Interlude

by Anna Cruise

  “Two blocks,” Claire says.

  I slow down, my eyes on the cars parked along the side of the road. There’s a vintage Volkswagen Bug, and a blue sedan with a plastic bag taped up for a back seat window. And just in front of that is Claire’s car. Doors closed, no lights on. Empty.

  Claire sits up straighter, as if this might help Ron and her sister materialize. “Where are they?”

  I have no idea. We’re on a residential street filled with houses on our right, apartments to our left. Alleys spider out from the main rood and a block ahead, the cliffs loom ominously in the moonlight. I think about where I would go if I were exchanging a half-kilo of heroin for sixty-five grand in cash. And then I realize that I have no fucking clue. They could be anywhere: in one of the houses, in an apartment, or out in plain sight in one of the alleys.

  “Check the phone again. The location.”

  Claire pushes the batter back in place and stares at the screen. “It’s just…here. Probably in the car.”

  I nod. It wouldn’t make sense for Ron to take his man purse with him. Would it?

  “Wait.” Claire leans closer to the screen. “No, it’s…it looks like it’s close by. Because when I zoom in, it’s not on Bacon.”

  So maybe he did take the bag with him. I shift so I can see the screen, too. She’s right. It’s off to the left of us, but just barely. Either one of the apartments or in the alley.

  “Come on,” she says, opening her door. “Let’s go.”

  I grab on to her arm. “Hold up.”

  She glares back at me. “What?”

  “We can’t just barge in on their deal.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we don’t have a clue as to who she’s dealing with.” I might not have ever dealt drugs before but I’ve seen enough crime TV to know the basics. “What if they were supposed to come alone? What if these people have guns? You think it’s a good idea to just crash their party, unannounced?”

  Her glare turns into a frown as she mulls over my words. “Okay,” she concedes. “But…we can’t just sit here.”

  “I agree.” I open my car door and step out. The night air is cool and wet and the smell of the ocean hangs over us like a blanket. “But let’s go slowly. Quietly.”

  There is one alley just behind where we parked, the corners flanked by ramshackle, two-story apartment complexes. We cross the street, then make our way to the alley. It’s not lit well and the shadows from the buildings create patches of complete blackness. The distant sound of traffic and a dog howling are the only noises we hear.

  “Where do we look?” Claire whispers.

  I don’t know. For all I know, they could be inside one of the apartments. If it were me, that’s where I’d be. Out of sight. But then I think about what they’re exchanging: if I were meeting someone to hand off drugs for a shitload of money, someone I didn’t know, someone I had no reason to trust, the last place I’d want to be is in a confined space.

  I’m about to respond when we hear a new sound. People talking – softly: not because they are whispering but because they’re farther away. It’s impossible to hear what they’re saying but I make out a man’s voice. And a woman’s. It isn’t much to go on, but it’s all we have.

  We follow the sound of their voices, past a row of barely standing garages, past an empty lot choked with weeds and littered with broken bottles. There is another apartment complex, a two-story with a set of rickety wooden stairs leading to the second level, flanked by another set of dilapidated garages. The voices are louder and Claire turns to me, her eyes wide.

  Because one of them is Lydia’s.

  thirty-seven

  “It’s all there.”

  Claire and I are stopped at the stairs of the apartment building. The voices are coming from around the corner, between the complex and the garage, and the man who just spoke isn’t Ron.

  “I trust you,” Lydia says. “But better safe than sorry.”

  He sighs.

  “She must be counting the money,” Claire whispers.

  I hold my finger to my lips and shake my head. Not because she’s wrong, but because I don’t know what they might be able to hear. And I don’t want to risk being discovered.

  “Ron can vouch for me,” the guy says.

  If Ron is willing, he doesn’t say anything.

  A few minutes pass. Lydia breaks the silence. “Looks like it’s all here.”

  “So we’re good?” the guy asks.

  “Looks like it,” Ron says. His voice is overly bright, like he’s the receptionist at a dentist’s office. He sounds ridiculous and if the situation wasn’t so tense, I might have laughed.

  The voices move closer and I tug on Claire’s hand, pulling her to the far side of the building.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” Lydia says. I can’t see the smile on her face but I can hear it in her voice.

  “Likewise.”

  Footsteps move away from us, the thump of soles on the pavement. Then they start up anew, coming toward us. Two sets.

  “Jesus Christ, my heart was ready to bust out of my chest,” Ron is saying.

  “Why? Easy as cake,” Lydia says.

  They are only a few yards away, heading our direction. Their buyer is clearly gone.

  Claire shoots me a quick look, then steps out of the shadows and into their path.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she hisses.

  Lydia lets out a little yelp and Ron gasps.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Lydia sounds more indignant than scared. “And how the hell did you find us?”

  I step out, too, blocking her path. “Claire’s phone.”

  Lydia frowns.

  I motion to the bag looped over Ron’s shoulder. “In there.” Confusion flits across her face and I add, “I don't trust anyone right now. So I made sure I could find you if I needed to.”

  She glares at me and I know she's pissed that I got the better of her.

