The Blade Itself

by Marcus Sakey

  Now, seven years later, the man she’d gone to watch stared at him with an expression Danny couldn’t read, and spoke her name.

  “Yeah, it was her.” He paused. “I asked her to go.”

  “You had other plans.”

  “They would have made me. The owner of the store, the woman, they would have made me.”

  Evan blew a plume of gray smoke. “So why send her?”

  “I felt like I owed it to you.” Picking his words carefully. “To have someone there.”

  “Seeing as I was taking a solo fall, you mean.” Evan’s eyes hard again. “I thought maybe you just wanted to see if I’d drop your name.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t.” And he had, too, known that Evan would do the time cold, even though Danny had walked out, even though a word might have saved him years.

  Evan nodded. “Got that right.”

  The music was repeating “I’ve got to get away from here,” and part of Danny knew just what the singer meant. But he was surprised to realize that another part of him was enjoying this.

  Thing was, some nights, lying in bed in his safe neighborhood, he pictured a round metal door a foot thick, like a bank vault. Inside waited a dim room with racks like safe deposit boxes. He’d step in, close the door behind him, slide open one of the little boxes and remember the electric-dicked thrill of drag racing stolen cars down the Dan Ryan at four in the morning. Or the soft, almost sexual yielding of a lock to his picks. His fist in the air in St. Andrew’s, lungs raw with howling as Evan fought in the finals of the Golden Gloves.

  It was his little secret, and it didn’t change anything. There was a reason he walled off those memories behind a foot of imaginary steel. But talking to Evan, the real guy, not the symbol from his dreams, it was like visiting that vault.

  “So you got out early.”

  Evan nodded. “They needed to clear some bunks. It was my first fall for a violent crime. And inside I kept myself to myself.” He shrugged.

  “Simple as that.”

  “If you say so.” Their eyes met again, feeling each other out. Danny sipped his beer, more aware of the taste than usual. He didn’t know what to say next, looked at Evan, looked back at his drink. A moment passed in silence.

  Then Evan spoke. “You hear about Terry?”

  Danny could picture him, stringy hair and bad breath. The last time he’d seen Terry was when he’d tipped them off to the pawnshop. A lifetime ago. “No.”

  “I met one of his old dealers inside. Apparently Terry cleaned up, quit using. Managed to talk someone into letting him middleman product, God knows how, fucking track marks on his arm. He was doing well, selling to college kids wanna walk on the wild side. Then one day, he decides to take a little blast himself, for old times’ sake.”

  Danny shook his head.

  “Soon he’s cutting his stuff to skim for his own supply. Isn’t long before he’s selling milk sugar. Even the college kids can tell the difference.

  He has to hit the street. Only now his habit is back, and shorting is the only way he can supply himself.”

  Something about this story felt familiar. Not the specifics, but the structure. The course of it. The illicit thrill of the conversation began to evaporate as Danny guessed how the story would end.

  “One day he sells a couple of weak grams to a Mexican kid. The guy turns out to be a baby banger, a Latin King trying to earn his stripes.” Evan took a sip of beer. “So Terry bled out in the basement of a tar house on South Corliss.”

  A wave of rolling nausea washed through Danny. Of course the story had seemed familiar. He’d heard it before in a thousand variations. It was the story of what happened if you stuck with the life. Terry had been a junkie, but that wasn’t what killed him. It wasn’t even the gangbanger he’d cheated. What had killed him was the inexorable fact that there was only one ending to stories like his. He’d died because he was too weak to stop. To escape. Danny found himself remembering his earlier thought, the question of what Evan meant to him now. He realized he knew the answer.

  Nothing.

  It was time to go home.

  “Listen, brother, it’s good to see you, but I’ve got to head out.”

  Evan’s expression hardened, and he turned to the bar, one hand on his pint. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, you know, I’m a civilian now. I’ve got work.” He stood up, reached for his jacket. “Construction.”

  “Just like your dad.”

