The Amateurs

by Marcus Sakey

  “Just the exterior glass.” Victor turned. “Thank you, Andrews. That’s fine. And you can relax now. I think we understand each other.”

  Bennett picked up his pistol, snapped the safety on, and leaned forward to tuck it behind his belt. “So. You know I didn’t steal from you, I know you didn’t steal from me, and neither of us believes Johnny is suicidal. Where does that leave us?”

  “Seems unlikely the robbery was random. Someone knew something.”

  “No kidding. How are you working it?”

  “To start, Johnny is spreading his name and money around, asking for tips.”

  “Risky.”

  “Only to him.”

  “Still.” Bennett cocked his head. “Even if he gets something, Johnny is about as subtle as a strap-on cock.”

  “You’re right.” Victor leaned forward. “What I need is someone on the ground who has a brain. Who can operate with a little grace.”

  “Uh-huh. And what’s in this for me?”

  “I get my goods. You get your money.”

  “No deal. The product they won’t know what to do with. But money goes easy. I could find these assholes for you, discover they’ve spent what’s mine.”

  “How much did Johnny promise you?”

  “I should say three hundred. But two-fifty.”

  Victor nodded. “All right. I’ll stake you. Whatever we don’t recover, I’ll make up.”

  “Your margin that good, huh?”

  “My margin is my business. Deal?”

  “Sure. Understand, though, I’m not working for you. We’re cooperating. I work alone.”

  “Fine. And I only stake you if I get my goods and they’re intact. Half the product, half the money.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be in touch.” Bennett reached for the door handle. “By the way. You don’t mind my asking, what was someone like you doing slumming with Johnny Love?”

  “I could ask the same.” Victor leaned back, crossed his legs. “And, Bennett, you find these people, then this—”

  “Could be the start of a beautiful friendship?”

  “Maybe ‘profitable’ is a better word.”

  “I hear you, brother. Consider them found.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “I’M SORRY,” the teller said. “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to make three deposits,” Alex said. “Separately.”

  “To the same account.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why not . . .”

  “Look, I just want to deposit this money, and then I want a cashier’s check cut for the total amount to Tricia Kern—I mean, Tricia Stevens.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Why do you need to understand?” He hated this dynamic: Give an imbecile a vest and a counter to stand behind, and suddenly they had some say in your life. Banks weren’t nearly as bad as the post office, but still. And it wasn’t like he could explain he was trying to cover up the cash deposit from his robbery. “Why can’t you just do your job?”

  “Sir, I don’t have to listen to that kind of talk.”

  He started to snap at her, caught himself. “I’m sorry. I’m just having a bad day.” He gestured at the bandage on his face. “My head hurts.” Her face softened some, and he continued. “I know it seems strange. But could you humor me?”

  The teller glanced past him at the growing line, all of them checking their watches or glaring. “Who was that check to again?”

  Alex understood what Jenn and Mitch were thinking, not spending the money. It made sense if you thought of this as a game. But that was bullshit. This wasn’t about generational ennui for him. Everything he’d done, he’d done for Cassie. If not for her, he’d never have taken the risk. Wouldn’t have gotten clocked in the head with a pistol or had scissors held to his eyeball or had to lie to the police. Wouldn’t have had to lay there on the floor while his nice, simple plan went to shit out in the alley. He hadn’t killed anyone. The Four Musketeers thing went only so far.

  “Here you are.” The teller slid the check across the counter. “In the future, I’d appreciate if you didn’t take that tone with me.”

  And I’d appreciate it if you’d fucking do what I asked. He folded the slip into his pocket, shouldered past the line, and stepped out the double doors.

  The bad mood faded as he left the toxic quiet of the bank. He had a couple of hours to kill before heading out to Trish’s, decided to grab dinner. One of his favorite bars was nearby, a place called Sheffield’s, barbeque and a terrific beer selection. He got the same warmth he always got in a corner bar, that sense of coming home. Once this had all blown over, he’d need a new job. Maybe with his remaining fifty grand he’d see about buying in somewhere.

  Or maybe not. He had time to figure it out. Regardless, everything would change now.

  He ordered a pulled pork platter and a Jolly Pumpkin bomber. Someone had left the New York Times on the bar, and he skimmed through. The headlines were depressing, full of news of the mortgage crisis, the stock market bottoming, the recession.

  Alex was conscious of a certain split in himself. Part of him was feeling good, excited, the other part wondering what they had done, and if they would get away with it. Processing the fact that one of his friends had committed murder.

  The thought hit hard, as it had all day long. He’d forget for a while, and then it would hammer him again. What had Mitch been thinking? Aiming a pistol at someone and pulling the trigger?

  Maybe that Four Musketeers thing had reached the end. Time to move on. To leave the three of them behind, start fresh. Hell, maybe even move out to the suburbs, be closer to Cassie. Start catching her soccer games more often, picking her up from school. Leave behind late-night drunks and casual gropes with Jenn. He cared about them, he did. But sometimes you got too comfortable in your old life, too built-in, and only an earthquake could shake things loose, show you that you weren’t where you wanted to be.

  It might be time to start standing alone.

  IAN MADE IT to Wednesday evening.

