Burn Down the Night

by M. O'Keefe

  “Everyone in the condo know you’re spying on them?” I asked from a safe distance over his shoulder.

  “Security is part of the package,” Fern jumped in. “Residents who don’t live here year-round are comforted.”

  “My security company serves six condo units in this area as well as the hospital,” Eric said.

  “No shit?” I was more impressed than I wanted to be.

  Eric swiveled in his chair, his eyebrow raised. “No shit.”

  He plugged Joan’s phone into an adapter hooked up to his computer and clacked around on his keyboard. The club had once tried to get into some computer scam shit, based on the tech strength of one of our members. But he got sent to jail for skipping out on child support, and there’d been no one to replace him.

  “How many employees you got?” I asked. Over his computer were citations from the mayor. A picture of a little league team wearing uniforms that said “Rondale Security.” You had to be pretty flush if you were bankrolling a little league team in Florida. That shit was serious. “About twenty guys are permanent. I hire some contractors out if I need them. And no,” he shot me a look over his shoulder, “I ain’t hiring.”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  I was just…curious.

  He took my phone next, plugged it into the same adapter, and clacked around a little more.

  “You playing again today?” Eric asked, looking over at Fern.

  “I’ve reserved court time for three o’clock.”

  “Would it be all right if I came around and played with you?”

  “That should be fine.”

  I swallowed my smile. That’s why she wore the tennis getup all the time.

  It took awhile for things to upload, but it wasn’t too long before Eric was handing me the phones.

  “Thanks. How much do I owe you—”

  “Nothing,” he said, lifting his hands away. His palms were pink and calloused and worn. “I did it as a favor to Fern.”

  I nodded. Fern could repay him.

  “You know, this trouble Joan’s in…I get you don’t want to tell me but I have connections that might be able to help her.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said.

  “But no thanks?” he asked, his lip pulled up in a smile I recognized. Hell, if I didn’t like this guy.

  “I’m hoping we can sort this out before we call out whatever big guns you might have access to.”

  “Sounds wise.” We shook hands like men shake hands. No fist bumps for a man like Eric.

  “And thanks for the muffins, Fern,” he said. “I’ll see you at tennis and I guess tonight at the cocktail hour?”

  “I’ll be there.” The smile on her lips made her look so much like her niece it was almost hard to look at her.

  “You too?” Eric asked me and I shook my head.

  “Too bad,” he said, and I felt like he meant it.

  Fern and I walked back down the hallway, neither of us saying anything. I had to hope that Joan was still asleep. I didn’t know how I was going to explain having her phone. My sleepless night was starting to drag me down. And something about that setup of Eric’s made me twitchy, too. That kingdom he ran from his dark condo, women with tight cleavage bringing him muffins because he was the kind of guy who commanded that kind of thing.

  I spent years screaming into the void trying to make the club legit. Trying to turn from drugs to maybe running a few strip clubs along the highway. Expanding the garage so it actually made some money instead of being a lousy front for the illegal shit we were pulling down.

  But the guys didn’t want it. Or if they did, they were too scared of Rabbit and BLJ and the rest of them to say so.

  The money had been good, no lie. But the stress hadn’t been worth it.

  I walked on up the stairs, the heat making sweat roll down my neck and the small of my back. I didn’t know what Fern was thinking but it was clearly weighing on her as much as my thoughts were weighing on me.

  Finally, we were standing in the stairwell at her floor. I still had another floor to go up.

  “You can come to the cocktail hour if you like,” she said.

  I laughed at her. “You’re going to have to invite Joan yourself.”

  She nodded like she knew that.

  “Why are you doing this?” Fern called after me as I walked away, her voice echoing in the cement hallway.

  “Because someone should. Because she deserves somebody giving a shit about what happens to her.”

  “She doesn’t trust people easily and if she finds out about the spyware she will cut you out of her life so fast.”

  “Yeah. I know. And why do you think she has trust issues?”

  “You think it was me?” That made her laugh. Kind of. Seemed more like a cough. “If you want to know why Joan is the way she is…talk to her about her father. If she’ll let you.”

  It sounded to me like she wanted to absolve herself of any responsibility and I had no time for that.

  Yes, if Joan found out about the spyware, she’d lose her mind. And I wouldn’t blame her. But this was the only assurance I had that I could keep Joan safe.

  Because even though she warned me off caring about her—it was too late. It had been too late months ago when we were still strangers in the club, eyeballing each other across the room.

  And after the last few days? After she saved my life?

  Yeah, I cared. And I would care as long as she let me.

  My breath was heaving in my chest after I climbed the stairs to our floor and I stopped, my hand braced on the doorframe before I went inside. God. I was wrung out. I needed more sleep. Some bacon and eggs. My leg hurt like hell.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  Dylan.

  It had to be my brother calling me back.

  I felt like a kid again, fishing out my phone. Not wise, probably, but unstoppable.

  I tapped in my passcode and touched my text button.

