The California Roll Part 19

"Radar," said Allie, "let it go. You can understand why she doesn't believe you."

"Yeah, I can," I agreed. "I've learned a valuable lesson in credibility through all this, I'm telling you that right now." A thought crossed my mind. "But tell me something," I said. "How did you find us here?"

Scovil hooked a thumb at Hines. "He told me where he'd be. In case he needed backup. Which, to the look of things, he does."

"So you were in it together?"

"From the start." She smiled in mock surprise. "What? You think you're the only one who can spin a yarn?"

"And the bit about killing us all with his gun?"

"Don't tell me you can't take a joke."

"Some joke," muttered Mirplo. "I think I c.r.a.pped my pants."

Scovil waved the gun lazily back and forth. "Right. Get off him now. Wrestling hour is over."

We rolled off of Hines. With a fair amount of bruised dignity, he rose to his feet, wiped off what mud he could ...

... then popped Scovil in the jaw.

I'm not sure Hines could've taken Scovil in a fair fight, she was that staunch, but sucker punched as she was, she went down hard. The gun flew up out of her hand. In one smooth motion, Hines caught it on the fly by the barrel and gonked Scovil on the skull. Lights out.

"She ..." started Allie. She didn't get any further.

"She's my partner?" mocked Hines. "Guess she's not the only one who can spin a yarn."

Yeah, I guess. In my mind I quickly restacked the facts. If Scovil and Hines weren't together (and judging from the heap of Scovil lying at his feet, I think you could take that as read), then from the start, all she was to him was a problem to solve. But which kind of problem? Honest cop or compet.i.tion? Even at that moment, I couldn't confidently say, but I realized that from Hines's point of view, it wouldn't matter. He couldn't stand to let her shine a light on his operation, and as for sharing the take, well, let's just say that sharing wasn't his strong suit. Now, of course, it had all gone to h.e.l.l, and Hines had the haunted look of a bunny in a leg trap wondering, Well, how much of this will I have to gnaw off? Well, how much of this will I have to gnaw off?

Hines positioned himself near me in the mud. He picked my nose with his gun muzzle. I could smell the acrid scent of its recent discharge. I wanted to sneeze, but thought maybe I wouldn't. "This is your last chance to be honest," he said.

"I'll take it!" I cried.

"The dash cash. Is it real?"

"I ..." I hesitated. Honesty did not come naturally to me. "I may have overstated the exact amount."

"Is there five figures?"

"Oh, definitely."

"It'll have to do."

So here was the new play. Hines and I would leave everyone here, locked up. We'd go back to my place and dig up the dash cash. If it was there-at least five figures-Hines would give me the key to the padlock, and I could come and fetch my friends at my leisure. "Or not," he said. "That'll be up to you." I have to tell you that I found this statement very offensive, which was a measure either of how far I'd come or how far gone I was. In any case, I didn't hesitate to take the deal. Anything that made s.p.a.ce between Allie and Hines made sense to me.

Hines unlocked the padlock and extracted me from the Mobius cable. He rolled me over in the mud and held me, p.r.o.ne, at gunpoint, while the others locked themselves back up, adding the limp Scovil to the chain. If she ever woke up, there'd be a fourth for bridge. Then he bound me and hustled me into his car.

All the way back down the mountain, I tried to make chitchat with Hines, but he wasn't in a gabby mood. It was night now, and though I knew vaguely where in the mountains we were (I saw a sign for Cedar Springs) I feared I'd have a b.i.t.c.h of a time finding the others in the dark.

Once again, and for what I hoped was the last time, I tried to play the game from Hines's side of the board. He'd be disappointed, no doubt, at finding only ten grand in dash cash, but it'd be enough at least to get him to whatever offsh.o.r.e nest he had undoubtedly feathered in advance. What he needed was a head start, clear transit through some airport or across some border. It wouldn't serve him for me to send up a signal flare the moment he was out of my sight. I suppose he'd feel he had to tie me up or something. I could live with that.

I know what you're thinking. I should have been thinking it, too. But every time I thought my head was starting to clear, it turned out that it wasn't.

So when we got back to my place and Hines had me dig up my ammo case from its hillside home, I stood there feeling rather grand as he counted out the money. At least I'd told the truth about that. Honesty? Best policy? Yeah!

