by Trixie More
The cars surged and fell back around him, weaving in and out of the lanes. Doug marveled at how quickly he re-adapted to driving. Twenty minutes ago, driving had felt foreign, but already his time inside was slipping away. Just like his cash.
“What caused the business to collapse?” he asked. The company was an investment vehicle basically, and without Doug monitoring the ebb and flow of the markets and reacting to them quickly, correcting the course of it, well, who knew? He’d expected earnings to decline, maybe a few losses to deplete it, but wholesale collapse? No. He glanced at Tommy.
“Look, you could only get instructions to me sporadically. That’s it. A lot of what we did was quick in and out, day trading. Without you there, we just didn’t have the talent for it.” Tommy crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s not as if I’ve been learning to day trade all these years!”
“What were you learning?” Because Doug really did think that was what Tommy and he had been doing since they left Shitville, since they fled the flock, since they hightailed it from the holy. What had Tommy been doing?
“Fuck you.” Tommy’s mouth turned stubborn, his forehead creased.
Doug put on the blinker and began their exit. He thought fast, that was what he was best at, after all. “You were managing the building, hiring the staff, dealing with the accountants and the government. I get it. We built the business together. I just thought you were also following the trading.”
“When the fuck did I have time to learn what you did? You did it! That’s the point. It took both of us.”
“Look, I get it.” Doug eased on the brakes and waited for a light to change, risking a longer look at his friend. He was thinner. Before Doug went inside, the most notable thing about Tommy was the sense of constant motion. He was always moving, brushing something off his clothes, rubbing at his face or arms, tapping fingers or feet. Now the man was still, slumped, exhausted. Doug didn’t apologize. He’d made Tommy a hell of a lot of money, and he was committed to ensuring Tommy had everything he needed for the rest of his life. He was family as much or more than his mother or Mary or even Elizabeth. Only Alice ranked higher than Tommy in Doug’s mind. “So trading wasn’t filling the coffers. Still, the funds should have lasted, just earning interest. I mean, I lost eighteen million in two years for Christ’s sake!”
Tommy closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath.
“What?” Doug parked the car.
“I said, you’re an asshole.” Tommy had the door opened before the car stopped, and he got out. “Couldn’t we enjoy one day before you started in on the business? Couldn’t you just thank me?” He handed Doug a set of keys and crossed to the driver’s side. “I’m taking the car back. Have fun on your first day out of the joint—but have it alone, alright?”
“You’re not staying?”
“Fuck no.” Tommy got into the driver’s seat, leaving Doug standing in the street. He rolled down the window. “You want to know what happened to the cash? All the books are sitting in your fishbowl of an office. Read ‘em and weep.” Tommy looked out the front window a moment. “Look, Doug, I’m just not feeling the love right now.” His friend looked at him again. “And I know you’re, oh, I don’t know, obtuse about things like emotions and all the soft skills, but I just can’t.” Tommy put the car in gear. “I guess I’d built this day up to be something different and, it’s better I go now.”
“Okay,” Doug said quietly.
“Okay.” Tommy rolled up the window, Doug gave a small wave and then he was gone.
Doug bowed his head. After a minute, he stepped to the sidewalk and looked up at the building where he’d lived for three years before, before...
Before I stuffed Dorothy Johansen in the trunk of a car, Doug thought. He was damn lucky he’d only made it a couple of miles that day before he was stopped. He was also fortunate he’d been, how had Janice put it? Richer than Croesus. Not so much anymore.
The doorman at the building was eyeing him up now. After all, a building that housed people this rich didn’t tolerate a lot of loitering. He squared his shoulders and took out his driver’s license.
“I live here,” he said. “I’m Doug Lloyd.”
The man recoiled from him, horror plainly written over his features, his upper lip lifted, and his eyes wide. The doorman reluctantly looked at the license.
“Keys?”
