“Do you know that Harrison Ford don’t even know how many airplanes he owns?” Jonas said as they drove up into the Hills. “I read this interview where he said he owns six or eight. He don’t even know for sure how many.”
Megan, who was wearing a passably clean yellow jersey, jeans, and flip-flops, slouched in her seat and stared out at the multimillion-dollar homes. “How long do we have to do this?” she said. “I’m getting carsick.”
Ignoring her complaints as usual, he said, “And then there’s Nicolas Cage. He’s in financial trouble because it takes mega-millions for him to survive each year. Do you know he has a collection of comic books that’s probably worth more than a few of Harrison Ford’s airplanes?”
“Uh-huh,” Megan said. “That’s intriguing.”
Any response at all from her these days encouraged him, and he said, “He had an Action One Superman comic book worth who knows how much. One like it sold recently for three hundred grand. And he didn’t even know the comic books were stolen until months passed. Think of it, Meg, three hundred thou for one comic book. And they don’t even miss them till somebody gooses them and says, ‘Where’s the fucking comic book?’ That’s the kind of stuff you find laying around celebrity cribs all the time. And the best thing is, you’re not hurting anyone when you take it. Half the time they don’t even know it’s gone.”
Megan said, “The way I feel today, I don’t give a shit what they know. I need some ox. I’m sick.”
“It’s nice to hear you say something,” Jonas said, “even if it’s bitching at me. Usually I talk in an echo chamber.”
She didn’t respond and he said, “See that house on the left, the one two houses from the corner? See the security camera on the roof? I could just climb up on that garage and throw a bag over it. But first I’d have to know if the house belongs to a careless celebrity. We gotta stop at the library or the computer café and get on the Internet and find out who lives there. It’s a promising target.”
Jonas drove aimlessly until they were on one of the top streets, looking down at a midsize residential property on a corner lot, where an elderly woman in a bathrobe and sun hat was sitting on a chaise longue beside a swimming pool. She was drinking what looked like a glass of iced tea and watching a small TV that sat on a table next to her.
Jonas parked, continuing to look down at her, and said, “If we happened to be really desperate I could go to the door of that house and say I’m looking for the Lohan residence or something. And you could open the pool gate and go in there and grab that TV. We could easy trade it for at least an ox or two down at Pablo’s Taco Shop.”
“I’m really feeling awful, Jonas,” Megan said.
“You down for it?”
She paused and said, “I guess so.”
“You really down?” he asked. “Don’t wuss out on me.”
“I’m almost desperate enough to do Wilbur for a couple of OCs,” Megan said, tears in her eyes. “That’s what I’ve come to.”
He looked at her closely. She really was all smoked out. She was jonesing way worse than he thought. He couldn’t believe she’d even think about fucking that disease-ridden drug dealer. If she ever did something like that, he was dumping her ass for sure.
Jonas said, “Okay, we’re gonna do this thing just for you. Just to score you an emergency bean or two.”
He didn’t want Megan to know how nervous he was when he stopped the car two houses from the corner and said, “Walk to the swimming pool gate. When you hear her go into the house, open the gate, run in and jack the TV, and meet me right here. If she’s home alone, we’re cool. If she’s got a maid or if somebody else answers the door, we pass. Okay?”
Her chin quivered when she said, “Okay.”
He drove down the hill and stopped thirty yards past the pool gate. The plaster-white wall around the pool was six feet high, and the pool gate was on the side street for the pool cleaner’s easy access. He figured it might be locked but Megan could climb the wall with no trouble.
Jonas grinned at Megan with feigned insouciance when she got out and closed the car door. He drove around to the front of the house and parked at the curb by the driveway, where his license plates were not facing the residence.
It was one of the ubiquitous “Spanish-style” homes with red-tile roofs that dot the upscale hillsides all over Southern California, the kind that wouldn’t look too crazy within five hundred miles of the Mediterranean Sea. He walked boldly to the front door of the house and was about to use the black metal knocker when he saw the doorbell and pressed it. He was expecting an intercom voice and he had a story ready about a neighbor he was looking for.
There was a wait of over a minute, which was a good sign, and then the door opened and the elderly woman in the sun hat, her face tanned and creased like old leather, said in annoyance, “Are you from Manny the Plumber? I’ve been waiting all morning for you.”
Jonas said, “Uh, no, Manny couldn’t make it but he wanted me to come and set up another appointment if that’s okay.”
“Can’t you even fix a clogged toilet?” the woman asked, doubly annoyed now. And she opened the door as though thinking that any fool from a plumbing company could unclog a toilet if he’d just come in and look at it.
“No, ma’am,” Jonas said. “I just work in the office and-”
He didn’t get to finish it. An eighty-five-pound golden retriever barking deliriously leaped past the woman and slammed Jonas in the chest with both front paws and all his weight behind it.
“Sigmund!” the woman yelled. “Down! Down, Sigmund!”
Jonas was knocked flat on his back, and the dog began wagging and squirming, and for a moment Jonas thought his spine was broken. He felt a spasm when he tried to get up, but the dog was sitting on Jonas’s head and drooling on his crotch.
The woman grabbed the beast by his collar and tried to pull him away, saying, “Bad boy! Bad Sigmund!”
But Sigmund didn’t give a shit what she said, and he gave Jonas a big lick on the mouth before he decided to surrender to his mistress.
Jonas struggled to his feet in agony, his right hand pressing his lower back, and said, “I could sue you for this, lady!”
“Oh, please!” the woman said. “Sigmund didn’t mean to hurt you. He loves people too much.”
“He’s a menace,” Jonas said, moaning as she managed to get Sigmund inside and close the door.
“Let me take down your name and address,” the woman said. “I’ll call my insurance company immediately. Please believe me, he’s an adorable dog. I’m so sorry.”
When she opened the door and went inside to get a pen and paper, Jonas carefully descended the two steps, each one causing pain to shoot down his leg. He limped to his car, started it up, and made a U-turn just as the woman opened the door again, notepad in hand.
Jonas made a quick left and drove halfway down the block, where Megan came running to his car with the TV set.
“I did it,” she said, opening the Volkswagen’s door and putting the TV on the rear seat.
“You drive,” he said. “Drop me at home and then go trade for the ox. A mad dog just attacked me. Oooooooh, my fucking back!”
Raleigh Dibble liked his job of overseeing the Brueger estate so much that he could go almost an entire day without thinking about Nigel Wickland. The art dealer was spending a great deal of time at the custom photo lab of his associate, learning enough photographic tricks to be able to do what he had to do. He phoned Raleigh every day on Raleigh’s cell to report his progress. And every time that Raleigh considered Nigel’s plan, he vowed to call it off. He’d lie beside the Brueger pool on hot afternoons and think of the dozen ways that this could go sideways.
And then Raleigh would wonder when Nigel was going to call and tell him that this was the day. He wished that Nigel wasn’t a homo. In prison the more flamboyant butt pirates were always snitching on the straight guys to make points with the COs. Of course, that didn’t mean that Nigel would go all fluttery if something did go wrong, and drop a dime on him. Nigel might turn out to be a stand-up guy. Maybe.