The Amateurs

by Marcus Sakey

  “Bad day?”

  “Fuck you.”

  The man had snorted, shrugged, then poured the shots again. “Hope you choke on them.”

  “Me too.” He picked one up, knocked it down, then put his elbows on the bar and his head in his hands.

  How had it come to this?

  Alex was the first to admit that nothing in his life made much sense. Hadn’t since he hit adulthood, really. There was a myth that everybody’s life proceeded according to a larger plan. Where he’d gotten that idea, he wasn’t sure, one of those things picked up in childhood, along with the idea that love lasted forever and that the good guys won and that it was never too late to change everything. It was a lie, all of it. Your buddies didn’t come in at the last second to save you. Things didn’t work out. People weren’t happy. Or if they were, that was just so that when unhappiness hit, it stung worse.

  And yet the fabric of the lies was so dramatic, so interwoven into every facet of his life, that he didn’t know where to begin to untangle it. Every story his parents had read at his bedside, every teacher in every school, every sermon he’d ever heard, they all taught that life made sense. That if you tried to live well, and if you looked hard enough, there was a pattern and a plan.

  But here he was. Here they all were, he and Jenn and Mitch and Ian. Four people of good health and no major handicap. They should have been happy. Content. Hell, just satisfied. He’d have settled for satisfied.

  But was Ian, with his flashy suits and expensive apartment? Mitch, with his won’t-harm-a-fly mentality and quiet daydreams? Jenn, hoping purpose would just land in her lap? They had everything going for them and nowhere to go.

  It was close to one in the morning by the time he hailed a cab, drunk, tired, and desperate for comfort.

  SHE’D BEEN AFTER the maintenance crew to fix the lock on the foyer of her apartment building for months, but Alex was glad to see they hadn’t yet. He pushed through, climbed the stairs, hesitated in front of Jenn’s door, then rapped three times, hard. He was wobbly on his feet and in his heart, and he just wanted to burrow deep into soft sheets warm from her body, breathe in the smell of her, and let himself fall into the abyss. He banged again. Waited a few moments, and was about to knock a third time when he heard footsteps.

  The door swung open. Mitch stood inside, wearing jeans and no shirt.

  Alex stared. Spun, glanced around the hallway. Had he somehow given the cabbie the wrong address? What was—this was the right place. He turned back to the door. Mitch said nothing, just crossed his arms. There was a hint of swagger in his pose, bare chested and with messed-up hair, the guy clearly wanting him to do the math.

  The corner of Mitch’s lips curled into a slight smile. “What’s up, Alex? What do you want?”

  Comfort. Safety. A fresh start.

  The life I imagined.

  “Nothing,” he said and turned away.

  CHAPTER 21

  SHE WASN’T MUCH USE AT WORK, but she went. Didn’t really see a choice. So while Mitch was in the shower, she’d gone through her closet, looking for an outfit that didn’t take any effort. Settled on a calf-length black skirt and a fitted tee, thrown lipstick on, skipped the mascara, and told Mitch, over the hum of the water, that she had to run.

  Last night had been unexpected. She hadn’t planned to spend it with him, not again, not so soon. But after they had found the chemicals, something had snapped in her. She hadn’t wanted to be alone. If she was alone, she might think about what they had done, and she didn’t want that. It wasn’t a rational thought, but then, the last few days hadn’t been rational.

  Again their lovemaking had been intense, the two of them moving well together. In the middle of it, when she’d been on her knees on the bed, she’d cocked her head and looked back at him, a patented move that always drove guys crazy. But when their eyes locked, for a second they’d both stopped. It had been a bad moment, as if all the fear and shame had poured into the room like fog. By unspoken accord they’d both started up again, more furiously than ever, knowing what the alternative to action was. Together they had blotted out the world, screwed it away until they collapsed in exhaustion and sleep seemed possible.

  And half an hour later, Alex had come to her door.

  “Who is that?” Mitch went bolt upright, his eyes darting.

