Housebroken Read online

  “Get off my property, George.”

  “If every household bought one subscription, I could pay for my entire tuition in just a few weeks . . .”

  Screw it. “Joje! Get off my property. Now.”

  “Are you making fun of me? My wisp?”

  Blake couldn’t help but chuckle. It really was too much. The blink was back, followed quickly by the yawning. This poor kid had no hope.

  “You want some advice from our little interview? Pick a career other than sales. You see, in sales, people aren’t buying a product, they’re buying you, and even if by some miracle you suckered some poor old woman to open her purse because she felt sorry for you, as soon as you were gone, she’d realize her mistake and want her money back. It’d be the worst case of buyer’s remorse in the history of sales. Just the memory of wasting three minutes of her time, as you’ve stolen from me today, would be too great a loss. So here’s my advice. Make a career change. Fast-food restaurants are always hiring. Or maybe aspire to be a greeter at Walmart.”

  He certainly had the smile for it.

  “I’m counting to three,” Blake continued. “One.”

  Joje looked down, clearing his throat, then looked back up. Blake couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed the moisture behind those eyes. He simply didn’t care.

  “I’d like to ask you to reconsider—” Weconsido.

  “Two.”

  Backpedaling down the stone entryway, Joje stopped in front of the rock waterfall. Palm fronds tickled the top of his head.

  “One subscwiption wiw weawy make a diffwence—” Joje looked off toward the driveway, his eyes moving down, then up, then back again.

  Jenna suddenly walked past, sparing him barely a glance. She wore a purple designer sports bra some might consider too small for all it held and tiny black shorts, sweat glistening off her bronzed body. Blake found it difficult not to stare at his own wife, ten years his junior. He forced himself to look away, picking at an imaginary cobweb on the rock wall.

  Jenna moved past him, touching him lightly on the shoulder. The muddled rattle from her earbuds sounded like planes crashing.

  Joje stood gaping, his mouth literally hanging open.

  “That’s it! I’m calling the cops right now.” Blake heard the first ring in his ear as the phone autodialed, picking up the need from their conversation. He tapped at his screen, ending the call before it was picked up. “It’s ringing.”

  Joje looked at Blake as if waking from a dream. “Thank you, sih, fo’ da oppotunity. Have a gweat day.”

  He set the laminated card down on a stone bench before disappearing around the corner.

  2

  When Blake reentered the family room, he found his son eating a bowl of ice cream on the couch, watching TV. An old rerun of Family Feud. Could he try any harder to be bored?

  Conrad lay next to him, head resting in his lap, following Blake’s movements with lazy eyes.

  “I thought I told you to put her in the crate? And since when is she allowed on the couch?”

  No response, from Adam or the dog. Blake sighed. “Really? Ice cream for breakfast?”

  Adam shrugged.

  “You know what? I want you to unpack your room today. Your mom and I both want you to.” Blake paused, glancing at Jenna pulling out a bottle of Vitamin Water from the fridge. “Adam? You hear me?”

  Without looking away from the TV, his son replied, “I hear you.”

  Blake followed his wife over to the kitchen, standing at the back sink. She moved rhythmically, earbuds still in, staring out through the open shutters at the sea.

  The view from the house was spectacular, one of the things that had sold them on the place. The swimming pool jutted almost directly up against the receding cliffs with more than a thirty-foot drop down to the jagged and uninviting shore below, but from here it looked like the pool flowed straight into the ocean. The rocky beach wasn’t the type to attract visitors, though the occasional surfer could be spotted bobbing out in the water.

  They had one of only fourteen homes in this almost-hidden gated community in Malibu. Eight of those homes actually resided against the cliffs and shoreline, as theirs did. The others were set across the street yet raised up to still have at least a glimpse of the view.

  It was the setting of paradise, though the past few days since the move had been anything but.

  Jenna turned around, catching Blake staring at her. He hated himself for feeling guilty—she was his wife, this should be the most natural thing in the world. Still, he looked away.

  Jenna grabbed the roll of paper towels from the counter and pushed it against his chest.

  “Go clean up your shit,” she said, louder than she probably realized. “I almost stepped in it.”

  Blake pulled the speaker buds from her ears. “I’m not the one who let Conrad out.”

  “So what, it’s my fault she’s having anxiety issues about the move? The cage isn’t working.”

  “It’s not a cage, it’s a crate. And no, crate training doesn’t work unless you reinforce the environment with good behavior, not bad.”

  Jenna set her Vitamin Water down, drops of liquid spurting out onto the counter. “Fine. I’ll call a maid service on my way to Deb’s. Have them come over to wipe up one little mess.”

  She swept past him.

  “Deb? The interior designer who can’t match her own outfit? What’s wrong with the furniture we have, Jenn? I mean, why bring it if we were just going to replace it?”

  She continued out of the room as if her earbuds were still in. “I’m jumping in the shower,” she called back from the foyer.

  It wasn’t an invitation.

  Blake grabbed her Vitamin Water, polishing it off with a grimace. Nasty stuff. He tossed it into the trash and grabbed the paper towels and a bottle of window cleaner from beneath the sink.

