Becoming Rain: A Novel

Rust always seems to have one eye on his surroundings. On faces, on storefronts, on nearby cars. I noticed it years ago. It’s just something I’m used to. But now, on this hour-long drive along the Oregon/Washington border toward Astoria, I would think his head is on a swivel, the way he scouts his rearview mirror and every side road we pass.

“Expecting someone?” I ask.

“Always. And you need to, too.”

I nod, afraid to ask stupid questions that’ll make him second-guess his decision to pick me up from the garage, telling Miller that I won’t be back today. Rust likes grand reveals. He was always the one insisting on surprise birthday parties and blindfolds when opening presents.

He turns his big black pickup truck—one of six vehicles Rust owns—down a lane gouged by tire tracks and riddled with small stones. Wide enough, though. It looks like it belongs to a logging company, leading into nothing but dense brush and trees. I spot the first camera a half-mile in, strapped to a tree. “Motion-activated,” Rust confirms. Another half-mile in, a simple metal gate blocks further passage. More hidden cameras are trained on it. Rust climbs out to unchain the padlock with a key tucked within a lock box. “Don’t ever come out here without telling me first,” he warns.

I exhale as softly as possible, trying to shake the edginess building in my chest. Wondering what I’m about to see. It can’t be too bad, though. This is Rust! The guy who used to let me play hooky from school so we could head up to Seattle for a Mariners game.

When I don’t think we can drive any deeper into the woods, we round a bend and a double-story, forest-green metal shed appears, tucked among the trees. It dwarfs the small, dilapidated A-frame cabin set some fifty feet away, overlooking a small lake beyond. Solar panels cover the entire south side of the roof. I’m guessing we’re not on any grid out here.

“Who owns this place?”

“Your grandfather. He bought it five years ago.”

“The one who died ten years ago?” Can’t be the other one, seeing as we have no ties to that side of the family. They never approved of my parents getting married in the first place.

Rust smiles. “He has a far reach.”

I slide out the passenger side, whistling as my feet hit the ground. Nothing but snapping branches responds. “I never took him for a fan of the outdoors.”

Rust throws an arm over my shoulder and tugs me toward the shed, laughing. We’re the same height and our builds aren’t too far off. Even though Rust has twenty-two years on me, he takes good care of himself, hitting the gym almost as much as I do. That’s the freedom of not being tied down with a wife and kids, he has always said. You get to live by your own schedule. You don’t have to answer to anyone.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s lonely. I wonder, if I follow his advice and keep it shallow, if I’ll get lonely. I do know that when I’m around Jesse and Alex, seeing my best friend with a woman who he trusts unequivocally, envy spikes inside of me.

Rust unfastens the heavy-duty padlocks, before throwing his body into the metal door. It creaks open, and I sidle in behind him as he hits a switch and fluorescent panels flicker on, illuminating the junkyard within. That’s what it looks like at first glance, at least. But closer examination reveals that there’s order to the chaos. Closest to me is an assortment of air bags—an expensive car part if you ever have to replace yours. Farther down, catalytic converters sit stacked. Those things are about a grand each. Next to them are the rims of dozens of cars, with what are probably their matching tires beside them. All around the perimeter of this huge, windowless shed are the remains of cars—everything from factory stereo systems to batteries to quarter panels. And in the center of it all sits an array of used vehicles—Hondas, Toyotas, a shiny red Ford truck, even an ’87 Oldsmobile Cutlass.

“There’s a quarter-million sitting in here.” Rust watches my face, looking for a reaction.

An odd sense of satisfaction swirls through me, because I’ve guessed right all along. I just didn’t guess big enough. “So you’re chopping cars.”

He smiles. “Chopping cars. Selling cars. Andrei has good connections across seas . . .” I follow him as he strolls over to pat the hood of the Cutlass. “The foreign market is booming. Eventually you’ll be handling exchanges with Vlad. But I want you eased into this, so we’ll start you off small. You’re going to be handling two of my fences.”

Handling fences? What the fuck does that even mean? I’ll be Googling that shit the second he turns around. “I’m guessing these cars aren’t coming from RTM . . .”

“No, Luke.” A wry smile. “They’re not.”

