Hidden Bodies (31 page)

“I mean, he’s on a mad power trip.”

“Well,” Milo says. “He’s Cap. He can be.”

“Yeah, but it’s Forty’s boat.”

Milo turns his reel. “No,” he says. “The Captain controls everything. It doesn’t even matter if Ray is here. Boat owners say it’s better because when you’re
messing with Mother Nature, you want someone who respects that above all else.”

“Huh,” I say.
Boat people.
I pretend to care if a marlin nips at my line while I think about Fincher. He arrives later today. My plan is simple: get the keys from Captain
Dave when we dock. Meet Fincher at Axl Rose’s house. Knock him out. Get Fincher onto this motor vessel and drive out here and dump him. Then, go to the Office with Love and eat fish tacos and
drink margaritas and dance.

Milo gets a bite. He has to hand the rod over to Kelly to reel it in because he’s too weak to do it on his own. But then, when Kelly reels in the fish, he hurriedly hands off the rod to
Milo so that Milo can pose, as if he alone caught the fish.

Captain Dave comes back and says we should probably head back to shore because they’ve been having issues with pirates.

And that’s when the
girls’ boat
comes up on us and all the girls are dressed up like pirates, firing with squirt guns, drunk, squealing. Captain Dave drops anchor and
laughs. Love cannonballs into the water.

“Come on!” she says. “It’s beautiful!”

It is, but none of these people understand that I’m not on vacation. I’ve got to get on the burner phone I bought before we left and call all the realtors who have attempted to sell
Axl Rose’s house in the past two weeks. There are twelve of them and one of them has to know where the house key is.

I beg off, and while everyone else swims, I go down into the cabin and go over my spiel. I’ll introduce myself as Nick Ledger, a legendary bicoastal realtor to the stars. I’ve seen
him on shitty reality shows and I do his voice pretty well, thick Bronx, like he smoked a thousand cigarettes. I’ll tell them that I’m down in this
sand pit for two goddamn
days
and I get to Axl’s house and there’s
no fucking key
because you people are so sun-stroked you fugghet how this works.

I’ve watched a lot of shows about real estate. I know the way they name-drop and talk to each other and swear at each other. I know they all have different phones for different purposes. I
practice the key phrases:
very famous fuck you money times ten client and I know who you know who I’m talking about
is here. She’s
more private than your wife’s dildo
collection
and she is
pissier than your wife when you cum in her ass
and I am standing here without the key to the
one fucking pagoda that might be good enough for her, given her
unique requirements.

I call the first realtor, a woman who looks slutty and stupid, like she would bang Nick Ledger, but she tells me to fuck off. I call a guy with big ears who looks like he was bullied most of his
life. He can’t remember who has the listing and he wants to know if I’m shooting. I call another woman, older, probably went into this business after she saw
American Beauty
on
cable. She has a New York accent too, Long Island. She says
honey, the key is up my puss. Good luck getting there.

She hangs up on me. I growl. Nick Ledger is an asshole and a bridge burner and I should have impersonated someone dopey and happy, but they don’t have people like that in high-end real
estate, at least not on TV.

This isn’t working, so I go into the real estate directory and look for brokers without pictures. The real fuck-ups who can’t even get it together and show their faces. There is a
guy named William Papova and this is harder, calling someone when you haven’t prejudged them based on their proclivity for neckties or earrings.

He drops the phone before he answers,
stupid phone
, and his voice is abrupt: “Who is this?”

“It’s Nick Fucking Ledger,” I say.

“From the TV show?” he asks. YES. “
Rock Star Realtor
?”

“Excuse me, are you giving me shit about a project that
benefits
my fucking business?”

“No, no, no,” he says. “I know you is all.”

“Well, listen, I got your number from that piece Sonja.”

I don’t know a Sonja but I imagine realtors in Cabo know Sonjas. “Sonja,” he says. “Okay.”

“I’m here twenty-four fucking hours and my team drove the car off the cliff and they don’t have a key to Axl’s and I need a key to Axl’s.”

“For the show?”

“Fuck you and answer the question.”

He puts me on hold a minute then returns to the call, out of breath. “I can get you a key and leave it in the outdoor shower but you can’t fuck me here and tell anyone at Caldwell.
I’m trying to make things right with them.”

“Deal,” I say. “Just make sure you leave the fucking gate open, too.”

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:

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.”

I can tell that he’s in a bar. I hate alcoholics like that, the ones who want to be near liquor. And I know his kind. I bet he goes to this fucking bar every day, just to prove that
he’s sober. “Dave,” I say. “I’m asking you to work with me here. My buddy is out cold. You know, he lost his room key, he can’t even remember the name of his
hotel.”

“I’m sure Love would let him stay at La Groceria,” he says.

“Love hates him,” I say. “So that’s really not an option.”

“Well, then I guess you’re gonna have to get your buddy a hotel room,” he says. “Cath can get you a list of your best options.”

“Captain Dave,” I plead. “We’re just talking about one night.”

He sighs. “I remember when my ex-wife fell off the wagon. She said, ‘Dave, I only had one drink.’” He sighs again. “Rules are rules, Joe. Good luck.”

He hangs up on me and the line is dead. Fuck. Fucking AA slave with his O’Doul’s and his restraint and his desire to impart the rules on me, same way he gave it all up to
God
as if he doesn’t sit here every day, all day, just wanting a beer, just a taste.

I thought money was power. Isn’t that how this godforsaken world is supposed to work? Captain Dave does what I say because Love chose me? I pace. I don’t have the money to get my own
boat and I can’t very well leave Fincher in a fucking house. I learned my lesson: You clean up. You get rid of the body. You don’t leave a mug of piss, let alone a
cop’s
corpse.
But what the fuck to do?