  A green balloon popped up.

  It was from unknown and said:

  The good times? They start when?

  Fuck.

  Not Dylan. Not at all.

  It was Lagan.

  Chapter 20

  I think I was in fourth grade when we read this story about a Civil War soldier (maybe it was World War I, I can’t remember) who sat in a trench asking anyone who came near him a coded question. And if the other person got the question wrong or didn’t know what he was talking about, the soldier was supposed to shoot him.

  In the story, every few days, the coded question changed and the news would spread to the soldiers that if you went out to take a piss or got lost on patrol, if someone asked you a question and you didn’t give the right answer then you might get a hole blown through you.

  That wasn’t the point of the story, the point was about the soldier asking the questions getting to be friends with a guy in a trench on the other side of the enemy line.

  I forget what happened. Someone probably died. Or a horse died. That was all that ever seemed to happen in those war stories.

  But I dug that code shit. I dug that shit and I took it home.

  Dylan and I started making up all kinds of questions and codes. Codes to tell each other if Mom was on the rampage. Codes to tell each other where to meet if she was. Codes to tell each other if Mom and Pops were fighting, or if it was safe to come home. Codes about the cars we were stealing. Codes about the races Dylan was winning.

  It gave us a way to talk about what was happening, without ever really talking about what was happening.

  It was easier to say “I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” than “Mom’s high as a kite and home’s not safe.”

  And then, once I got patched in and moved up the Skulls, I started making the guys do it, too. I switched up the questions and answers because phones got tapped and lost and girlfriends got nosy and half my guys couldn’t be trusted and the other half were stupid.

  And with all this dangerous shit we were doing, we c
ouldn’t be too careful.

  I took my codes into this drug deal with me, and Lagan had been all over it. Zo not so much, but Zo was a proven idiot time and time again.

  And this code, this question was from Lagan. He was texting my number to see if I still had my phone. If I was still alive.

  Jesus.

  I could text back the wrong answer. I could say “who the fuck is this?” and I would never hear from Lagan again. I would walk away free and clear.

  But Joan…

  I didn’t even finish that thought. I just typed back the answer. I was in so deep with that woman, I was ready to get back into bed with Lagan.

  Four o’clock on a Sunday.

  It was nonsense on purpose.

  And now Lagan knew I was alive. I had my phone and I was still in the game.

  It felt like a steel trap around my throat.

  Glad to hear it, friend. I heard you got shot.

  He always called me friend. Like he was constantly reminding me that we were together on things.

  Rabbit’s always had terrible aim, I texted back.

  Yes. Have I not been trying to explain to you the benefits of a monarchy rather than a brotherhood?

  I had nothing to say to that besides, fuck you, you fucking fuck. So I stayed silent. Watching the phone, waiting for more. But it never came.

  How about you? I typed. Things good on your end?

  I don’t know how long I stood in that hallway waiting for an answer, but it was a long time. A neighbor down the hall came out with her laundry, and I jerked out of my daze, opened the condo door, and slipped inside.

  It was cool and dark inside, but I was sweating and the phone felt hot in my hand.

  The microwave told me it was nine in the morning. I put Joan’s phone back on the counter and hooked it up to the charger. Just in time, too, because Joan came walking in. Yawning and revealing a slice of her flat stomach as she stretched.

  “Hey,” she said. “You moved me again.”

  “Yeah, well that love seat can’t be comfortable.”

  “It’s not.” She tilted her head. “You all right?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “You look seriously pale.”

  “It’s because I’m starving. Get dressed and let’s go get some eggs.”

  “Oh, yeah, eggs,” she said, her face lighting up. “There’s an awesome diner on the stretch—”

  She stopped, caught sight of her phone resting on the kitchen counter. For a moment I could see it all on her face. The guilt because for two seconds in her life, she had forgotten about her sister. She had forgotten about her sister and got excited about eggs. And she was now going to spend the rest of the day punishing herself for that excitement.

  Just like she punished herself last night for the joy she’d felt during the day. Pushing my hand away when all I wanted to do was make her feel good.

  It broke my heart.

  In two steps, she crossed the room and nudged her phone awake, checking to see if anyone called or texted but her phone was blank.

  Her green eyes slid over to me. “No word,” I lied. “From anyone. Let’s go get some breakfast.”

  There were a thousand reasons for me to lie but the main one was the only one that was important. If I told her, all of this would be over.

  And both of us would get sucked back into a life that was going to get us killed.

  I had to find a way to convince her to let someone help her.

  So there was a chance we could survive.

  Joan

  I took Max to the Spotted Pig, a shack with some picnic tables outside, situated along the canal, nearly under the highway overpass.

  “You’re kidding,” he said, watching a dog weave in and out between the tables, snuffling up dropped food. He caught sight of a cat and chased it off into the yard behind the kitchen.

  “Nope,” I said and got out of the car. The air was rich with the best smells, meat over fire and salt and something sharp and vinegary. And my stomach growled like I’d never eaten before.