My uncle is dealing in stolen cars, and not just a few here and there. Stealing isn’t a completely shocking revelation for me, given that I grew up with a grandfather who stored cases of name-brand booze under our dining room table and electronics under the basement staircase. All things that “fell off the truck.” That’s what he’d always tell me when I asked, followed by a wink and a warning to keep it to myself. I’m surprised he didn’t use a place like this to store all of that stuff. Then again, Rust always called Deda a “dabbler” and not a true businessman. I’d eavesdropped on enough conversations to know that Rust was pushing him to think bigger scale, to turn the thousands he earned into more. But Deda was happy doling out meat in his friend’s downtown Portland butcher shop. It was a good balance, he said.

Rust would argue that he has a good balance too, and his balance earns a helluva lot more.

My mind starts going into business mode, weighing how much Rust nets through the garage and RTM each year—which I’m guessing tips the low seven-figure range—compared to what this must bring in. “What’s the risk?” It must be worth it.

He shrugs. Not in an “I don’t know” way, but in a “who cares” way. “The cops are too busy chasing the idiots. The gangbangers, the joyriders. I’ve protected myself. There are enough layers that very few people could ever point out my involvement. The ones who do have as much to lose as I do. I’ve been running this ring for five years now and I know who to trust and who not to. Besides . . .” His face screws up with doubt. “I have police along the entire Western seaboard in my pocket. They’d tip me off if I were under investigation.”

An eerie silence fills the space as I absorb his words, his confidence.

“Isn’t it dangerous, though, having all this sitting here? It wouldn’t be hard for the cops to figure out who’s behind this if they see Deda’s name on it.”

A finger comes up. Rust’s “listen carefully” index finger. “It’s not about what they know. It’s about what they can prove.”

“Deda used to say that.”

“And he was right.” Another long pause. “So?” His arms stretch out in front him. “You wanted in. Now you’re in.”

I always knew I’d be doing something involving cars. This? Well, this is definitely . . . something.

My gaze lands on a big Ford F-250. It’s probably three years old, but it’s been well taken care of. Whoever owns the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror must have been pissed when their truck disappeared.

The phone in Rust’s pocket—I’ve seen him with various cell phones enough times to recognize that they’re burners—breaks into the eerie silence. No more than five words are exchanged before he hangs up, the air around him humming with energy. He’s excited. “You ready?”

I simply nod.

“Good. Because you’re about to get your hands dirty.”

The sky past the mountain range to the east is just beginning to lighten as we pass by the security gates at Pier Two in Astoria, slowing down to take in the black smoke rising from the pillars on the cargo ship about to set sail. The gray-haired guard glances up but then lets his attention fall back to the book he’s reading. I wonder how much he’s getting out of this.

“His name is Edgar. He has two daughters—one already in college, one about to start,” Rust explains as if reading my mind. “Tuition is forty thousand a year. He’s willing to look the other way for help in paying that. That’s the trick in this business . . . everyone has a weak spot. You just have to find it, and then buy them their peace of mind.”

Continuing on down the street about five minutes, Rust pulls into the driveway of a quiet motel, his wheels crackling over the loose gravel of the parking lot. The few spotlights actually working highlight a rental office with blue plastic waiting chairs and those faux wood panel walls that my grandparents had in their basement. Not welcoming, but then again, I’m guessing the people who stay here don’t care about being welcomed. Rust continues down to the far end, where the lights are all burned out. I can’t even make out the numbers marking the mud-colored doors.

“Tell me we’re not going in there,” I mutter.

Rust chuckles. “My prissy little nephew.” He parks alongside a black SUV. The window rolls down, and Vlad appears, another day’s worth of scruff aging him even more. His gaze flickers from Rust to me—my clothes black and ruined from a night of pulling apart cars—and back to Rust. In Russian, he spits out, “Why are you here?” I’m beginning to think he can’t manage sounding civil, ever.

Rust answers in English. “Why not?”

Another gaze my way, this one harder. Still in Russian, “Do my father and I need to be worried about the future of our business relationship?”

Rust’s lips curl back in a smile that is anything but pleasant. “I trust Luke more than I trust anyone else,” he says, his voice calm, easygoing . . . full of warning.

