“No, I didn’t see a giant killer dog,” the kid said, “but I saw a kennel twice the size of the others and a washtub for a water bowl and what kind of dog breeder needs an alias, doesn’t sell his dogs, or have a Facebook page? And how does somebody who hasn’t drawn a paycheck since he was eighteen years old buy a thirty-five-thousand-dollar truck and pay the upkeep on fifteen dogs? And the man doesn’t have a lot of guns, he has an arsenal. I saw shell casings for .38-, .40-, and .45-caliber pistols, 7.62 rounds for assault weapons, and .338 Magnums for a sniper rifle, and he’s set up targets on a hill a half mile away and there’s no sense putting them up there if he can’t hit them.
“I picked this up at Skip’s place,” the kid said. He showed Bobby a bullet. It looked like a regular .45-caliber round but the bullet was blunter. “This is a multiple-impact round. When you fire the gun, the bullet breaks into three fragments held together with strings of Kevlar. The fragments come at you spinning like a South American bolo and they hit with a fourteen-inch spread. In other words, I could shoot at you, miss by thirteen inches, and still blow your brains out. Now I don’t know if that verifies Skip as a hit man but it verifies him as something.”
Bobby looked like he’d opened his safe and found a head of cabbage. Hegan turned away to hide his smile.
“Any questions?” the short guy said.
The kid lifted his head. “Something’s burning.”
Earlier that day Cal had skimmed Chapter 9 of Dr. Freeman’s book, “Letting Go of Things.” Dr. Freeman wrote: “If you’re suffering from burnout then you know it’s a constant struggle keeping up with what’s in, what’s new, what’s hot; always desperate to acquire that next meaningless possession. And the next. And the next. This obsession with things holds us back, keeps us in burnout mode, perpetuating the feeling of futility because going forward only means accumulating more meaningless possessions. My patients invariably experience a great sense of relief when they stop investing their self-worth in what they can buy. One of my patients, who happened to be a very wealthy young woman, said: ‘Once I stopped giving a sh-t about what Jennifer Lopez was wearing and if the new iPhone could speak Swahili, I felt free. For the first time in my life, I felt really free.’”
Cal longed for freedom. From what, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he knew he had to get away from it or be lost forever. He wadded up a contract, lit it with his platinum Cartier weed lighter, and threw it on the pile. The alcohol in the liquor ignited and the pile began to burn. Cal held his arms out like a crucifix and looked up at the fluffy white clouds floating in the blue, blue sky. “I have said goodbye to all my meaningless possessions,” he said. “I am free. I am free.”
The contracts, clothes, prayer rugs, and other flammables would have flamed briefly and smoldered if it wasn’t for the underlying layer of furniture and bric-a-brac. Like the vent at the bottom of a barbecue, it let oxygen draft upward and keep the fire burning. Cal waited to feel the freedom Dr. Freeman said he’d feel but all he felt was drugged and confused, no different than before. He looked at the fire and watched his two thousand dollar Pierre Corthay patent-leather dress shoes and his three thousand dollar Bottega Veneta Intrecciato messenger bag blister and turn black. A sharp realization pierced the pudding in his brain. “My shit is burning up,” he said. “I have burned up my shit.”
Bobby came out of the house and double-timed it across the patio, the others trailing behind. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His star artist was standing in front of a fucking bonfire with his arms out like some kind of high priest in a cashmere bathrobe. “Get away from there,” Bobby said, grabbing Cal and pulling him back. “You’re going to set yourself on fire.”
“It never stops,” Anthony said.
The cologne bottles were cracking in the heat. The yard reeked of burnt chemicals, evil spirits of black smoke escaping into the sky. The woman next door came out on her balcony. “What’s going on over there?” she said.
“Go back in your house, bitch,” Charles said.
“My shit is burning up,” Cal said. “I have burned up my shit.”
“I’m going to get you some help,” Bobby said.
“I already got help. Dr. Freeman is helping me.”
“You should have taken that damn book away from him, Anthony.”
“He bought out Barnes and Noble,” Anthony said. “Forty or fifty copies.”
“What about the drugs?”
“Let’s see, today it was Focalin, Fentanyl, Klonopin, Wellbutrin—”
“I don’t care about the goddamn names. Can’t you confiscate them?”
“DStar’s people deliver twenty-four seven.”
Bobby turned to Isaiah. “Do you see why you have to end this, Mr. Quintabe? He’s ruining his—Mr. Quintabe? Are you with us?”
Isaiah was staring into the fire at the unopened liquor bottles. “Run,” he said. He took off. Dodson hesitated a moment and then ran after him.
“The fuck’s wrong with them?” Charles said.