by Marcus Sakey
He grimaced, and glanced over his shoulder. Checked his watch. “Let me make a phone call.”
“Now.”
The man sighed. “You win.” He took another step back.
He had just pulled out his keys when the back door to the restaurant swung open.
IAN WAS FIGHTING THE URGE to bounce on his toes, to howl at the moon. They’d done it, they’d really done it. Johnny Love was on the floor, taped and gasping from Mitch’s kick. The duffel bag was on the desk, more than enough in it, even split four ways, to cover what he owed Katz. He was back on top. “We good?”
“Yeah.” Mitch stepped back from Johnny, looked around the office. Took keys from the desk, then hoisted the duffel bag to his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Ian led the way back out of the office, the gun still in his hand. He liked it. Maybe when this was all over, he’d get one of his own. It felt good.
The back room was just as they’d left it, too bright and packed with crap. Mitch closed the door to the office, then stopped to fiddle with the key ring. He tried a handful until one turned.
“That’s cold, man.”
“Just being thorough,” Mitch said. “Nice work.”
“You too.” They stood in masks, grinning at each other like kids.
“All right. Let’s get out of here.” Ian pushed open the back door and stepped out.
Into the glare of headlights. What the—
“Fuck!” A man’s voice.
Everything slowed into crystalline cocaine clarity. Ian saw Mitch freeze behind him, one hand still on the door, the bag over his shoulder. The orange rental car parked twenty feet away. Beside it, two figures, one of them Jenn, her hands going to her mouth. The other a guy, in silhouette. He was moving, keys falling from his hand as it swept behind his back, holy shit, coming back with a gun. Ian stared, his mouth open, as the man slid into a target shooter’s pose, feet apart.
Then the thought hit. You have a gun too.
He started to raise his pistol.
“Don’t.” The man’s voice was high, unsteady. “You,” he said over his shoulder. “Lady. Don’t move.”
You can do this. This guy has three targets. He’s nervous. He’s not ready. You are.
“You two! Drop your guns!” The man in the leather jacket swung jerkily from person to person.
All you have to do is wait for him to turn again.
“Oh God,” Jenn said.
It was coming down fast, but he was faster, he could feel it. Just like playing cards, there came a moment when someone’s bluff looked so good that you wanted to fold. The mark of a real player was the strength to see past that fear.
The man said to Jenn, “Move over by them.”
His attention on her.
Mitch yelled, “Ian, don’t—”
He let his body take over, lowering to a crouch as he brought his pistol up. The man swung back to him. Ian stared down the barrel, finger moving for the trigger.
JESUS BUT HIS HEAD HURT.
Alex’s temples pounded and throbbed. His vision was blurry, one eye closed, sweat and blood on his face. Through his good eye he saw Mitch’s and Ian’s feet walk past, saw the door close. There was the sound of keys.
Why had Ian hit him that hard? All they needed was to show Johnny that he was clean, not lose an eye in the process.
Relax. You’re in pain, not thinking straight. The worst that happened is maybe he cracked a bone in your cheek. You’re probably fine. He forced his breathing to slow.
Near him, Johnny wriggled, trying to worm his way to a sitting position. Alex thought he ought to do the same, but even the idea of moving was enough to send fresh agony sheeting through him.
It’s over. At least it’s over. Other than the hit to your head, everything went fine. The pain will fade. What you did here will change your life. Cassie won’t move. You’ll have enough money to figure out what you want to do. Quit bartending, maybe go back to school.
It’s over.
Then, muffled by the walls, he heard yelling, and a gunshot.
Part II
The Rules Change
“There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is other people.”
—Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit
CHAPTER 12
SOMEONE WAS KICKING THE DOOR. Alex watched through a haze as it bowed and buckled. They’re doing it wrong. You don’t kick the middle. You kick the side. Hadn’t they ever watched a cop show?
Shock. This must be clinical shock. That’s why the pain felt farther away, why he hadn’t panicked at the yelling, at the—
Gunshot.
Jesus!
There had been a gunshot. How long ago? Time seemed strange and elastic. Maybe thirty seconds? He strained to hear, listening for voices. As if on cue, another shot rang out.
What was happening? Who was shooting?
Oh God. Who had been shot?
The thought made him blink and focus, which brought the pain throbbing back. He had to get out of here. See if his friends needed help.
Johnny had made it to his knees. He was trying to shout something, his voice coming out vowels behind the tape. The person on the other side of the door kicked again, and a boot broke through the hollow-core door in a shower of splinters. Someone swore, and then the foot was pulled back and a hand replaced it, fumbling for the knob. A moment later the door swung open, and a figure, someone he knew, who? The other bartender. Chip. His name was Chip. Why had it been hard to get the guy’s name? They’d worked together for years.
“Oh my God,” Chip said. He stood wild eyed, frozen. Johnny made incomprehensible sounds, held up his arms. Chip got it, hurried to him, started pulling the duct tape. “Are you OK?”
Johnny coughed as his mouth was freed, gulped a breath. His face was slapped-red where the skin had been peeled. “What does it look like, you asshole? Do my hands.”
