The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)

Unwilling Exchanges

Previously: "Deeper Impersonations" 

"We're not going into the drug trade," Caleb says again, as though saying it twice will make you more likely to listen to him.

"I didn't say we were," you reply. "No more than we already are. Except maybe this month. Look, I'm not letting you keep all the money we're taking off Chen this month. But if we know where Gardinhire is selling his extra shit, maybe we could squeeze in and take some of his trade, keep the cash that woulda been riding around on his hip." You run a fast calculation in your head using extremely liberal parameters. "It could mean an extra twelve-hundred for us."

"Dollars?" Caleb exclaims.

"No, gumdrops. Jesus, of course I mean dollars."

A look of extreme cupidity comes to Caleb's face. You open the drawer where you put Thomason's and Mendoza's deposits. "How much you owe your mom? Here." You give him five twenties. "Pay her back whatever she needs, the rest is fuck the world money for you, an advance on my share of whatever we're gonna personally skim. You can have mine. And here's another two hundred, which I figure should about cover the cost of the materials we need for the next spell. If you can buy it for cheaper than that, you can keep the trop as a bonus." You pick up one of the metal bands. "Is this one ready to use on Gardinhire?"

"They're all ready to use," Caleb says weakly.

"Good, be at my place, eleven-thirty, to pick it up."

"That's too late for my Mondays. Why do you need me?"

"You can be in charge of the Gardinhire side, I'm already too busy. How late can you be out?"

"Ten-thirty."

"Fine. Come up to the country club around then, as late as you can be out. I'll leave my car unlocked. It's the fucking country club, I could jack so much shit there 'cept they got security all over. It's fine if you get caught," you assure him as he blanches. "You just say you're my friend and you're picking something up from me, they'll call me out to vouch for you. But I'll leave the brain-band on the front seat after I get it off Gardinhire. Are you gonna finish that?" You point to the food you brought for him.

"I'm suddenly not real hungry."

"More for me, then."

* * * * *

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays kick your ass. You have to be up at the country club by four-fifty so you can start your shift at five; then comes six hours of work as a dishwasher and kitchen dogsbody; then home by eleven-thirty to do homework until probably two in the morning. So after gulping down the last of what Caleb left, you jump into it. Only the prospect of mind-raping Gardinhire offers any prospect of fun or reward.

You make it to the club--a faux-colonial building west of the river with long, low wings that screen off the tennis courts and golf courses from public view--with a few minutes to spare; in the employee locker you quickly change into fresh, heavy cotton trousers, black loafers, and a white long-sleeve shirt; you also have to ditch the ski cap. Then into the kitchen, to run the first loads of plates and cutlery from the first of the night's five dinner seatings. A little after six you and Jose and Chris and Manny rush the McKinley dining room, stripping and replacing the table cloths, wiping down the chairs, fast-mopping the floor, and otherwise readying it for new settings, which the wait staff will take care of. Gardinhire is one of them, and he calls you over with a tilt of the head while hanging back by the door.

Inwardly, you seethe. Gardinhire is one of the AP assholes: tall, thin, privileged, and very, very white. His brown hair is thick without being unkempt, and like his best buddy Mansfield he looks down at the world along a slightly elevated nose. The best that you--Will Prescott--can say about him is that unlike most of his friends he doesn't go out of his way to be rude and condescending to his social inferiors. The best that you--Gary Chen--can say about him is that he's your single best customer. "When's your smoke break," he asks.

"Nine thirty-five, same as always. Meet me at your car."

"Why?"

"Because that's the way I wanna do it tonight. You wanna do it some other way, find yourself another asshole to fuck."

At nine-thirty, you and Manny take off for your daily smoke break, squatting behind the kitchen. He's a few years older than you, a high school dropout, but pretty cool in his way. You don't like the tats, though, which to your mind bespeak an idiot who's given up on striving for anything better than what he's got. You exchange a few abrupt words: He asks if you're watching the latest hot HBO show; "Ain't got time," you reply. You're almost down to the end of your first cigarette when you spot Gardinhire out of the corner of your eye, moving through the employee parking lot. "Tell Jose I gotta take a shit, man," you tell Manny as you take out another cigarette, and in the same motion pull out a tightly wrapped ten. "A long, fat, wet one," you add as you hand both to your companion.

