The hair on the back of my neck stands up. “Bradford?”
“Bradford Smith. Age fifty-two. Works in the Continental Casino. There’s more. I looked up his Internet history and found that he pays for the premium broadband package, but, unlike the DeForrest guy, he leaves a very light online footprint. Fits the profile.”
“So that’s him?”
“Might be.”
“How do we know for sure?”
“Would you recognize his voice?”
Our one and only phone call. Brief, but indelible. “I think so.”
“Good. I got a phone number for his actual cell phone. We can call on a blocked line and conference you in. If we get voice mail, you listen to his outgoing message. If he answers, I’ll pose as a telemarketer, and you stay quiet. Either way, you can confirm his voice.”
“That’s all we have to do?”
“Yep. Hang up, and I’ll call you back and patch you in.”
“Now? Won’t he get suspicious?”
“Who gets suspicious of a telemarketer?”
“Good point.”
“Okay. What should we be selling that no one wants to buy?” Harry asks.
“As it happens, I’ve worked as a telemarketer before. No one wanted supplemental life insurance, and it seems oddly fitting to try to sell it to him.” I tell Harry the script.
“Okay. Hang up, and I’ll call you back and we’ll do this.”
When Harry calls back, the line is already ringing. “Shh,” he tells me.
The voice that picks up is gruff. “Hello.”
“Hello. I’m with Good Faith Insurance Agency,” Harry begins in a smooth voice, like he does this all the time. “The reason I’m calling is to let you know that we have drastically lowered our insurance rates in Laughlin. We would love to give you a no-obligation review and quote on your current life insurance policy. If you don’t have one set up yet, I’d love to discuss this very wise investment in your future.”
“I’ve already told you, I’m not interested,” he says. And hangs up.
We sit there for a moment, in a triangle of silence: Me. Harry Kang. And the disconnected voice of All_BS.
30
Once again, I’m back at the library for research, but this time, it’s easier. I only have to figure out how to get to Laughlin. The hard part is over.
I can’t quite believe it. I’ve been looking for All_BS for weeks, and at times, it has felt like chasing a ghost. But he’s here. I have an address. Last night Harry called me once more, this time with all of All_BS’s—Bradford Smith’s—contact information.
“You are a fucking genius, Harry Kang!” I told him.
“I don’t know about effing genius, but I’ll take genius,” he said. And I could hear the smile in his voice once again.
“Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much.”
“No. Thank you,” he said quietly. “It was fun. But it also felt good. Like maybe I could do something for Meg.” He paused. “Are you going to the police now?”
“I’m not sure. I was thinking I might go there myself first.”
Harry went quiet. “Be careful, Cody,” he said after a bit. “It seems abstract when you’re dealing with people online, but they are still people, and some of them are not nice people, not the kind you ever want to be in a room with.”
Sometimes you don’t even need to be in the same room for the damage to be done. “I’ll be careful,” I promised. “Thank you, again.”
“Like I said, I’m glad to do it. And it’s not that hard to find someone.”
“Really?”
Harry laughed. “Maybe not for me.”
And that’s when I had the other idea. “Do you think you might be able to track down one more person?”
x x x
The Greyhound to Laughlin takes thirty hours, requires three transfers, and costs three hundred dollars round trip. I have the money, and I can take off the time if I need to. But when I start to contemplate sixty hours alone on the bus, I begin to feel a little sick, the darkness clawing at me. I can’t do this alone, with only Bradford and Meg keeping me company.
I list the people I might ask to go with me. There’s no one in town. I’d never ask Tricia, and the Garcias are obviously out. The friends from school, never all that close, have fallen away. Who else? Sharon Devonne?
Maybe the Cascades people. Except Alice is still working at Mountain Bound. Harry is in Korea until mid-August. That leaves Stoner Richard. It’s not the worst idea in the world. He’s home in Boise for the summer, and that’s on the way. I could catch a Greyhound to Boise, and we could drive from there.
There is one other person. And as soon as I think of him, I understand that there is no other person. Because he is somehow as linked up in all this as I am.
His voice mail is still on my phone. I never listened to it, but I haven’t deleted it. I listen to it now. All it says is this: “Cody, what do you need from me?”
Words can have so many meanings. That question could be harboring exasperation, annoyance, guilt, surrender.
I listen once more. This time I let myself truly hear that familiar growl of fear and concern and tenderness behind his words.
Cody, what do you need from me?
And so I tell him.
31
Ben offers to come pick me up at home, but I don’t want him to come here. We arrange to meet in Yakima, outside the Greyhound station, at noon on Saturday. Then I call Stoner Richard.
“Cody, long time, no hear. What’s the latest and greatest?”
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
“Are you asking me out?” he teases.
“Actually, I’m asking if I can sleep with you,” I tease back, before explaining that I’m heading out on a road trip and need a place to crash Saturday night in Boise.
“There’s always room at the Zeller homestead. Just be prepared: if you come for a Saturday night, the rev might want you to do things the Jerry way on Sunday.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure what the Jerry way means, but figuring it’s some Jerry Garcia reference. “Also, there’s a slight catch.”
“Isn’t there always?”
“Ben McCallister’s going to be with me.”
I hear Richard inhale sharply. Either in dismay, or he could be taking a bong hit. “Are you and him, are you guys . . . ?”
“No, no! Nothing like that. I haven’t even talked to him in more than a month. He’s just helping me out.”