I clench my fist and force out a gritted smile, imagining punching that fuck square in the jaw. I’d probably end up knocked out, but at least I’d get the first hit in.

Another second’s pause and then Vlad mutters, as if bored, “The crates are all loaded. The ship will be leaving within the hour.”

“And the second delivery?”

“Da.” Yes. “Already in the containers.”

“Good. What’s going on over on the other side?”

“Your business is only on this side.” He does a cursory glance around before heaving a black duffel bag through the window to Rust.

The weight of it as Rust drops it onto my lap is surprising. He watches me, nodding toward it.

I pull the zipper. My heart rate spikes as stacks of cash appear.

“How do we look?” Rust asks.

How the hell should I know! I want to snap, frustrated with always being in the dark. But I’m guessing that it’s not about what I know; it’s about how I present myself, with Vlad sitting right here, watching. If they’ve ripped us off, we’re going to find out as soon as we count. And now isn’t the time to count.

“We look about right,” I answer, keeping my voice as even and steely as possible.

“Talk to you later.” Rust pulls away without waiting for a response. It isn’t until we’re back on the main road that the Russian slurs escape from under his breath. “Count that. Make sure that shithead didn’t undercut us.”

“You think he would?”

“Vlad was just a pimply-faced little brat when I first met him. Now, look at him. Thinks he’s something special.”

I guess that means yes. “How much should there—”

“Four hundred K.”

I let out a low whistle as I begin thumbing through a stack of hundreds and thousands.

“Andrei gets paid by the buyers on the other side, but Vlad gives me my half up front because my work is done. It’s supposed to be a partnership. But they’ve started shortchanging me, claiming an extra five percent for all the red tape. I think they’re pocketing it.” He scowls. “They’d never try that if Viktor was still in the picture.”

“How well do you know Andrei?”

“He’s been our overseas contact for five years, but he was always Viktor’s contact. A month after Viktor died, he reached out to me, wanting to keep it going.”

“Why didn’t he go to Albert? Aren’t they all—” Do I say it out loud? I settle on, “connected?” Albert was Viktor’s right-hand man, after all. The two of them were attached at the hip. I never sat at a table with Viktor without Albert sitting right next to him.

I sense Rust studying me out of the corner of my eye. Did he really think I hadn’t figured out who they are? “Because this is my network. I’ve spent years building a smart organization. Besides, Albert has his skills, but dealing on the American side . . . this is what I’m good at. All those guys do is bully and threaten, and that doesn’t build solid business relationships.”

“But Vlad doesn’t trust me.” It’s not a question.

“Vlad doesn’t trust anyone.” He sighs. “I just surprised him tonight, is all. Normally it’s Miller and Vlad who exchange the money.”

My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? Miller’s part of this?”

“Has been for a long time. But you don’t know that. Understand? Not a word about it.”

“You actually trust him to deal with a guy like Vlad? And with this kind of money?” I can’t see Miller and Vlad working well together.

“Yeah, I do, actually, and you’re going to have to bury whatever beef the two of you have and learn to trust him too. You’ll be swapping roles with him when you’re ready, taking over the payday with Vlad while Miller handles your fences. Vlad tends to push Miller around, and I know you’ll be better at handling him.”

I don’t see how that’s possible, but I don’t argue. “How’s Miller feel about this?”

“Miller doesn’t have a choice if he wants to keep making money.” He pauses, as if deciding whether to say more. “He’s got some personal stuff going on. Stuff that motivates him to stick with me and make money. You want Miller on your side, trust me. He’s a good worker and he’s loyal. Another good lesson—keep your doors open but hidden. You never know when someone’s going to prove useful in the future. ”

Jeez. How many hidden doors does Rust have open? Are Tabbs and Zeke in on this? “Look, if I’m in, then you need to fill me in on a few more things. I can’t look like the idiot that Vlad already thinks I am.”

Rust slouches back into his seat, like he’s getting ready for a long drive and a long talk. “What is it that you feel you need to know?”

Where do I start? “How does this all work? How do you get the orders? Who do you phone? What do they do with the cars?”

“Not happy without the whole picture.” Rust grins. “Your deda always said that about me, growing up.”

