Page 58 of A Long Con

“Well, we’re starting with one I just bought on Sandcastle Street.”

“No way! Remember when Chris Aurely lived there? And Bill Weinman? Man, they were thugs. Always stealing our weed.”

“Yeah, well, Aurely is dead now, and Weinman is in jail for murder. Anyway, that’d be great if you could move in and sort of keep an eye out on the place, like you did with my pad when I was in Mexico.”

“No shit I can do that, Ster—I mean Berkeley. No problem! I’m getting a little tired of my mom anyway. She always puts my hoodies into the dryer and shrinks them. Then she takes issue with my reading of John Dewey. Thanks, man! I can’t wait! When does it close?”

“September first. John . . . Dewey? The experimental school guy?”

“Yeah! ‘Every great advance in science has issued from a new audacity of imagination.’ Kind of reminds me of you.”

I had this profound philosophical subject to ponder on as we wound our way back through the Eichler suburbia. We drove by the new house I’d bought with my Nude money. We did wind up selling it to Gildersleeve for a cool three mil, lying that we’d lost the rug while crossing the flash flood. Of course immediately we’d hung the rug on our living room wall while I got cracking producing another Nude, so we’d finally own the valuable duo, while Cloud hauled ass installing a state-of-the-art security system. Playing these high stakes meant that I could pay off all the steep fines my mother had accrued and not lose her house, keeping the building inspector happy.

I told Gildersleeve I could probably get my hands on a Basquiat for him.

Cloud approved of the new Eichler which we would also remodel in the original style, keeping as much of all first-hand hardware as possible. A warmth emanated from me at the idea of Cloud running this job while I painted back at home—yes, I’d decided to keep my mother’s house. Once the Bent Zealots had pitched in to help, it barely seemed like my mother’s old abode anymore. Gone were the flat cats of yesteryear, the Home Shopping purses, shoes, and facial massagers, although Hobie Cleminshaw had purchased some of those from me, for a little below cost.

Turk, Harte, Fremont, and Kingsley in particular were throwing their oomph into my remodel. As I speak, they were cleaning out my pool for me.

This wasn’t done for free, just so you know.

Cloud headed for the Doritos while I struck for the backyard. Rover was at the bottom of the empty pool applying caulking. Turk and Fremont were on the other side replacing little glass tiles.

“Yo, Turk,” I called out, maybe too casually for greeting the Prez of an MC. Then again, he was wearing a mud-caked pair of low-rise jeans with his asscrack showing. “I stopped by the Varda Gallery downtown.”

“Oh, yeah?” Turk paused in his work. His ears pricked up.

“Susan said she has a definite buyer for your Date Plus One.” Turk was getting into this real expressionist style where sometimes it was difficult to make out an object or subject. Date was one of them. The sale price was only eight hundred, but then, Turk was an up-and-coming artist, not a known name.

Mouth open in amazement, Turk tossed aside his tile and came forward like a zombie. “You fucking kidding? You fucking kidding me? My first sale?” He twirled around, holding his hands out to all his brothers. “Did you hear that? I’m officially a real artist!”

“Fucking amazing, Turk!” shouted the wannabe artist Rover, climbing the ladder to give his Prez a bear hug. “You’re in the leagues with Munch, Kandinsky, and Klee! Yippee tie one on for Van Gogh’s ear!”

Harte, Fremont, and Kingsley all dropped tools and came forward to congratulate Turk. However, the sixer of Bud was not in my cards. As Fremont hauled ass indoors to retrieve the beer, Turk told me,

“Hand over that Magic Bus.”

I did as instructed, taking the bag of weed from a pocket of my leather cut. I handed Turk the pipe before he could ask for it. I knew he liked to use his own Zippo to light the weed.

Even Rover commanded me,

“Pass me a condom. Extra-large.”

I doubted Rover needed extra-large. He was just saying that to impress people. But I always had to keep an assortment of them on my person. My cut was becoming a footlocker.

Even Fremont, the good-hearted mining engineer, said, “I need the oil in my Fatboy changed.” He handed me the keys like they were a giant turd. And I took them.

Like I said, these brothers weren’t working for free. Neither was I. I was on my way to getting a promotion, from a hang-around to a genuine minted Prospect.

Even though they knew my mother was on her deathbed, they didn’t stop with the demands and errands. This was how I would show my loyalty to them, that I placed the club before all else. This was another reason I would need Cloud to manage my properties.

I strode out front, jingling Fremont’s keys. Twinkletoes’ 1950s Chevy pickup idled in the street looking for a parking space.

Royal yelled out the passenger window, “Make room, Prospect! Important shit coming through.”

I couldn’t tell what important shit they had in the bed covered by a tarp and tied with bungee cords, so I yelled, “I’ll back Fremont’s ride out!”

Once in the driveway, Royal leaped out, rubbing his hands with glee. He was an even tighter, more shredded, Christ on a bike wearing his leather cut without a shirt. He wrapped one large palm around the back of my neck and planted a solid kiss on me. Twinkletoes was used to things like that, so he just proceeded to untie the bungie cords.