“They got maps on the internet,” Byron said.
“These maps are . . . unique,” Scissors said. “You will be compensated for your time.”
“For stealing some maps?”
“Let’s think of it as liberation.”
“I haven’t told you my rate,” Byron said. He was stone broke and wondered if the man on the phone knew that.
“The rate is not what you say it is, but it’s market price. Trust me. It is fair.”
“And you get to say what’s fair?”
“There are other names on our list.”
“And since mine’s Ashdown, you’re starting with me.”
“Abernathy, Aguirre, Albertson, Alsopp, Anderson, then you.”
“I get it,” Byron said.
“The thing is, it can’t look like the maps were singled out to be stolen. My employer requires discretion.”
“You can have ’em fast, cheap, or secret. Pick two.”
Scissors named the fee, which was so high Byron didn’t think to negotiate, which was exactly the plan, and when he figured that part of it out, it got under his skin. Eventually, once everything bent over and went south, Byron began hatching a plan of his own, a kind of insurance policy. After they tested the map, he took that one from the roll and left it in his closet back home. Some of that treasure was going to be his no matter what else happened.
Across the pool, a lifeguard gave three short whistles. Byron looked over and saw Lonnie running along the deck. He jumped into the pool and ran through the shallow water. A second lifeguard shouted, “Hey, man! You don’t run. Everybody knows that.” Lonnie slowed, but his face remained panicked.
“He’s still here!” Lonnie shouted, pointing behind.
“Who?”
“Scissors. Over by the fence.”
“Inside or outside?” Byron tried not to panic.
“Out. Watching me. Come look.”
“I’m not going over there. That’s what he wants.”
“You have to, so I know I’m not crazy.”
“You’ve been drunk since last night.”
“You’ve been tweaking since—never mind. Come look. If it’s not him, I’ll shut up forever.”
“Forever?” Byron pulled himself up from the lounge, bent down and took the envelopes, then he followed Lonnie. As they walked, one of the lifeguards took off his sunglasses and said, “Keep him under control.”
At the midway point, Lonnie said, “There he is.” A hundred feet past the pool deck was a ten-foot-high iron fence that separated the end of the courtyard from the parking lot. Scissors stood right in the middle, gripping the bars. He was in different clothes: a yellow golf shirt and white slacks. When he saw that they had seen him, he waved, then put his hands in his pockets and strolled away without looking back.
“Why’d he do that?” Lonnie asked.
“He’s a freak.”
“Well, it sure freaks me out.”
“He’s just trying to make us think he’s onto us. But he’s got to take the maps to his employer.” Byron put the last word in air quotes. “He just wants us to lay low.”
“Why wouldn’t we? This is awesome,” Lonnie said.
“Let’s go back,” Byron said.
“Back home? Is that a good idea?”
“Back to the chairs, you idiot.”
When they got to their place at the pool, a woman was standing next to one of the lounge chairs. She was wearing a navy blue one-piece with fishnet across the cleavage. “What is she doing here?” Byron asked.
“Don’t you remember? She stayed the night with us,” Lonnie said. “Her friend is here, too.” He pointed to a skinny woman lying facedown a couple of lounges over. The first woman was bent over, undoing the buckles of her sandals. Byron copped a look down her swimsuit and thought about last night. Across her chest was a tattoo of the word DESTINY interwoven with thorns and flowers that looked like they’d come from another planet. They had partied. Very little of it was clear. When she could not undo the buckles on her shoes, she sat, leaned over and tugged them off.
When she noticed Byron and Lonnie, she said, “We showered.”
“Sure. So did we,” Byron said, stepping astride his chair and collapsing backward into it, which startled the woman who was lying on her stomach. Her frizzed-out hair was dull, with a green dye job that was faded almost all the way out.
Lonnie got situated in his chair, and the four of them were set out in a row: girl, boy, boy, girl. Byron undid his ponytail and regathered it. He put the envelopes behind him, in the small of his back. The woman on Byron’s side put her hand on Byron’s thigh. Her acrylic nails were covered in tiny flowers and jewels, and she used them to tickle the hair on Byron’s leg. Byron looked over at her and saw the names BRADEN and HAILEE inscribed on the inside of her forearm.
“I didn’t bring any sunscreen,” she said. “I’m gonna burn.”
“We all are,” Byron said, watching to see if Scissors would show.
Lonnie tapped the other woman on her bare shoulder. “Hey,” he said, “I don’t remember your name.”
“Leia,” she said. “Like the princess.”
“She’s a general now,” Lonnie said.
___
After three o’clock, the sun drilled through the west windows of Dalton’s office and started burning up the wall from floor to ceiling. He’d been trying to do paperwork for hours, but the day had been chewed up by interruptions. At three thirty, the white bar of light came even with Dalton’s eyebrows, and the glare disturbed his work enough that he wrote a note reminding himself to request an awning.
In an attempt to save himself, he left his office, drove to town, got a late lunch, and ate it in his Bronco. Before he was finished, the phone rang. It was Karen.
“Pat,” she said. “I’m trying not to be that person.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s okay that I have to keep calling you about the house or okay that I’m trying not to be the person who has to keep calling to remind you about selling the house?”
Dalton set down his pickle. “Both?”
“Please remember that this is what we agreed to.”
“You need to have a little charity.”
“Do not do this, Patrick.”
“It’s going to happen, but not today.” He lifted his potato chip bag and looked inside: all that was left were crumbs and pieces. He poured them into his mouth. “You can come back and live in it,” he said. “I’ll move out.”
“That’s not what we want. I’ve been through that.”
“We? I haven’t heard the kids say they don’t want to live here. Put them on. I want to hear it from them. If that’s what they really want, I’ll list it this afternoon.”
“They’re at ballet.”
“Okay, then tonight.”
“Patrick.”
“Have them call me. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go find out how my dad’s best friend died.”
“I thought it was a suicide.”
“I’ll get to the realtor as soon as I can,” he said, then ended the call.