David Alan Dedin
So-Cal is Where My Mind States
Eighteen
So-Cal is Where My Mind States
2006
I’ll keep ten thousand for myself, but it’s time to give the money to Bob…
As Alan returned from the airport, a blue Monte Carlo was sitting in Patrick’s driveway, its windows down. He parked, shut the engine, then walked towards the house’s open front door – where a crowbar leaned on the broken threshold, above a pile of splinters. The entrance had been forced open. He could hear that the great room television was now playing a Mexican soap opera. The intruder had made no effort to hide his presence, so Alan calmly reached for his cell and dialed 911.
He brought the phone to his ear.
“You sure you want to do that?” Bob Gross asked, appearing in the doorway in a yellow shirt and tie, drinking a glass of scotch. “There’s a lot of money in the house right now. That’s gonna’ be hard to explain when the police arrive.”
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the voice in the speaker asked.
“And if memory serves me correctly,” Bob added, “you’re already in trouble with police.”
“I repeat, nine-one-one, your emergency please?”
“I’m sorry, but I meant to dial four-one-one,” Alan told the dispatcher. “It was my mistake. I apologize for the confusion.”
“Please be more careful in the future, Sir” – click.
Alan snapped the phone closed by his ear.
“Much better,” Gross told him, stepping aside to let him pass. “Won’t you come inside?”
Alan hesitated. “That wasn’t a request,” Bob told him. “Get your ass in the house. You and I need to have a conversation.”
Narrowing his eyes, Alan reluctantly passed the lawyer as he entered.
Gross closed the broken door behind him.
* * * * *
“Want a drink?” Bob asked, as they came into the kitchen. Alan saw the two suitcases of cash – open and carefully recounted – sitting on the island counter, next to a bottle of whiskey that he’d hidden under the sink. He watched Gross fetch him a glass. It had naked cherubs on it.
“You were a bad boy yesterday,” Bob said, pouring. “I asked you if there was anything else that you wanted to talk about, and you told me no.” He passed the whiskey over like a bartender rolling a beer down the bar. Alan caught it before it flew off the edge.
“Is no your final answer?” Gross asked, refilling his own glass.
“I was going to drop off the money today,” Alan told him honestly. “I was actually planning on doing it this afternoon.”
Bob smiled. “Is that how we’re playing this?”
“I’m not playing anything, Mr. Gross. It’s the truth.” Alan swirled the glass. “And why do you care anyway? I’m just Patrick’s friend. I know what happened to him at the casino, but I’m not involved in any of that.”
“Just…Patrick’s…friend,” Bob repeated, lighting a cigarette. He thought about this. “What kind of friend?”
“Huh?”
“Are you his friend, or his friend-friend?” Gross asked, grinning. Alan’s eyes widened as Bob made a “V” with his fingers, licking them sexually with his tongue. He shook his eyebrows playfully.
“Wait – what? No!” Alan said. “We’re just friends, that’s all. And I haven’t seen him for years. We don’t even live in the same state.”
“But didn’t you just see him at a funeral a few weeks back?” Bob asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“So, you’re lying to me already,” Gross told him. “You say that you haven’t seen Patrick for years, but then you turn right around and tell me you did just see him only a few weeks ago.” Bob stared at him coolly while exhaling a long, deep drag –
“I don’t like being lied to, Mr. Lavinski. I don’t like it at all.”
Alan took a moment, sizing up the situation. “Why are you here, Mr. Gross?”
The lawyer tapped the suitcases.
“Okaaay…I’ll admit I was late in bringing you the money,” Alan said, “But you have the money now. I’m assuming that’s what you want.”
“To a point,” Gross said.
“There’s something else?” Alan asked. “Are you here to talk about my case?”
Bob nearly choked on his drink. “Oh, that ship has sailed, my friend! You’re on your own with that fuckin’ mess!” Gross laughed to himself as he flicked his cigarette into the sink. Alan watched him carry his glass around the island, then stop to take in their ostentatious surroundings.
“Do you know the man who owns this house?” Bob asked.