He smiles, pockets the bill and puts the cigarette between his lips. "Sure thing, soon as I--"

"Save it for later, with the beer you're gonna buy."

He nods again, and puts the cigarette over his ear, tucking his long hair over it. You wait until the door clicks shut, then trot over to the nearby dumpster. From just inside it you pull out a plastic bag: you'd taken the precaution of hiding the shit there in case Matthias got another bright idea to ransack your Jeep while you were working. A quick glance inside shows that the stuff is still there.

Gardinhire is leaning against his car--a used Audi, of course--but he gets in when you tell him to check his glove compartment. Through the open window you pass him the bag, and turn around to study the flood lights on the nearby tennis courts. A minute later he twitches the back of your shirt. You turn and take the bag from him--

--and in a continuous move slide the metal band you'd had in your pocket onto his forehead. He slumps to the side.

A long and nerve-wracking ten-minute period follows, during which you crouch by his car door. You pass the time by peering into the bag and doing a quick-and-dirty count of the money. Gardinhire dresses down at school, but he knows to be anal when dealing with you, and his payments--bills which are all used and frayed and rumpled--are always sorted and rubber-banded into standardized packs. Forty-eight hundred, it should be, and looks like it is. You'll know for sure when you count it later.

And when the brain-band reappears on his forehead, and falls into your waiting hand, you happily reflect that you'll soon know where he gets it from.

"You're break's only for ten minutes, Chen, not twenty," Jose warns you when you return to work.

"Want me to show you the turd next time I have to go?" you ask. He glowers, but says nothing more about it, and you work extra hard and fast the rest of the night.

* * * * *

Grandfather is in a bad mood the next morning, which puts everyone on edge. Not only do you have to deal with his physical needs of the morning, but he screams all during the meal; biting words are exchanged between mother, father and son during those moments when the old one isn't making noise. The mood is only slightly alleviated when you pass along forty dollars cash in "tips" from last night. But how the mood would change for the worse if they found the money you'd hidden inside the couch cushions last night.

So your nerves are ragged when you arrive at school. You've a headache from the morning's chores, and you've only five-and-a-half hours of sleep; you've also the stress of thinking of a new hiding place for your stash and cash. The solution comes when you see Caleb drive by.

You hang back until he's out of his car, and then you rush him, grabbing him from behind and hustling him toward the gym. He squawks, but you silence him with a curt word: "Shut up, I'm trying to make this look good." You get a few looks as you grimly force him along toward the portables, but no one interferes. You push him into the one you've been using and close the door. "First of all, did you try out Gardinhire's brain-band?"

"Oh yeah, fuck us, Will, when I tell you--"

"Save it. Second, you bring a brain-band to use on Leavey?"

He makes a face, but nods.

"Excellent, I was gonna fuck you up if you didn't. Meet me at his room after fifth, you know, in the middle of your big break. We'll get it on and off him then."

"There's gonna be people around!"

"We'll figure something out. Okay, last thing is I need you to meet me over at the clubhouse around five-thirty. I'll have some tools and shit, and we're gonna weld a strongbox onto the underside of your car, like Chen has on his. We'll use your wheels instead of mine as a ditching place."

Caleb's eyes bug from his skull. "I'm not gonna play drug mule for you, Will! If I get caught with-- Isn't it, like, a giant felony to be caught with that much weed on you?"

"Yeah, but who's gonna think to search Caleb Johansson's shit for something like that?" You grin and jab him in the breastbone. "Name like Johansson, look like yours, the worst they're gonna think is you're smuggling weaponized lutefisk."

"I'm not doing it, Will."

"Fine. Then we'll get some more mask supplies and you can spend the next month pretending to be Martin Gardinhire."

Next: "Inside Dope" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 2)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)"