Doug held them up. The man stepped back from the door but didn’t open it for him. Doug yanked the thing open and entered the building. Who the fuck needed someone to open a door for them anyway? What kind of people needed some sniveling idiot to kowtow to them? He punched the up button on the elevator. The doors opened, and the woman revealed there recoiled with a gasp. Fuck. Stepping back so she could exit without looking at him further, he felt his jaw clench. It was a busted nose, a split lip, and a black eye. That was all. Hadn’t they ever seen a man who’d fought his way out of a gang attack before?
Despite his irritation, getting out of the elevator and walking the familiar hallway, dressed in a suit, with no shackles on his wrists or ankles, he felt...normal, for the first time since that evening when he’d last seen Janice. Keys felt perfect in his pocket. He took them out and unlocked his door, stepped inside, closed it. Locked it. Imagine him, locking someone else out. A grin split Doug’s face, causing his lip to bust open again and for the first time in forever, he cared if he got blood on his clothes. He started to laugh, holding his hand to his face and looking around. Wasn’t there a box of tissues on the entry table? He glanced to his left. Nothing, no table. To his right, no table.
Slowly, he raised his head. The apartment was empty. The artwork, custom drapes, TV, sofa, even his recliner...all gone.
“Fuuu…ck.”
Doug walked to the kitchen. A lone roll of paper towels sat on the counter, and he used a sheet to blot his mouth. He wandered through the condo, the sound of his expensive shoes echoing on the travertine flooring. His office was empty. The paintings were gone, some of his more valuable books, the wool rugs—gone. His file cabinet was locked, the wall safe was closed, but his desk was gone. An icy fist of fear gripped his gut. What had been in that desk? Files with account information? Papers with personal information? Standing in the doorway, it took a moment before he could force his feet forward into the room. The wall safe was revealed, the painting of a beach in Naples, Florida, no longer there to cover it. Alice had painted it and it was gone. The loss of it hung on his shoulders like chains draped around his neck. He took a step. Where were the paintings? Where was that painting? What had been in that desk? He took another step. Where was the desk now?
He moved into the room and spun the familiar numbers for the safe. At least the combination was the same. The door swung open and there, there, at least, was his laptop and cell phone. He reached past them and pulled out a small stack of folders. Primary account numbers. Balance sheets from before he went inside. His will. A copy of the power of attorney that he’d executed right here in this office when the floor was spotless, the windows sparkling, and all the furnishings intact. He’d given Tommy the right to do anything he wanted, and this is what he got. Desolation and, in truth, loyalty. There was no doubt that Tommy had been loyal. He was right, running the business, actually making money and keeping it, had been Doug’s specialty. Doug merely loved money more than Tommy did. Tommy, well, he seemed to love people. Doug took out the laptop, tucked it under his arm, grabbed the cell phone and with his free hand, rummaged through the rest of the contents. Smiling ruefully, he slid aside a necklace that Janice had missed, and found the little loop in the back of the safe, welded to a false bottom. Pulling it revealed a small compartment. He reached in for the slim stack of hundreds he kept there. Gone. He let the lid drop, took out the key to the filing cabinet, and shut the safe, spinning the dial. So, it had to be Tommy who sold the stuff. Tommy who took the money. Doug hoped to fuck that he emptied the desk before he sold it. He put the laptop and phone on the filing cabinet and unlo
cked it. The top drawer had been purged of folders, a small box was in there. He opened it. Cufflinks, a money clip, some watches. He dropped the lid. The next three drawers held folders and papers, some shoved in loose. He just couldn’t remember everything that had been in his desk. He shut it, locked it, and put the key on his key ring.
This was his reality. He had two thousand dollars in his wallet. Who knew that the cash he took to prison with him would remain safer than the money he left at home? Or in his business? Two grand, he might have already had his identity stolen, and maybe that accounted for some of the fast drain of his funds.
