I stifle myself from saying something rude.
As I turn my mind away from Chester, it dawns on me that if Kline has been here, he must have bought a few things. A trash bin with a receipt would be more than enough to know roughly when he was here. I open some kitchen cabinet doors and find it, along with indicators that there has indeed been a presence in the house: wrappers, banana peels that have turned black (but not moldy), and empty cans of beer … Bud Light, no less.* (Kline apparently has no taste when it comes to beer.)
I unearth the item I’m looking for without incident. It’s a receipt from a farmer’s market in town, bearing a date that’s only two days old.
“Looks like he’s been here recently,” I say. “Maybe if we’re lucky he’ll come back and we can get the jump on him.” I consider grabbing the gun from the car just in case, but I’m also leaning toward just searching around a bit more.
When I get to one of the bedrooms, which I assume is the master bedroom, I find many of the drawers empty. I slide open the mirrored door of the closet. It’s barren as well, but on the floor are the bricks of drugs that I handed off to Kline a few days ago at The Sub Shop. They’re in a nice, neat stack. In my excitement, I slide the door the opposite way, hoping luck will shine on me and the money won’t be too far away.* (I’m incorrect.)
“Guys,” I yell. “I found the drugs.”
Taylor and Chester come rushing into the bedroom; Chester is now sporting a few milk dribbles on his shirt.
“What about the money?” Taylor asks.
I shake my head. “Not here. I think Kline is gone.”
“Ah crap. I bet he’s heading for the border or gonna fly out of the country.” Taylor rubs the back of his neck with his hand.
“Man, that fool is probably in the sky already,” Chester says. “With all that cash, you know he booked first class tickets too. That’s what I’d do if I had that kinda money. Fly in style.”
“An imaginary light dings inside my head. Holy shit. “You might be right,” I say.
“Of course I’m right,” Chester says. “Wait … about what?”
“Booking a trip. If he’s flying, he might have made reservations online.” My voice pitches higher in anticipation that I’m drawing the right conclusion.
Taylor slaps his hands together like he’s the team quarterback and the huddle is over. “There’s a computer in the other room down the hall.”
We turn on the computer and wait for it to boot up. No password is needed to get to the home screen, and Taylor clicks on icons and opens the web browser.
I’m mentally biting my fingernails as Taylor continues to open new windows and check the history.
“Here it is,” he says. “Kline was definitely searching for flights. That’s one of the most recent windows. But I can’t say for sure where and when he’s flying.”
I’ve hit bone in my mental nail-biting. “Check his inbox. Maybe an e-mail was sent with his itinerary.”
Taylor snaps his fingers. “On it.”
In a few more clicks the Yahoo homepage is up. With another click, the screen refreshes and we’re staring at a dialogue box with two fields. One wants the login name, which is already populated with:
[email protected]. The other is blank, and that’s the one that wants the password.
“Dammit. Why can’t people just click that little box that keeps them signed in?” Taylor says, slamming his clenched fists against the desk.
“How about customer support?” I ask. “Maybe we can call up and get them to give us the password or something.” I feel a bit of agitation with myself rising in my chest. Why had I chosen quantum physics as my primary study instead of hacking?
I stop and suddenly lock eyes with Taylor, and then we both turn to look at Chester.
His face is a mask of confusion for about four and half seconds before the realization hits him.
“Oh shit, fellas.” A huge smile spreads across his face. “Pop Pop is about to have another brush with death, isn’t he?”
“Yep,” I say.
“I love Pop Pop stories. And he hasn’t died yet. He’s a stubborn ol’ bastard ain’t he?” Chester says, laughing.
“You’re going to have to sell this one good, Chester,” I clasp my hand on Chester’s shoulder and stare deep into the fat of his eyes. “In the past it’s just been child’s play. This is the major leagues.”
“Man, I got this, son. It’s gonna be flawless,” Chester says proudly, digging his hand into his pocket. His face goes slack. “Uh, can I borrow your phone? I think it fell out of my pocket in the car again.”