  “Sort of. I work in the office, though.” A voice inside him told him to shut up, not to go any further, but the words slipped out. “I’m a project manager.”

  Evan nodded, still not looking at Danny. “Good for you. Beats shoveling shit.”

  “Yeah. Hey, congratulations again.” He fumbled for his wallet, took out a couple of twenties.

  “You don’t need to buy my beer.”

  “Shit, it’s my pleasure. Least I can do.” What was he saying?

  Evan sat silent.

  The voice inside whispered that this was all wrong, that the tightrope was swaying and he was off balance and the darkness was hungry, but between the booze and the music and the thought of junkie Terry bleeding to death on dingy concrete, he pushed it away. All he wanted was to get out.

  Evan kept staring straight ahead as Danny took a half step toward the door. Danny knew he should say something, but had no idea what. Finally, he put a hand on Evan’s shoulder, feeling the stone-carved muscles rigid beneath. “Good luck.”

  Evan only nodded.

  6

  Sky Burned Blue

  A roar from Wrigley Field drifted up through the autumn air. The Cubs must have scored. In Bridgeport, they’d have been rooting for the White Sox. Danny, he didn’t much care one way or the other, but he loved the way the sun fell on his fire escape, and he loved the tree-lined streets that spread out beneath it.

  Come to think of it, he loved the whole damn place. Loved their condo, a second-story flat with hardwood floors and a working fireplace. He even loved weekend afternoons spent repairing crown molding or laying tile. Evan would have howled to see it, Danny on his knees, painting trim with the delicate care he’d once used to pick locks. The thought of his old partner gave him a momentary chill, but he pushed it aside. It didn’t matter what Evan would think. He had no place in Danny’s life anymore.

  Laugh it up, buddy. Just don’t expect me to care.

  “What are you still doing here?” Karen stepped out, smiling as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Didn’t you promise me a date?”

  He grinned and drew her close, feeling the soft tension of her muscles, the way her body nestled just so. All those years, and still not tired of the way she felt in his arms. He slid his palm down the small of her back.

  “Easy, Romeo.” She stepped away from him with a teasing smile. “Isn’t your boss expecting you?”

  He groaned. “Richard can wait.”

  “Quit stalling. Go take care of business. Then take me to the zoo and buy me cotton candy.” She turned to go inside, stopped, and glanced over her shoulder with a flirty look. “Who knows? You might get lucky.”

  He laughed, and followed her in.

  It took thirty minutes to make it out to the North Shore. In a neighborhood where half a million dollars bought two bedrooms, Danny’s boss had five. Located a block from the lake, the house was an English manor with a sprawling lawn. In front stood a mailbox built as a miniature replica, down to the paintwork. The mailman would hook the bay window and pull open the house.

  Danny parked on the street, hopped out, and found himself in the midst of a domestic explosion. Tommy, Richard’s twelve-year-old son, burst through the front door, yelling and pointing. “Why not? Everybody has one.”

  His boss followed, meaty face red. “I don’t care. I’m not buying you a damn PlayStation so you can rot your brain.”

  “What do you care?” Tommy glared at his father. “You’re never even here.”

  “Don’t you talk that way to m
e, young man. I’m still your father.”

  “Barely.” The boy turned and stormed away.

  “Get back here. Thomas Matthew O’Donnell, get your ass back here!”

  The kid flipped the bird over his shoulder and kept walking. He was stomping away with such righteous adolescent fury that he almost bumped into Danny before noticing him standing beside his truck. Danny smiled bemusedly and rolled his eyes. Showed him a little camaraderie. He didn’t really know why – he barely knew the boy. Maybe something to do with having caught plenty of Richard’s yelling fits.

  Tommy caught his look, nodded angrily. “I hate him.”

  “Ahh, don’t say that.” Danny shut the truck door. “Not over a PlayStation.”

  The kid shook his head. “It’s not that. I don’t care about that. He’s just never…” He straightened, wiped at one eye with the back of his hand. “I wish I lived with Mom.”

