The Amateurs

by Marcus Sakey

  Envying teenagers? Now you know you’re scared.

  The thought made him smile inside, just for a second, but it helped.

  They passed the restaurant. At the corner, they turned left, then left again into a narrow alley behind the building. Ian drove thirty yards to nose the car up to a rusting steel Dumpster, then killed the engine. The music died with it, leaving only the sounds of their breathing.

  “Is this really happening?” Ian’s face was pale.

  Mitch rubbed at his temples with gloved fingers. Huffed a breath in, one out. Then he straightened, passed a mask and gloves to Ian. “Here.”

  “Are we—”

  “It’s too late now.” Mitch looked over. “Just keep it together.” He opened the door and stepped out. The alley smelled faintly of rotten milk. The summer air was humid. He rapped on the trunk, waited as Ian fumbled for the release.

  The brown paper bag holding the two remaining pistols looked harmless. Mundane. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Latin music played faintly, tinny like it was coming through a cheap radio. He unrolled the top of the bag and took out one of the guns, a black automatic. He started to tuck it behind his belt, then froze. Pulled it back out, staring down at the unfamiliar metal in his hand.

  And flipped the safety off.

  As Mitch closed the trunk, through the rear window he saw Ian hold his hand to his nose. He wasn’t—goddamn it, he was. He yanked the driver’s-side door open. “Give me that.”

  “What? No—”

  Mitch snatched the amber vial from his friend’s hands. He wound up and threw it overhand down the length of the alley. It landed with a soft plink.

  “What the fuck?”

  “You’re a moron, you know that?”

  “Jesus, relax.” Ian stared up at him, one eye still swollen half-shut. “I needed to be on my game.”

  “You’re stoned out of your gourd already.”

  “I’m not. I just had a moment of panic, that’s all.” He stepped out of the car. “Give me my gun.”

  “Leave the keys.”

  “What?”

  “The keys. Leave them in the ignition. Remember?”

  “Right.” Ian bent back to insert them, then closed his door. They stared at each other, the ticking of the engine mingling with the distant music and the muffled sound of laughter. Mitch felt like he had stepped behind the world, like the world was a stage set and he’d wandered into the wings.

  Does that make it the beginning of something? Or the end?

  “Listen to me,” he said, and got in close to Ian’s face. Anger gave him strength, and the strength felt good. He tapped into it again, the new-and-improved Mitch. “You get your shit together right now. We’re depending on you, Ian. All of us.”

  The man stared back at him, something flickering in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  This is crazy. What are you doing? Just get back in the car. If you don’t go in, he won’t, and if he doesn’t, nothing happens.

  Right, a different voice in his head replied. Nothing happens. Is that what you want?

  “Put your mask on,” he said and handed Ian the second pistol.

  “ALL RIGHT, KID.” Johnny Love unlocked the door to the office. “Now, like I said, this is going to be child’s play.” He flipped off the overheads, then turned on a green banker’s lamp. Dropping the keys on the desk, he surveyed the room, then adjusted the visitor’s chair to its lowest point and raised his to the highest. “You got a shirt on under that one?”

  “What?” Alex touched his white oxford. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Take off the button-down. You’re supposed to look like muscle, not a parking attendant.”

  His hands tingled and his arms felt heavy, like he’d ripped a serious set at the gym. He started to undo the buttons, then remembered the part he had to play. “Mr. Loverin, listen, you know I—”

  “Enough. I told you, this is nothing. You’re a showpiece.” Johnny sat, cracked his knuckles.

  A showpiece. We’ll show you something, asshole. Alex undid the rest of the buttons, pulled the shirt off, wadded it up, and tossed it in the drawer of the file cabinet.

  “Good. Those tats are good. You look tough.” His back was to Alex as he spun the dials of the safe. “Now, tonight is business. What kind of business, you don’t need to know. Point is, the guy coming in isn’t going to try anything.” The safe swung open. He hauled out a heavy black duffel bag and set it beside the desk.

