by Chuck Hogan
“Well…” He showed her a big smile and a shrug. “Who are you going to tell, right?”
She nodded without meeting his eye. The necklace was starting to choke her now, and Frawley found that he could pity her ignorance, but not her fate: she had invited aboard this shipwreck of her life the very pirate who had scuttled and looted it in the first place. Frawley could have protected her if she had let him. He could have spared her all this. But now she was his advantage over MacRay, and as such, a thing to exploit. He tucked the sealed envelope back under his arm. Catching bank robbers was his job, not rescuing branch managers from themselves.
“Sure you’re okay?” he said.
She crossed her arms again, nodding, standing almost on one leg. She could see dark clouds massing on the horizon, but refused to acknowledge the storm they forecast.
“Yeah,” said Frawley. She was waiting for him to leave now, and he let her wait. “Yeah,” he said again. “Well.” Then he fit his sunglasses back on his face and started for the door, stopping next to her, again struck by the necklace. He pressed the tip of his forefinger lightly against the pocket of flesh between her clavicles, touching the starry little pill, absorbing her discomfort, her distress. “Okay,” he said, and left.
32
RINK
FOUR GUYS IN KNEE-LENGTH denim shorts and T-shirts, black skates over heavy cotton socks pushed down under meaty calves, eating lunch on the indoor ice in the middle of June. They had the rink to themselves, refrigerator fans rattle-roaring like truck engines outside the boards as they circled around two Papa Gino’s pizza cartons set upon milk-crate pedestals.
“So,” Jem said, swigging a Heineken, calling the summit to order. “Somebody fucked up somewhere.”
Doug dropped his crust into the open box, curling effortlessly around Jem’s back and plucking his bottle of Dew off the ice floor, gliding backward.
“And we still don’t know how,” said Jem. “I don’t even know yet who the fuck to dock.”
Dez drifted away from the pizza without meaning to, better on Rollerblades than he was on ice.
Jem said, “That ride better have burned.”
Gloansy finished a Heineken and stooped to return the bottle to the six-pack carton, saying, “Fuck you, you were there.”
Doug looked up at the rafters. He remembered the cheering and the bleacher-stomping and the way his last name rhymed with Hurray! and also how it always seemed that a win for the home team was never enough—how it seemed that nothing short of the entire building going up in a ball of flame would satisfy the bloodlust of that crowd.
He could still see the Bruins scout, the guy in the Bear Bryant hat and fingerless wool gloves sitting in the last spot on the fifth riser, center ice, making frantic marks in his spiral notebook as the Martin sisters next to him kept screaming Doug’s name. His summary report, showed to Doug after the draft, described MacRay as “a thug player with a touch of class,” a high-scoring, high-potential defenseman blending the goon tradition of the seventies with the new eighties finesse.
But it was all just echoes now. He found himself touching his split eyebrow and pulled his hand away, angry. This was why he didn’t like being out on this ice anymore.
“There were no obvious problems on the job,” Jem continued, “least none nobody admits to. So how come we each spent half our morning making sure we were clean of the G, getting here? How come all of a sudden we’re earning so much heat?”
No cops were waiting for Doug when he carried his tea out of Lori-Ann’s that morning—yet everything seemed changed. It was like a protective seal on the Town had been broken, and now there could be cops waiting for him anywhere: his car, his home, his mother’s house.
“Simple,” said Doug, coming back around for another slice, spraying some shavings against the stacked crates with a sharp stop. “They were onto us from before. And we went ahead and rushed it anyway.”
“Rushed, nothing,” said Jem. “But we didn’t sit around neither, let ’em shut us down.”
“No,” said Doug. “No, that would have been foolhardy.”
“Aha, a little attitude from the mastermind here. Okay, genius. Tell us, then. Where and when did all this shit go wrong?”
“For that I’d have to take us all back to a bitter-cold day in early December 1963.”
Jem frowned off the reference to his birthday. He turned to Dez, the only one of them who hadn’t been at the movie theater. “Duggy’s pissed ’cause I went and had a little fun.”
“That what that was?” said Doug. “That was fun?”
