The Everything Box (30 page)

“I can do that. I don't like fighting.”

“Okay, but for God's sake, don't be a pansy about it,” said the Magister. “Let someone get in a good shot. You're going to want a black eye to stay on everybody's good side. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir. I can do that.”

“Oh, and from now on you can address me as ‘Dark High Magister.' Or ‘Lord,' once we get to know each other better.”

“Yes, High Dark Magister.”

“No. Dark High.”

“Dark High. Got it. Okay, I've got to go before someone hears me.”

“And how do you say good-bye?”

“Oh. Good night, High Dark Magister.”

“Dark High.”

“Dark High Magister. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Carol.”
Ass,
he thought.
Funny voice for a girl.

At about twelve thirty, Coop left Morty's apartment and headed up to Sunset Boulevard to catch a cab to the DOPS. L.A., like most
big cities, loves a parade. There are big ones, such as the Parade of Roses, Chinese New Year, Cinco de Mayo, Gay Pride, the Fourth of July, the Christmas Parade, and a dozen other smaller ones spread out around the county. But the one true, twenty-four-hour-a-day, 365-days-a-year L.A. parade is the endless promenade of cars. Tricked-out lowriders lined up at street corners nose to nose with pristine '66 Shelby Mustangs, eccentrics driving hand-rebuilt Stanley Steamers, families in rusted-out Reagan-era shit boxes held together with Bondo and fervent prayer, and Rolls-Royce Silver Clouds. Coop had grown up with it all. Seen every possible combination. That, combined with the fact that he was thinking about Giselle naked saying “Do me, spaceman” and the sweet scent of pepperoni in the air, is why he didn't notice the Cadillac XTS limousine paralleling him up Gower.

It wasn't until the rear passenger door opened and a blond man in a dark suit leaned out with a phone in his hand that Coop noticed anything strange.

“Call you for you,” he said. Coop looked around, trying to figure out if it was a gag or another DOPS ambush.

“Uh . . . I'm not in.”

The blond man wiggled the phone in his hand and said, “Morty really wants to talk to you.”

Coop came over, took the phone from the blond man, and said, “Hello?”

“Coop. Is that you? It's me. Morty.”

“What's going on? Where are you?”

“Things are fucked up. Get in the car, Coop. They'll explain everything.”

The line went dead. Coop handed the phone back to the blond man, who motioned for him to get in the car. Coop smiled . . . and started running. He made it around the corner onto Sunset Boulevard and all the way down the next block before the Caddy cut him off at the corner. The blond man looked a lot bigger when he got out of the car. So did the black guy with the marine crew cut who was now with him. They each took one of Coop's arms and threw him
into the back of the Caddy with no more trouble than someone's grandma tossing a bag of bananas in the trunk.

The car started up again and eased back into traffic. There were several other men in the back of the car. None of them smiled, and only one was any smaller than a mobile home. Coop took the one vacant seat, across from the one normal-size guy. Motörhead's “Killed by Death” blasted over the car's stereo system. The normal guy pressed a button on his armrest and the volume lowered to a dull roar.

“Why did you run like that?” he said.

“'Cause the setup looked like a kidnapping,” said Coop.

“It was a phone call. If I wanted to kidnap you, I wouldn't do it in broad daylight on Sunset in front of everyone.”

“Except that's what you did just now. Like ten seconds ago.”

“That was a misunderstanding. Trust me, if it had been a kidnapping and you ran, we wouldn't be chatting so amicably on account of you screaming about your broken arms and legs. Understand?”

“Sure. You're just my ride to work. Where's Morty?”

“Your name's Coop, right?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

The normal guy listened to the music for a few seconds and said, “You can call me Lemmy. Mr. Lemmy.” The big guys all laughed at that.

“Where's Morty, Mr. Lemmy?”

He thought about the question for a minute and said, “You ever been on a plane, Coop?”

“What? Sure.”

“So, you know what a sick bag is. It's one of those little plastic-lined bags they give you. The plane shakes around and you don't feel so good. You get your sick bag, puke into it, and throw it away.”

