by Gale Massey
The back door had been propped open, so she stepped around a few high-top tables and walked toward it. Out back, a guy in a torn black T-shirt with a cigarette clamped between his lips was hosing down kitchen mats. He glanced up when she said hey and apparently found her uninteresting or at least unthreatening.
“Not open till five,” he said.
“Here to check the machines,” she said, dangling the keys where he could see them.
“You work for Loyal?” He looked more closely at her face. “Oh, yeah. I seen you before. You got keys for them, fine.” He went back to dousing the mats.
Jamie and Toby had waited in this bar’s parking lot twice a week for the last eight years while Loyal went inside and collected money from the machines. Two legal pinball games sat near the entrance, but the coin pusher and the slot machine were tucked in a corner in the back where gamblers would sniff them out.
She wrestled the coin pusher away from the wall and squeezed in behind it, wishing she’d brought a flashlight. The lock was at chest level and impossible to see in the dark. She felt her way along and it felt like magic when the key fitted in the hole and clicked open. She bagged what she guessed was twenty pounds of quarters and put them in her backpack. The teaser bills had moved too close to the front, so she repositioned those at the back of the machine and wondered just how many drunks had contributed to the proceeds. She locked up the unit and shoved it back against the wall, swearing because the thing weighed twice as much as she did. The glass and chrome were filthy from spilled drinks and fingerprints, so she wiped them until they shined. Shiny things attracted more money and, come five o’clock tonight, the machine would begin filling up again.
Five years ago, Loyal had had the bright idea to slap nonprofit labels on the units, some with children in wheelchairs, some with underfed kittens in cages, or busted-up veterans holding American flags. People believing they were contributing to a worthy cause usually saw nothing wrong with the possibility of scoring a little cash in the process. Cops saw the images and decided to look away at what might not be legal but would definitely involve a load of paperwork.
The slot machine was in a corner between a cigarette machine and the wall and impossible to move. She squatted down to reach the knee-high lockbox mounted underneath and cringed when she had to touch the floor with her hands. From now on she’d carry sanitary wipes in her backpack. The lock cooperated on the first try. She slid the tray out and set it on the floor.
The front door opened and Jamie looked around the legs of a pinball machine to see a narrow figure standing in a rectangle of light like a Hollywood alien exiting a spaceship. Her first instinct was to hide the cash but the silhouette was as slight as a girl, so Jamie relaxed.
“Anyone here?” It was definitely a girl’s voice.
Jamie started to say something but didn’t want to explain why she was sitting on the floor under a slot machine, so she stayed put and hoped the guy out back would handle it. He did, slipping inside the back door and explaining they didn’t open till five.
“Um, okay, but I’m from out of town and I’m meeting my dad here. TJ Bangor? Have you seen him?”
“The tight end? That’s your dad?”
The name sounded familiar. Jamie remembered it from Toby and Loyal’s mutual NFL obsession. Watching football together was about the only thing the two did without fighting.
“He’s retired, but yeah, he’s my dad.”
“No. I’d remember if I’d seen him.”
“Can I wait in here? He’s not answering his cell.” She waved her cell phone as if to prove her point.
He glanced at his watch and said, “The boss doesn’t let anyone hang out till we open. There’s a diner on Main.”
From the dark corner Jamie saw the girl shaking her head.
“Jeez. Is it okay if I wait in the parking lot?”
“If you want.”
The girl left and the guy closed the front door. Jamie heard the deadbolt slide into place, heard the guy’s rubber boots coming toward her, squishing on the grimy floor. He slapped the slot machine as he walked past her. “Leave out the back door, will ya? I’ve got to keep it locked up front.”
Jamie bagged the cash from the machine, a wad of bills as thick as her wrist. She’d have to be more careful with people walking in. One meth-head wandering in could cost her plenty. She zipped up her backpack, got up, and wiped her hands on her jeans.
When she got outside to the truck, Jamie heaved her backpack into the passenger seat. The girl sat in a little black Mercedes two spots away, talking on her phone. Flashy sunglasses covered half her face, but Jamie could tell from the highlights in her short-cropped hair and her plump lips that she was pretty. She backed the truck out and rolled slowly forward, wondering what it felt like to grow up with a guy like that as a dad. NFL money, rich little girl. Big money. A big man gone missing. A big man in that tarp. People starting to look around and ask questions. Things were adding up in a way that made her want to run. She rolled passed that little black Mercedes and gunned it onto the highway.
* * *
By six o’clock Jamie had collected the cash out of seven of the eight gaming units on the north route. There’d been a slot machine snugged in beside an ice machine in the back of a liquor store and another one next to a money changer in a convenience store. Most of them were pretty well hidden, but Grizzly’s Beer Hub out on the highway had a draw poker unit sitting right on top of the bar that had taken in over three thousand in twenties alone. Driving back to town, she estimated there was enough cash in her backpack for a decent start on the professional poker circuit and wondered what the going rate was for helping to dispose of a body and if she couldn’t leverage that somehow. It was fun to think about that for all of two seconds, but her cheek was still tender from the back of Loyal’s hand. At least he hadn’t broken her nose.