Jem smiled his angry smile. “That job was the driest fucking job. It was nothing.”
“Nothing,” said Doug.
“Truth be told, Douglas—it was pansy-ass. It was pussy. Hadda be said.”
Doug slowed and drifted back toward the crates. “So let me get this straight. The job went too smooth for you. Not enough fucking up, far as you’re concerned, your usual quotient.”
“It wasn’t no heist. It was a friggin’ lemonade stand we knocked over. We could of been three girls in there, pulling that off.”
“It was a sweet score, and it fell like a feather.”
“Awright, assholes, enough,” said Gloansy, looking to douse the flames.
But Jem wasn’t interested. “It’s not the paycheck, kid,” he said, gliding away from the pizza podium to engage Doug. “It’s how you bring it home.”
“It’s that you bring it home—period,” said Doug. “You’re too old to die young, Jemmer. That time is passed.”
“Fuckin’ Johnny Philosopher here. What’ve you got to lose all of a sudden?”
The leer in Jem’s face was for Claire Keesey, but Doug was in no mood. “This is about being a pro and acting like one. About doing it good and right. That’s the thing.”
“No, Duggy, see, that’s your thing. You plan it, no one else. And then what—I gotta follow your rules and regulations? I’m your employee here?” Jem’s slow trajectory brought him closer to Doug, his hands resting on his hips. “See, my thing is getting into it on the job, mixing it up. ’Cause I’m a motherfucking out-law.”
Doug let Jem drift past, the smell of beer trailing him like a cloud of flies.
Dez and Gloansy had stopped chewing, waiting on opposite sides of the pizza pedestal like kids watching their parents fight. Doug said to them, “You guys on board with that? You want me keeping you out of danger, or putting you in some?”
Jem circled back, speedy but measured, lifting skate over skate. “And what is this with playing it safe? We are bank robbers, man. Stickup men, we go in packing, balls to the wall. It’s a gun in our hand, not a fuckin’ briefcase. There is nothing safe about this.” He spun around so he could face them all, gliding backward. “The hell happened to you, Duggy?”
Gloansy said, “Can we all fucking forget this, please?”
Dez said, “Yeah. Frigging boring.”
Gloansy put down his beer. “Give us our magic number and let’s call it a day.”
Jem started back at a decent clip, looking to do a breeze-by. “Like your trick there with the guards. Holding their families over them, immobilizing them with that. So safe. So fucking clever. Know what?” He zipped past Doug, spinning, heavy-legged but clean. “I fucking hate safe and clever.”
Doug said, “This is why you beat on the assistant manager at the Kenmore thing. Why you had to go and grab the bank manager. Stealing’s not enough for you anymore. That won’t get you caught fast enough.”
“This is what I’m talking about,” Jem said, talking to Doug but playing to the jury. “Since when did you let the people in our way get in our way?”
“You tuned up that guy for no reason. Other than to bring the heat down on us, which we are now enjoying this very fucking day.”
“Did you forget that that motherfucking brown hound hit the bell?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t,” scoffed Jem. “Yes, he very well fucking—”
“He didn’t,” said Doug. “She did.”
Jem just drifted past, staring.
Gloansy checked Dez, then Doug. “How do you know, Duggy?”
“How do I know?” Doug watched Jem curling around them, Doug saying, Shall I?
You don’t have the onions, said Jem’s white-eyed challenge.
Doug said, “I know this because she told me.”
Jem still stared, trying to figure Doug out, Doug saying, You got nothing on me now.
Dez said, “What do you mean, she told you?”
“Checking her out after the job—I met her. We talked a couple of times.”
Jem said, “He’s fucking going steady with her.”
Doug kept talking. “And now Jem has her as an undercover FBI agent or something. All sorts of conspiracy theories, probably. When she’s just someone trying to put her life back together, simple as that. There. Now everybody’s caught up.”
Jem said, “You’re still seeing her.”
“Am I? What, you gonna follow me some more? Follow the G following me? We’ll do the motherfucking parade down Bunker Hill Street, how about that? Streamers, silly hats, everything.” Doug kicked away then, rounding the three of them in a tight, slow circle.
