good to be doing something, to be working up a sweat outside of the gym. However nonsensical, this is more real than anything he’s done in years. Henry knows that he is having a life-moment of some kind, and allows himself to relish the feeling—it doesn’t come often enough these days.
Suddenly he hears a spritely electronic tune—his cell phone! Struggling to grab the phone out of his back pocket without losing his grip on the wooden beam, Henry fumbles the noisy device and watches it go pinwheeling down the culvert and over the drop. The tinny music ends with a very faint splash.
Great. At the base of the stairs he peers out at the ATV, now eye-level with him and just a few dozen yards away. The engine is ticking as it cools. He can see down the length of the lowest tier of condos, his eyes following the ranks of doors and windows blankly facing the sea. The third door down is open, black as a missing tooth.
Henry boosts himself up onto the deck, not quite pulling off the fast, silent commando maneuver he had in mind—he was never that graceful, even when he was in shape. If someone glances out now they will see a middle-aged man straining like a walrus climbing out of a pool. But no one sees him, and in a second he is clear, heaving for breath behind the corner of the building.
There is a sound: the muffled bass thump of heavy metal music, resonating from the wall next to him. Henry presses his ear to it and the AC/DC song jumps out loud and clear: “Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap.” The music has a hollow echo to it, as if being played in a cavern.
Deciding to risk it, Henry turns the corner and briskly walks toward the open doorway. If anyone should pop out, he will just be completely honest and straightforward, cut to the chase. It would probably be for the best at this point anyway to get it over with—Ruby was most likely the one trying to call him, perhaps to say she is back at the hotel, and he doesn’t want to worry her.
But as he nears the door, Henry has second thoughts. Slowing down, he pads to the edge of the doorframe and listens. The music is muffled, emanating from somewhere deep inside—a big open space, by the sound of it. He steals a peek: The room is dark compared to the brightness outside, but in a panel of sunlight Henry can see plywood flooring and exposed wall joists. The building is not an empty shell on a dirt foundation like the other, but it’s clearly not ready to be lived in. The two men are nowhere in sight.
Standing in the doorway, Henry’s eyes adjust to the gloom. He can now make out the entire apartment, front to back. A ladder is propped against the side wall, and there are beer cans and construction trash scattered around. In the far corner is a mattress piled with old sleeping bags.
What is still not clear to Henry is exactly where the men are, or where that music is coming from. He can see as far back as the unit goes, right through the joists of the unfinished bathroom and closet partitions. The whole place is empty; there seems to be nowhere left to hide.
Where the hell did they go?
Henry creeps inside, ready to bolt any second. He goes to the mattress and stoops down, scanning the collection of pornography lying around on the floor: Leg Show, Hustler, Club International. There are crumpled Trojan wrappers underfoot.
Suddenly the music cuts off and there is a hooting laugh from somewhere high up, practically in his ear. Henry jumps in alarm, whipping around to see a man materializing at the top of the ladder, climbing in over the wall through the ceiling rafters. He is not looking at Henry or he would have seen him at once; he is busy talking to someone on the far side:
“—so I says to her, I says, ‘If you think you can get it done cheaper, you go right ahead,’ and she says, ‘Kevin, you drive a hard bargain,’ and I’m thinking, ‘I got your hard bargain right here!’”
From the opposite side of the wall, another man laughs, saying, “Dude, you know she wants it.”
“Hell yes. One of these days she’ll be getting it, too. Put that mouth of hers to good use.”
There is no way for Henry to