– This is it.

I look up and down the block. It’s a street full of driveways that lead into apartment complexes. Only Tim’s building and a couple others front the street itself. I look at T.

– Kind of early. Maybe we should come back later, when people are asleep.

T shrugs.

– It’s a 24/7 town, man. Doesn’t really matter what time it is. But the good news is, people pretty much mind their own business.

– OK, OK. You, uh…

– Wait here?

– Yeah. You wait here and…

– Honk if someone shows?

– Yeah, that’s good.

– Yeah. That Xanax still cooking? You seem a little out of it. You want something to give you an edge?

No, no more pills.

– No, no, I’m cool. I mean, I’m mellow. I’m just not exactly sure what to do. Can you, if I can’t get in, can you pick the lock?

T looks at me sideways.

– Shit, man, I’m a dealer, not a thief.

I don’t want to bring the guns. I don’t want to bring them, but I know I should. So I split the difference. I leave them in the plastic grocery bag with the ammo, tucked under the passenger seat of T’s car. I feel safer without them.

Tim’s apartment is #4, upper right corner. I climb the stairs and ring the doorbell. I ring it again. And one last time. There’s a kitchen window. I push on it and it slides open, unlocked. Great, Timmy. I look up and down the empty street, and boost myself through the window.

I land on the kitchen counter, my hat tumbles to the floor, and I slide after it. I get to my feet and turn on the lights. The kitchen has one of those pass-through counters that opens on to a small living room. The living room has a sliding glass door that opens on a tiny balcony. There are two bar stools at the pass-through. The place looks pre-furnished, lots of black leather bachelor stuff that is not Tim’s style at all. But he’s been at work here. The walls are covered in jazz and blues posters. And there’s a brand-new stereo, the box full of foam packing still sitting next to it. It’s one of those hunks of Japanese engineering that only an audiophile like Tim would buy. I walk down a short hall to a large bedroom. The bed matches the living room furniture. More posters here, a nice boom box, more CDs, an orange iMac on a desk, and a beeper and a huge bong on the nightstand.

There’s a knock at the door. Shit. Concerned neighbor? Girlfriend? Russian mafia? Why did I leave the guns in the car? I sneak up to the door and press my eye to the peephole. T is on the landing. I open the door and he comes in, followed by Hitler.

– What? Is someone here?

– No.

– What’s that matter?

– I couldn’t sit out there, I’m way too jacked-up, man. I was about to fucking vibrate to death.

– Jesus, T. You’re the lookout. I mean, fuck.

– You were right, superstar, you don’t need anything to give you an edge.

– Yeah, I’m on edge. And, Jesus, what about the dog? What if it starts barking?

He rubs the top of Hitler’s head.

– Hitler don’t bark. Ever. Only time this dog makes noise is when it farts.

– Great. Look, just, just see if you can find anything out here or in the kitchen. I’ll be in the bedroom.

I head down the hallway.

– And what am I looking for?

– A really big box full of money.

It doesn’t take long. I don’t find the money or any indication that Tim was kidnapped or killed. The place is a mess, but that’s just Tim.

T is on his knees in the kitchen, his head stuck in the cabinet below the sink. I kick the sole of his shoe.

– Anything?

He pulls his head out.

– This.

He tugs a blue day pack from the cabinet and unzips it, revealing about twenty small, colored plastic boxes. This is Tim’s dealing stash. Each box is stuffed with hydro-grade buds of varying quality. The color of the box indicates the content’s price. Hitler sticks his nose into the pile of boxes and shoves them around.

T shakes his head.

– I don’t know your boy, but speaking as a dealer? I generally take it as a bad sign when a professional disappears without his stash.

T FINDS a couple bottles of Tullamore Dew in one of the cabinets and breaks the seal on one of them. I get a glass of water from the tap and flop on the couch. T takes a slug from the bottle of whiskey and starts flipping through Tim’s CDs. Hitler rolls around on his back.

– So you think he ripped you off?

I stare at the wall.

– Could be.

– Think maybe the Russians found him?

– Could be.

– What now?

I look at the clock on the VCR. It’s almost nine.

– I need to make a call.

I take the cell from my pocket. T sits on the floor with his back against the wall, empties Tim’s day pack in his lap, and starts looking at the little boxes.

– Dylan?

– Yeah.

– What ya gonna tell him?

I don’t know, so I just dial the number. It rings once.

– I thought we agreed to updates every twenty-four hours.

– Hi, Dylan.

– Did we not agree to that?

– Yes, and it’s not quite twenty-four.

– That’s cutting it very fine, Hank, very fine indeed.

– Sorry.

– No, no, you’re right. We said every twenty-four hours from nine PM pacific. You’re right. So what have you got for me?

– Not much.

– OK, well, that’s fair, but this is supposed to be a progress report so why don’t you tell me what progress you’ve made.

– Well, I haven’t been captured.

– OK, sarcasm aside, that is progress. What about my money, Hank? Any progress there?

T is trying to juggle three of the little colored boxes from Tim’s stash.

– I haven’t been captured.

Pause.

– Yes, we covered that.

Pause.

– You haven’t asked about your parents, Hank.

Pause.

– How are my parents?

– Have you been watching the news?

– Yes.

– Then you may have seen that they were released from custody and taken to an undisclosed location.

– Yes.

– Well, you’ll be happy to know that they are staying at the Days Inn at the Los Banos rest stop. I’m told by my employees that the security at a Days Inn is somewhat lax, and shouldn’t present any difficulties for them. You understand?

– Yes.

– Good. So, have you made any progress on my money?

T drops the boxes, gets up, and walks back to Tim’s bedroom.

– Yes.

– Good. Tell me, please.

T comes back down the hall carrying Tim’s bong.

– I am lying low while I ascertain if my position here is tenable.

T looks at me and crosses his eyes. I listen to Dylan.

– Good. And?

– I expect to make contact with my “banker” in the next twenty-four hours.

T is shaking his head. He cracks open one of the little bud boxes and starts filling the bong.

– And?

– Within twenty-four hours of that, I expect to receive your money and have it in your hands shortly thereafter.

T puts his lips to the top of the bong, holds the flame of his lighter over the bowl, and rips.

– Good. That’s good. See, this is the kind of clarity I’m looking for. Like I told you, Hank, I’m a control freak. The more information I have, the more in control I feel. And that makes me more comfortable. None of this is about you or your abilities, it’s about my personal weaknesses. And I want you to know how much I appreciate you dealing with them so well.

– Sure.

– And… I guess that’s it?

– It is.

– OK, I’ll expect to hear from you in the next twenty-four, and look forward to seeing you in the next forty-eight to seventy-two.

– Yes.

– Well… good-bye.

He hangs up. T exhales and starts hacking.

– What? Hack! What the fuck was that? Hack! Bullshit?

– That was the kind of bullshit he wants to hear.

– Fuckin’ A. Hack! What a prick he must be.