  And truthfully, it had been days, really, since I’d filled my stomach. I checked my phone in my pocket for about the hundredth time and then glanced over at Max.

  “Nothing,” he said, reading my expression. It didn’t matter how many times I asked, he never got frustrated.

  It was very sweet. Probably as sweet as Max got. Though, in truth, Max was a whole lot sweeter than I ever would have thought.

  We sat down at a table under an umbrella and I glanced at the sticky plastic menus just to make sure they still served the breakfast I’d loved.

  Max, however, opened the menu and started reading. “What’s good?”

  “The peach pancakes.”

  “Do I look like a guy who eats peach pancakes?” He flipped the inside page. “What are you going to get?”

  “Pulled pork eggs Benedict.”

  “Yes,” he said and put the menu down. “That sounds awesome.”

  “If you get the pancakes, we can share,” I said. It was what Jennifer and I always did. The peach pancakes were really the best kind of breakfast dessert after pulled pork eggs Benedict.

  He shot me a caustic look as we both flipped our coffee mugs right side up.

  “Hey,” he said, leaning back in his chair with the slightest grimace. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Hilarious. I think you should go to the authorities.”

  “About Lagan?”

  He nodded.

  “But I told you—the pills…”

  “Yeah, but after everything that happened at the club, he’ll be different now. He’ll be suspicious. Armed probably.”

  I pressed my finger against the edge of the plastic menu until it hurt. “You’re probably right,” I said. “But if he’s suspicious about me, he’s probably even more suspicious about cops. Who knows the measures he has in place now?”

  “Yeah, that’s why you need to stop thinking about the cops.”

  “You’ll help me?” I asked, unable to hide my hope. Badass criminal like Max at my back? Yes, please.

  “No. I’m not the right help. You need people with real connections. People who understand how hostage situations work. Who would do everything they could to make sure it doesn’t get to the point where the pills or the guns get used.”

  A seagull landed on a nearby table, snagged a forgotten hash brown, and made off with it.

  “Like FBI?”

  “Your aunt told me she knew someone with military connections. Someone who would care if I hurt her,” Max said. “Do you know who she was talking about?”

  Eric, I thought. The computer guy with the security company. He was exactly the right guy.

  That would require me telling Fern. Admitting what I’d done. Opening myself up for all the judgment she’d heap down upon me. It would require me trusting a whole lot of people and I wasn’t sure I was equipped to do that. I felt like I was being torn in half.

  “Jesus, Joan,” he breathed. “Do we have to be so alone all the time?”

  It was as if his words blew me back in the chair. They knocked me right over.

  “My whole life,” he said, after clearing his throat. “It was Dylan and me. From the second he was born, I kept him safe as best I could. I tried to keep him out of the life. But…we were a team. Just like you and Jennifer, right?”

  I nodded, speechless.

  “He went to jail for me. I don’t know if you knew that. But he took the rap when we got caught stealing cars so I wouldn’t go to jail. And then once he was inside he took retribution for some shit Dad pulled with a rival club.”

  “I know some of it,” I said, feeling like I was watching Max break open his chest and show me his beating heart.

  “Right, well, I knew…I knew that when he got out, things had to change. I knew that me keeping him close like that was selfish in a way. He was my brother and I loved him, but me and the stuff I was doing—we were going to drag him down. And I di
dn’t want that for him. So I went to this guy, Miguel. He was a race car driver that Dylan was tight with, and I begged Miguel to help me. I begged him to take Dylan in after he got out of jail and I…” Max looked away, tracking birds across a brilliant blue sky. “I begged him to give my brother a new life that had nothing to do with me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” I whispered.

  “Because I couldn’t save my brother on my own,” he said. “And that was the worst feeling in the world. I needed help and I needed to beg for it from people who could give him what he deserved. What he needed. Otherwise it didn’t mean anything. You understand that?”

  Down to my bones and in my blood. It was in every single beat of my heart.

  The waitress wearing a pink Spotted Pig T-shirt came by with a pot of coffee. She filled our cups and apologized for making us wait so long.

  “Do you know what you want?” she asked.

  I caught Max’s eye. Do you know what you want? What a question. Yeah. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to get Jennifer free. And I couldn’t do it myself.

  Trust. I had to trust someone. And I needed to ask for help.

  “I’m sorry, do you need a few more minutes?” she asked.

  No. I didn’t need any more time. I’d wasted too much time already.

  I was going to have to trust Fern. And then Eric.

  Who do you trust? I thought watching Max. Wishing for a just a quick second that it could be me. That would be nice. To not be alone because someone needed me instead of the other way around.

  “Hello?” the waitress said, because Max and I had been caught in a stare, eye-fucking each other.

  “I’ll have the pulled pork eggs Benedict,” I said.

  “I’ll have the peach pancakes.”

  Hard to say, looking back, but maybe that’s when I fell in love with him.

  Chapter 21

  Max