Coop looked at Mr. Lemmy, the way he smiled at him. Lemmy was small and wiry, with thin hair and a pencil-thin mustache. Like John Waters with a Glock under his jacket.

“Can I make a guess about something, Mr. Lemmy?”

“Feel free.”

“I'm the sick bag, right?”

Mr. Lemmy pointed to him. “You and your friend Morty, yes.”

“Understood. But from here on out, could you threaten me like a normal person and not talk about puke anymore? I've had a rough morning.”

“Sure, Coop. No more metaphors or similes, whichever it was I just said.”

“A metaphor, boss,” said the marine-looking black guy.

“Was it? Thank you. And shut up,” said Mr. Lemmy. He turned back to Coop. “You like to cut to the chase? Good. Me, too. I want the fucking luck box.”

“I think I heard of that. It's a new Swedish porn flick, right?”

“Someone hit him, please.”

Blondie punched him in the stomach—which is surprisingly painful when you're sitting down. Coop felt like his bones were all balloons and someone had let the air out. “I don't have the box,” he said.

Mr. Lemmy thrust a finger at him. “That's not what Babylon told us, before we fed him to those fucking spiders he likes so much. See, we had a deal to buy the box. Then I find out he was talking to some broads about selling it to them behind my back. Only, he tells us, they weren't really buying. They were just wasting everybody's time so you could get into his place and steal the box.”

Coop held up a hand. “You're right. I broke in and I took it. But I don't have it anymore.”

“Get it back. Buy it. Steal it. Get it back.”

“It's not that simple. Listen, I'm not even sure where it is. It'll take some time to find it.”

“You have forty-eight hours,” said Mr. Lemmy.

“That might not be enough.”

The blond man punched a number on his phone and held it out to Coop.

“Then take this opportunity to say good-bye to poor Morty,” said Mr. Lemmy.

“Forget it,” said Coop. He looked around the car at all the faces of Mr. Lemmy's giants. He'd be lucky to get out alive himself right
now.
No way guys like this let guys like Morty and me walk away, even if we give them what they want.
But that's not what he said. What he said was, “I'll find the box.”

“Forty-eight hours.”

“Forty-eight.”

Mr. Lemmy took out a pen and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “That's the number you can call when you get the box. Don't bother giving it to the cops or anyone because it's a drop phone that's going in the furnace the moment this nonsense is wrapped up.”

In the furnace, and us with it,
thought Coop. He took the paper and put it in his pocket. The car pulled over to the curb and the blond man opened the door. Coop stepped out. He was in front of the Beverly Center mall.

“Babylon told me how much he paid you schmucks for stealing the box. Go buy yourself some decent clothes. You dress like a bum,” said Mr. Lemmy.

“I had some decent clothes, but people keep fucking them up.”

“Then you're a loser.”

“That crossed my mind.”

Mr. Lemmy punched the armrest button and “Ace of Spades” blasted from the limo speakers. The car sped away. Coop got out his phone and dialed Giselle.

“Where are you?” she said. “You're late—Mr. Woolrich is waiting.”

“That's what I was calling to tell you. That I was going to be late.”

“No. You
are
late. Already.”

“Really? It didn't seem like that long.”

“What didn't?”

“My sort of kidnapping.”

“You were sort of kidnapped?”

“Yeah. But the shitty part is that Morty was officially kidnapped.”

“By who?”

“Mobsters. Bad guys. Thumb breakers.”

“Did they give you a reason?”

“Same as everybody else. They want the box.”

“Oh, Coop. Get here as soon as you can. We'll figure this out.”

“Before he left, my sort of kidnapper told me I dress like a bum. Isn't that just a riot?”

“No, dear. You don't dress like a bum. You
look
like a bum. You don't take care of your clothes.”

“That's because I keep getting kidnapped.”

“Get in here when you can.”

“Nothing better happen to Morty. Besides you, he's the closest thing to a friend I have left.”

“Nothing's going to happen. You'll see.”

“I'll be there soon.”

It took almost twenty minutes to get a cab to stop. The driver made Coop show him the cash before he would drive away. It took another thirty minutes to get across town.

