as I couldn't bear the thought of me dying and her living, I couldn't bear the thought of me living and her dying even more.

n.o.bility from a grifter? A genuinely selfless act? It was beginning to look that way-if I could pull it off. could pull it off.

I tried to roll over, but I was all cabled up against Billy's back and couldn't gain leverage. The mud caked on my face was starting to harden. I felt like Quest for Fire Quest for Fire. "Claire," I said into Billy's shoulder blades, "you don't have to kill us all. Just kill me. I'm the one you want, right?"

Scovil settled down on her haunches and brought her eyes level with mine. "n.o.bility, Radar? Really?" See? She didn't buy it either.

"It happens," I said, trying but failing to shrug. "People change." She just shook her head. "Anyway, what about the money? Don't you want that, too?"

"Honey, I want it all. But first I want an explanation." She thwacked Billy on the nose. "Mate. Why was I knocked out for two hours, and why do I have such a headache?"

"Ah, that would be the flunitrazepam," he said.

"The what?"

"Roofies. Surprisingly easy to get in this country." He had that right. At the Blue Magoon, they practically sell them over the counter. "You're right lucky I only gave you a half dose."

"Thanks for that. I'll only kill you half dead."

"It was my idea," I chimed in.

"More n.o.blesse, Hoverlander? What are you, applying for sainthood?"

"Nah, mate mate. I'm just trying to buy my friends' lives."

"Since when do you have friends?"

"I know, huh? It surprises me as much as it surprises you. But look, you know ... the Penny Skim ... plenty enough to share."

For reasons that beggar imagination, she kicked me quite hard in the ribs. "I don't want to hear any more about the b.l.o.o.d.y Penny Skim," she said. "I made it for woffle the first moment I heard of it."

"I don't know what woffle is," I said, gasping for breath, "but I a.s.sure you-"

And she kicked me again! Now that that was uncalled for. was uncalled for.