  After leaving Jenn’s apartment, he went to the office and threw himself into work, trying to use it as a drug to distract himself. He hadn’t taken a blast of coke since Mitch had yanked his vial away, and while he was proud of that, he was also ragged and sick. The burn on his balls fired raw, electric jolts every time he shifted position. And worst of all, he could hear Katz’s measured voice in his head:

  My money. All of it. By Wednesday. Or . . .

  For you and your friends.

  He knew what he had promised the others. If he wanted to keep that promise, he should go home, make dinner, turn on reality TV, and work his way through a couple bottles of wine. Not do any coke, not call Katz, not do a good goddamn.

  But if he did, then he was on the line for the debt. They all were. And he had the money, could pay what he owed. Keep all four of them safe.

  Besides. They would never need to know.

  TRISH HAD BEEN HESITANT AT FIRST, but eventually had told Alex to come out this evening, after dinner. It was typical that she hadn’t invited him to join. Not cruel, just oh-so-practical. Ex and husband do not at the same table eat.

  Her doorbell made a civilized ding-dong, nothing at all like the shrieking buzz of his city apartment. He heard the clicking of shoes against marble, and then the door opened. Trish wore a white blouse and a serious expression, hair pulled into a simple ponytail but nails done. She hesitated a moment, then surprised him with a hug. They hadn’t done the hugging-hello thing for years. “Thanks for coming out,” she said, like it had been her idea.

  “I needed to talk to you.”

  “I know. Come in.” She closed the door behind him.

  “Where’s Cass?”

  “She’s staying at a friend’s.”

  “What? Are you—” He spread his hands. “I wanted to see her.”

  “I thought it was better we talk without her for now. Come on. We’re in here.”

  We? We
who? He followed her, noticing the stack of moving boxes in the corner, the half-empty bookshelf. “Trish—”

  “Hello, Alex.” Scott stood beside the kitchen table. His ex-wife’s new husband was the kind of guy who, no matter what he was wearing, always looked like he had a sweater tied around his shoulders. “You remember Douglas, our attorney?” He gestured to a pale, suited man with watery eyes, who nodded, said, “Thanks for coming.”

  “Everybody keeps saying that,” Alex said, thinking, attorney? He fought the urge to bounce on the balls of his feet. The kitchen was bright and expensive-looking, with granite countertops and a stove that would have made Ian jealous. “But I asked to see Trish, not the other way around.”

  “Sure. Of course.” Scott made brief eye contact with his wife and their lawyer. “Do you want a drink? Some coffee, or a beer?”

  “I’m fine. What’s he doing here?”

  The lawyer smiled blandly. “Mr. and Mrs. Stevens asked if I could join just in case there were any, ah, legal questions.”

  “There won’t be. You can go.”

  “Alex.” Trish came up beside him. He’d forgotten how petite she was, a little elfin thing. “Don’t be like that.”

  He narrowed his eyes, looked around the room. “I came to talk and to see Cassie. I didn’t expect to get ambushed.”

  “Nobody’s ambushing anybody,” Scott said. “We just thought the four of us should chat.”

  “The four of us. My ex-wife, her new husband, and the vampire lawyer.”

  “Come on. Let’s be adult about this, OK?” Trish pronounced it ad-ult. “Come on, sit down.”

  He thought about storming out, couldn’t see what it would accomplish. Reluctantly, he pulled up a chair.

  “Now,” Scott said. “I can imagine how you feel about our decision to move.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He looked pained. “OK. My point is that none of us want this to get ugly. It wouldn’t be good for Cassie.”

  “That your big priority, Scott? What’s good for my daughter? Because I would think that living near her father would be good for her. Staying in school with her friends would be good for her.” He leaned into the butcher-block table. “Not moving halfway across the fucking country would be good for her.”

  “Cassie will miss you,” Trish said. “And she’ll miss her friends. But you’re welcome to come visit anytime. You can have the same privileges you do now. In fact, if you wanted to move—”

  “If I wanted to move? To Arizona?” He shook his head. “I’m supposed to uproot my life because Scottie got a job offer?”

  “I’m just saying, we’re still going to be flexible, like always.”

  “Flexible? You’re moving to another state.” He fought to keep his voice under control. “You have no right to do this, to take my daughter—”

  “Actually, Mr. Kern,” the lawyer spoke for the first time, “they do.” He paused, picked up a sheaf of stapled papers, and leaned forward to set them in front of Alex. “In case you haven’t read the divorce settlement recently, there are clear provisions—”

  “For what? For taking a daughter from her father?”

  “Clear provisions,” the man said as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “regarding the rights and privileges accorded all parties. Now, it’s my understanding that you have missed a number of child support payments?” He glanced at Trish, who nodded. “Which, I’m afraid, severely limits your rights in this matter. Especially as Mr. and Mrs. Stevens have been providing a stable household for . . .” He paused, looked at his notes.

  “Cassie,” Alex said. “Her name is Cassie.”

  “For Cassie. Under circumstances like these, I’m afraid that the situation is quite clear.” He steepled his fingers.

  “What Douglas means,” Scott said, “is that while we all want what’s best for her, there are some rules . . .”