  “So what—I mean, what do I—”

  “Jesus, kid, ain’t you ever seen a movie?” Johnny sighed. “He gets here, you open the door. You don’t need to say anything. In fact, don’t. You’re mute. Just look mean. I’ll say, you know, it’s OK, he’s a friend. Then you come around back here and stand behind me. We’ll talk a little bit, do a little business. You stand there and think about something else. When we’re done, I’ll give you a couple of hundreds, you can take that daughter of yours out, buy her something nice.”

  “What if he—”

  “Just do what I tell you, OK?”

  Alex shrugged. “All right.”

  “Attaboy.” Johnny put his feet up on the desk. “So, what do you think? The Cubs got it this year?”

  CHAPTER 11

  THEY MOVED DOWN THE ALLEY side by side. Adrenaline throbbed in Mitch’s blood; fear, yeah, but excitement, too, and something almost like hilarity. This afternoon he’d stood around in a monogrammed jacket saying yessir, thank you, sir, and now here he was about to steal a couple hundred thousand dollars.

  The door was metal, scarred with rust and years. A sign below the address read DELIVERIES ONLY. Mitch reached for the handle, palms wet inside the gloves.

  It was unlocked, just like Alex had promised. Inside, fluores cents lit the room surgically bright. Steel wire shelves held kegs and hoses, boxes of supplies. There were two doors, one a swinging wood thing that would lead into the bar proper, the other a cheap hollow-core. The latter should be the door to the office.

  His shoes were two sizes too big, and the extra socks he wore to compensate made the heat worse. Ian already had his mask on, and Mitch pulled his from his pocket, slid it over his head. The cotton was warm and itchy against his skin. He took a careful step toward the office, then another. He could hear a voice through it, faint, saying, “Bullshit. They aren’t never going to make it happen so long as they play in Wrigley. No incentive, you know? Stadium sells out whether they win or not—”

  Johnny Love. What an asshole.

  Mitch pulled his gun from behind his back. Holding it made him feel better. Power seemed to flow from it like a totem. He put a hand on the knob.

  For a second, he could almost hear Jenn’s voice: He who risks nothing, has nothing, right?

  Time to test that theory.

  THE DOOR FLEW OPEN HARD, banged against the wall. Even knowing it was coming, it startled Alex, and he spun to see two men in dark clothes and masks, both with guns out and up.

  “Don’t either of you fucking move!” Mitch’s voice, but not. He sounded like he did this all the time, his voice firm but not so loud it would bring people from the other room.

  “What the—,” Johnny said.

  “Shut the fuck up, fat man.” Mitch locked the gun on Johnny.

  Ian moved to the other side, closer to Alex. Their eyes met.

  Here goes nothing. Alex cocked his hand back, stepped forward, leveling a hook. Ian saw him coming, moved in, right hand flying back and then forward in a blur, the gun butt coming at his face—shit, the gun—

  White stars burst behind his eyes. His head jerked sideways, and he felt his brain bounce in his skull. Everything went slippy. Sick agony raced through his body. He staggered, tried to get a hand out to catch himself on the edge of the file cabinet, missed. He felt air against him, and then he hit the floor. Primal instinct pulled him fetal, hands up to his face. Through a haze, he heard Johnny say something, then Mitch again, saying, “I told you not to move.”r />
  JENN WALKED DOWN THE BLOCK, blood singing in her veins. It was happening, it was really happening. She tried to picture it, Mitch and Ian in ski masks, Johnny on the floor, all that money. It was hard to force herself to walk slow and natural, even put a little sway in her hips. There were people on the street, and it was important not to do anything that might seem strange.

  She rounded the corner, then glanced at her watch: 9:41. If the boys had gone in as soon as they got the text message, and assuming there wasn’t any problem—which there wouldn’t be, couldn’t be—they’d be back out in a few minutes. All she had to do was get the car started and be waiting for them. Her purse felt heavy, the weight of the pistol in it, and knowing it was there heightened the thrill.