  “Cut him a little slack. I’m sure he loves you.” He was, too. Richard was a loudmouth, but his office was plastered with photos of the boy, and company meetings routinely began with everyone giving their best impression of sincere interest while Richard regaled them with his son’s minor accomplishments.

  Tommy snorted. “Whatever.” He stormed away, little fists pumping.

  Danny shook his head and walked to the porch. The truck had blocked him from Richard’s view, and his boss seemed suddenly embarrassed to see him, though he covered with a salesman’s smile wide as it was fake.

  “Kids. Can’t live with them, can’t chain ’em up in the basement.” Richard wore boat shoes without socks, and extended a hand that was softer than you’d expect from a guy in construction. “Want a drink?”

  He started inside without waiting for an answer. Danny followed, wiping his feet on the mat before stepping on the living room’s soft carpeting. Shafts of sunlight splashed across professionally decorated rooms. Everything smelled faintly of lemon. Richard led the way to his private office at the end of the hall. A sumptuous leather couch rested beneath an abstract canvas of scarlet and black. On the walnut desk sat twin flat-screen monitors, both of them displaying graphs and stock quotes. Richard glanced over distastefully, then hurried to shut them off. “And the goddamn market’s more irritating than the kid.”

  “Bad run?”

  “I’m taking a bath. I got in on these sure-thing tech stocks? I may as well have just gone to Arlington, put Tommy’s college fund on the ponies.” He stepped to an antique bar and poured single-malt into Waterford glasses.

  Danny had never seen much difference between the stock market and betting on a football game, except that in another one of those ironies legitimate life afforded, day traders were likelier than bookies to show up with a rifle and start shooting strangers. Richard passed him the scotch, dropped into a leather chair, put his feet on a custom ottoman, and continued ranting about his bad luck.

  Richard considered himself a self-made man, claiming he’d turned “a trailer, a toolbox, and a tower of bills” into a company employing nearly forty men. When he told the story – which was often – he always skimped on the details of how he’d accomplished it. The reason was simple: He hadn’t. Richard had inherited the company, and before he adopted Danny as his lieutenant, he’d been busily running it into the ground.

  It’d taken less than two years for Danny’s strategic sense and hands-dirty experience to turn things around. He made it possible for Richard to earn a profit without troubling to learn anything about the business. It was an arrangement that suited Danny fine. He’d always preferred running things to carrying them, and as dense as Richard could be, he was smart enough to know that taking care of Danny was equivalent to taking care of himself.

  Still, it involved a lot of stupid errands like this one. Saturday afternoon, and he had to endure twenty minutes of babble about the post-Internet market and the dangers of IPOs before Richard finally asked about the bids Danny had brought.

  “Right here.” He took the documents from his satchel. “I pulled them together last night.”

  “Heya, you shouldn’t be working Friday nights.”

  Considering the opportunity had surprised them yesterday morning and that the deadline was this afternoon, Danny wasn’t sure when else Richard had thought it would get done, but he told him it was no trouble. “Just sign the last page. I’ll drop them off.”

  Richard smiled. “Attaboy. Full service.” He glanced at the documents, nodded, and scribbled his name with a gold pen he took from his pocket. “I’m going for lunch at the club. You like, you can tag along.”

  “Got plans.”

  His boss nodded absently, the offer already forgotten. They chatted for another few minutes, and then Richard made a show of looking at his watch. Grateful for the dismissal, Danny finished his scotch and saw himself out. He’d promised Karen a date, and he intended to make good.

  The afternoon had turned out gorgeous, leaves glowing on the trees, sunlight warm on their shoulders. The Lincoln Park Zoo was mobbed, but neither of them minded. They joined the crowd, watching the sea li ons circle endlessly; laughing at the flamingos’ awkward poses; feeling a delighted shiver as a lion used its rough tongue to scrape chunks of meat from a bone the size of a canned ham. Danny sprang for cotton candy, and they sat on a bench and shared it.