“Of course,” Alan said. “It’s Patrick’s.”
Gross pfft’d. “If this were really Patrick’s house, don’t you think the police would have searched it by now?”
“Huh?”
“Searched the house,” Bob repeated. “I mean, your buddy’s little Bingo scam made the national news. I believe they said that hundreds of thousands of dollars are missing…so, if I were the arresting officer, don’t you think that the very first thing I would do would be to find out where my suspect lived and search the fuckin’ place? For money? For evidence? For things that would build my case?”
Alan’s eyes widened.
“I’ll give you a little clue on that – the police did search Patrick’s house, but they didn’t find shit. It’s a tiny little apartment by the airport. Just a place to have his name on the utility bills, and for the casino to mail his paychecks and W-2’s. But it’s just for show…it may as well be a post office box.”
Alan stepped back – What’s really going on here, Mr. Gross?
“This house,” Gross went on, “is owned by a former friend of mine named Vince. Cute little gay guy. Still had his looks at forty.” The lawyer paused to admire a golden music box, which was filled with pink condoms when opened. “A little on the faggy side, but hey – we all can’t be tops, am I right?” He grinned –
“Vince was the guy who taught me how much money can be made in those little, off-strip casinos like the Elder-Rado…and those slow, fuckin’ games that old people like. Like Keno. Like Bingo…”
One beat, two beats…Alan could feel his heart in his chest.
“Vince was a lot like you, Mr. Lavinski. He got hammered at a bar one night, then ran over some poor bitch when he blacked out behind the wheel. Luckily, she was a hooker – which worked to our advantage – but un-lucky for Mr. Vince, he didn’t have the cash to cover my fee.” Gross sipped his drink, staring at Alan. “But he did have a suggestion for an acceptable financial arrangement.”
Alan inhaled-
“Mr. Gross, I sincerely apologize for the delay in returning your money…but as you know, there was a good reason for that. And if you don’t want me as a client, that’s fine. Very honestly, at this point, I don’t think I want you as my lawyer.” Alan locked eyes with Bob. This man was starting to scare him. Jesus fucking Christ, Patrick…are you indebted to him?
“Look,” Alan added. “You’ve got your money. Can’t you just take it and go?”
The room fell silent, less the drone of the Mexican soap.
“I could,” Gross said. “But there’s still something bothering me.”
“What’s that?”
The lawyer grinned again.
“Did you know that Vince is dead now?” Bob changed the subject, freshening his drink while Alan’s remained untouched in his hands. “Tragic thing, really. He was beaten to death in prison.”
“I thought you said that you got him out of it,” Alan said coldly.
“Oh, no – not even close!” Gross laughed. “I said I took his case, but the hit and run was caught on camera…hard to argue against that. And the hooker’s family showed up at the arraignment. All cleaned up, shirts and ties, pretty dresses, lots of Catholic shit. Her mom looked like Tess from Touched by an Angel…except, you know, brown instead of black.”
Alan swallowed.
“No, they threw the book at him…and I could have stopped it you know, greased the right palms, gave a shout to a buddy who runs the evidence locker. But you know why I didn’t, Alan? Bob paused for effect. “It’s because that little faggot had a friend he didn’t tell me about…and I’m starting to wonder if Patrick has that same friend in you.”
Gross downed his drink, slamming the glass on the counter.
“So, tell me again, Mr. Lavinski. Are you and Patrick…friends?” He patted the money within an open suitcase. “Because I’ve gotta’ tell you…these suitcases are light.”
Alan’s heart was racing now.
Patrick…what have you DONE?
“Mr. Gross…seriously…I’m only here because Patrick called me. If you’re implying that I knew what he was doing at the casino, well…you’re just wrong. I only found out about it when Patrick called me from jail.”
“That so?” Bob said.
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
“Mr. Gross, I live in Chicago. I work in a hotel. And I’ve got to get back to Chicago, because I’ve already been gone a week.”