  The rental car was parked in shadows, and she couldn’t see inside. It was possible that they had lost their nerve, that they were waiting for her. And if they were? Would she tell them to go inside? Or would she do as Mitch had, and try to let them off the hook?

  She didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. Ten feet from the car she could see that it was empty. She walked to the driver’s side, her body alive and raw.

  Something crunched behind her. She looked over her shoulder. A car was pulling into the alley.

  Her thoughts scattered like marbles. There was a split second when she could have ducked out of sight, but then the headlights were on her, dazzling. Her mouth went dry and she had a childish urge to turn and sprint. The car was big, and rattled as it pulled in behind the rental.

  Shit. Behind the rental. They were blocked in.

  Be cool. You have to be cool. Who was it? The cops? An employee? The guys Johnny was meeting with?

  It didn’t matter. Moment of decision—get in the rental and ignore whoever it was, or make a stand? What would she do if she had nothing to hide?

  She turned and stepped forward, one hand shielding her eyes, the other up in a half-greeting. The car was a beat-up whale of a Cadillac. The door opened, a figure stepping out, leaving the engine running and the headlights in her eyes. A man, medium build. Alone. She swallowed, said, “Hey, you’re parking me in.”

  The figure stepped to one side, and she got a better look at him. A pasty guy, thin, with black hair gelled into a pompadour. He wore an expensive-looking motorcycle jacket and had a hand tucked in his back pocket. He stared at her for a moment, eyes trailing up and down her body. A new fear joined the ones she already had, that fear no woman ever got too far from, especially alone in a dark alley, wearing a dress.

  “What are you doing back here?”

  His tone scared her a little, but she forced herself to cock her head, said, “Excuse me?”

  “Dressed pretty nice to be hanging out by the Dumpster.”

  The humidity in the air seemed to be clinging to her. Something about the guy reminded her of biting into metal.

  “I’m waiting for my boyfriend,” she said.

  “Your boyfriend.” The man shuffled forward, glanced in the rental car. “He work here?”

  “Yes.” She stepped back, nothing too obvious, but not wanting him closer. Who was this guy? Not a cop. He could honestly be looking for a place to park. But he’d left the Cadillac running. Besides, wouldn’t a normal person just have apologized, moved his car?

  Unless he was hitting on her. A ridiculous possibility in a dark alley, but you never knew with guys.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Whose?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  She thought about saying Alex, or Johnny, or making one up. But then she remembered what she would do under normal circumstances. “None of your business.” She put a hand on one hip. “Look, how about you move you car so I can get out?”

  “I thought you were waiting for your boyfriend.”

  “I mean, maybe you could park somewhere else?”

  “I got a better idea,” he said, and stepped forward.

  “I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE,” Mitch said, and leveled the gun right at Johnny’s head. His heart was slamming against his ribs. Alex was on the ground, moaning, blood between his fingers. How hard had Ian clocked him?

  There wasn’t time to worry about it. “Put your hands on the desk. Do it now.”

  Johnny stared at him. “Do you know what you’re doing, kid?”

  Very consciously, Mitch slid a thumb up and cocked the hammer back. Johnny’s eyes went wide, and for a moment, Mitch had a terrible urge to pull the trigger, to feel the thing kick against his hand. “Now.”

  Slowly, Johnny raised his hands and put them on the pressed-wood desk. “All we have is the money from today. Take it and get out of here.”

  “Tape him.”

  Ian didn’t move, just stood over Alex, staring down.

  “Hey! Tape him.”

  “What? Right.” Ian slid the gun into his waistband, pulled a flattened half roll of duct tape from his back pocket.

  “You move, you make any trouble for my friend, and I’ll shoot you right now. You get me?”

  “You’re making a mistake, kid. You know who I am?”

  “Yeah. You’re the guy getting fucked.” He was every bad guy in every movie ever made, and it felt great. He stepped sideways to keep a clear shot as Ian moved around the desk.

  “Put your hands together.” Ian pulled an edge of tape up, then began wrapping it around Johnny’s wrists.

