Now, there was a good question. Everybody knew that Jesus’ middle name started with an H. But how many people knew what the H stood for? Huh? How many?
Henry? Harold? Howard? Jesus Howard Christ. Didn’t sound right. Screw it. Leave that one to the nuns and the Bible experts.
He opened the fridge, one eye on the wall phone, thinking they might try that number, and grabbed a cold Bud. Popped that tallboy while he was in the laundry room, digging around in the dryer. He found a nice clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
He was zipping up his jeans, damn, he still had a friggin’ woody! Jesus, this stuff was—he suddenly felt something vibrating on his pecker. What the—? His cell phone. He had switched it to vibrate. Felt pretty damn good, he was thinking, reaching down and pulling his cell out, not bad at all. Pick up the wall phone and call his dick a few times.
“Hello?” he said, putting the cell to his ear.
“Fuck you doin’, Elvis, hanging up on me?”
“I’m sorry, man, see my old lady, she—”
“Tell it to somebody who gives a shit. We’ve got business to discuss, Elvis. Urgent business.”
“Okay, well, who is this? Who’m I talking to?”
“Julio.”
“Julio, my man! Whassup?” Gomez asked, trying to sound like he had his shit together and was ready for action. He’d had a few beers, but he’d learned one thing. You had to be sharp on the phone with these dudes.
“Listen carefully. It’s checkout time at the Roach Motel, Elvis. We just got the call. You know what you have to do?”
“Checkout time! Aw-right! My man, it’s about time! Let’s get it on! Let’s rock and roll!”
Gomez noticed his breathing was getting shallow and his mouth had gone dry like that old iguana, one who’d been lying on a rock out in the sun too long.
“You got the RC, Elvis?” Julio was asking him.
“Some in the fridge. Why?”
“The radio control box, you dumb shit.”
“Oh, yeah. That. Just kidding around. No. Not on me. I mean, I know where it is.”
“You remember how to work it?”
“Tell me again.”
“Are you drunk, Elvis? Tell me the truth, right now. If you are, you’re dead. You and your whole family, understand? Dead meat.”
“Hell no, I ain’t drunk, Julio! I swear it! I had two beers with dinner and I’ve been screwing my brains out for two solid hours! Jesus! Calm down, all right?”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now, listen to me, compadre. You go get that little bug box. You remember the little window with the red numbers?”
“Of course. Jesus. I’m not stupid. You’re talking to a petty officer third class here, pal.”
“Is it armed?”
“Uh, it says ‘armed,’ yeah.”
“Bueno. Now, you push the button on the left side. The numbers should all come up 0000. That’s step one. Step two, you push the button on the right. The numbers will start going up. Push the button again when they say 3000 exactly. The numbers will stop.”
“Okay, I’m with you,” Gomez said. He was scribbling furiously on Rita’s grocery store pad, trying to keep up. “3000. What if I go too far, you know, by accident?”
“No problem. Push the right button again and it will zero you out. Then you just do it again.”
“Cool. So I can’t mess up. Then what?”
“What time you got?”
Gomez looked up at the big kitchen clock, then at his watch.
“Exactly ten o’clock P.M.”
“Okay. Once you’re programmed, you don’t do anything, anything, until midnight. At the stroke of twelve, you push the left and right buttons at exactly the same time. You got that? Exactly the same time.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, seсor.”
“What does that do, pushing both buttons?”
“Starts the countdown to checkout time at the old cucaracha motel. Thirty hours. The numbers will start rolling backwards.”
“Holy shit, then what?”
“Then you are a very rich man, Elvis. At ten or fifteen seconds after midnight, your cell phone will ring. You make sure you’ve got it on you, charged up, and turned on. Got it?”
“Yeah. What do I say?”
“You answer, ‘Roach Motel.’ A voice will ask you if there are any vacancies. If you have successfully initiated the countdown, you say, ‘No vacancies for thirty hours.’ Then you hang up.”
“No vacancies for thirty hours. I got it. Then what?”
“One more little thing, amigo, one more thing and then you are a very, very wealthy individual.”
“What?” Gomez asked, feeling a little chill.
“You have to deliver the RC to one of the guards at the Cuban checkpoint. That’s the only way we can confirm that you have fulfilled your mission. And the only way you get the password to your Swiss bank account.”
“What? The Cuban side? How the fuck do I do that?”
“You told us you had a good friend at one of the American towers.”
“Sparky Rollins?”
“Exactly. He’ll let you through, no questions, right? You said he was your amigo, the one you did all that time in the brig with?”
“Yeah. I guess. What if he doesn’t just happen to be on duty tonight?”
Christ, he was starting to shimmy and shake like a goddamn Mexican jumping bean.
“You ever hear of wire cutters, amigo?”
“Aw, shit, Julio,” Gomez said. He felt like he was going to start bawling. “There’s a goddamn minefield out there! You guys know that. How the hell do I walk across that?”
“Very, very carefully, amigo. You got a million dollars at stake. You got to think positive. You got to watch your step, man, you’ll make it. Vaya con Dios.”
“But what about—hello?” The line had gone dead. Shit. He stared at the phone in his hand. It was shaking so bad, he didn’t trust himself to put it in his pocket. He set the phone on the counter and took a big swig of the Bud. He wiped his eyes with the bottom of his T-shirt.
Stay cool, he told himself. You can pull this off. This is the big one. But you got to stay cool. Stay focused. Focused on what? The Big Plan, of course! He’d been so nookie crazy lately that, until Julio’s call, he’d almost forgotten the Big Plan. The money, dickhead. The million dollars over there in goddamn Switzerland, that’s what he had to focus on.
And the box. Had to focus on his little pal RC. Good thing he’d been smart enough to write it all down. He looked at the pencil scribbles on the grocery pad. They were kinda blurry because of his sweaty hand, but he could make them out. He folded the paper and stuck it in his jeans pocket.
Then he grabbed another Bud and headed for the garage. The phone! He’d need the cell phone! He grabbed it off the counter and stuck it back down into his underpants. Safer that way. He ducked out the screen door that led to the little backyard.
It was raining. Hard. He hadn’t even noticed. Thunder, lightning, the whole weather thing. Christ. His backyard was underwater. He splashed the few short steps to the garage and stood under the eaves, breathing hard. Why? What was the problem? The minefield? Yeah, that was a problem. A bona fide bitch. Would he try it for one million big ones? Bet your ass.
So, what then? There was something missing in the plan, that’s what. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he would. He just needed a little Vitamin V to calm his nerves.
He stepped into the dark garage and reached up to the shelf where he hid the bottle of Stoli inside an old coffee can. Can was there but it felt too light. He peered inside. Nothing but a few rusty nails. Goddamn kids. Or maybe Rita. She was always sneaking around, looking for his bottles. Now he’d have to drive over to the PX and buy a fifth of the Stolmeister. No biggie.
A thought. He better program the little RC Cola thing before he dipped into the sauce. Smarts. Total concentration. That’s what it took in this modern world of high-tech espionage.
He opened the trunk and lifted the spare. The little bundle was right where it was supposed to be. The RC wrapped in one of his old T-shirts. He lifted it out, carefully, carefully, and moved from the car to his work bench and pulled the cord on the hanging work light.