Question after question begins spinning into my head. I struggle to ground myself on one, to begin. “What was the other delivery you were talking about?”

“A few Lexuses. An Audi. Some Escalades.”

“Chopped?”

Rust’s snort fills the interior. “A forty-thousand-dollar Lexus here will go for almost two hundred thousand dollars in Thailand. And Andrei can sell a sixty-thousand-dollar Mercedes in Moscow like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“Where are you getting them from?”

“Different places.”

“Like . . .”

“Insurance scams. People want out of their leases or they need a chunk of cash. But they’re mostly coming from parking lots and driveways. I put in an order for what I need and down the chain it goes. Depends on the car, really. Something high-end requires some skill and specialty tools. Old-model Civics and whatnot . . . any eighteen-year-old kid will lift it from a driveway for five hundred cash.”

“And the people . . .”

“Bought theft insurance if they’re smart,” he fires back quickly, seemingly unbothered by the same moral twinge pricking the very back of my conscience. “And if they’re driving an eighty-thousand-dollar car and not locking it up in a garage, they’re just asking for it.”

I guess . . .

“It’s the insurance companies that end up paying in the end, and fuck them. I deal with them all the time at RTM. They’re already robbing the general public.”

But insurance companies just pass on the increased costs to the consumers, so, no matter what, it’s the people who pay. I’m sure he must see the hole in his logic. I don’t say that out loud, though. There’s something more important that I need to clear up. “They’re not hurting people to get these cars, are they?” I can’t believe that Rust would have anything to do with that, but . . . I pulled a car seat and stuffed bear out of the extended cab in that red Ford truck back at the storage warehouse. It’s been bothering me ever since.

I’ve turned a blind eye to things in the past—like when I knew that Rust’s business partner, Viktor Petrov, was abusing his wife—and, though I couldn’t do much about it, I’ve never quite forgiven myself for not trying.

I vowed that wouldn’t happen again.

“No, Luke. Gangbangers hijack, and my fences know never to deal with gangs. They’re a bunch of crack dealers and meth heads. They all get picked up eventually and, when they do, they’ll squeal to anyone who will listen. There’s no need for any of that. There are plenty of ways to get a car without hurting anyone. We’re car thieves, not murderers.” Rust’s mouth sets in a deep frown. “So? You wanted in. Now you’ve seen it all. Have you changed your mind?”

It’s the first time that he’s bothered to ask. It’s the first time we’ve stopped to talk in the hours since the others arrived. A man I didn’t recognize arrived at the storage spot first, with two younger guys I’d also never seen before, none of whom bothered to introduce themselves. We had every last car torn apart in hours, me following their expert lead. Albert pulled up in a transport truck an hour later. Four goons built for lifting tires hopped out the back and began loading parts into empty crates, then used the forklift to fill the truck, chattering in Russian the entire time.

It was after three in the morning when the truck’s taillights disappeared into darkness, leaving the storage shed empty except for a small pool of oil and a few loose screws. No one would ever suspect that only hours earlier it was loaded with stolen car parts.

I look down at myself, covered in dirt, my skin wiped but not clean. “Depends. Are you going to make me pull apart cars, or was that just another ‘experience’?”

He laughs. “Everyone should experience a good chop session once. But, no, for now you’re going to be lining up the orders with my fences, the guys I have ties to closer to the street. Here . . .” One hand on the steering wheel and eyes still on the road, Rust reaches over and grabs four stacks of cash from the bag. Forty grand, by my calculations. He thrusts them against my chest.

“What’s this for?”

“Your cut, which will be much bigger next time.” He grins. “Put it in your safe at home.”

I let the cash fan through my fingers.

So much cash. There’s no way I earned this for what I did tonight.

“Oh, and I have a little surprise for you.” He reaches into his pockets and hands me a set of keys. Just like the night he handed me the keys to a new condo.

Only, these are car keys, with a logo that I’ve drooled over for years.

With waves of excitement and nervousness coursing through my body, I sit back and quietly listen as Uncle Rust walks me through the “how” to this entire operation that he, one day, wants me to run with him.

The giant bag of cash pressing down on my thighs is impossible to ignore.