  “Make it tight.” Mitch waited till Ian had four or five loops around Johnny’s hands, then let his eyes dart around the office. A small space, maybe eight by ten, with a cheap desk, a couple of chairs, some filing cabinets. A swimsuit calendar on the wall, a Budweiser mirror. There was a big black duffel bag beside the desk.

  “Kid, you’re about to be in shit you have no idea how deep. Walk out of here now and we’ll just forget this happened.”

  “When you’re done with his hands, get his mouth.”

  Ian nodded, wrapped the tape another half dozen times, then ripped it. “Sit back and shut up.”

  Think, think, think. You cannot afford to miss anything. The safe was on the wall, closed. The money had better be in that bag, or else it was going to get complicated. He’d check in a minute. Alex moaned, said, “My eye, you fuck!” Mitch ignored him, stepped forward, yanked the phone cord out of the wall. Johnny was glaring as Ian wrapped loops of tape around his head. He wasn’t a threat anymore. Mitch uncocked the gun, carefully, then slid it behind his back. He took the tape from his own pocket, kneeled by Alex.

  “Put your hands out.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Put your hands out.” He tugged at them, wishing he could ask Alex if he was OK, whisper some comfort, knowing he couldn’t do any such thing. Alex resisted at first, then gave in. His face was a mess, a gash pouring blood into his eye. Mitch winced, then forced himself to tape Alex up, hands and feet, then tore a six-inch strip and covered his mouth, hating himself for it, not seeing any choice.

  When he rose, he saw that Ian had Johnny secured. So far so good. He strode over to the side of the desk, picked up the bag. It was heavy. He unzipped it, stared inside.

  So this was what winning looked like.

  Johnny started bucking, making noise against the tape. Mitch grabbed him by the shoulders, shoved him out of the chair. He landed heavy, the chair skittering away to hit the back wall.

  “First, we’re not here for today’s take. Second, don’t disrespect the Cubs.” Mitch leaned over him. The guy glared at him from the ground.

  Remember last week, asshole? When you told me how much your shirt cost? He smiled, then pulled his leg back and kicked Johnny in the gut, hard. Air blew out his nostrils, and his face went red.

  It felt great.

  “I GOT A BETTER IDEA,” the man in the leather jacket said as he stepped forward. “How about you tell me what you’re really doing here?”

  Jenn’s pulse ran frantic. This wasn’t just some random creep. Not under these circumstances, not with that hair, that car. And especially not the way he was acting. There was only
one explanation that made sense. This was the drug dealer Johnny was buying from.

  Which changed everything. Their plan had been based on the idea that Mitch and Ian would be able to get in and out quickly enough that the dealer wouldn’t have arrived. That’s why she’d sat inside to let them know the exact moment Johnny went to the office. Add to that the fact that they hadn’t guessed he would come to the back, and it had seemed an acceptable risk.

  Less acceptable now, though. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you with Johnny?” He took a step forward, and she retreated. She bumped the edge of the Dumpster, the metal cool and greasy against her bare arm. Shit.

  She could dash for the mouth of the alley. But heels were hardly running shoes. Besides, she’d be abandoning the guys. Getting away wasn’t enough. Somehow she had to get him out of here.

  How, though? She had the gun in her purse, but he was so close . . .

  “Come on. What’s going on?” His breath was faintly sour.

  And then it came to her. A way to make any man move, random creep or hardened drug dealer.

  “If you don’t leave right now,” she said, “I’ll scream rape.”

  He stiffened. “Why would you do that?”

  She took a deep inhale, opened her mouth. Stared him straight in the eye, watched him calculate how long and loud she could scream, how many people might be around to hear it. It was dark but not late, and Lincoln had plenty of traffic, plus the apartments nearby . . .

  “OK.” He put his hands up. “OK.” He took a step backward. “Easy.”

  “Keep going.” She moved away from the Dumpster, the purse in her hands.

  “There’s no need to get crazy.”

  “Just move your car and leave me alone.”