Gloansy turned, tracking Doug. “Who’s following who? Fuck’s going on?”
Jem said, “What is it you’re not getting? Our Duggy here’s been dating that cooze from the Kenmore job. The one who rode with us. Oh, wait—but I’m the one that wants to get caught.”
Dez said, stunned, “How long, Duggy?”
“Not long.”
“Well—you still seeing her?”
Jem said, “How about it, Romeo? When you gonna bring her around, meet your buds?”
Doug said, “She doesn’t know anything.”
Gloansy said, “Well, Duggy, for Christ—she better not.”
“She doesn’t.”
Jem said, “And I bet he hasn’t even lit her lamp yet.” He mimed a slap-shot goal. “Hasn’t slipped one in between the pads.”
Doug threw Jem a look saying, Enough.
“You know,” said Jem, blowing through that stop sign, “me and the assistant manager, we danced that one time. Whyn’t I call him up, we’ll double-date? Go out for milk shakes or something. Can he drink through a straw yet? Or wait—what kind of milk shake did I mean?”
“All right, Jem,” said Doug, throwing down the gloves. “Here’s the deal. And this is as unsafe and as unclever as I can make it. Okay? You ready?”
Jem’s waiting smile was full of dragon steam.
Doug said, “I am not with your sister anymore. And I won’t be, and I never will be, and that’s the end of that. Krista and me—we are not getting married. Never. We are not all going to live in your house, the three of us and Shyne, happily ever after. Not gonna happen.”
Jem’s wild smile became a hot, dark slice in his face. A Jem-o’-lantern with the candle blown out, smoking. He stood perfectly still on the ice. “She’s got you wrapped so motherfucking tight.”
“That’s right,” said Doug.
“You fucking whip-ass pussy.”
“Man,” said Doug, swinging at the chilled air, amazed that it had gone this far, and at the same time not surprised. They were grappling on the edge of a cliff here, this close to going over together for good.
“You’re turning into fucking tapioca right in front of me. What’s she got on you, man? Or are you so fucking blind you can’t see?”
“What is it I can’t see, Jem?”
“You can’t see what she’s doing.”
“Tell me, Jem. Tell me what she’s doing.”
Jem’s head shook in disgust. “If we can’t trust her, kid—how we gonna trust you?”
Doug smiled. So much coming out of him, a riot of pent-up thought and anger. “You are so fucked in the head, Jem boy. You don’t trust me? No? Then find yourself someone else to set your scores. No—better than that, you do it. Yourself. You map it out. And I’ll sit back until game time, then show up and shoot the place up from under you, just for fucking fun.”
“There’s always Fergie, man.”
Doug’s head jerked back like Jem had taken a jab at him. “Don’t fucking even.”
Jem’s eyes were bright and daring. “He’s got some real scores lined up. Big hits for big hitters. He’s said as much.”
“Excellent. Then you’re all set, kid. You don’t even need me here. ’Cause I will never work for that psycho piece of shit.” Doug glided backward on the strength of his own outburst. He looked to Dez. “How about you, Monsignor? Wanna go work for the guy who gunned down your dad?”
Dez exhaled a stream of determination and shook his head.
Doug shrugged back at Jem. They were paired off now, Doug and Dez versus Jem and Gloansy. A lot of silence, everyone’s breath billowing out fast.
Doug said finally, “So is this how it ends?”
Gloansy put out his hands as though elevator doors were closing. “Hey, okay, hold on, just hold on.”
Jem shook his little head. “Nothing’s ending, man.”
“No?” said Doug. “Only because you don’t have the sense. Gloansy too, the both of you—you’re gonna keep taking jobs until you get grabbed.”
Fury twisted at Jem, his frown warping, jumping. “I ain’t never getting grabbed.”
“Always, I knew this, but I never saw it as clear as right now. The movie theater score—that was our biggest ever. Not enough. Nothing ever will be.”
Jem looked at him in white-eyed amazement, slow-drifting toward him. “You talking about money? When’s it ever been about money? This has always been about us. The four musketeers here, taking on the fucking world. About being outlaws, man. I don’t know when you forgot that, Duggy. I don’t know when you forgot that.”