  As Blake walked past, Adam stared at him with the hint of a smile that for some reason, reminded him of the lisper outside. Blake held up the paper towels and window cleaner. “Care to join me?”

  The TV once again became the focal point of Adam’s attention.

  Blake continued from the room, thunderous applause following his retreat. What he really needed was an app on his phone that would help him understand his son. A teenage translator.

  He smiled. Now that would be worth millions.

  3

  The furniture truck arrived just before two in the afternoon, more strangers walking through their house, carrying what Blake guessed passed for modern decor. A table that looked like a torture rack, vinyl couches so red and shiny they’d reflect the glint off a zipper, wall hangings and paintings he would just have to ignore.

  The white grand piano was an especially nice touch, considering none of them played.

  Deb was a complete delight, fussing over every detail as if the feng shui of the universe depended on it. She must have been the first woman Blake had met with a British accent who became less endearing when she spoke.

  He locked himself in his study for the better part of the day, though he really had little work to do. And lucky Conrad was treated to three walks, each longer than the normal quick stroll through the neighborhood. It was on the third of these walks that Blake met one of his neighbors for the first and last time.

  Conrad sniffed at the same bush she had explored earlier that afternoon while Blake poured over his portfolio on the small display of his Cyborg. The numbers hadn’t changed since that morning but had occupied his mind all day.

  His trade partner, Barry Hadley, had suggested some aggressive movements, and though Blake tried to read the market and pretended to follow the trends, he’d probably just tell Barry to go ahead. He had done well for him in the past.

  He toggled back through the screens, initiating his auto-e-mail generator. A-mail, they were calling it, the name not nearly as mind-blowing as what it could do.

  “Accept proposal,” he said into his Bluetooth earpiece.

  After the obligatory
three-second delay, three windows popped up, each containing an e-mail reply varying in length. All three replies were written in the style of conversation Blake might have engaged in with Barry, yet each offered subtle changes, one even incorporating a hint of sarcasm, an ability that had been considered impossible when working within the confines of a programmed intelligence system.

  It read, “Go ahead with the moves you mentioned. Keep up with this Milwaukee fever though, and I may find reason to start doubting your ‘better judgment.’”

  Betti, the name they were using for their AI interface, as in better than Siri, had gone to the length of following up on a conversation he and Barry had had a week ago about the Bruins. Barry was probably their only fan, Blake had joked, though Barry had been insistent this was their year. Well, Betti must have cross researched the results of their last two games (the Bruins, of course, had been slaughtered) and incorporated that within the autogenerated reply. Blake doubted he could have done better himself.

  He hit send.

  The key to Betti’s success was the complete integration of all behavioral interactions captured on the Cyborg, literally the phone that would bridge the gap between home and mobile computers. Betti monitored every phone conversation, e-mail, or social media trend, every Google search and web interaction, even “listening” to the surroundings and conversation when the phone wasn’t in use. And the more you incorporated real-life habits into the phone—whether purchasing, banking, or mindlessly seeking entertainment—Betti would more actively be able to interpret future actions and desires.

  A-mail and the Cyborg phone itself would instantly create a billion-dollar platform, but the yet-to-be-established interactive and predictive marketing industry was bound to break into the trillions, a market Blake and his new company, Symbio, would be on the forefront of creating.

  It was the reason he had brought his family out to the West Coast, had halted all but a few of his consulting gigs, keeping only those firms he had worked with for years. He was betting the farm with this one, placing it all on red, and he didn’t see a single way he could lose.

  Conrad suddenly lifted her head and barked once—yapped really, she had such a wussy bark—then bolted into the street.

  Blake glanced up in time to see the black town car slam on its brakes. He pushed the button, locking the leash from extending farther, and yanked, ripping Conrad off her feet.

  She hit the pavement on her side, inches from where the car came to a sudden stop.

  “Sorry,” Blake mouthed, with a wave of the hand to the idling car. He stepped off the curb and knelt down next to Conrad. She was already up, licking his outstretched hand.

  Blake patted her down, brushing her silky coat, feeling each of her legs, making sure she was all right.

  That had been close.

  The car rolled forward another few inches, then stopped, the rear mirrored window lowering. A flush bearded face, silver whiskers betraying the black mop atop the massive head, glanced from canine to human, assigning equal value to the two of them.

  “You should watch your dog.” He had a deep voice as smooth as any radio jockey’s Blake had heard.

  “Your driver should watch the road. I said I was sorry.”

  The car started forward, then screeched to a halt at the command of the bearded passenger, a mere lifting of the hand.

  “You’re the one purchased Welchsetzer’s place. Tom Jones, Esquire, the third. Neighbor.” He pointed to the massive home next door to the yard Conrad had been roaming in. At least Blake imagined the home was massive—a long driveway curved up behind a gated portico, disappearing behind the tall block wall that surrounded the place like a prison. The stones in the wall were black and rough, made of lava rock. Palm trees and landscaping peeked over the top of the walls.

