Pulp! 2

Chapter 7

By the time we make it to the open thruway, we’re tan from the constant sun. Edge has finished the whiskey and chased it down with three full beers and somehow managed to chain smoke Marlboro Cigarettes despite the onrush of wind. Right now, he’s sharing a freshly rolled joint with Rob. Everyone is laughing and carousing, and even Sarah is sipping on a can of beer, the drinking-while-riding laws in New York State be damned. If I close my eyes and feel the wind against my face, smell the pot smoke, listen to the silly banter between Edge and Rob, I could swear I’m caught up in a Hunter S. Thompson novel.

But then, I open my eyes and see the tops of the Albany skyline maybe ten miles off and realize I’m going home again. Home to where I dug up my first treasure in the Albany Rural Cemetery (a century-old pocket watch), where I went on my first date, where I learned how to use a backhoe, where I disappointed my dad by not assuming the CEO helm on his excavating business — instead buying a backpack that would serve as my mobile home for years while I traveled the world sandhogging, writing, looking for artifacts, falling in love, and in a word . . . living.

It always makes me a little sad coming back to this place, knowing there’s nothing left for me here. But it also holds a special place in my heart. It could also potentially hold some very lucrative buried treasure. Chase the optimistic.

The skyline comes into full view.

“This be your hometown, am I right, Chase?” Edge says.

“Born and bred,” I say, my eyes locked on the humble skyline as it rises on the horizon. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Albany isn’t New York City,” Sarah comments from the back. “But it has its own charm. The gangsters loved it. Back in the 1930s the city was surrounded by farms and wilderness. You could get lost up here if you wanted.”

Rob turns to me, his tall Mohawk blowing in the wind like a furled sail. “Who are you dudes anyway?” he asks.

Edge hands him the joint and the kid takes another hit, careful to cup his hand around it so the wind doesn’t put the fire out.

“Should we tell him, Chase?” Edge says.

“Sure,” I say, knowing the bestselling author is about to make up a grand lie which is his expertise, after all. “We’ve been driving together long enough. Have at it.”

“We’re treasure hunters,” Edge says. “We’re on a mission to find buried treasure.”

“In Albany, dude?” Rob says. “Nothing happens in Albany.”

Edge is sticking his bald head between the bucket seats, still sharing tokes on a joint that’s almost all gone.

“True dat,” he says. “But when we find what we’re after, we’ll put Albany back on the map.”

“Radical,” Rob says. “Let me know if I can be of assistance in this venture of yours.”

“You already are,” Edge says. “You’re the designated driver.”

That’s when Rob’s face goes tight.

“Wait a minute, dude,” he says, his tone suddenly nosediving. “Let me guess. You ain’t got the five hundred plus expenses you owe me, do you? I knew I should have asked for it upfront. Dumb a*s rookie mistake.”

I shoot a glance at Sarah. She’s biting down on her bottom lip. I can’t tell if she’s doing it to hold back her laughter or to disguise her disgust at Edge’s con game. Maybe a little of both.

“Edge,” I say, “Answer the man.”

Edge smokes the rest of the joint and swallows the little roach that’s left.

He says, “Well, my official answer in this matter is yes and no.”

“What’s that mean?” Rob says. “I was gonna buy a new amp with that dough-rei-mi.”

“What I mean is,” Edge goes on, “I don’t exactly have that kind of cash on me right this very minute. But—”

“But,” Rob interjects, clearly pissed off now, his red spiked hair defying gravity even in the wind gusts.

“But as soon as we uncover the treasure,” Edge goes on, “I’ll not only pay you your five hundred but get this, Rob ‘Red Mohawk’ Paley, I’ll give you an additional one hundred beans. How’s that sound for gratitude?”

Rob turns the Jeep wheel hard to the right, cuts off a Volkswagen Beetle, the driver slamming on her horn. I’m holding onto the roll bar for dear life when he pulls onto the soft shoulder, hits the brakes.

“End of the road, dudes,” Rob says.

Once again, I glance at Sarah. She shoots me a wide-eyed look.

“Look, Rob,” she says, “I’m sure we can come up with some money for you. We’re awfully sorry for leading you on like this.” Then, her unblinking eyes on Edge. “Aren’t we, Mr. Edgerton!”

“Yeah, Rob,” I say. “Just take us into the city, and maybe between all of us, we can come close to the five hundred you want.”

Rob crosses his arms over his chest, causing his metal bling to rattle.

“The price has gone up,” he says.

“What?” Edge says. “We had a freakin’ deal, man.”

“Yeah,” Rob says, “a deal you lied about from the get go.”

That’s when Sarah decides to spill the beans about Edge being a bestselling author posing as a treasure hunter. She refers to herself as a writer and then explains me away as the only real treasure hunter on board. A treasure hunter who also pens action/adventure novels in his spare time that is.

posing “So, what is it you want, Rob?” I ask.

“This treasure you’re talking about,” he says. “It’s not all bullshit, is it? Like that Dutch Schultz nonsense everyone is always going on about down in Phoenicia?”

Now all three of us treasure hunters glance at one another.

“Well,” Edge says, “now that you mention it. There is a direct correlation.”

Sarah leans forward while the cars whiz by on the highway.

“But here’s the thing, Rob,” she says. “I have information — tangible, verifiable information — that places the treasure solidly in Albany.”

“Whaddya mean?” Rob says. “It’s supposed to be in Phoenicia.”

“Or so legend has it,” I say. “But we’ve come to believe it’s in Albany.”

The metalhead punk rocker’s face lights up, almost as bright as his hair.

“If that’s the case,” he says, “forget about the five hundred. I want twenty-five percent, or I leave you guys on the side of the road.”

“Twenty-five percent,” Edge grumbles. “That’s highway robbery . . . dude.”

dude“Use your thumb then,” Rob says, “or start walking. What’ll it be, bestseller man?”

I recall what Sarah says about the loot being worth upwards of sixty million bucks. We can afford to let him in for a percentage and still all walk away as multi-millionaires. Or I could tell him to go screw himself, pay him what we have in our pockets and take our chances at hitching a ride. But what if the Russians are, in fact, on our tail? What if they’re watching us right now? We can’t afford to take that chance. We need Mohawk Rob and we need his Jeep wheels.

“Five percent,” I say.

“Twenty,” Rob says.

“Ten,” I say. “Or f**k it.” Turning to the back of the Jeep, I give Sarah a wink so that she knows I’m bluffing my a*s off. “Let’s start walking guys.”

Edge and Sarah go to get up.

“Wait, wait, dudes,” Rob says, his arms and hands outstretched. “Everyone calm down. I’m sure we can work this out.”

“How?” I say, a shot of relief shooting into my bloodstream now that Rob is taking the bait.

“How about fifteen percent?” Rob states.

“Told you, ten percent, and that’s being overly generous,” I counter.

The kid does that thinking thing again, where it looks like he’s talking to himself, deliberating.

“Okay,” he says, holding out his hand. “Deal.”

I take his hand in mine, shake it hard. Edge holds out his hand too, but Rob ignores it. Instead, he shifts the Jeep tranny into drive, turns his head to gaze upon the oncoming traffic at the very second I peak into the side-view mirror and see a big a*s black car pull up behind us, slamming on the brakes and kicking up gravel.

I turn, fast.

“Oh s**t,” I say. “It’s the Sergey boys.”