“Aren’t you forgetting your hearing?” Gross asked. “And that great big pile of yellow traffic tickets? Reckless driving? Endangering the life of a minor? Endangering the lives of everyone on the fucking road?”
Alan stammered. His hands shook slightly as he placed his glass – still untouched – onto the counter. “Well, no…that has to be dealt with. But the hearing’s in a few weeks…and I’ll fly back for it. And I’ll find another lawyer, of course…”
“Oh – I forgot to mention something.” Bob headed for the sofa. Alan noticed that Gross had brought his briefcase in, which sat on the coffee table. He opened it, then handed Alan a paper. Alan’s face lost all expression when he read it.
“Your hearing’s tomorrow at nine,” Gross said coldly. He looked at his watch – 1:10pm. “I have a few friends myself, in the prosecution office. Good luck finding a lawyer in time.”
Alan’s legs were frozen as the lawyer closed his briefcase, then carried it to the counter. He shoved it under his arm while also closing the two suitcases of cash – click, click! He headed for the door like a traveler with too much luggage.
“Mr. Gross, wait” –
“Gotta’ run, buddy! I’ve got a two o’clock with another hooker…only this one ain’t no client. You know, she does this incredible thing with her toes…”
“Mr. Gross, wait please!”
The lawyer’s shirt went brilliant yellow as his back shot down the sunny sidewalk, disappearing around the garage. Alan went after him.
“Mr. Gross, PLEASE!” Alan begged outside, as Bob threw the suitcases into his trunk, followed by his briefcase. The lawyer ignored him while climbing into the car, starting the engine and putting on his sunglasses. The shades were mirrored. Alan could see his own face in their reflection.
“Seriously,” Gross said, throwing the car in reverse. “Have you ever heard of edging?” He stepped on the gas.
“I’ll pay you today!” Alan pleaded in desperation. “I’ll get the five grand from the bank!”
“She can keep you on the edge for hours!” Bob said, cranking the AC. He started rolling the windows up as he left. “When she finally lets you cum, your jizz hits the fucking ceiling!”
Alan panicked as the car pulled away –
“I KNOW WHERE THE MISSING MONEY IS!”
The Chevy screeched to a stop.
And like he’d done so often at Checker’s, Alan had to think on his feet, fast...
* * * * *
The door to Patrick’s bedroom flew open as Alan led Gross inside, fireplace poker in his casted arm. Alan fought back anxiety on noticing that the third suitcase had been ransacked, its photos and mementos now strewn across the bed and carpet.
“It’s in HERE,” Alan said tearfully, gesturing towards the open hidden compartment under the platform. “Give me a second…I’ll get it for you.”
“You better not be fucking with me, boy!” Gross pushed the gay man forward, to his knees. “Patrick was crying too, yesterday…and all it takes is a phone call!”
His cast and poker held carefully in the air, Alan crawled on his elbows. He lay on his stomach in front of the platform’s access and used the metal rod to fish something from the compartment’s far corner. Bob could hear the poker scraping against wood. “I don’t have all fuckin’ day,” he growled.
“Give me a second!” Alan told him, intentionally allowing his frustration to show. He fished some more, more thumping, more scraping. Bob looked at his watch –
“This is bullshit. I’m outta’ here!”
“DAMMIT, Bob!” Alan cried, rolling over. He held his broken arm up, moving his stiff fingers. “I’m trying, but it’s not fucking easy!”
“You’re lying to me.”
“DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M LYING?” Alan shouted, lying. He tried again – scrape, scrape, scrape – “I’ve almost got it” – thud! – “Dammit!” Sweat rolled off his face when he looked up. “The platform is made of plywood. I think I can get through from the other side.” He held out his good hand for Bob to help him up –
Gross scoffed.
“Fine!” Alan said, using the poker as a cane to stand. He threw it on the bed, then went to pass the lawyer, who stopped him cold –
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To get a Sawzall from the garage,” Alan sniveled, wiping his eyes. “I need to cut through the wood.” Bob angrily pushed him aside –
“Where’s it at?” Gross got to his knees and peered into the black hole.