  She knew, from the first knock, but couldn’t think of a way to tell him without explaining more than she wanted to. So she’d shaken her head, said she didn’t know. He’d gotten out of bed, pulled on his jeans, and gone to answer.

  When he came back a few minutes later, he said, “Alex.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He didn’t say. I think he was drunk.” His tone giving her an opportunity to add something. But she had just said, “Huh. Hope he’s OK,” and turned over, wrapping the sheets around her. After a moment, Mitch had lain back down, and they’d drifted into the awkward fugue of bodies not used to sleeping next to each other.

  Her workday morning was a blur. She answered e-mails and checked airfares and talked on the phone in a daze. Twice her boss asked if she was OK.

  Around noon, she finally made a decision. Yes, her life had gone crazy. Yes, the sky was falling. They had killed someone, and the police were looking for them, and they had a gallon of liquid heroin stashed in a stolen Cadillac. But there were two options. She could either curl up under her desk like some useless soap-opera chick. Or she could deal with it.

  So she’d headed home, retrieved her share of the money, and gone to the bank. A politely bored assistant manager had walked her through some forms, then led her into a back room. He handed her one key, and then took one from his own ring, and they turned them together to unlock a safe-deposit box the size of a shoe box.

  “You can take it over there,” he said, gesturing to a small alcove screened off by a curtain. “When you’re done, put it back and lock it, and you’re good to go.”

  She’d thanked him, then waited for him to leave. She set the box on a small desk, opened her bag, and took out the money in its Ziploc. Hiding it felt right, gave her a sense of moving forward. One item checked off a list. That good feeling lasted until midafternoon, when Mitch called to remind her they had to go to Johnny’s bar tonight.

  Ready or not, the Thursday Night Club had to ride again.

  WHEN HIS CELL PHONE RANG, Bennett was sprawled on his back across the bed with his head hanging off the edge, the world upside down. His hands were laced over his chest. His phone pinged quietly, a sound like a depth charge. He glanced at the caller ID, then answered the call. “Johnny Love, Johnny Love.”

  “Yeah, hi, Benn—”

  “Don’t say my name.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a cellular phone.”

  “But you said my—”

  “So I had a chat with our mutual friend yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I . . .” The man sounded winded. Nervous, maybe. “I heard about that. I don’t know what he told you, but, kid, you gotta understand, I didn’t give you up.”

  “Why, Johnny, I never said you did.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “But now that you mention it, you fat fuck, I think I might tear your spleen out.”

  “No, hey, wait—”

  “Just kidding. He told me he asked you pretty hard.”

  “Well, you know, I hope you know that I would never sell you out. I told him you were involved, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t mention anything about me running a burn on you both?”

  “Well.” A pause. “I mean, what do you want me to say? He was going to throw me off a ten-story building.”

  “The more I get to know this guy, the more I like him. So what’s on your mind, Johnny?”

  “You know I been putting a lot of money out on the street. Letting people know I got robbed, that I’ll pay for a lead on the fuck ers that did it. Vic—our friend told me I get anything, I’m supposed to give it to you.”

&nbs
p; “So what’ve you got?”

  “A Jew bookie. Well, more than. Runs a private casino, some girls. Guy name of Katz.”

  “Heard of him.”

  “Apparently some dude, some yuppie dude, owed him about thirty. Katz was gonna whack him, the dude said that he had a mark he and his friends were going to rob, he needed a couple more days. Anyway, short story shorter, the yuppie came in yesterday with thirty large. Cash money.”

  Bennett sat up straight. The blood rushed from his head, and he closed his eyes to fight the world’s wobble. “Katz have a name for you?”

  “Yeah. You got a pen? Guy’s name is Ian Verdon, that’s V-E-R-D-O-N. No address, but—”

  “I can find him.”

  “Right. So should I meet up with you?”

  “No. Don’t do a thing. Don’t tell anyone his name, don’t send guys looking, don’t tell anyone about him, don’t do a goddamn thing. Get me?”

  “Yeah, sure, kid. Whatever you say.” He paused. “You just tell the big man that I’m doing my part, OK?”