30 The Tragic Death of Pop Pop
Chester is armed with his concerned teenager* voice and has been speaking frantically to the Yahoo support center for the last two minutes. (Although technically Chester is still 19 and a teenager, he’s using the age 13-16 version.)
“But you don’t understand. My Pop Pop is unresponsive. He’s a brittle diabetic and I can’t unlock his e-mail to get to a copy of his insulin prescription.”
The phone is on speaker again, and we can hear a man’s voice coming from the other end. “Sir, I wish I could help but I can’t access his e-mail or change the password for you.”
“You have to help me! His e-mail is
[email protected]. I just need his password so I can find the prescription his doctor sent him.”
“Like I said, I can’t give out that information, but I can send an email to the recovery address with a link for the password reset.”
“I don’t know any other account that he has!” Then Chester yells in our direction, “Pop Pop, stay with me!”
“Sir, I can’t retrieve his password. I suggest you call 911.”
“He has diabeetus, he needs to get his insulin fast. He’s going into hyperbolic shock!”
Sometimes I hate it when Chester goes into auto-pilot when he does these. He starts using words that sound kinda like they belong, but really don’t. It reminds me of Archie Bunker.
The man speaks with real concern in his voice. “Give him some sugar. That should bring him around long enough for the paramedics to arrive.”
It’s obvious he wants to help but is unable to assist with the demands Chester is making. If this were a mission to Mars, our spacecraft would be falling apart upon entering the Martian atmosphere.
“Uh, we just got to his house in Lake Gaston, and there’s nothing in the cupboards or refrigerator. I think even the ice cubes have gone sour.”
“I honestly can’t help you, Mr. Zamboni.”* (Zamboni is the name Chester gave when the conversation started. Chester loves hockey a little too much.)
I envision our hypothetical spacecraft lose every single thermal tile, and the ship begins to burn.
“I think he just went coma-toes.* His eyes are rolling back into his head.” (It’s supposed to be comatose, but I don’t want to correct him.)
“Please call 911 immediately.” The man sounds panicked now. “I can’t access the password for you, I’m sorry.”
The main fuselage of the space shuttle just burst, and flames are erupting around the whole ship.
“Don’t die on me now, you crotchety ol’ son of a bitch! I love you!” Chester screams at us again as our phantom Pop Pop dies right in front of us.
“I can’t … I just can’t access his account, Sir.” It sounds like the man is whimpering.
All the dramatics fade from Chester’s voice. “Well I hope you are happy. You just killed Pop Pop.” He presses ‘End Call’ on the phone and lets out an exasperated breath. “Sorry, I tried, fellas. That was almost Academy-worthy, am I right?”
There’s a thunderous crash in my brain. I can almost see a large pile of burnt metal colliding against the Martian soil as a huge dust plume rises into the air. Mission Scrubbed, Mission Failure, or whatever NASA would call it.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Taylor says.
“I know,” I agree, officially done with my fantasy daydream. “What are we going to do now? We can’t just call
back again and see if another rep will get us in. It’s over, man. We’re dead. Tony is going to kill us. And my parents are going to read about my death in the paper in big bold print.”* (As I say this I raise my hands, pretending I’m captioning each word on the splash page of The News and Observer – you know, the way people do when they say something like that. Or like in a movie when someone says something like I just said. Well, it’s really hard for me to try and explain this in words. I guess you’d just have to be here.)
Anyway, while I’m doing my little enactment, Taylor speaks up. “Hold on.”
I pause. “What?”
“Hold on. Maybe … ” He trails off and steps over to the printer.
“Hey, guys,” Chester says. “I know I’ve said this before, but are you a hundred percent sure that –”
“What is it?” I ask Taylor, ignoring and cutting off Chester in the hopes of getting answered this time.
“Maybe someone else is behind all this … like Drewcifer?” Chester continues.