  Alex leaned over, grabbed Scott by the hair, and slammed his face into the table.

  “That need to be acknowledged. Now, we all know that you love . . .”

  He stood, took the chair by the back, and swung it in a home run arc that caught all three of them in their respective heads.

  “Cassie, but the truth is, we are the ones that are raising her day-to-day . . .”

  He snatched the cleaver off the cutting board and spun it in a glimmering arc. Both Scott and the lawyer’s heads tumbled in the air.

  “And this opportunity means the best for her. Patricia and I can pay for private schools, soccer camp, her clothes, and her books. We can guarantee she has a family dinner every night. Basically”—Scott shrugged apologetically—“we can do the things you can’t.”

  “Motherfucker.” Alex whispered. “You motherfucker.”

  Trish sighed. “I knew this wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Mr. Kern,” the lawyer said. “Please. Be civil. No matter how you feel, the fact is that you have not maintained your end of the agreement.”

  Alex laid his hands on the table, palm down, to keep from clenching them into fists. “Is that right? Well, this should make things simpler.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the cashier’s check, unfolded it, and set it in front of Trish.

  She looked at it, and then at him. “What is this?”

  “That, Patricia, is a check. For more than I owe, I believe.” He grinned. “Which I guess changes the circumstances some, eh?”

  “May I see that?” Douglas held out a hand, and Trish passed him the check. He looked at it carefully.

  “It’s real, you dick.” The table had fallen silent, and Alex smiled, feeling suddenly strong again. “That’s the money I owe. So I’m not in violation of the agreement. So you can’t take her from me.”

  The three of them looked back and forth like they were trying to communicate telepathically. He had them worried, he could see it.

  Then Trish said, “Oh, Alex.” She sighed.

  “What?”

  Scott shook his head.

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid,” Douglas said, “it doesn’t work that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “May I ask where you got this money?”

  “No.”

  “All right. In that case, it’s a reasonable assumption that your previous failure to pay has not been inability, as you’ve claimed. You’ve simply been holding out.”

  “No, that’s not true.” Shit, shit, shit. He spoke quickly. “It’s a bonus. From my job.”

  “A twelve-thousand-dollar bonus for a bartender?”

  “Well, not all of it. Some of it is money I borrowed.”

  “From a bank?”

  “From friends.”

  “I see. That, I’m afraid, only further proves that you are not capable of supporting, um, Cassie, on your own.”

  “No, that’s—” It was all getting turned around. “Look, what does it matter where it came from? It covers what I owe.”

  “It matters a great deal, Mr. Kern. But even setting that aside for a moment, I’m afraid that child support isn’t like paying off a football bet. You can’t just come in with the money when you have it. The purpose is to provide a solid household for the child.”

  “Listen, you slick—”

  “Alex.” Trish spoke softly. “I should have known you’d try something like this. You couldn’t just let things be.” She turned to him, hit him with steady brown eyes. “You always did things the hard way. Always denied what was right in front of you. Ignored the facts that didn’t fit AlexVision.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Please. Can’t you accept reality? Can’t we do this without ruining everything?”

  He stared at her, his mouth open. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you think you’re doing this for Cassie. But you’re not. You’re doing it for yourself. And I’m begging you. Please don’t. Please?”

  Alex looked around the table. “Do you honestly think I’m going to just sit back and let you walk out wit
h my daughter?”

  Trish lowered her head to one hand, closed her eyes. It was a gesture he remembered well, a pose she held while she was gearing herself up for something. The recognition brought a surprising stab of sentiment.

  Finally, she raised her head, looked at the lawyer, and nodded.

  Douglas said, “Mr. Kern, I’m sorry to have to do this, but in light of your pattern of missed payments, and at the request of my clients, I’m going to recommend to the judge that this settlement be reexamined, and specifically that visitation rights be limited, if not removed altogether.”

  “What?” He felt his stomach fall away.

  “In addition to which, while this case is being considered, I would ask that you make no attempt to see the child without seventy-two hours’ notice, and only in the presence of one of the parents.”

  “I’m one of the parents.”

  Douglas sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kern. I know this must hurt. Please understand that all of this is for the good of the child.”

  “Her name is Cassie.”

  There was a long silence, and then Scott said, “It’s time for you to leave, Alex.”

  He stared at each of them. The lawyer, bland and lethal, a fountain pen in his hand. Scott marking his territory. Trish seemed like she was about to cry, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. His hands shook, and the pulse in his head seemed loud. “What are you saying? Are you—”

  “I’m sorry, Alex,” Trish said to the cabinets. “I tried to warn you.”

  HE WAS DRUNK. That much he knew. That much made sense.

  It had felt good to key the lawyer’s Lexus on his way out, leaving a wicked scratch across the driver’s side. But that hadn’t erased the memory of what had happened, and the idea of staring at the walls of his shithole apartment was intolerable. So after driving back to the city, he’d gone to the shithole bar at the end of the block instead. It was one of those places no one knew the name of, a too-bright space decorated with neon signs for cheap beer. He’d taken a stool and asked the bartender for three shots of Wild Turkey, done them in quick succession, and gestured at them again.