  “I’m Blake Crochet.” He extended his hand into the window.

  Tom put a sausage index finger into Blake’s hand, as much acknowledgement as he was willing to offer. “Don’t read much?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Public information. These cliffs recede almost eight inches a year. Half a decade, they’ll be in the center of your home.”

  “Eight inches? Sounds like a small man’s exaggeration to me,” Blake said. He had dealt with plenty of men like Tom before. The only way to earn their respect was to throw it back in their face.

  “As you can see, I’m no small man,” Tom said.

  “Well, it’s a good thing my backyard is as big as it is.”

  “Halfway to your pool then. I’ve seen your yard. Never thought someone would buy that place, what with its history. Must have gotten it for a steal. What’d you pay? Two, two-five? Or’d they get you for three mil?”

  Six point four actually, and this was the first Blake had heard of any questionable history. “Something like that,” Blake said.

  The gates to Tom Jones’s driveway retracted. Blake took some pleasure in that his house was set against the ocean while Tom’s backyard was lost into the forested mountains on the opposite side of the street.

  “Can you even see the ocean with those walls around your place?” Blake asked.

  “Not about seeing out but keeping people from getting in,” Tom said. He flicked a business card into his pudgy hand like a cheap magician’s trick. “You go nuts and murder your family, give me a call first. Get you off with a lot less than ol’ Welchsetzer.” He laughed, a rumble like an avalanche.

  A single laugh escaped Blake like a bark. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The card was glossy black with silver letters and a logo of two diamonds crushing each other inlaid with a picture of a much lighter, much younger Mr. Jones, Esquire. His cold stare in the photo was so intense he had either just witnessed a murder or committed one himself.

  The caption beneath the picture made Blake want to gag: “Because the only crime is letting them put you away.” He’d have to put it on the fridge. Jenna would get a kick out of it.

  Conrad pulled against the leash, her collar catching and holding her back. Her tail began to wag.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Blake caught movement—someone walking up the long, curved driveway to Tom Jones’s home. The individual had bright-orange hair with a heavy backpack slung across one shoulder.

  A smile broke over Blake’s face. It was his buddy, Joje. He had to give the kid credit: he really put in the hours.

  “Looks like you have company, Tom. I’d hate to keep you waiting.”

  Tom followed Blake’s gaze. Without a word, the window began its ascent as the town car pulled forward, turning into the entrance and climbing up the driveway.

  “Apparently, Southern hospitality doesn’t extend to So Cal, huh, Connie?” He ruffled the fur on her head like a toddler’s hair.

  4

  Jenna dipped her finger into her glass of wine, then brought it to her mouth. Leaning against the marbled island in the kitchen, she stared out at the room, her eyes wandering to each corner. Blake noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her tank top. Hard not to notice. They’d need to talk about it—Adam was approaching that age where it could become a problem.

  He decided the argument could wait for another day.

  “Just pretend you like it,” Jenna said.

  Sitting on the red vinyl couch, anticipating the moment it would bounce him off like an ejector seat, Blake navigated through his presentation on his phone. Tomorrow would be his first official day at Symbio, and he needed to make an impression.

  “I just wish we could have talked about it, that’s all.”

  The house was quiet, Deb and her team of decor zombies gone for the day. The ticking of a square clock—square clock?—hanging above the TV was the only sound beyond the quiet hum of the refrigerator hidden behind faux cabinets.

  “Nothing’s permanent. We can exchange anything we aren’t in love with.”

  “Sounds like our marriage.” The words were out before Blake could recall them. So much for avoiding a fight.


  Jenna drained her glass, filling it again from the bottle of Pinot. “I don’t have the energy to go another round with you. Not tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. That was stupid. I know we’re . . . trying.”

  “Is that what your e-mail was?” Jenna’s accusatory glance was lost in the shake of her head as she circled round the kitchen island with her wine glass. Just another dangling conversation.

  Instead of exiting the room as he had supposed she would, she opened the back kitchen door, where Conrad slid out into the night. Blake hadn’t even registered the dog’s whines.

  He peeled his arms off the sticky vinyl couch. “I want you to start taking Conrad on your runs.”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “I met one of the neighbors. Let’s just say I was less than impressed.”

  “So what, a creepy neighbor’s going to kidnap me? Hope he can keep up.” Jenna came back into the kitchen, pouring the last of the bottle into her empty glass.

  “Women are ninety percent less likely to be abducted when accompanied by a large dog.” Blake held up his phone. “Read it yourself.”

  Jenna’s hands came up, just like he knew they would. He had made the statistic up, his display revealed nothing more than the agenda for his meeting tomorrow, though Betti would no doubt be searching for an article related to their conversation.

  “I’d just feel better knowing she’s with you, that’s all,” he continued. “This isn’t West Virginia. There are weirdoes out here.”

  “Then we’ll fit in great, won’t we?”

  “I’m serious, Jenn.”

  Jenna’s chin crinkled into her pouty face. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Be good for Conrad. Maybe help with the potty training.”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  Which meant no.