  “You were supposed to wait for me,” Claire says. “We were supposed to do this together!”

  Lydia pushes past me and keeps walking. “I know.”

  Ron has regained his composure. He readjusts his man purse on his shoulder and hurries after Lydia.

  Claire keeps up with them and I fall into step behind her. I’m happy to lay into her sister for her but it doesn’t look like she needs any help.

  “You lied to me.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did.” Claire grips her sister’s shoulder and yanks on her, spinning her around. “You said it was tomorrow night. You said you were going out to buy computers.”

  “It was,” Lydia says. “And we did.”

  “So what? You’re telling me we just witnessed you buying laptops in a back alley?”

  Lydia shakes her head. “Of course not. But Ron got a text while we were out. The buyer was available tonight. We decided to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “And you couldn’t have told us this?”

  “For what reason?” Lydia’s brows knit together, as if she’s genuinely confused by the question.

  Claire looks ready to explode. “Because that’s what we agreed to! Because this is stupid and dangerous to begin with, and I didn’t want you doing it alone!”

  “I wasn’t alone.” Lydia points to Ron. “He was with me.”

  She’s pretending to be obtuse, because she knows what Claire is saying, and she knows why she’s pissed.

  “You know what I mean.” Claire releases her hold on her sister. “We’re leaving—what, tomorrow? Tomorrow or the next day. Going to different places. I told you I wanted to do this together. And you just…you just decided to do things your way. Like always. With no regard for anyone else.”

  To my surprise, there’s no anger in Claire’s voice. It’s laced with resignation and sadness, and Lydia reacts to this. Her shoulders slump forward and she expels a deep, slow breath.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I always manage to fu
ck things up, don’t I? Do things the wrong way.”

  Claire looks at her. We’re stopped a few feet from the street, right in front of one of the apartment buildings. There is no light peeking through the shadows and it’s hard to see anyone’s faces, let alone the expressions they wear.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this kind of stuff alone,” Claire says. “You’ve done too much of this on your own. I just wanted to do something together. I wanted to be able to help, to be there for you just this once.”

  Ron interrupts them. “Look, can we have this little family counseling session somewhere else? Someplace a little safer, maybe?”

  He looks around, his foot tapping impatiently on the pavement, and I can tell he’s nervous. I would be, too, if I were holding a bag full of cash. OB isn’t exactly Logan Heights, but there are bums and thugs that troll the streets, just like any of the other beach towns up and down the coast.

  “We’ll talk when we get back to the house,” Claire says, and Lydia nods.

  I nod, too. Good. We’re getting out of here. We got the computers and Lydia dumped the drugs and we now have cash to get the hell out of town.

  For once, it feels like things are going according to plan. I don’t focus on the fact that the plan is totally fucked up and ridiculous and no plan anyone should ever be forced to follow.

  We make our way back toward the street, just a few feet behind Lydia and Ron.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “No.” She looks at me and I can just make out the small smile on her face. “But I’m as okay as I’m going to get.”

  “I think she’s sorry,” I say quietly.

  “I know. She’s just being…Lydia. It’s who she is, how she’s always been. Marching to the beat of her own drum, playing be her own rules. You’d think I would have learned this by now, especially after everything that’s happened.”

  I nod. I know what she’s saying but some lessons are hard to learn. Even when the truth is staring us in the face, it’s often easier to look the other way or pretend we’re seeing something else instead of the truth on full display in front of us. I think of Sara and our sham of a relationship. I’d known all along that we were a train wreck but I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  “Some lessons are a little harder to learn,” I say. Because it’s the truth.

  She smiles at me again, a bigger one this time, and I’m so focused on looking at her that I bump right into Ron.

  He’s stopped, dead in his tracks.

  “Good evening, gang. Out for a stroll?”

  Someone is standing in front of us. Dark clothes, closely cropped hair, a voice I recognize.

  I swallow hard.

  Officer Trevor Cushing.

  thirty-eight

  Lydia is the only one who keeps her cool.

  “Good evening,” she says. She is dismissive, the way most women are when a total stranger approaches them, but I know she knows him. She’s seen his face, his bio, on the drive.

  His hand goes to his shirt pocket and he pulls out a badge to flash at us. “Where are you folks headed?”

  He doesn’t see me. I’m still behind Ron and I’m standing slumped, purposely lining up my head with the back of Ron’s.

  “Home,” Lydia tells him. “We were visiting some friends.” She has changed her tone accordingly now that she’s seen his badge, and she makes it sound as if we really are walking back from a dinner with friends as opposed to a massive drug deal.

  “Oh? Who?”

  “A co-worker of mine,” Lydia says smoothly. “They invited my boyfriend and I over for dinner. My sister and her boyfriend tagged along.”

  Claire is hiding, too. This is the same cop she stared down, the same one she called out when he tried to bring me into the station for questioning. Even though her hair is colored and shorn off, I know what she’s thinking: she doesn’t want to chance being discovered.

  Cushing flicks on a pen flashlight attached to his keychain. He shines it in Lydia’s face first, then Ron’s. He waves it in our direction and the beam of light lingers on my face before shifting to Claire’s. I don’t look at him; I don’t want to see the flash of recognition in his eyes.