"That's it?" asked Hines.

"It," I agreed. The rain was really pouring down again, and the hillside was shot through with rivulets of flowing debris. "I have some vintage baseball cards if you want those, too." I slipped on the slanty slope as I turned and headed back up to my place.

"Stop right there," he said.

"No baseball cards?" But before I turned around, I knew he'd pulled his stupid gun again, and speaking of stupid, I guess I get the prize for that. I should have realized on the car ride down from the mountains that Hines didn't need a short head start but a long one. Just tying me up was not going to cut it. But murdering me and leaving me on a wet hillside ... yeah, that'd do.

"Oh, what is this?" I asked tiredly.

"What do you think it is?"

"Look," I said, "all I want is to walk away. I won't drop a dime. Really. You can trust me."

We both knew how ridiculous that sounded.

And you know what? I was kind of ready to go. After all, I'd saved Allie, right?

Right? Sure, right.

Except after he'd done me, what was to stop Hines from going back up the mountain and finishing the job? Once you get into murder, the actual body count becomes somewhat moot.

Well, that just completely and utterly burned my bacon. Here I'd made a reasonable deal with the man (giving up $10,000 is not nothing!), and he'd treated me like some kind of schoolyard mark. Which, I guess you'd have to say, I was.

So there we stood on the hillside, rain pouring down, mud covering our shoes, one guy holding a gun on the other. A real noir moment. Far below I could see the glowing lights of the Java Man. I thought of all the times I'd been up and down the hill to that place. I knew that slope pretty well. I knew how treacherous it could be, even when half of it wasn't draining away in the rain.

I also knew how many neighbors' windows looked out on that tiny slice of urban verdance.

"On your knees," hissed Hines. "Now."

"You know what? No." It was the hiss that gave him away. He wanted to keep this whole thing nice and quiet: another skull-gonk, say, then a smother in mud or similar silent demise.

Hiss notwithstanding, Hines wasn't ready to concede the point. "Do it," he said, "or I'll shoot you where you stand."

"Shoot," I said. "Go ahead. And everyone will hear, and you won't even make it out of this neighborhood, much less on the last flight to Wherethef.u.c.kistan or whatnot." I've said it before and I'll say it again: The grift is like poker; when you're down to deuces, deuces is what you play. And when you think the other guy is bluffing, you go with your gut, and raise.

I turned and took a single step uphill.

Blam! A single shot rang out. A single shot rang out.

Okay, not bluffing.

I suppose I owed it to rain or bad light or uncertain footing that Hines didn't hit me. He came close, though; I actually felt the slug whiz through the negative s.p.a.ce above my shoulder and beside my head. At that moment, time stood still, and it seemed like I had forever to think things through. Either that or you get so used to playing nothing nothing straight that in times of stress a certain rote behavior takes over. In any case, I whirled around (as if shot), fell to the ground (as if shot), and howled b.l.o.o.d.y murder (as if-well, you get the gist). straight that in times of stress a certain rote behavior takes over. In any case, I whirled around (as if shot), fell to the ground (as if shot), and howled b.l.o.o.d.y murder (as if-well, you get the gist).

Hines labored up the hillside to finish me off. He grunted as he neared, losing his traction in the softening earth. I rose up with a feral roar and hurled myself at him. He outweighed me by a fair amount, but I had elevation on my side, and my momentum toppled us both into the mud. Then gravity ("not just a good idea, it's the law") took over and sent us both rolling and tumbling down the hillside, clawing and kicking and punching at each other as our bodies slammed against roots and rocks and wet nasty p.r.i.c.ker bushes. Somewhere along the way we hit something big, started cartwheeling, and didn't stop until we slammed into the back wall of the Java Man.

My head hit cinderblock with a thud that I'll just go ahead and describe as sickening. Man Man, I thought as consciousness swam, twice in one day. That is just not fair twice in one day. That is just not fair. But then I looked left and saw Hines crumpled at the base of the wall with his head more or less at right angles to his neck, and I thought, Well, things could be worse Well, things could be worse.

The Java Man's manager came running out. "What the f.u.c.k?" he asked, more or less rhetorically.

I tried to answer. Instead, I took a nap.