  “Sure. By the way, Johnny, when this is over, I think I might shoot you.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding.”

  MITCH HAD A QUEER déjà vu feeling as he folded his jacket over one arm and climbed on the bus. No, not even that, exactly; déjà vu was more ephemeral, a sort of untraceable feeling that you had done something before, stood in the same spot, seen the same beam of sun. This was different.

  It was more like a video game. That was it. Like this was just a level called “The Ride to Johnny’s,” and he’d played through it before. It had that same patent unreality, the way the bus growled and shook, the packed crowd, body odor and averted glances, glazed eyes and headphones. One week ago today he’d hopped on this same bus up from the Loop. Only in that round of play, things hadn’t turned out how he’d liked. He’d been ignored, ridiculed, left hanging by his friends. He’d gone home drunk and alone to dream about a woman who seemed destined never to notice him.

  Then, somewhere between then and now, he’d hit the Reset button. Decided to reload the level and play through again. To do it differently.

  And would you believe it? The same bored-looking black kid in the same Looney Tunes jacket, his leg aggressively thrown into the empty seat beside him while standing passengers crammed the aisle.

  Mitch smiled to himself, fought through the crowd to stand next to the guy. “Excuse me,” he said, the same as last time, and the same as last time, the guy took a look and then turned away, ignoring him. Figuring him for just another scared white man.

  Not anymore. Mitch didn’t say anything else. He just leaned down, gripped the guy’s shoe, and pushed it off the seat.

  The man sat up fast, his eyes narrowing. Mitch stared back, no smile, no apology. Just a level gaze. His heart was going a bit—not like the guy would do much on a crowded bus, but still—but he didn’t blink. Just stared.

  And after a moment the kid sneered, said, “ A’ight,” and turned back to the window. Mitch slid into the open seat.

  The rest of the ride, he replayed that moment, how simple it had been. How simple it was all turning out to be. You just decided what you wanted, and you acted like it belonged to you. Why the fuck hadn’t he learned that years ago? Although, it occurred to him, the cooler move would have been to, after brushing the guy’s foot off the seat, turn to someone in the aisle, a woman, and offer it to her. Like, Jack Reacher, at your service. That would have been suave.

  Rossi’s looked the same, and he had a claustrophobic moment as he remembered the last time he’d seen it, in the car with Ian, the guy playing weird music and drumming his fingers against the wheel, that manic intensity under skies saddening to dusk. He forced the thought away, replaced it with a memory of Jenn giving him a hug, wearing her Bond-girl dress. The dress he’d later slid off her long, sweet body. That was the world he lived in now.

  Yeah? So why was Alex showing up at her place in the middle of the night?

  Shut it down.

  Thursday night, and the place was busy. The usual suspects, junior-corporate-whatevers, holding martini glasses and pints and longneck bottles, loosening ties and laughing too loud and leaning in to touch one another’s arms. He slid through them to the end of the bar, and was surprised to see everybody already there, Ian slumped on his elbows, Jenn chewing on her plastic toothpick. Alex was in conversation with another bartender, and Mitch nodded in his direction, got nothing in response.

  “Happy Thursday,” he said. He stepped toward Jenn, but she pinned him with her eyes, gave the tiniest shake of her head. Fine, OK. He settled for squeezing her shoulder, the skin humming under his fingertips. Ian turned his head without moving his shoulders. Though his suit was as impeccable as always, the man himself looked like he’d been wadded up and slept in. “Hey.”

  Mitch glanced back and forth, said, “Somebody die?”

  Jenn snorted at that, a quick little sound that he wasn’t sure was amusement, and Ian said, “Funny.”

  “Next round’s on me.” Mitch raised his hand, gestured to Alex, but the guy still didn’t seem to see him. “So.” He smiled. “Victory, huh?”

  Ian nodded, not looking at him. Jenn said, “Victory?”

  “Sure. That was the plan, wasn’t it? That when things were done, we’d celebrate?” He didn’t want to talk too openly, but figured he could risk that much in the noise of the bar. After all, this was the cherry on top, ripping Johnny off and then drinking on his dime. Even if things hadn’t gone quite as planned, it was still a good feeling.