  My hands are shaking.

  “Is this an official stop?” Lydia asks. “Are you on duty?”

  I steal a glance at him. The glow from his flashlight allows just enough light for me to see a frown cross his face. “I’m the one asking the questions here.”

  Lydia stiffens. “So this is official? On what grounds are you stopping us? Last time I checked, it’s not illegal to walk down an alley at night.”

  Cushing motions to Ron. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Don’t open that,” Lydia barks.

  Ron backs up, bumping into me. His hand is wrapped around the strap like it’s his lifeline. Claire’s hip presses into mine and I can hear her breathing: quick intakes, like she’s trying to catch her breath.

  “What’s in the bag?” Cushing repeats.

  Silence.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” His voice is hard.

  “Or we can do this no way,” Lydia says.

  Cushing takes a step back and it takes me a second to realize why.

  Lydia has a gun in her hands. A different gun, a gun I’ve never seen before, aimed at him.

  I don't know anything about guns, but this one is small, like it would fit in a purse. Which is probably where she pulled it from, and I wonder where the hell she got it. It almost looks like a toy, not even big enough to hold bullets, but the look on Cushing’s face tells me it’s very real.

  “Whoa,” Cushing says. He holds his hands up in front of him, nice and slow. “Take it easy.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Ron’s voice is an octave higher than usual.

  I want to echo the sentiment. Because this isn’t some street thug or bum, giving us grief. This is a fucking cop – a cop who knows me and can identify me – and the psycho chick in front of me is holding him at gunpoint.

  “Ly—” Claire starts, then stops. I don’t know if she can’t get the word out over her hyperventilating or if she realizes saying her name wouldn’t be a great idea.

  “We’re heading home,” Lydia says. “I suggest you do the same. Turn around and walk away.”

  Cushing moves, just a small step backward, his hands still in the air. But he doesn’t take his eyes off her. It's like the rest of us aren't even there.

  “Just go,” Lydia says. “Walk. Away.”

  Cushing's eyes are on her, not the gun. Even I can see the weapon wavering ever so slightly in her hand, her nerves betraying her.

  “Okay,” Cushing says. “Okay. I'm gonna turn around and I'm gonna walk away. Just be easy with that gun, alright?”

  “Go,” Lydia says, raising the gun a hair, trying to steady it.

  Cushing turns slowly, then pivots back quickly, his hand reaching out and snatching Lydia's wrist. He pushes her arm up, steps into her and she yelps. He catches the gun as if falls from her hand and steps away from her.

  The entire thing takes less than two seconds, and I don’t know whether to be scared or relieved. Relieved because Lydia is no longer threatening a cop, or scared because he’s now in control.

  “First time you hold a gun is always the hardest,” he says, the small gun now righted in his large hand and pointing back at her. “And you just made this a whole lot easier for me. I owe you.”

  I'm not sure what he's getting at.

  Until he steps toward Lydia and raises the gun.

  He presses it to Lydia’s temple and Claire stifles a scream. I want to help, want to do something—we all do—but it all happens so fast and the barrel is jabbed into her skull and his finger is flexing near the trigger and all I know is I can barely breathe.

  “I want one thing,” he says. “Do you know what that is?”

  Lydia’s green eyes are wide. She gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

&n
bsp; “The drive.”

  My knees buckle and I fight to stay standing. Jesus Christ.

  Lydia was right all along.

  “You give it to me, we all go our separate ways. You get the hell out of here and I keep our secrets. Nice and safe. Right?”

  We’re all silent. The night is silent, still. No cars driving by, no dogs barking or howling, no sounds of the ocean off in the distance. Just uncomfortable, ominous silence.

  I want to believe him, but it doesn't make any sense. I can't envision him letting us walk away.

  “Where is it?” His mouth is next to her ear, his voice silky soft, like she’s his lover and he’s telling her what he’s gonna do to her in bed.

  “I…it’s not here.”

  He barks a sharp laugh. “You expect me to believe that? I'm not nearly as dumb as Gino.” He glances at Ron. “Drop the bag.”

  Ron lets go of his death grip and it falls with a thud. The bag lands on its side and a brick of cash tumbles out.

  “You,” Cushing says, motioning to me. “Get down there. Look through it.”

  I don’t want to but I do what he says. I know what’s in there. Cash. And I know what’s not. The drive.

  But what I don’t know is what Cushing is going to do when he finds out the drive isn’t here. Not just to Lydia, but to all of us. Because he’s desperate, he’s dangerous, and he’s holding a fucking gun to Lydia’s head.

  I crouch down.

  “On your knees,” he orders.

  The asphalt digs into my skin. I open the bag with shaking hands. I can feel Lydia’s eyes on me, can feel Claire breathing just steps behind me. I know Ron is pale as a ghost, and I know Cushing is getting impatient.

  “Find it!”

  I stick my hand in the bag. Money. Bundles of it. I withdraw one brick at a time, placing each one on the ground next to me, lining them up like I’m forming a path leading to…somewhere. Anywhere but here.