  When they were finished, he got up to throw the wadded plastic bag in the trash. On his way back he had one of those flashes when he saw her, really saw her. Not through the myopic eyes of habit and time, but as a real person, self-possessed and smiling. How had he gotten so lucky? Not only to get out, but to do it with a woman who knew his past yet was willing to bet on their future. He sat down, then spun and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his hair while the sky burned blue and the wind tossed autumn branches in kaleidoscope patterns.

  “Happy.” He sighed. “Very happy.”

  She snorted. “You better be. You want me to peel you a grape?”

  He laughed and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of rattling leaves and the joyful burble of Saturday people. Then something collided with their bench. Danny’s instincts jerked his eyes open and had him bolt upright before he recognized it as a kid, a black boy maybe five years old. The kid paused for a moment and flashed them a dazzling smile, all dimples and white teeth, then rebounded off the bench in the opposite direction. He joined a group of children playing tag in front of the gibbons’ cage, shouting as they raced the restless animals. Danny settled back to find Karen smiling down at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, in the tone that meant it wasn’t nothing.

  “Really, what?”

  “You ever think about having one of those?”

  “A little black boy?”

  She laughed and bobbled his head with her knee. “I’m serious.”

  “Really?” He could hear the surprise in his own voice. “A kid?”

  She looked away, then back. “No pressure.”

  “No, I just…” In truth, he hadn’t much thought about it. “I don’t know. It’s scary.” He had a flash of Dad’s pained expression as he stared around the visiting room of Cook County Correctional. That had been hard. But how much harder to endure the same bafflement and hurt on the face of a son? He’d long ago sworn never to have a kid so long as he lived the life.

  But then, he didn’t anymore. It was a fact that continued to surprise and please him, like discovering a wad of cash in the pocket of a coat he rarely wore. He’d been straight for years, with a job, a home, and a relationship to prove it. Though he and Karen had never done the wedding thing, it was only because the ritual meant nothing to them. He didn’t need a ring to be faithful. And they both brought in solid money – far more than he had been able to count on hustling.

  Maybe in this new world he could be a father. Maybe such a thing was possible. If Danny Carter could have health insurance and mortgage payments, why not this?

  “What would we name him?”

  She laughed. “Yo
u mean her.” And bent down to press her soft lips to his, under skies blowing wild as the hope in his heart.

  7

  A Good Score

  It took Danny thirty minutes to fight his way down Clark, and another ten to find a parking place. The Cubs looked good, and the streets and sidewalks were thronged with fans hoping that maybe this year they wouldn’t get their hearts broken. Danny was just hoping to finish his errands and get home before the sun set. It was Sunday, another beautiful day, and he had a date with an Elmore Leonard novel and the lounge chair on his fire escape.

  He walked two blocks to a copy and shipping place. The air-conditioning inside felt stale. Two bucks in quarters and ten minutes worth of forms later, he was finally done with work. The girl who checked him out asked if he wanted anything else.

  “Just a beer,” he said, and smiled.

  She smiled back, a flirtatious look Danny didn’t respond to. Just waved and strolled out, thinking of the easiest way to get home. He could probably cut over to Halsted and dodge some of the traffic.

  Evan stood in front of him.

  Danny dropped his bag. Chemicals pounded through his bloodstream, his nerves gauging fight or flight.

  His old partner had a little smile on his lips like he was amused to have startled Danny. Like getting him off balance had been the point. People surged around them, wearing Cubs shirts and yelling to one another, but Danny hardly noticed.

  “Hey.” Evan stepped forward, put an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get a drink.”

  Keep walking, a voice in Danny’s head whispered. Just go. But he let himself be led into a dim corner bar with a neon skull-and-crossbones in the window. Evan dropped his arm once they were inside, and gestured to a corner table. By the time they reached it, Danny had his cool back. He signaled for the waitress and flipped what he hoped was an easy grin. “Here for the game?”