“All right then. For kicks, since no one here really cares—what’s our split?”
Jem still drifting forward, eyes locked on Doug, a collision course. “One-fourteen, three oh two. Per.”
Dez said, next to Doug, “Holy shit.”
Gloansy laughed out a tension-breaking gasp. “And that’s all clean? Spendable, like right fucking now?”
Dez said, “Holy fucking shit.”
Jem remained staring at Doug, Doug at him.
Gloansy said, “Lemonade stand, whatever—that’s fucking genius!” Cackling now, shouting at the ceiling. “Aaawooo!”
Doug said evenly, “The split is light.”
Jem stopped drifting.
Doug angled his blades on the ice, setting himself. “Even with your ten percent ass-kiss to Uncle Fergus, it’s light. That’s a soft split.”
Gloansy stopped his celebrating. Dez looked at Jem. No breath came from anyone’s mouth now.
“I saw the receipts,” said Doug. “But, hey, right? I mean—it’s not about the money.”
Jem started for Doug, and Doug started for Jem, Gloansy and Dez lunging after their respective teammates, wrapping them up to prevent a brawl. Gloansy was just strong enough to keep Jem off Doug, and though Dez was overmatched by Doug, Doug didn’t really want a fight here. He wanted to win the argument, then leave.
“Every split you ever did was soft,” said Doug. “And why did we let you handle the cash? Because we trusted you? No—because you’re Jem. Because that’s the cost of being fucking friends with you.”
Jem lunged again, Gloansy digging his skates into the ice and fighting hard to hold him, swinging Jem around, taking some of his blows.
Doug went on, shouting, “’Cause you’re a thief with a petty fucking heart. Little rip-offs, ever since I known you. A Wiffle bat here, a comic book there. Things of mine that would vanish.”
Another swipe missed, Jem getting closer, saliva slicking his chin. Doug kept himself back just enough to deny Jem contact.
“That Phil Esposito photo card you needed to complete your set, that I wouldn’t trade you? What—you thought I never knew? But that’s the kid you were, and that�
��s the kid you are still. Funny-guy Jem, the cutup—that’s what’s carried you through. But it’s not funny anymore. This is the last split of mine you are gonna handle, and I mean ever. Always gotta have more than the rest, always gotta be in charge.”
“I am in charge, you mother—”
“No.” Doug used his skating advantage to muscle Dez off him. “You keep your skim, and when you’re using it to buy your next pair of fucking speakers or whatever, just remember how, yeah, it did all used to be all about us, four kids from the Town. How, yeah, we did have something once.”
He looped around past Jem, just beyond his reach, bringing Jem tumbling down on top of Gloansy. Doug curled to scoop his Dew back up off the ice, then skated for the doors, Jem’s vulgarities bouncing off his back like boos.
His skates were off, socks stuffed inside them, by the time Dez came out, looking more anguished than usual, a guy full of questions, forever quizzing the world about himself and his place in it. Doug stopped him before he could say word one. “You cut loose of Krista, you understand me? Now you know for sure that I got no stake in it. You had your thing with her, now get out. These Coughlins’ll kill you. You hear me?”
Dez nodded, shocked.
Gloansy came out skate-walking over the hard rubber flooring to where Doug sat lacing his Vans. It surprised Doug that Gloansy, of all of them, was the one most desperate to keep the crew together. “Duggy, hey—you’re gonna cool this down, right? And so’s he? You guys, huh?”
Doug could already hear the dominoes clicking, tiles spilling from the end all the way back to the beginning, spelling out his flight. But there was no point trying to explain this to Gloansy. Doug stood and carried his skates to the door.
33
BILLY T.
FRANK G. LOOKED GRAY under the yellow doughnut-shop lights. He hadn’t shaved in two or three days, and kept running his hand across his bristly lips like a rummy. His eyes were tea-bagged and his shoulders flat under a Malden Little League Coach shirt.
“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Frank G., distracted. “Yeah, you been needing to break with them for a long time.”