He wondered if he still had Internet service or a phone signal. In the bedroom, his mattress remained, the bedroom set was gone. He moved into the room. There were still blinds on the window, no drapes, though. In the walk-in closet, there were sheets, towels and some clothing—off the rack jeans and one suit, a stack of cheap T-shirts and his leather jacket. Everything his tailor had made? Gone. He hung up his suit jacket and grabbed some towels. In the bath, the tube of toothpaste on the sink had hardened, and he dug through the bathroom drawers to find some travel size toiletries.
So, he was down on his luck. He still had one of the best views in the city, and, tomorrow, he’d get his cell phone turned on, get a hotspot set up and he’d be back in business. He returned to the bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans. They didn’t fit the same, neither did his suit for that matter. His body had changed in prison. He’d been working out and his waist was thinner, but his thighs, chest and arms were bulkier. Still, the jeans were good enough and he could hold them up with a belt. He pulled on a T-shirt and his leather jacket, already feeling more thug. Could be he’d never wear a suit again. Could be. He got down on his knees and checked around on the floor of the closet until he found a pair of kicks. He had to get some food. Tomorrow, he’d go to the office and check out the books Tommy mentioned. At the door, he surveyed the condo, dusty and empty.
Kinda like my soul, he thought. Wouldn’t Dad be proud?
The day after Tommy had picked Doug up from prison wasn’t what he had expected. Tommy shuffled into the kitchen and, after considering the cake on his counter, picked up the confection, complete with gray bars on the white fondant and a little picture of the Monopoly guy. Get Out of Jail Free was written in blue icing.
“Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars,” Tommy muttered. Hell, maybe it was just as well that Doug hadn’t seen it. He hesitated, set it back on the counter. Picking up the cake knife that was laid out on the platter, Tommy whacked an inch off one side of the cake. He took a bite. Maybe he wouldn’t toss it out after all.
Disappointment, sorrow, and fuckin’ never-ending longing all twisted inside him. Doug should have been overwhelmed with gratitude. All that time inside and he hadn’t realized that they belonged to each other. How could it be this hard to get a bi-sexual man to fall in love with his best friend?
Tommy had just made a cup of coffee and was contemplating if his gut could take drinking it when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I know who it is,” Tommy said. As if he’d forget an organized crime boss. His stomach cramped.
“Happy, uh, whatever the hell day it is.” Marco sounded jovial, like Tommy should be glad to hear from him.
“What do you want?” Tommy said.
“I wanted to congratulate you on having your ace player back on the team. I heard he got sprung yesterday.”
Tommy tried not to get hung up on the word sprung—or hung. Nothing was going right.
Frustration kicked in, giving him a moment’s reprieve from his ever-roiling gut. The money. The fuckin’ money. He’d turned two million into eleven million and then? He’d gone one step too far. Eleven million was stuck in an offshore account with no freakin’ way to explain it. It might as well be play money.
“Listen, Marco, I told you, you and I are done. I helped you meet him and now, Colton Gerrimon is dead. It’s over.” Tommy’s voice was low and tense. “Hell, I can’t even move the money.”
“It’s not over until I say it’s over. Who knows? Maybe you killed Colton Gerrimon.” Marco’s voice was matter-of-fact.
“You fucker. You know that’s not true. You know exactly how he died, and I do too. Don’t call me again.”
“Wait. Don’t you hang up on me, you little prick,” Marco said. He was all business. “You aren’t done with me until I say you are.”
Tommy stayed quiet, his stomach twisting and rumbling.
“You just make damn sure that Lloyd doesn’t find out about any of this and all that cash can stay yours. If you let him start chasing those losses down, you’ll be wearing the orange jumpsuit this time. If you’re lucky. Like I said, I think maybe you killed Gerrimon. That guy was a friend of mine.” The line went dead.
Tommy had just enough time to get to the bathroom.
“This is it, Doug.” Tommy gestured around the empty floor of Lloyd holding. There were only two desks left. One was pushed over by the windows, and the other sat inside a walled glass enclosure at the center of the floor. “I sold everything else.”