“No. Chester. Just absolutely no. Drop it.” I turn my focus back to Taylor. “Tell me – what is it?”
“I’m just checking the printer,” Taylor mumbles. Then he starts pressing some keys on the machine.
“And?” I still don’t know where he’s going with this.
“Here it is!” He says with an enthusiasm in his voice that makes me jealous I’m not in the loop as to what we’re supposed to be excited about.
“What.the.heck.is.it?” I ask, on the verge of committing a homicide.
Taylor spins in the chair and laughs. “I just hit reprint. And the last document should be … ” He points as the printer spits out page after page of Kline’s itinerary while playing its delightful music: bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
31 Calling for Backup
I take a stroll outside, stand on the back patio and stare at the open view in front of me. I can see myself retired at the age of 45, on a little boat catching some sort of unlucky fish that happens to get snagged on my lure.* (I have this plan all mapped out in my mind to retire early. I figure I may invent something or who knows – if I live through all this – maybe I’ll write a book about it and it’ll fly off the shelves, my fortune made … )
Inside my mind’s eye I’m pulling that unfortunate 58-pound bass* from the lake. (I really don’t know how big bass can get, but I also assume that if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do something really worthwhile.)
I exhale a long breath. It starts to feel like I might make it out alive after all. We found the drugs, and now we know where Kline is. Or at least where we hope he’ll be. According to the papers Taylor printed out, sometime early tomorrow morning Kline is flying out of John F. Kennedy International Airport.* (For those who don’t know, it’s in New York) We also found out Kline is staying at The Grand Regency, a hotel close to the airport. He used a prepaid credit card to book the trip, so the cops wouldn’t be able to trace his purchase.
The police. Yep, that is exactly who I need to call. But currently my trust for them has come down to one name: Detective Reed. And even then I’m nervous to make the call.
Still, my phone is now up to my ear and I listen to it buzz with each ring on the other end.
“This is Detective Reed.”
“Hey. It’s me,” I say, my voice still shaky from brittle nerves.
“You’re going to have to be more specific. I don’t recognize who ‘me’ is,” he says, but without any malice or sarcasm.* (I’ll say again, I marginally trust the man.)
How foolish of me! I mentally smack myself in the face, because to really do it would hurt and be kind of dumb if you think about it. Anyway, this guy must receive dozens of phone calls a day. To be so arrogant as to think Reed has already committed my voice to memory is a rookie move on my part.
“I’m sorry, Detective Reed. It’s Ellis DeAngelo.”
“What’s up? Is everything okay?”
“It’s definitely taking a turn,” I say. “We found a lake house that belongs to Kline. He wasn’t here, but we found all the drugs.”
“And the money?”
“No. But we know where he’s headed. He’s flying out of JFK International tomorrow. He’s going to Costa Rica.”
“Alright, you boys sit tight,” Reed says. “Tell me where he is and I’ll get a local unit dispatched.”
“To be honest, I don’t trust cops right now. I think you’re about it.”
“Just tell me where he is.”
“No,” I say. “How about you head up to New York? I’ll call you when we get there to tell you where he is.”
“I would strongly suggest you leave it to me.”
“This is how it’s going to be. I’m sorry.”
“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll leave shortly. But first, the drugs – don’t touch them. You need to leave them where they are. It’ll take a while to get a search warrant, but I don’t want anything to be said about the scene being tainted. Kline could walk if everything looks like a setup against him. And … well, I hate to say it, but it’ll seem like you broke in and put them there.”
“We did break in,” I say, while simultaneously hating myself for this admission of idiocy.
“Jesus. That doesn’t help.”
“But we didn’t put the drugs here.”
“I know, I know. Just leave right now and I’ll meet you in New York.”
“Okay.”