Her last stop was Mr. Lu’s dry-cleaning. Loyal paid a ten percent rake to Mr. Lu, so he often disappeared to the back when a customer came in for their clothes. Eventually the customer would get bored and wander over to the coin pusher, eye its piles of coins and the perpetual twenty-dollar bill jutting out toward the front, and play however many quarters were in their pocket. Mr. Lu would listen from the back of the store and wait for the silence that indicated the customer had run out of coins, then appear with their order.
Jamie unlocked the back of the collection box as Mr. Lu came to the front.
“Hello” she said. “I’m Loyal’s niece.” She turned toward him and raised her hands so he could see them.
“I know who you are,” he said.
Of course he did. She was the Elders girl. The whole town knew her, had known her for years. When they’d been little she and Toby would wait in the truck drinking Cherry Cokes while Loyal went inside and took care of business. When they got older they would sometimes carry the toolbox he kept for repairs and beg snacks from the proprietors. Sometimes Loyal would try to show Toby how to change out a fuse or a lightbulb, but it was Jamie who paid attention.
“Oh, okay,” she said, feeling stupid. “I work for him.”
“If you got a key, it’s okay.”
“I got them.” She unlocked the box in the back and poured the quarters into a plastic grocery bag.
She repositioned the twenty behind the pile of quarters and locked up the machine.
“See you next time,” she said, but Mr. Lu had already gone to the back.
She parked on Main, locked the truck, and walked half a block to the diner. Sunlight bent at the horizon and threw such light against the brick and clapboard buildings that Jamie had to stop for a moment and stare at her hometown. Moments like that made her wonder if she’d miss the place if she ever got out. But she figured sunsets were pretty everywhere and waited for the moment to pass. The smell of supper was in the air and the street in front of the diner was lined with cars and pickups. Including a small brown sedan parked right up front that she was sure she’d seen before.
&nbs
p; Inside, Phoebe was behind the counter serving plates of meatloaf and country-fried steak to the regular dinner crowd. Jamie started toward the counter but halted when her mother looked up and widened her eyes. Jamie scanned the room and saw him right off. Brown suit, polished shoes, loose tie. Everything about him said cop. And now that she thought about it, she connected that car to the cop. When he turned to see what Phoebe was looking at, Jamie suspected this was the man she’d seen outside the trailer the other night. He sat at the counter and the only open stool was the one to his right.
She backed up toward the door but the cop called over. “Hey,” he said motioning to the stool beside him. “There’s a seat right here.”
Jamie set her backpack on the floor beside the stool and sat down, knowing that any other move would have made her stand out.
Phoebe brought Jamie a Coke. “I got a spare BLT with your name on it.”
The guy said, “I was just reminiscing with your mom about the other night. She tell you about it?”
“Do I know you?” Jamie asked.
“You’re Loyal’s kid, right?”
“He’s my uncle.”
Phoebe said, “She’s my kid,” and got busy ringing up checks at the cash register.
“Right,” he said. “I knew that. I’m Garcia. Detective Garcia.”
Jamie unwrapped a straw, noted the fake friendliness. All the locals knew the Elders had a history with the law.
“She tell you about the game the other night?”
It was just like a cop to poke around with questions and she didn’t like it, didn’t like that she’d been the one to cause her mother to end up at Keating’s. Jamie worried what the game might have to do with that man’s body. A weird paralysis chilled her spine between her shoulder blades as Garcia rattled on.
“The game at Keating’s. You know TJ Bangor was there? You know who he is, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Biggest hand of the night, Bangor uses his Super Bowl ring to cover a bet. Loses to Keating big-time. A full house over an ace-high straight. You should have seen it.”
“Huh,” Jamie said. “Who’s TJ Banker?” She’d tried all afternoon to put this thing out of her mind. She sipped the Coke, watched her mother. Phoebe was at the other end of the counter but obviously listening to everything Garcia said.
“Who is he? One of the greatest tight ends in NFL history.”
Phoebe worked her way down the counter refilling coffee cups. When she got near them, Garcia said loudly, “Thing is, he wants it back. Asked me to help him.”
“Sounds like you need to talk with Judge Keating about that,” Jamie snapped. She felt a little odd speaking up for her mother and knew her tone was no way to shut down a cop.
Garcia gave her a glance that could have been a warning. “As a matter of fact, I saw the judge downtown this morning and did just that. Told me he never saw the thing after that night. Said it was a joke gone bad and he meant to give it back but when he looked for it he couldn’t find it. He thinks the housecleaner might’ve thrown it out the next morning. Seems awful something so expensive would just disappear. Don’t you think?”
The French fries smelled like old fish sticks and the Coke was flat. Jamie chewed a piece of bacon from her sandwich and felt her stomach tighten. There was no way to know if Garcia had really talked to Keating, but she couldn’t see why he would’ve mentioned it to her when he showed up at the trailer. She wanted to check her mother’s reaction but Garcia was watching them both too closely. She dipped a French fry in ketchup and fought the feeling that the entire dinner crowd was listening in.
“Rings are small. They go missing all the time.” She forced herself to chew and swallow and watch as a red splotch appeared on her mother’s neck.