Chip started to unwrap them, then Johnny said, “Scissors. In the drawer.” A moment later he was free. He took the hand Chip offered, stood up. “Call the police.”
“What about him?”
“I’ll take care of him. Go!”
Chip turned and sprinted out.
Johnny groaned, stretched. He knelt beside Alex, pulled the tape from his mouth. “You all right, kid?”
No, I’m fucking not, there was someone shooting out where my friends are. But he couldn’t say that, couldn’t give any hint of concern. “My eye.”
“It’ll be OK. We’ll get it checked out. Hold still.” Johnny leaned over, put the scissors against the bonds holding Alex’s wrists. He started to cut, then stopped. Rocked back on his heels.
“What?”
Johnny held the scissors up, stared at them. “We need to talk.”
The shock wasn’t thick enough to block the sudden fear. Had he slipped up? “What? Cut me free.”
“In a minute.” His boss glanced sideways, then reached over to push the door closed. “We don’t have a lot of time, so listen up.”
Alex moaned, and Johnny leaned forward and tapped his cheek. It felt like a blow from the wrong end of a claw hammer. “Jesus!”
“I said listen. You’ll be OK. It doesn’t look that bad. But in a minute there are going to be a bunch of cops here, and I’m gonna need you to stand up.”
“Stand up?”
“Kid, you’re loyal, but you ain’t too bright. We’re going to get you taken care of. I’ll cover the medical bill. But you need to do something. The cops are going to ask a lot of questions. I don’t know what happened out there, but right this second, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we tell the same story.”
“Johnny, my head really hurts.” He tried to speak calmly, but his body was slicked with sweat, and his voice came out hoarse. He had to get free, had to find out what was going on. Were his friends OK? Had one of them . . .
“Here’s what you tell the cops—exactly what happened, that two guys came in with guns and robbed us. But don’t mention the meeting or the duffel bag. Other than that, te
ll them anything they want to know. They ask if you wear pantyhose, you tell the truth. But not about those two things. You got it?”
Alex took a deep breath. The world was wobbling and pulsing. “You want me to lie to the cops.”
“You do this, I’ll get you taken care of, cover the bills, and pay you for the trouble. A lot more than a couple hundred.”
He could hear sirens now, rising and falling. “I—”
“You tell them anything else, then I’ll be forced to say you were in on it. That daughter of yours? Next time you see her, you’ll be wearing a jumpsuit. Get me?”
Everything seemed to be moving at a weird speed, jerky fast, awkward slow, like a projector eating a filmstrip. Someone had been shot outside, maybe more than one person. One of his friends could be hurt, dying. Johnny leaned in, the scissors in his hand, inches from Alex’s good eye. He could see light play off the edge of them.
“I understand.” He forced himself to stay calm. Raised his hands. “Cut me out.”
Johnny nodded. “That’s good.” He worked the edge of the blade beneath the tape.
Footsteps, loud, and then Chip was pushing open the door. “The police are on their way. Are you two OK?”
“We’re fine,” Johnny said. “Alex needs an ambulance, though.”
“What happened?”
“We got robbed.”
“By who?”
“Fuck if I know, kid. But I’m going to find out. You can bet on that.”
The world was narrowing to a pinhole. Alex decided to let it.
FROZEN IN THE DOORWAY, ears ringing from the crack of gunfire, Mitch stared. Trying to put the pieces together.
They had left the office. Gone out the back. A second car had been there, a man standing near it. He had pulled a pistol. Ian had aimed at the guy, his intentions glowing like a billboard. Mitch had yelled for him to stop. The drug dealer had drawn a bead, fast. There had been a blast of light and sound from over by the cars.
Ian must be hit.
Mitch looked down. His friend seemed fine. He wasn’t screaming or clutching his chest. He was just aiming his pistol and tugging the trigger. Nothing was happening. The safety still on. The shot hadn’t come from him, and hadn’t hit him. So who—
Mitch turned to the alley. The man was on the ground, one hand clapped to his shoulder, face twisted in pain. Jenn stared like a zombie, the revolver she’d used to shoot him still in her shaking hand.
No. Oh, no. He slipped the duffel bag and launched himself forward, ran a handful of paces. The man on the ground was moving. Mitch got to him, kicked at a dark metal object on the ground, the man’s pistol, knocked it skittering across the broken concrete.
The guy gasped, one hand flopped up at a weird angle, the other pressed to his shoulder. Blood pulsed through his clenched fingers. His teeth were tight, and breath whistled through them.
“I”—Jenn’s eyes were sick porcelain—“I didn’t. He’s—”
“Hey,” Mitch said. He moved over to Jenn, put hands on her shoulders. “Hey.”
She stared at him. “I didn’t know what to do. He was going to—”
“It’s fine,” he lied. “Everything is fine. Come on. Let me have this.” Gently, he eased the revolver from her hand.
“I—oh God.” She stood over the man she had shot. Ian came up beside her, the three of them staring down. Like kids on a play-ground , Mitch thought, only it’s not a twisted ankle or a skinned knee, and no one can yell time-out. This game keeps going, like it or not.
“What do we do?” Ian’s voice was thin.