  But the others didn’t seem to see it that way. He looked around for another chair, but the place was full, and so he rocked from foot to aching foot, trying to think of something to say, wishing he had a drink. Finally, Alex came over, drying his hands on a rag. He had fresh butterfly bandages on his face and a dark bruise. “Mitch.”

  “Alex.” There was a long moment, then Mitch said, “Can I get a beer and a shot?”

  Alex reached for a martini shaker. “I heard from Chip over there,” pointing with an elbow, “that Johnny has been going crazy about the robbery.”

  Mitch shot him a shut-the-fuck-up look.

  “I guess whoever it was”—Alex bounced back a you’re-not-the-only-smart-one look—“they must have gotten a lot of money from the safe. Chip says Johnny came in yesterday afternoon looking like somebody was threatening his mother. That’s a quote.” He shook his head. “He’s been in and out all day, making calls, yelling. Trying to find out who did it.”

  “Did you talk to him?” Jenn pushed her glass forward, and Alex poured to the rim, the amount he’d mixed in the shaker precise to the drop. “I hope he’s paying for your trip to the hospital.”

  “He said he would. Right now he’s a little distracted.”

  “The people that did it are probably in another state by now,” Mitch said, getting into the spirit of it. “Besides, the police are after them. What’s a bar owner going to do?”

  “You never know.” Alex grabbed a bottle of single malt from the back bar, poured Ian a generous double. “He seems pretty motivated. I tell you”—setting down the bottle and staring at Mitch—“I wouldn’t want to be the guy who robbed him. If Johnny ever finds out who it was”—he clicked his tongue—“no telling what he’ll do.”

  A bloom of frost flowered in Mitch’s belly. He was suddenly conscious of his breathing. Was Alex threatening him? Was that what this was?

  Jenn caught the stare and leaned forward, her face anxious. “Let’s not talk about that.” She glanced from one to the other, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. “How about a game? Ian?”

  “Huh?” His skin was pallid and sick, and he’d finished half the scotch in a gulp. “Umm. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have a game?” Her tone light as May. “What’s the world coming to?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Alex said.

  “You have a bad day too?” Mitch put his jacket over the back of Jenn’s ch
air, unbuttoned his cuffs and started to roll them up. “You guys are about as much fun as a Smiths reunion.”

  “I guess I just got up on the side of the wrong bed,” Alex said. “You ever do that, Mitch? Get up on the side of the wrong bed?”

  “You mean the wrong side of the bed.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Something in his eyes an accusation. What was that? Did the guy actually think he’d be ashamed for being with Jenn?

  Question: Who shows up at a woman’s house at two in the morning?

  It came in a flash. All the looks between Alex and Jenn that had stretched a half second too long. All those shared cab rides north. The man’s moodiness, the way he still hadn’t gotten Mitch a drink, the way he seemed to be trying to pick a fight.

  Answer: Someone who’s sleeping with her.

  Something twisted in him. Alex with his broad shoulders and muscles and sensitive stories about his daughter. All this time, even while he knew, he knew, that Mitch was carrying a torch. All that time he’d been fucking Jenn.

  He felt dizzy, hot. The air in the bar was close and thick. He had a panicky feeling, like the world was slipping, or like he was. Like he was a little kid again, gawky and shy and falling down in gym class. In just a moment the laughter would start.

  That’s not you anymore. It’s not.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s not be like this. This is a celebration, remember?” Jenn looked back and forth, brushed hair behind her ear.

  “What are we celebrating?” Alex had the look of a man vibrating inside. “Everything is falling to shit.”

  “Hey, man.” Ian looked up from his empty glass. “Keep it cool, OK?”

  “Cool? Why?” Alex shook his head. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old bartender. I live in a one-bedroom in a crap neighborhood. My ex-wife is taking my daughter away. This is not the way my life was supposed to be.”

  “Everybody feels that way sometimes.” Jenn’s voice was pitched low and consoling. “It’s natural.”