The Amateurs

by Marcus Sakey

  His ex shook her head. “We were very generous.”

  “You’re generous about letting me see her. But I owe you half my paycheck. How am I supposed to live?”

  “She’s your daughter. This is a way of showing that you’ll always be there for her.”

  “Hey.” His voice rough. “I will always be there for her.”

  She looked downward as she spun her new wedding ring. “I know you love her. I do. And she loves you. But it can’t go on like this.” She sighed. “Listen. There’s something—”

  Behind him, Cassie rumbled down the steps like an avalanche. “Hi, Daddy!” She came straight into his arms with a hug. He scooped her up and squeezed her tight. Over her shoulder, Trish opened her mouth, closed it, then looked away. Alex was content to let her. Whatever she had been about to say, it hadn’t sounded good.

  Cassie was all happy chatter as they drove out of the neighborhood: the Rollerblades his ex-wife’s husband had bought her, a reality show on MTV, how her soccer team was going to the play-offs, and could he make the game?

  “I’ll try, sweetie.” He stopped at a red light. “Where do you want to eat?”

  They settled on TGI Friday’s, the corner booth. A perky teenager seated them, plunked down plastic tumblers of water. Eighties pop drifted through deep-fried air. While Cassie studied her menu, he studied her, amazed, as always, at her sheer physicality: her tan forearms and bright eyes and the way she twisted a curl of hair as she concentrated. She wore a tank top with lacy straps, and her ears were pierced. That was new, and he didn’t love it.

  They ordered, an elaborate salad for her, hold the cheese, dressing on the side, and a cheeseburger for him, rare. “Want a milk shake?”

  She shook her head. “I’m on a diet.”

  “A diet?”

  “Yup.” She seemed proud of it, and he didn’t push, didn’t tell her that she was perfect just the way she was, bright and beautiful and softly rounded with the remnants of baby fat. He just ordered a chocolate malt of his own, and two straws.

  The server left, and they looked at each other. “So.”

  “So,” she said and smiled.

  “How’s tricks, Trix? Tell me everything.”

  She giggled and started in, and he leaned back, content to listen. Sometimes she was solemn and asked him questions about his life that seemed like they’d been prompted by a discussion he hadn’t been privy to. But today she was her normal self, bubbly and concerned only with the everyday things that made up a ten-year-old life. Their food came, and he pushed the milk shake forward just enough that she could reach it.

  “We’re going to Hilton Head next month.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Scott is taking us.” She always made a point of referring to Trish’s new husband by his first name, at least around him. Maybe at home she called him Daddy too, but never in front of Alex. “We have a hotel right on the beach. With a pool, too. And there’s dancing at night, Mom says.”

  “Sounds like fun.” His burger was bitter and burned.

  “Maybe you could come too.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “I bet Mom and Scott wouldn’t mind.”

  He was positive that wasn’t true, and even more positive he couldn’t afford the hotel. “I’ve got to work, kiddo. It’s not summer for me.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s never summer for you.”

  “Too true.” He put a hand over his heart. “Oh, to be ten again.”

  “Grown-ups always say that.”

  “We do?”

  She nodded. “I think you forget how much it sucks to be a kid.”

  “Sometimes it sucks to be an adult, too.” Thinking of Trish looking down, that hesitation, like she was about to say something he really didn’t want to hear.

  “You don’t have homework.”

  “We don’t have summer vacation, either.”

  “But you can drive. And live in the city. You can do anything you want.”

  “Not anything.”

  “Most anything. I can’t wait to grow up.”

  He felt the wince but didn’t show it. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry.”

  She stabbed a tomato with her fork, eyed it dubiously, then took a small bite. “So, I was thinking,” she said, chewing. “I got all A’s and B’s last year.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “And you always say I’m very mature for my age.”

  “Who said that? I said that? I don’t remember saying that.”

  “Yes, you did. You say it all the time.” She set her fork down and pulled his milk shake toward her. “So I was thinking that I should be able to have a cell phone.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Actually, an iPhone.”

  “Specific.”

  “They’re the best. You can play music on them and instant message and I could call you whenever I want.”

  “You can call me whenever you want now.”

  “Yeah, but if I had one, I could call you when I’m not home.” She drained an inch of the chocolate malt, then looked at him expectantly. “All my friends have them.”

  “I don’t know, kiddo.”

  “Come on, please? I’ll be really careful with it.”

  His stomach felt off, and he put down his burger. The previous night’s conversation with Jenn came into his mind again, how he’d had a whole different plan than being thirty-two and living paycheck to paycheck. “What does your mother say?”

  “She said to ask you.”

  Bravo, he thought. Thanks, Trish. Much appreciated.

  “I think you’re a little young.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “Sorry, Cass. Ten is too young.” He chewed a cold french fry.

  She started to pout, then paused, then took another sip on the milk shake. “Is it because you’re broke?”

  “What?”

  “Mom said that you barely make enough to afford your fleabag apartment.”

  “She said that to you?”