Doug squinted. Pennies on the dollar were probably all they got for the desks, chairs, plants, paintings, file cabinets, computers, phones, servers, and routers. The software was a loss too unless they found a way to pay for license renewals as they came up. He kept his arms slack, his hands in his pockets, keeping his appearance loose and relaxed. Inside he was anything but. He was doing it again, showing the world one face while inside he was a different man. This was what he’d sworn he wouldn’t do again. He took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest.
“So, now you’re pissed?” Tommy asked, his voice rising.
This was why he faked it, Doug guessed. It was just easier. He sighed.
“I am,” he said. Tommy scowled. Doug hurried to complete the thoughts. “But not at you.”
Tommy blinked.
“I’m mad at the situation and at myself,” Doug said. “I’m mad at myself for getting us into this mess.”
Tommy nodded. “For the record? I’m mad at you for the same thing.”
Doug snorted. He couldn’t remember the last time someone on the outside had criticized him to his face. Tommy had done it twice in two days.
“You know, I always hated my office,” he said.
Tommy looked at the glass-walled enclosure at the center of the floor. It appeared that his office, at least, had remained intact.
“I never understood why you built it that way,” Tommy said. “I figured it was sheer ego.”
“Ego?”
“Yeah, like you had to watch everything that everyone was doing all the time.”
Surprise rippled through him, and Doug had to remind himself to relax his face, let a little of it show. “I did it so people would think I was accessible. They could see me working in there all day, nothing to hide.”
Tommy made a sound of gruff amusement. “Hah. Well, that backfired.” He looked at Doug. “You’ve changed.”
“Have I?”
Tommy’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile there. Amazement flooded Doug as he realized how much he wanted Tommy to smile. “Maybe.”
With that, Tommy moved off across the empty expanse of floor, keeping to the places where walkways between desks used to be, avoiding the tangle of wires that sprouted from the floor, each twisted set of colored cables marking the place where a workstation used to be. Doug approached his office. He turned back to Tommy.
“Do you have the passkey to this?”
“It’s open.”
It was open. Anyone could get into his office. In the past, the thought would have made him sweat. Today was no different. Everything he owned, both here and at his apartment, had been gone through, touched and examined by other people, by Tommy at the very least. Every crevice on his own body had been invaded by other people, every cavity searched most entirely without his consent.
He’d lost the right to choose who did what to him and his possessions the day he’d pushed Dorothy into that damn trunk.
I lost the right long before that, he told himself. It just took time for the world to catch up.
Doug pushed open the door and went inside. The desk, the chair, the view out of the glass enclosure, how he had hated sitting in this damn office.
All day long, he’d felt eyes on him. Every move he made, visible to everyone who worked for him. He’d thought it gave him the appearance of transparency. Seems like he’d been wrong about that.
He sat in the mesh chair, rolled it to the wood desk and opened the drawers. Empty. The sight took the breath from him. Panic rose behind his chest. His first instinct was to conceal his reaction.
I’m not that man anymore, he reminded himself. I’m different.
“Tommy!”
Tommy looked over at him.
“My desk is empty?”
Tommy frowned for a moment. His face cleared. “Oh yeah, I put everything in the locked drawer.” He walked toward Doug’s office, digging in his pocket. The quick lightness in his gait was gone. Neither one of them was the same. Doug’s prison sentence had been a sentence for Tommy too.
“Here’s the key.” Tommy tossed a ring of keys to him. His best friend in the whole world stopped in the doorway to the fishbowl of an office and looked at him. “I’m sorry, Doug.”
“I am too,” Doug said. Neither one of them asked what for.
Within a couple of hours, Doug had himself set up. He’d taken great pleasure in pushing his desk out of his office and over to the windows. Just him and Tommy, a stone’s throw apart, both of them looking out over this wild and busy city. With his laptop and monitors connected, the Internet accessible, the company’s general ledger files open on his screen, Doug let himself relax into work. Every now and then he caught himself noticing how quickly he’d adapted to his new normal. Then something would happen, a noise or a subconscious trigger, and he’d find himself tense and watchful.
