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“He runs a meth lab. It’s a small operation, but the money’s tax free and he gets food stamps.”
“So what is it that you want from me?”
“I have a dilemma. The naked bungee jumping isn’t a bad idea. I’m motivated to do it. Problem is, I’m gonna need help getting myself up to wherever we’re going to jump from.”
“Not going to be me.”
“You owe me.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“It was worth a try,” Briggs said. “What’ll it take? I’m desperate. I don’t want to do this, but I don’t want to miss out on it. This could be my big chance. Think about it…if you help me do this and we get a show I’ll be out of Trenton. I’ll be all over the place. You might never see me again except on television. And some of those places we go to could be dangerous. I could get shot or blown up or eaten by a crocodile.”
So helping Briggs had some appeal.
“I got a call from Lula about an hour ago,” Briggs said. “She’s got a location for the filming, and it’s set up for tonight.” His upper lip was sweating, and he was doubled over, holding his stomach. “I might have to use your bathroom.”
“No way. Not going to happen.”
His eyes rolled back into his head, and he crashed to the floor.
I soaked a kitchen towel in cold water and draped it across his forehead. His eyes opened, and he stared up at me.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I feel better now. Good thing I’m short, and I don’t have far to fall.”
“If you faint at the thought of bungee jumping, how are you going to get through a whole season of TV shows?”
“I’ll be able to afford drugs. Right now all I have is you. You’re free, right?”
“What do I have to do?”
“We’re shooting this at the junkyard at the end of Stark Street. Nine o’clock. I thought you could blindfold me and get me up to the catwalk. They’ll get me hooked up, you can put me into position, and then they’ll take the blindfold away, and I’ll jump.”
“And you think that will work?”
“Yeah. You can lie to me the whole time. You can tell me it’s not real high.”
“And if I do this you’ll never ask me for another favor?”
“Swear to God.”
• • •
I got to the junkyard a little before nine o’clock. The chain-link gate was open, so I drove in and parked in visitor parking next to the trailer that served as an office. A bunch of people were milling around a short distance away. Lula, Howie with his camera, the makeup ’ho, and a woman I didn’t know who was holding the clacker. Briggs was off by himself, pacing. I joined the group, and two men came out of the trailer and walked over to us.
Both men were in their fifties. They were wearing hard hats and work boots. They looked like they ate a lot of pasta and didn’t have a gym membership.
“Who’s Lula?” one of the men asked.
“That’s me,” Lula said.
“And you’re running this clusterfuck?”
“Yep. Me and Howie.”
Howie raised his hand. “I’m Howie.”