I hang up the phone and take a moment to reexamine my life in general and reflect on the single tattoo on my body: ‘Hoc Etiam Transibit’. These three words take up residence on my inner arm. These are words from my father, who assured me they come from the Bible. I never checked up on it, though. Its literal translation is: ‘This too shall pass’. I’ve always taken it to mean that no matter how good something is, or how terrible, it’s only temporary. It’s one of those inspiring phrases that gives you encouragement. And it works – for me at least. I got the words done in Latin because it seemed more badass at the time. I may be wrong, but I still like the message. And unlike the message, the tattoo is permanent.
After a little more pondering, I walk back inside.
“Where’s Chester?” I say, glancing around the room.
“In the can.” Taylor nods his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Still? It’s been at least twenty minutes.” I look at my dependable Casio that tells no lies and then walk toward the door. “What are you doing in there?” I pray he’s not ... you know … masturbating. “Get rid of that brown beast. We gotta talk.” There’s a faint sound and my suspicions rouse. “Are you … are you playing Candy Crush while taking a dump?”
A very slow, “Nooooooooo … ” comes from the bathroom, then the faintest explosion and I hear a deep voice say, “SWEET!” More crystalline detonations are followed by, “TASTY!”
Another eight minutes pass, and when Chester emerges there’s a brief mention of his destruction of a previous high score – and an even nastier revelation that there’s no toilet paper, which results in yet another UWS.* (Underwear sacrifice.) After the air clears, we huddle in the living room.
“Alright, guys,” I say. “We’re going to meet Reed in New York.”
Taylor frowns. “Why? Let the police handle the rest from here.”
“No. This is a chance to see it through the end. A chance to do something that means something. We can actually be the heroes. They’ll tell stories about this adventure for years to come. Life has screwed us over time and time again, but not this time.”
“So you pretty much want to grab life by the horns, is that it?” Taylor asks, one eyebrow quirked.
“Screw that. I say grab life by the balls and rape it into submission. Who’s with me?”
We all jump in the air and slap our hands together, giving each other a triple high five.
Okay, okay. I got a little carried away there. I always wanted to have some kind of super emotional victory speech. And although the above monologue won’t be placed in t
he annals of history, it’s all I can think of. What really happens after Chester emerges from the restroom is:
After the stench clears, we huddle up and I say, “Alright, guys. We’re going to meet Reed in New York.”
“Awesome sauce.* I’ve always wanted to go to New York,” Chester says. (FUCK. There’s that stupid phrase again.)
“We should leave now,” Taylor says. “Sam’s probably wondering what’s taking us so long.”
“What about the coke? Or heroin? Or whatever it is?” Chester says.
I have an internal struggle that both Chester and Taylor aren’t privy to, and I decide against telling them that Reed said it should stay put. “We’re going to take it with us. Let’s pack it up.”
32 Mind Games
I obey every speed limit sign all the way to the hotel where we know Kline is staying. We’re going to cross several state lines, and getting caught in a speed trap with the amount of drugs we have in the trunk would cause some problems. Granted, we could contact Detective Reed, and although we – or technically I – didn’t listen, I have a firm belief he’d be able to sort everything out for us. I believe it within the depths of my soul, as much as I believe most cats are evil.
I learn quite a few things on our trip to New York. I’ve never been to New Jersey in my life and I never cared to. I think there’s a reality show that is to blame for that, but I don’t even want to mention it.
Well, on to my new life lesson. I’m nearly attacked by a gas station attendant in Jersey. At first I think he knows about the drugs in the back, but he’s extremely eager to explain to me that it’s against the law to pump your own gas in the state of New Jersey. The man does his due diligence in filling the tank, and as we put NJ’s backwards-ass law in our rearview mirror, we enter New York.
Before I continue, I gotta be straightforward about this. That odd law sticks in my mind for a long time after the experience. I can’t help but think: what does that say about how the state government feels about its people? Does it truly believe that the populace of New Jersey is so incapable that to pump their own gas would be catastrophic? I’d like to believe otherwise, I really would. But it’s hard.