I woke in a hospital. A doctor stood over me, peering into my eyes. He asked me to follow his finger, which I did, and this pleased him, I thought, a good deal more than it should. He turned to the primly dressed woman standing nearby. "He's going to be fine, Mrs...." He paused to consult his chart. "... Rook. Your husband, Geen ..." He did a double take. "Is that correct? Geen?" woke in a hospital. A doctor stood over me, peering into my eyes. He asked me to follow his finger, which I did, and this pleased him, I thought, a good deal more than it should. He turned to the primly dressed woman standing nearby. "He's going to be fine, Mrs...." He paused to consult his chart. "... Rook. Your husband, Geen ..." He did a double take. "Is that correct? Geen?"

"Yes," answered Allie in a perfect South African accent. "Geen Rook. It's Afrikaans." * *

"Very well," said the doc. "He should be clear in a day or two. In the meantime, he'll be well cared for here. He has excellent health insurance." Of course I do. That's what the Geen Rook ident.i.ty is for. Clever of Allie to dig it out of my files, and bonus points for dealing herself in as my wife. Maybe she'd like some cosmetic surgery while she waits.

No, you know what? She's perfect how she is.

Two days later, I left the hospital with the whole welcoming committee there to greet me: Allie, Billy, and Vic. They were well, despite having spent eighteen rough hours in the elements until some hikers found them the next day. I was so happy to see them. My team ... my friends ... they'd executed the gaff perfectly, mooking Hines into thinking that they'd all betrayed me and, especially, staying with it when I got whacked on the head and forgot that Allie was in on the twist. Solid performers. Even Vic.

At that, I confess, I was a little surprised to see them walking around so ... free to be walking around. Hadn't the cops asked embarra.s.sing questions about the whole chained-to-a-tree situation?

"What cops?" asked Allie.

"Well, I mean, didn't the hikers notify someone? That was a pretty funky state you were in."

"Too right, mate," said Billy. "So we told them it was a bondage game gone wrong, and they cleared out fast." Ah. Couldn't blame them for that. I would, too.

But what about Scovil?

Apparently, she'd come to before dawn, aching and angry, but a lot less rattled in her cage than I'd been. Her first thought had been to blow a big whistle, bust Hines, me, them, and anyone else she could think of.

They had many hours to persuade her otherwise. All it took was a little attentive listening and a whole big pile of cash.

As it turned out, Scovil's family had had been taken in by my tropical island scam, and pretty well wrecked on it, too. This had propelled Scovil into a law enforcement career, with a particular ax to grind for the grift. But a fascination, too, the way anti-gay crusaders are sometimes the ones who end up in the men's room stalls. So she'd always had a love/hate relationship with Billy and, by distant extension, me. been taken in by my tropical island scam, and pretty well wrecked on it, too. This had propelled Scovil into a law enforcement career, with a particular ax to grind for the grift. But a fascination, too, the way anti-gay crusaders are sometimes the ones who end up in the men's room stalls. So she'd always had a love/hate relationship with Billy and, by distant extension, me.

Poor Scovil, so deeply conflicted. Was she a contrite law officer trying to unflaw her flawed judgment by bringing Billy to justice? The aggrieved daughter of swindled victims on a revenge tip against me? Or a formerly straight cop trying to become bent and get what the other half has? In the end, I don't think even she knew, and that's what made her play so erratic. Try to have your cake and eat it, too, you often just drop it on the floor.

But she came to see that it would do her no good to dob us in. She'd been tarred with Hines's brush. It would be a lot simpler for her to pretend that America never happened than to explain what really went on. Especially with the proceeds of the Merlin Game to help grease the skids. That was a high price to pay for our freedom, but Allie paid without a second thought, and I stand by her choice; it's hard to spend money in jail. Certain that the Penny Skim was bafflegab, Scovil had the satisfaction of taking, she supposed, pretty much everything we had.

So she took the money and ran ... where? Back to Australia? Off to a fresh start? Or up some mountain to figure her s.h.i.t out? I didn't know and didn't much care. As I'd told Hines, it's a big world. No reason why our paths should cross.

She has a quality, that one. Some day she might even make a part of a good grift team. Its muscle at least.

