Carousel Court by Joe McGinniss Page A

have been discussing for weeks. Arik wants Nick because they need a third and the deal is lucrative enough to split three ways. But Sean is a madman, forty and brooding with five kids, restraining orders still active.
    â€œSean wants to move on it next week,” Arik says.
    Nick laughs. “Good luck with that.”
    â€œI’m not going without you.”
    â€œYou’re better off.”
    â€œThis house is loaded.”
    â€œI’m being recruited to stage a home invasion by a twenty-two-year-old I didn’t know a month ago. And Phoebe worries about my trajectory,” Nick says, addressing no one.
    Arik looks at him blankly for a beat, continues tapping out a message on his handheld. “Have you been to Desert Blaze?”
    Nick shakes his head.
    â€œLike Coachella but hotter. Want to go? Mallory’s asking.”
    Nick’s counting houses and doing sloppy math. Shadowy palms and softly glowing hillsides loom over them.
    â€œAnd it’s not a home invasion, dude,” Arik says. “More like a collection.”
    â€œTell Mallory to text me,” Nick says.
    â€œNext right,” Arik says.
    Nick knows where to go. And he knows Boss respects and trusts him. He knows that’s a way forward for now.
    â€¢ •
    â€œYou’re out of uniform, soldier,” Nick says to Greg, and leans over the driver’s-side door of the black Maxima.
    â€œBoo!” Arik slams the hood of the car.
    Greg is from Baldwin Hills, grew up in Long Beach. He doesn’t scare easily. In the glow from his iPhone, Greg’s white tank top shows off his brown skin and tats and the Kappa Alpha Psi fraternity brand on his right shoulder.
    â€œGive me a brand, bro,” Arik calls out, pounds his chest. “We should all go in on it. EMGo!across the chest.”
    â€œYou first, bro. ” Greg glares at Arik, who grins.
    â€œFire it up, bitch.”
    Greg’s the only one here not wearing his EMGo! long-sleeve T-shirt or polo. He’s smoking a cigarette and texting his wife. He and Nick exchange a fist bump. Nick hands him a Red Bull. They’re the same age. Greg works at Enterprise, played some football in college. His wife’s a model, bartender, and caterer and wants to do interior design or fashion, but that’s not working out, so now she wants to move back to Chicago to be closer to family, and Greg’s running out of reasons for saying no. This job, he says, is not helping his case.
    â€œHow big?” Nick looks at the house.
    â€œAt least forty,” Greg answers.
    â€œSo all night, then,” Nick says mostly to himself. Any house with a volume of abandoned items that’s more than thirty cubic yards takes at least five or six hours with a crew of four. They’ll have five tonight but more volume, so this won’t be quick.
    Greg has his engine running and headlights on. “Lights just went out,” he says. “Whole street’s out.”
    â€œGood times.”
    It was Nick who jumped in the pool last month, freed Greg’s foot from the drain when everyone else just kind of stood there, dumbstruck. The water was neck-high, green and thick, and maybe that was what kept the others from helping. Either way, now Nick’s got this reputation among the crew and the Boss as someone to be counted on, someone who mans up. So now he manages three crews. He likes the way it feels and tries to focus on that image of himself and not the one in which he’s a married father standing on some strip of asphalt in Rialto waiting to haul trash left behind by strangers out of a house they couldn’t afford.
    A huge gust sends a garbage can lid sliding across the asphalt, sets off a car alarm, and agitates dogs. A loud cracking sound makes them all flinch.
    â€œGood Lord,” Greg says. “They do not pay us enough.” But he’s laughing and shaking his head and sipping his Red Bull, still texting. Orange sparks crackle