Page 8 of Baker

Following Cash’s logic was like trying to comprehend Nuclear Physics. It wasn’t impossible, but it required far more work than I was willing to devote. So far, I’d completely lost interest in his story. My head began to throb.

I rubbed my temples with my fingertips.

“Migraine?” He lifted a glass paperweight from my desk.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

He tossed it in the air, then caught it. “That sucks.”

“I think I know what causes them.”

He tossed it again, and almost dropped it when it came down into his hand. He looked at it as if it had done something wrong, and then looked at me. “What’s that?”

I looked at his hand and shook my head. “You.”

“Fuck you, dude.” He nodded my direction, set the paperweight down, and then raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s probably because you don’t jack off.”

It didn’t surprise me that in his opinion, fisting my cock was the solution to cure my migraines. Cash claimed that once he stroked his cock in the McDonald’s drive-thru. For him, it was the answer to everything.

I let out a breath of frustration. “Stroking my meat isn’t the answer.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Might be.”

“You think if I start pulling my pud my headaches will vanish?”

“They might. There’s a reason everyone does it.”

“Everyone doesn’t do it. Do you see Tibetan Monks walking around rubbing their temples?”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. It seemed I’d completely lost him.

“Masturbation is forbidden,” I explained. “But they don’t walk around rubbing their temples, do they?”

His face went blank. “Huh?”

I shook my head and swallowed my desire to laugh. “Never mind.”

He nodded in my direction. “You should try it for a few weeks and see if they stop.”

“You should try leaving yours alone, and see if you gain a few ounces of common sense.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“When you walked in, you looked like you were hiding Coca Cola’s mysterious original recipe behind your back. Then, you tossed me a business card that some second grader designed. After an exhausting question and answer session, I’ve learned that some shitty little jewelry shop in Fuckwater, California is getting a new alarm system. You’ve wasted fifteen minutes of my morning, and I’ve learned nothing. Why can’t you just say what it is you want to say?”

His mouth twisted into a smirk. “It’s more fun this way?”

“For you, maybe. Any chance you can hit the highlights of what it is that I’m supposed to get excited about?”

“Pat’s place takes in about fifty grand a week in gold, and another ten or twenty in diamonds,” he said excitedly. “He’s got a steady stream of customers from SD, Vegas, and LA, because he doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t do receipts unless you ask.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “How in the hell do you know what his income is?”

“Dumb fucker said so.”

“Okay. Let’s say Pat has a banner day. We hit him before he makes his drop. Then, after we pay for expenses and fuel, we’ll split forty-five grand six ways. That’s seventy-five hundred each if we’re lucky.” I gazed at the ceiling, stroked my beard a few times, and then met his gaze. “Sorry, I’m not interested. We can make that much hitting a fucking taco truck in Salinas.”

“He doesn’t make drops.”