With Scovil sorted, it became much easier for me to deal with my own Jake issues, for now I could leave Allie, Vic, and Billy out of the equation altogether. All I had to do was backpredict a series of events that plausibly led to Hines dead at the hands of a Java Man wall. My story went something like this: First, I admitted to a certain loose relationship with legal commerce; no secret there, just take a look at my rap sheet. This, according to my narrative, Hines had done, and decided that I'd paid sufficient debt neither to society nor to him. Then comes blackmail, my wet attempt at a payoff, and an unhappy accident at the bottom of a hill. Simple, clean, direct. Pure woffle, as Scovil would put it, but more than adequate to satisfy the LAPD, who could hardly charge me with a.s.sault with a deadly Java Man, and were warned off a wider investigation by the FBI.

As for the interrogators the fibbies sent around, I think they didn't buy my story, but didn't much care, for by dying, Hines had done them a tremendous administrative favor. Now all they had to do was keep a lid on the scandal. Did they have access to his dossier on me? If they did, they never said. I think you'll find it under the same rug where the rest of this mess got swept.

Get this: They even paid me. For my trouble? Or my silence? You make the call. They offered ten grand. I negotiated up to twenty-five. Never leave money lying on the table.

Not that twenty-five grand was anything more than a drop in the bucket (and the Merlin Game only a slightly larger drop) compared to the Penny Skim, which (A) was not the woffle Scovil supposed it to be and (2) made us all stupid rich.

The Chinese caught on quicker than I thought they would, but still we netted something like three quarters of a million each before they shut us down. I toyed briefly with the idea of not awarding Mirplo a full share, but then I thought, What the h.e.l.l What the h.e.l.l. He may not have contributed the most in terms of brains or sweat equity, but he did share the danger.

Billy took his cut and got in the wind. I told him to shout me up if he ever thought of doing something fun, like robbing Fort Knox. Allie and I, meanwhile, gathered what keepsakes we favored and headed south to a suitably banana republic. Vic rolled with; you don't like to leave the kids at home unsupervised.

The experience had greened our little Mirplo. For the first time in his life, he carried himself with the swaggering confidence of a winner. I had no idea how long the transformation would last, but for the moment at least, you could look at Vic and say, "There goes a grifter." Not the world's best, perhaps, but not a complete, well, Mirplo in the end.

As for Allie and me, we were in love, that mushy, kissy-faced ardor that everyone except a grifter knows well, but that hit two new-minted innocents with the force of revelation. And it might even last. Or maybe, like Vic's confidence, it will waft away one day on a tropical breeze, as our bedrock grifter natures rea.s.sert themselves. Well, that's for tomorrow. Tonight, we're lolling in a hot tub, beneath the swaying palm trees of a posh resort in San Somethingdor.

Allie turns and looks at me.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says. "It's just ... I have a question to ask."

"Ask away."

"Yeah, before I do, I'm designating this here ..." She indicates the Jacuzzi, "... the Hot Tub of Truth, okay?"

"Okay,"

"And you understand that when you're in the Hot Tub of Truth, you absolutely cannot lie."

"Of course," I nod. "How else could it be?"

"Okay, then. Now, tell me: What is your real name?"

"Radar Hoverlander."

"Really?"

"Really, really."

But it's not. Not really. Even in the Hot Tub of Truth, you have to hold some things back.

*For "No Smoking."

Acknowledgments.

T he author wishes to thank the two new women in his life, Betsy Amster and Sarah Knight. I never got why writers lavish such praise upon their agents and editors, but with the faith these worthies showed in this book and the care they took to make it ever better, I now understand. I also want to thank Maxx Duffy, my wife and inspiration, who tolerates my every "Listen to this" and "What do you think about that?" and keeps me tethered when I'm threatened with wafting away. Thanks to the real Radar Hoverlander. You know who you are. I also want to thank the internet for knowing everything. See you next book, everyone! he author wishes to thank the two new women in his life, Betsy Amster and Sarah Knight. I never got why writers lavish such praise upon their agents and editors, but with the faith these worthies showed in this book and the care they took to make it ever better, I now understand. I also want to thank Maxx Duffy, my wife and inspiration, who tolerates my every "Listen to this" and "What do you think about that?" and keeps me tethered when I'm threatened with wafting away. Thanks to the real Radar Hoverlander. You know who you are. I also want to thank the internet for knowing everything. See you next book, everyone!