Coop had the cab drop him a few blocks from DOPS headquarters and walked the rest of the way. It's what they did in spy movies, right? Get out early so the cabbie wouldn't have a record of his real destination? A sudden surge of panic hit him and he wondered if he should have changed cabs a couple of times on the way over. No. That would probably have been exaggerating the situation. Plus, it was hard enough to get one cab to stop. Getting two would make it the luckiest day of his life, and it was definitely not that. Still, getting out and walking the last few blocks felt like the right thing to do.

Until the paranoia set in. Two kidnappings in just a few days. A gun in his face last night. It was reasonable to be a little extra cautious, right? Coop side-eyed every car passing him at every corner. Every car that slowed on every block. Every van, delivery truck, and car large enough to hold a body in the trunk. Then he started wondering about all the people on the street. What if he should have changed cabs? What if someone had followed him? He tried to walk normally, but constantly looking over his shoulder was making his neck sore. He stopped in front of store windows to check the reflection and see if anyone else stopped. The only thing that kept him from completely losing his mind on the walk to the DOPS building was that a woman walked up behind him by an antiques shop and
tapped him on the shoulder. Coop whirled around, tensing his body, ready to run or punch or, more likely, fall on his face when the enemy agent Tasered him.

The woman, wearing heavy eye makeup and a Bauhaus T-shirt, said, “You know where there's a grocery store or bodega around here?”

“I don't want any trouble,” he said, still ready to bolt.

The woman gave him a puzzled look. “A store. My dog's got to take a dump and I need some plastic bags to get it.”

Coop looked from the woman down to the pavement. She was holding a leash and on the end of it was a panting corgi. He kept looking, trying to figure out if this was another ruse. What if it was an attack corgi? That didn't really make sense. Even with a jetpack, the best the dog could do would be to nip at his knees. Coop looked back at the woman, realizing he was breathing too fast and sweating.

“You okay, man? You look kind of pale,” she said.

“I'm fine. Yeah, there's a drugstore a block down at the corner. They probably have plastic bags.”

“Thanks,” she said. Then, in a slightly higher-pitched voice, she said to the dog, “Come on, Peter.”

They went down the street and Coop leaned against the antiques shop, catching his breath. Great, he thought. Very James Bond. You can't even walk to work without being terrorized by supervillain minidogs. He shook his head, more than a little annoyed with himself, and walked the rest of the way to the DOPS building determined to act like an actual adult human being.

Coop got there in one piece. No one intercepted him with a helicopter. No one with a blowgun tranqed him. In fact, the weirdest thing that had happened was the realization that he was going to be coming here, punching a clock, day after day. The idea of going to an office every day was a strange one, though. The only routine he'd had in the past was meeting people at a few bars or coffee shops to plan heists. That and jail. This was going to take some getting used to. But so did prison, and he'd managed that. And there was no Giselle in prison. Or pizza. Or
Forbidden Planet
. Or Morty, for that
matter. He got a visitor badge in the lobby and went upstairs to the floor where Giselle worked.

“Hey, hero. I hear you're coming to work here after all,” said someone behind him. Coop recognized Nelson's voice. He ignored him and walked in the direction of Giselle's desk. “My face still hurts. Thanks for asking,” Nelson said. He sped up and sidled around in front of Coop. “I just want you to know that when you get your credentials, I'm putting in a request to have you on my team. We're going to have a blast together, convict.”

“Have you seen Giselle?” said Coop coolly.

“No.”

Coop looked past him. “Good eyes, Mannix. She's right behind you.”

When Nelson turned, Coop went the other way, down a corridor and back to Giselle's desk the long way.

“Hey there,” he said when he saw her.

“Hey yourself,” she said. Then, “I'd hug you, but it's the office, so, you know.”

“Sure. I understand. I wouldn't hug me right now anyway. I'm kind of sweaty.”

“Yes, you are. Did you run here?”

“No. Just waiting for ninjas and predators the whole way over.”

“Yeah,” said Giselle. She gave him a sympathetic smile. “It takes a while to get over that. You'll feel better when we get you a cover story.”