I tell him good-bye and go above deck and tear off my shirt. Rock star realtor. I put my phones into my seat pocket and cannonball off the boat like Love did. Under the water I open my eyes and look around the Sea of Cortez for Delilah.
But that’s ridiculous. I left her in the Pacific.
THE water was beautiful but the situation is irritating. I still don’t have Captain Dave’s key. He keeps them looped to his belt; they may as well be attached to his dick. He’s that guy and it would just be nice to have the keys in hand. I don’t know how I will get the keys. But I will get them. It just means I need to get to know Captain Fucking Dave a little bit more than I would have liked. And it’s not the end of the world, but I’m sick of small talk. We’re back at Love’s Mexican mansion for disco naps and Love is trying to convince me to stay with her instead of going for a run. “You don’t need to,” she says. “You look great.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, antsy. “But it’s more that it feels good, you know? I’m used to it now.”
“Maybe I’ll go with you,” she says, and flops onto her back. She’s in the center of our round, heavenly bed. She’s drunk and beautiful and this house also feels drunk and beautiful, cavernous and curvy like the Pantry, with random dramatic chunks of coral suspended on the walls.
I check the time on my phone. I have an hour until Fincher arrives and Love is begging for it so I undress and tend to her on the bed. She’s good even when she’s slurring her words and I feel revived. I needed that. I shower. I get into my running clothes—no shirt in Mexico—and I go downstairs and Cathy, the housekeeper, startles me. “Are you going for a run?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Evian or Fiji?” she asks.
I smile. “How about both? And then they can be like hand weights.”
She brings me two bottles and I thank her and she nods.
“Hey,” I say. “If I wanted to take a boat out . . .”
And the woman who was so eager to hydrate me is a different person. “Nobody drives the boats except Captain Dave or one of the first mates,” she says. She softens. “But you let him know where you want to go and you got it.”
Fucking fuck. But I nod and take Captain Dave’s number—I’ve been able to convince people to do what I want before—and outside the uphill battle continues, literally. It’s hotter now and I have to run uphill to get to Axl Rose’s fucking house and I am losing my breath and this is not like the flat, forgiving terrain of Palm Springs. I’m not even there yet and already both waters are gone. I stop in front of a giant ugly house, hands on knees to catch my breath. There is concrete everywhere, jackhammers, unfinished business. I always loved all this shit when I was a kid—dump trucks, concrete pourers—but now it irritates me. You can’t tell if they’re renovating or starting from scratch and sometimes rich white people remind me of teenagers who can’t stop picking at their scabs.
I wipe my mouth and keep going. My thighs are on fire and my eyelids twitch but I make it and the gate is open—thank you, William Papova. Axl Rose’s house is a Spanglish mausoleum and no wonder it’s been on the market for several years. It looks like there were battles here and maybe an explosion. There is this fucking stupid cactus in the middle of the front patio. I imagine some cunt interior decorator digging a shallow hole at the last second, as if the cactus were going to make the buyers fail to see the incomplete landscaping, the frozen-in-time fiasco of it all. I walk around to the side and sure enough, I find a little hideaway with an outdoor shower. There’s an overflowing ashtray and bottle of shampoo and a leather satchel and realtors are people too. You can feel the frustration, the many salesmen who smoked and showered and fucked and whined about this odd fucking house.
I jog around to the front of the house and unlock the door and it’s like that moment when the lights go down in the theater. It’s starting. It is.
The house has marble floors and high ceilings but it’s not inspired like La Groceria and you can tell they’re trying to stage it to appeal to Mr. and Mrs. Middle America, which seems counterintuitive, as Mr. and Mrs. Middle America generally can’t afford a mansion in Cabo. I go into the kitchen and help myself to bottled water from the fridge. Then I reach into my fanny pack and begin preparations. First, I e-mail Fincher:
Hey Robin cant wait to see you! left the gate open for you. we’re with the babies downstairs sooo cute. When you get in, come down and join us. xoxo Meg
I don’t know if she goes by Meg but Robin will like the familiarity. And now for the real fun. I use the fishing line I grabbed on the boat today to set a trip wire at the stairs, affixing them on either side with Bliss Poetic Waxing wax strips; Love won’t notice they’re gone. Then I go back to the kitchen, take out two more generic water bottles, and crush several Percocets into them. I stick them in an empty ice bucket along with three expired Kind Bars, then take the spiral staircase down into the basement and here it is, the panic room/home recording studio, a soundproof box with two leather chairs in it.
There’s a second key on the chain William Papova left me, and it fits in the lock on the door. And yes, it locks from the outside, because sometimes you need to lock Les Pauls and Grammys and recording shit up.
I bring the bucket inside and set it on the floor. I pick up a microphone and tap it. I turn on the biggest red button and I tap it again. It works. Finally, I wheel one of the leather chairs just outside the studio and I wait for Fincher and sure enough, he does not disappoint. Fifteen minutes later, I hear him drop his bag by the front door.
“Hola!” he screams. The front door slams shut. He calls out again. “Hola!” Asshole. I wait with my back against the wall next to the bottom step. “Hello?” he asks, and he is a terrible actor. Anyone who reads acting manuals knows that good actors take direction and he didn’t. I hear a rustle and I picture him delving into his phone and rereading the e-mail where I specifically ordered him to report to the lower level of the house. And I am right.
“Ah,” he says. And now he crosses the marble foyer and looks for the basement door. I can smell him, hairspray and suntan lotion. He whistles. “Knock, knock,” he says. “Anybody home?”
I disguise my voice and call out, “Down here!”
It’s one of those fundamental things about being a human. The sound and the sight of someone falling down the stairs is inherently funny, especially when it’s an asshole like Fincher. He lies in a heap on the floor, knocked out, and I can’t help but laugh as I drag him into the soundproof studio and lock the door.
I stare at him for a moment, and my laughter stops as I notice how vulnerable he looks. His shirt has pineapples and palm trees on it. He’s wearing board shorts and sandals and I’m pretty sure he dyed his hair. He has chicken legs. He needs to do more leg presses. Well, he needed to. It’s too late now.
I call Captain Dave.
“Yo!” he says. “This is the Captain.”
“Hey, Captain Dave!” I say, all cheery and respectful. “It’s Joe Goldberg. Love’s boyfriend.”
“Hey, Greenie,” he says. “What can I do ya for?”
“Well,” I say. “I’ve got a little situation. This buddy of mine showed up and he’s wasted. He passed out. Love’s not a big fan. Anyway, I was thinking he could crash on the boat tonight.”
“Ah,” he says in a grave tone. “Sorry, but no can do.”
I fake a laugh. “I didn’t ask if he could drive the boat,” I say. “I just need to get the keys, get Brian up there.”
“I understand what you’re asking for, skipper, but the answer is still no.”