“Bradford Smith. Age fifty-two. Works in the Continental Casino. There’s more. I looked up his Internet history and found that he pays for the premium broadband package, but, unlike the DeForrest guy, he leaves a very light online footprint. Fits the profile.”
“So that’s him?”
“Might be.”
“How do we know for sure?”
“Would you recognize his voice?”
Our one and only phone call. Brief, but indelible. “I think so.”
“Good. I got a phone number for his actual cell phone. We can call on a blocked line and conference you in. If we get voice mail, you listen to his outgoing message. If he answers, I’ll pose as a telemarketer, and you stay quiet. Either way, you can confirm his voice.”
“That’s all we have to do?”
“Yep. Hang up, and I’ll call you back and patch you in.”
“Now? Won’t he get suspicious?”
“Who gets suspicious of a telemarketer?”
“Good point.”
“Okay. What should we be selling that no one wants to buy?” Harry asks.
“As it happens, I’ve worked as a telemarketer before. No one wanted supplemental life insurance, and it seems oddly fitting to try to sell it to him.” I tell Harry the script.
“Okay. Hang up, and I’ll call you back and we’ll do this.”
When Harry calls back, the line is already ringing. “Shh,” he tells me.
The voice that picks up is gruff. “Hello.”
“Hello. I’m with Good Faith Insurance Agency,” Harry begins in a smooth voice, like he does this all the time. “The reason I’m calling is to let you know that we have drastically lowered our insurance rates in Laughlin. We would love to give you a no-obligation review and quote on your current life insurance policy. If you don’t have one set up yet, I’d love to discuss this very wise investment in your future.”
“I’ve already told you, I’m not interested,” he says. And hangs up.
We sit there for a moment, in a triangle of silence: Me. Harry Kang. And the disconnected voice of All_BS.
30
Once again, I’m back at the library for research, but this time, it’s easier. I only have to figure out how to get to Laughlin. The hard part is over.
I can’t quite believe it. I’ve been looking for All_BS for weeks, and at times, it has felt like chasing a ghost. But he’s here. I have an address. Last night Harry called me once more, this time with all of All_BS’s—Bradford Smith’s—contact information.
“You are a fucking genius, Harry Kang!” I told him.
“I don’t know about effing genius, but I’ll take genius,” he said. And I could hear the smile in his voice once again.
“Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much.”
“No. Thank you,” he said quietly. “It was fun. But it also felt good. Like maybe I could do something for Meg.” He paused. “Are you going to the police now?”
“I’m not sure. I was thinking I might go there myself first.”
Harry went quiet. “Be careful, Cody,” he said after a bit. “It seems abstract when you’re dealing with people online, but they are still people, and some of them are not nice people, not the kind you ever want to be in a room with.”
Sometimes you don’t even need to be in the same room for the damage to be done. “I’ll be careful,” I promised. “Thank you, again.”
“Like I said, I’m glad to do it. And it’s not that hard to find someone.”
“Really?”
Harry laughed. “Maybe not for me.”
And that’s when I had the other idea. “Do you think you might be able to track down one more person?”
x x x
The Greyhound to Laughlin takes thirty hours, requires three transfers, and costs three hundred dollars round trip. I have the money, and I can take off the time if I need to. But when I start to contemplate sixty hours alone on the bus, I begin to feel a little sick, the darkness clawing at me. I can’t do this alone, with only Bradford and Meg keeping me company.
I list the people I might ask to go with me. There’s no one in town. I’d never ask Tricia, and the Garcias are obviously out. The friends from school, never all that close, have fallen away. Who else? Sharon Devonne?
Maybe the Cascades people. Except Alice is still working at Mountain Bound. Harry is in Korea until mid-August. That leaves Stoner Richard. It’s not the worst idea in the world. He’s home in Boise for the summer, and that’s on the way. I could catch a Greyhound to Boise, and we could drive from there.
There is one other person. And as soon as I think of him, I understand that there is no other person. Because he is somehow as linked up in all this as I am.
His voice mail is still on my phone. I never listened to it, but I haven’t deleted it. I listen to it now. All it says is this: “Cody, what do you need from me?”
Words can have so many meanings. That question could be harboring exasperation, annoyance, guilt, surrender.
I listen once more. This time I let myself truly hear that familiar growl of fear and concern and tenderness behind his words.
Cody, what do you need from me?
And so I tell him.
31
Ben offers to come pick me up at home, but I don’t want him to come here. We arrange to meet in Yakima, outside the Greyhound station, at noon on Saturday. Then I call Stoner Richard.
“Cody, long time, no hear. What’s the latest and greatest?”
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
“Are you asking me out?” he teases.
“Actually, I’m asking if I can sleep with you,” I tease back, before explaining that I’m heading out on a road trip and need a place to crash Saturday night in Boise.
“There’s always room at the Zeller homestead. Just be prepared: if you come for a Saturday night, the rev might want you to do things the Jerry way on Sunday.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure what the Jerry way means, but figuring it’s some Jerry Garcia reference. “Also, there’s a slight catch.”
“Isn’t there always?”
“Ben McCallister’s going to be with me.”
I hear Richard inhale sharply. Either in dismay, or he could be taking a bong hit. “Are you and him, are you guys . . . ?”
“No, no! Nothing like that. I haven’t even talked to him in more than a month. He’s just helping me out.”