“We have to take him to a hospital,” she said. “It’s just his shoulder. He’ll be OK. Right?”
So if this is a game, what are the rules? Mitch stared, let his friends talk around him. There has to be more than what you’re thinking. There has to be.
“And tell them what?”
“We don’t have to tell them anything. Just drop him outside.”
He barely heard the others. Don’t lie to yourself. It’s too late to lie. Lies won’t save you.
“He’ll tell them about us.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
This is the way it is. You know what you have to do. There’s only one option.
Ian said, “He saw your face.”
“But so what? I’ve never been arrested—”
“It’s not just the cops.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know.” Ian’s voice hysterical. “Christ, I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you put your gun down?”
“This is my fault? I didn’t shoot him.”
“I had to!”
This is the game. These are the stakes.
Do it.
The man was staring at them, his pupils wide but alert. Staring at the two men in masks, and at the woman standing between. Staring like he was memorizing her face.
Or like he already had.
Mitch raised the revolver, looked down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 13
A SMALL SPACE, VIBRATING, BRIGHT. On his back. Sirens. Movement around him. Cool pressure on his eye. Words. “Male, approximately thirty, blunt trauma to the head and eye, probable concussion . . .”
“Am I . . . where?”
“You’re in an ambulance. Lay still.” The figure touching his cheek, his nose, sliding something into his nostrils. “What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“Alex what?”
“Alex Kern.”
“Do you know what year it is, Alex?”
“Ummm.” For a moment he wasn’t sure. “2008?”
“Good. And who’s the president?”
“Fucking George Bush.”
The technician snorted. “I’m going to put an IV in. It may pinch for a second.” There was a brief sting in his right elbow.
“Am I—”
“You’re going to be all right. The blow tore your skin, but your eye looks OK.”
“What about—who got shot?”
“I don’t know about that. Lay still and try to be calm.”
Calm, Alex thought. Right. Calm. He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slow, wondering what the fuck had happened.
“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Jenn sounded like she’d been awake for a week. Mitch didn’t answer. He just leaned back into her couch. His hand tingled, felt very . . . present. Like the kick of the gun had left an imprint.
“Mitch. Are you—”
“Yeah,” he said. He felt at once powerful and weak, strong and shaky. “Yeah.”
It was his first time in her apartment, and it looked different than he’d imagined. He’d pictured frilly things and too many pillows. Clay-colored walls. The standard midtwenties Pottery Barn space. Instead it was tastefully minimal, with less furniture than he had expected. The walls were painted airy colors, and the windows had soft, sheer curtains that flowed with the breeze.
The last half an hour had been the strangest of his life. Like a Lynch film, everything mixed up and weird. Panic and exaltation coiling through his belly. It had all happened so fast. One minute they were walking out of the restaurant, he and Ian, the job done and a new life about to begin. Cut to him standing over a man, Jenn’s pistol in his hand, only one option, one freaking option, and he’d stared at the guy, first at his eyes, then, when he knew he was going to actually do it, at his chest, staring till he was looking at a pattern instead of a person, and then he’d pulled the—
Stop.
Fast-forward.
—to the sirens tearing the night, drawing closer. There had been a sense of causality, as if by twitching his finger he’d set the world in motion. Hundred-proof power. King of the world.
Not knowing what else to do, he’d rolled with it.
He’d ordered Ian into the rental, then he and Jenn had climbed into the drug dealer’s Eldorado. Originally he’d only planned to move it out of the way, but the sirens were closing in fast, and so
he’d spun north, the engine old but still boasting Cadillac power, and he’d had the strongest urge to jam on the gas, open it up. It had taken an effort of will to drive at a steady five above.
Thoughts and images sliding across him like rain on a window:
The good firmness of the trigger.
Her voice asking, “Where are we going?”
An explosion of light and a sound that hurt. The deeper darkness of the shadows that fell after.
“Your place,” he’d answered. “It’s closest.”
Expecting her to argue, but she’d said nothing. The drive was blurry in his memory. The whole time he’d been steering, braking, stopping, he’d been conscious of two things—
Jesus, you shot him, you really fucking shot—
Stop. Fast-forward.
—and Jenn beside him. He could smell her, not perfume, her, the gentle smell of sweat and hair, of girl. Once he’d caught her looking at him, but her eyes slid away before he could read them.
And now here they were, sitting in her tasteful apartment, waiting for the smoke to clear. Wondering if they’d like the view when it did. Mitch coughed, straightened on the couch. “Are you both OK?”
Ian and Jenn looked at each other, then at him.
“I mean, neither of you were hurt.”
“No.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“What about Alex?” Jenn was in the opposite chair, her knees three inches apart. He had an adolescent urge to look up her skirt.
“Of course he’s OK.” Ian was pacing. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
“You hit him pretty hard,” Mitch said.
“I didn’t mean to.” He paused, made a strangled laugh. “It was my first pistol whipping.”
“What?” Jenn straightened. “You hit him with the gun?”
“It was in my hand.”
“What about your other hand?”
“I—look, I just did what we talked about. Mitch was there. Right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I was there.”