  “Well, no.” Cassie shrugged. “I overheard her on the phone.” She looked at him openly, too young to realize the effect of her words, that the last, worst thing she could ever give him was pity.

  He stared, wanting to tell her the truth, tell her all the things he’d given up for her already, and all the things he would again. But kids didn’t need to know about child support and rent and gas at four bucks a gallon. Otherwise they stopped being kids. “Your mother was joking.”

  “Yeah?” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “I’m made of money. You know, fleabag apartments aren’t cheap. You have to pay extra for the fleas.”

  “Dad.”

  “Plus flea food.”

  “Dad.”

  “And flea grooming. Fleas are very particular about their grooming.”

  She giggled, and the solemn expression fell from her face. It was something.

  RING.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “John Loverin.”

  “Johnny Love, Johnny Love. You know who this is?”

  “Sure, kid, I know. How the hell are you?”

  “Depends on whether you have my money.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I look like a Democrat?”

  “Ain’t it the way. Since you bring it up, the price you’re asking. I’m thinking an even two instead.”

  “Hmm. Let me consider that. I don’t want to say anything rash.” A pause. “Nope, I had it off the bat: Blow it out your ass.”

  “Hey—”

  “Hey my ten-inch cock. You know you can turn it around for double what I’m charging. So let’s not play.”

  “All right, all right. Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “You have a buyer lined up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not someone you want to disappoint, I’m guessing.”

  “Not so much, no. So I can count on you, right, kid?”

  “Anybody tell you that whole ‘k
id’ thing is kind of annoying?”

  “Most people are too smart to take that tone.”

  “You find someone else who can get you this, you can tell me to walk. Till then, I take any tone I like. Another thing. Tuesday. It’s not going to be me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It won’t be me comes in to see you. I’m sending someone.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who?”

  “Crooch.”

  A laugh. “Jesus. Anything to avoid a little dirty work yourself, huh? You must really have that pasty-faced loser twisted around your finger. What did you catch him doing?”

  “Everybody sins, Johnny. I’m just there to see it. So we OK? You’re fine with Crooch?”

  “Kid, so long as he brought what you’re selling, I’d be fine if it was Big Bird squeezed his feathery butt through my door.”

  “Glad to hear it. Let’s keep everything simple. A nice, clean deal.”

  “You deliver, I deliver.”

  “Fair enough. Have a happy fucking weekend.”

  AFTER ALEX DROPPED CASSIE OFF, as he was battling traffic eastward and holding off the mood as best he could, his cell phone rang. He checked the screen. Trish. No way he wanted to talk to her now. Instead he leaned back in the seat and sucked deep on the emotions that had been waiting for him, a cocktail he drank often: two parts rage to one part aching frustration, flavored with a dash of self-pity. Damn her for talking about him that way in front of Cassie. And damn her for her snide attacks about the child support. Sure, over the years he’d missed a couple of payments. But he was doing the best he could.

  Still, he couldn’t find it in him to hate her. He knew her too well. She wasn’t cruel; she was just practical in a relentless sort of way. All about the end result. They’d split up in part because she didn’t want to be married to a bartender. She was young, had her looks and her brains, and though Cassie limited the dating options, for a certain type of guy—the kind who had worked harder than he meant to for fifteen years, then looked up and realized his life was empty—a kid was actually a bonus. Insta-family, just add wedding ring and mortgage payments.

  Of course, now there wasn’t much room for an ex-husband. Especially one who still tended bar.

  The joyless irony of it all was that he had to go to work even now. Right now, in fact. He stewed for the rest of the commute, then swallowed his cocktail like a man and went inside.

  At this hour, Rossi’s had that hollowed-out look, like a house where the owners were on vacation. The hostess stand was empty, and servers were rolling napkins in the dining room. He walked past to the bar. His kingdom. Jesus. The thought made him wonder if he remembered how to tie a noose. An early shift bartender was setting out bottles. He nodded at Alex, said, “Johnny wants you.”

  “What for?”

  “Didn’t say. Just wanted you to come back to his office when you got in.”

  “He’s here? At three o’clock?”

  “Will wonders never, right?”

  Alex nodded, reached around the tap for a glass, filled it with Diet Coke, then went to the back room. He paused to check the kegs—he’d been easing a few better beers into rotation, a couple of taps of Lagunitas and Victory, good American craft beers to add to the usual crap that people drank—then noticed that the back door to the alley was unlocked yet again. The kitchen staff went out back to smoke and never locked it. He threw the bolt, went to the office door, and stepped inside.

  Johnny Love sat behind the desk, facing away. He whirled at the sound of the door opening. “What the fuck?”

  “Ahh—” Alex hesitated. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Don’t you knock?” He straightened in the chair, positioning his body to hide something behind him.

  Alex fought the urge to point out that this was more often his office than Johnny’s, that he and the restaurant managers used it day in, day out, instead of the occasional drop-by. Instead, he said, “Sorry, Mr. Loverin. My mistake.”