“Not a ring like that. Big as a golf ball.”
Her mouth had gone dry. “Did he check his garbage can?”
“Trucks ran this morning.”
“Huh. There’s your trouble.” She sucked at her soda.
“Anyway,” he said, pulling a twenty out of his wallet, “there’s a reward for it if it turns up.”
He watched Phoebe’s face as he said it, but she just stared back and cocked her head toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Tommy, any big diamond rings in the lost-and-found box?”
The cook stuck his head through the pass-through. “Yeah. A whole box full. In fact, I’m heading to Miami on a private jet when I get done frying this chicken.”
Garcia laughed, but it was fake. Phoebe wiped her hands on her apron and rang up his bill. Jamie watched her mother as she made change from the register, cool hands and calm fingers, the growing splotch on her neck the only sign of distress.
Phoebe set his change on the counter. “Maybe he shouldn’t have bet it in the first place.”
“No, he shouldn’t have. But there’s a big difference between losing and getting set up.” Garcia took his time putting his money in his wallet, holding Phoebe’s gaze the whole time.
After a moment, she said, “Drunks bet stupid and lose big.”
“Yep. But he’s a hero in these parts—or you been up the river so long you don’t know that?”
It was a low blow, and Jamie cringed.
Phoebe didn’t even blink, but she looked fragile, the bones of her knuckles going white as her fingers curled into fists. The flush on her neck crept up to her face. There was no way Garcia could miss it.
A hush went through the diner. It was her imagination, Jamie told herself, it was just her imagination, but it was the same horrible silence she’d experienced the first day of every school year when the other kids pointed at her and whispered to each other, “That’s the girl whose mom’s in prison.”
There was a slow widening in her brain; she had let herself believe those moments were behind her, but now she saw that those days would never be completely gone. Not when a cop, one of the good guys, was throwing it in their faces again. It made her ill. She had to get out of there. The talk with her mother would have to wait. She picked up her backpack and wound her way through the tables and the staring faces, most of them too polite to make eye contact.
Outside, the cold air cut her lungs, but Jamie refused to let the nausea turn into the spins. She walked in the wrong direction, then remembered the truck. The sky was dark, the street dimly lit with yellow streetlights. She got into the truck as the diner’s door slammed behind her. The bastard had followed her. He came to the window and made a little rolling motion with his hand. She lowered the window halfway.
“Lose your appetite?” Garcia shook out a cigarette.
“Seemed greasy.”
He leaned his elbow on the door, looked around the cab, and asked, “You in school these days?” He flipped a lighter open and blew the smoke to the side.
“I’m taking a break.”
“Must be bored, all that time on your hands. You spend a lot of time at Jack DelMar’s store?”
Fuck you. She started the engine.
“I’m just saying. You’re a little young to have to worry about your mother, your brother. Jeez, you’re just a kid. Now you’re running around for your uncle.”
Phoebe appeared at the diner window and looked out at the street.
“I’m late,” she said. The truck bounced when she put it in reverse, but Garcia reached inside the cab and blocked the steering wheel.
“Cop asks a question, you give him an answer. You working for Loyal?”
“Some,” she said. “There’s an event coming up.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that so-called fund-raiser.”
She said nothing.
He took his elbow off the door and took another drag from the cigarette. “You got that whole Elders thing going on, don’t you? Fuck the law, live by your own rules. You might want to give that a second thought, consider a plan that doesn’t include prison time.”
The back of her head felt cold. For a moment it seemed he knew everything she’d done in the last twenty-four hours. He was so close that if
she backed the truck up fast she could run over his foot. She gripped the wheel and pressed hard on the brake to stop herself from doing it.
“I think I made my point,” he said, and tossed his cigarette on the ground. The smoke drifted and curled.
Jamie backed the truck up slowly and slipped it in drive. When she passed the diner window, she glanced up but her mother was gone.
CHAPTER
17
BEYOND THE TINY, wire mesh–covered window, the small square of sky was the color of steel. Toby balled up the thin mattress from the built-in concrete shelf and stood on it. Who the fuck puts a window seven feet off the ground? Daylight was fading, but if he pulled himself high enough he could almost make out the roof of a building he judged to be about a football field away. The mattress slid out from under him and when he landed, he smacked his elbow against the metal toilet. He held his arm and rocked back and forth, trying to breathe. Being locked up wasn’t as scary as he’d thought it would be, but all the same, he fucking hated it here. All this steel and concrete. It wasn’t natural. Tiny mesh windows bolted closed, big guards pushing him around, everything locked up tight, no Xbox. Somewhere down the long corridor he could hear a TV blasting a Judge Judy marathon, her voice a parrot screech in his brain.
There was nothing to hit but the walls, nothing to kick or break. His legs ached to run, and now his elbow throbbed.
The biggest guard on the cell block walked past his door and glanced in. He carried the standard gear on his belt: a can of mace, a nightstick, and plastic restraints.
“Sir? Sir?” Toby had been in the center twenty-four hours and no one had spoken to him since they’d processed his fingerprints and locked him in this room.
The guard stopped and faced the cell door. “What?”