“In the corner,” Alan choked. “Patrick made it hard to get on purpose.”
“I can’t see it.” Bob was on his stomach now.
Alan crossed his arms on his shoulders, one hand over his mouth, his broken arm fluttering and pointing. “It’s there…but you’ll need to use something to grab it.”
His red face now buried in white carpet, Gross reached onto the bed for the poker, but Alan had intentionally thrown it too far. “Fuck – give me the poker.”
“Here you go,” Alan said, doing exactly as he was told –
His eyes went red as he gave Bob the poker repeatedly, again and again and again.
* * * * *
Later, as blood rolled down the shower drain like Psycho, Alan reached for a thick Egyptian towel to dry himself in the tub. He then threw it down onto the floor, where he used bare feet to wipe the sticky red trail from the bathroom’s marble tile, though the carpet in the hallway – and most definitely in the bedroom – which was ruined beyond repair.
He walked into the kitchen, naked.
It felt fitting as his life was also now ruined, exposed, and beyond repair.
* * * * *
Much later, as the house grew dark within the setting sun, the two suitcases of cash were again on the counter, next to a near-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. Alan had toyed with the idea of bringing his own clothes and things, but decided it was best to leave everything behind…less the clothes on his back, the contents of his messenger bag, and a solid half mil’ in small bills.
He poured the remaining scotch into a glass.
It was time to open a second Pandora’s Box.
* * * * *
As darkness fell onto the subdivision’s track houses, Alan – dressed in jeans, black T-shirt, and boots – came out the front door, Bob’s car keys in hand. He hadn’t bothered wearing gloves. There was no point, as his fingerprints were everywhere in the house and countless people knew exactly where he was staying. He climbed into the Monte Carlo, started the engine, and backed calmly out of the driveway. Ten minutes later, he parked in a Wal-Mart parking lot, where he abandoned the vehicle and tossed the keys under the seat.
It took him a good half hour to walk back.
It didn’t matter. He wanted the time to think.
He suddenly found himself with a great deal to think about.
* * * * *
The streetlights were on as he climbed into the rented Equinox, starting the engine and changing spaces in the driveway. As he parked the car one final time, he looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, his eyes then focusing on the OnStar button – the reason this vehicle was useless to him. Not only was the Chevy rented in his name, on his credit card, with his signature, the police could easily track it through GPS, let alone its license plates.
He left those keys under the seat as well.
* * * * *
The midnight sky was a deep blackish-blue when the garage door opened to reveal a third car, under a grey dust cover. As Gross had done earlier, Alan emerged from the house juggling three separate bags, which he carefully set on the floor. Like a magician’s illusion, he yanked off the tarp to expose Patrick’s near-mint 1980 Eldorado Biarritz – a stunning black vehicle Patrick had treasured since Peoria, and possibly long before that.
Alan opened the trunk with a key – the old Caddy lacked modern electronics, including key fob – and tossed the two suitcases inside, closing it carefully with a motorized hum. He then walked around to the long, driver’s side door. He opened it. The lights popped on to illuminate its lush, red interior. He placed the messenger bag into the back seat, knowing that at some point, he’d have to lose most of its contents as well, including the computer.
He got in.
He started the engine.
He pulled away slowly, the garage door closing behind him.
* * * * *
As the lights of Las Vegas twinkled in the rear window, the Cadillac’s glistening hood ornament – a football field’s distance from the dashboard – looked out onto the highway ahead, silhouetted against a horizon of black paint and chrome. The car may have been older than most, but it blended indistinguishably within the coupes, sedans, pickups, station wagons, and fast-moving semi-trucks that shot down I-15 in the darkness, heading northeast.
Alan wasn’t quite sure where he was going yet, but like any decent story, it was more about the journey itself than the final destination – though the ending he saw coming was almost too dark to imagine.
There are times when I think about killing myself…
But still, he kept going – his cruise-control set firmly at 75mph – and the Caddy’s big engine roared like a rocket, its taillights becoming two red lines in the night.
It would be over a decade before anyone saw Alan again.