  Johnny turned back around and did something with his hands. Alex couldn’t see what he was doing, but heard a creak, and then a dull metal clank. Johnny was putting something in the safe. Alex waited, rocking from one foot to the other, until his boss swiveled back around and slowly raised one foot and then the other to set them on top of the desk. Said nothing. Marking his territory as clear as if he’d pissed on the desk.

  Alex repeated, “You wanted to see me?”

  Johnny stared. It was a look that Alex supposed had once been scary, back in the days when the guy was actually a player, carried a gun. He said, “How’d you like to earn a little extra money?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Simple thing. I’ve got a meeting this Tuesday night, I’d like you to join.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I just mean, what’s this about?” There had been talk that Johnny was buying into another restaurant. If it was true, he might be looking for somebody to manage the place. The step up in salary might make the difference Alex needed.

  “What it is, what you need to know, it’s just a little side deal I’ve got going on. A guy I know who likes to pretend he’s tough. I want you to stand around, wear a shirt shows off those muscles.”

  “You want me to be a bodyguard?”

  “Nothing like that. It’s a, what do you call it, a pageant. You’re there to make things look a certain way. You’re set dressing.” Johnny nodded at that, pleased with the description.

  “Set dressing.”

  “Yeah. You stand with your arms folded. Don’t say anything. Just look mean.”

  “Umm.” Alex hesitated. “I’m not sure—”

  “Two hundred bucks. Should only take ten minutes or so.”

  Alarm bells started chiming in Alex’s head. A meeting in the back office, him pretending to be muscle? He remembered the things he’d told the others, Italians coming in with briefcases and leaving empty-handed. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about a new restaurant. “You know, Mr. Loverin, that’s not really what I’m about.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not what you’re about?”

  “I mean, whatever this is—I just—well, I’m really not into that kind of thing.”

  Johnny took his feet from the desk, sat up straight. “What kind of thing?” His voice thin and his eyes narrow.

  Shit. “That came out wrong. I just mean, if it’s OK with you, I’d as soon stick to my regular job.”

  “Your regular job.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You work for me, right? So your regular job, it’s doing what I tell you, isn’t it?”

  All right. First Trish, now this. Enough. “When some drunk gets rough in the bar, I handle it. But this is something else. I’ve been here a while, and I’ve heard some things, and whatever this is, I don’t want any part of it.”

  For a long moment, Johnny said nothing. Then he ran his tongue slowly over his lips. “That’s a pretty big speech, kid.”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect.”

  “A pretty big fucking speech indeed, coming from an assistant fucking manager. You’ve heard some things? Good for fucking you.” He cracked his thumbs. “There’s a recession, you know that? Every day I get people in here looking for work. Plenty of people who could do your job. You ever think of that?”

  “Mr. Loverin—”

  “You had your say. Now it’s my turn. You do this very simple thing I’m asking or you find yourself another job. But you better not even try to tell people you worked here. Because when they call—and they will—I’ll tell them that I fired you for stealing from the register. I’ll tell them you’re an ungrateful little punk been ripping me off for years.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I said it, so it’s true. Get me?”

  How the hell had they ended up here? One minute he was coming in to cover a shift, now he was in danger of losing his job? Part of hi
m wanted to stand up and tell Johnny Love to screw himself.

  But then he remembered his bank account, maybe two hundred bucks in it. He thought of Trish, and the way she’d started in on him about the child support from the moment he saw her. He could find another job, but Johnny was right; if he tried to go to another bar, the owner would call. Sure, he’d be able to find something eventually, probably something better. But how long would it take? And what would Trish say when he told her he’d been fired?

  What would she say to Cassie?

  Then Johnny smiled. “Anyway, you’ve got this all wrong. It’s no big deal. Just a show, kid. No need to get your stockings twisted.”

  Alex felt another cocktail of emotions coming on. Two parts sickness in his stomach, one part pissed-off, with a twist of what-choice-do-I-have? “Mr. Loverin, I need this job. But—”

  “Good. Tuesday. And you know what? Let’s call it three hundred.” He reached for the phone, dialed, rocked the chair back on two legs. “Mort! How the hell are you.” Johnny laughed, then looked up at Alex as if surprised to see him still standing there, and jerked his head toward the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  HE WASN’T GOING.

  Mitch lay on his back, one arm behind his head. The night had been cool enough to leave the bedroom windows open, and the breeze blew the curtains in flips and swirls, morning sunlight blinking as they parted. The room went from dark to bright to dark.

  He could imagine the scene this Thursday night. Them asking where he’d been, why he’d missed brunch. Just shrugging, saying something came up. Playing it cool, like Jack Nicholson. Aloof. In control.

  Of course, Jenn would be there. Probably wearing a sundress.

  He stared at the ceiling. Sundress. Jack Nicholson. Sundress.

  Mitch kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed. Maybe he’d be late.

  He showered, NPR in the background. The subprime housing crunch, the Dow plummeting, the Bush administration pushing for war with Iran because the two wars they already had were going so well. He shaved carefully, then killed the water and dried himself with the same towel as always, even though there were two hanging in the bathroom. Two because that’s what grown-ups had, just in case someday there were two people showering.