Good People

by Marcus Sakey

  A sound came from down the hall. The refrigerator door opening. Jack was in the kitchen. He must have felt safe with Tom unconscious, left him here. Just lucky timing. Tom stood, holding his left arm in his right. The world wobbled, then slowly steadied. Now what?

  He might be able to make it out the front door, but what if Anna came home before he could get the cops here? He could try her cell phone, but what if she was on the El, or the battery was dead?

  No. He couldn’t leave until he knew they were both safe. So what then? The phone was no good; the extension was in the kitchen. His cell was in his bag, but he didn’t see it. The room was spare, just the chair, an entertainment center, a TV, a lamp. His eyes roamed the fireplace, the shelves, the hallway. His toolbox. He’d left it in the hallway after looking for the drugs.

  He didn’t let himself think. Just ordered his feet to move. One step. Two. Heart racing, Tom bent down by the orange plastic toolbox. The latches were unfastened. Thank God he’d been in a hurry the other day. He reached for it, automatically using his closer hand, his left. The broken pinkie grazed the lid. Stars burst behind his eyes. He wanted to gasp, to howl, to scream curses and kick the wall. He held his breath and didn’t make a sound.

  Don’t stop, you don’t have time, go, go, be strong. Teeth grinding, he forced his right hand into motion. Opened the lid gently. Inside the top tray lay a collection of small tools: needle-nose pliers and a current detector and a miniature flashlight and a handful of misfit screws. And a four-inch Buck knife. Tom picked it up with two fingers. He’d originally had the hammer in mind, but this was better, faster and concealable. Carefully, he lowered the lid of the toolbox.

  He heard a noise from down the hall and jerked upright. It took a minute to process the familiar pop and hiss. Jack had gone to grab a beer, like this was no big deal. The rush of anger that brought was amazing, hundred-proof hate at the sheer arrogance. The guy had clearly written Tom off as nothing.

  Lips twisted, Tom took the few steps back to the chair. He opened the knife and slid it gingerly into his front right pocket. Then he sat, closed his eyes, and waited. He might be down, but he wasn’t nothing.

  JACK TOOK A LONG SWALLOW of Old Style. The cold beer slid easy down his throat. He glanced at his watch, saw it was nearly six. The woman would be home soon. Almost done.

  He walked down the hall. Tom Reed was still in the chair. His position was a little different, though, and his breathing didn’t have the regularity that came with unconsciousness. His left hand burned red, angry flesh and drying blood. “You awake?”

  The guy didn’t answer, but his eyelids twitched. “Yeah, you’re awake.” Jack stepped past him, to the front window. Glanced out at the quiet block. A pretty little street. Vintage graystones and two-flats, a couple of bungalows stuck in between. Plenty of trees, but still in the middle of things, restaurants and bars an easy stroll. The people walking dogs smiled at each other, stopped to chat. “Lemme ask you, what does a place like this run?”

  There was a long pause, and then Tom said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What? You think I don’t live somewhere?” He turned back from the window, walked over to the door. Unlocked it. “How much?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You bought it, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how much?”

  Tom rubbed at his head with his right hand. “There’s a place for sale down the block for five and a quarter.”

  “Half a million dollars.” He whistled, traced the woodwork of the molding with the palm of his hand. “You know the house I grew up in, my dad bought for something like thirty grand? A little place off Archer, with a postage-stamp yard and a crooked roof. My brother and I shared a bedroom until… shit, until I moved out.” He sipped his beer. “It was a big deal, though, him being able to buy at all. Most of the Polacks we knew were renting.”

  “What did you mean when you said you thought Anna knew where the money was?”

  Jack walked over to the wall, leaned against it. “Two people put something somewhere, one is surprised to find it gone?” He shrugged.

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Better hope you’re wrong.” Jack rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Long jobs were the hardest. Too much time for foul-ups. A neighbor looking through the window, a civilian growing a spine, you never knew. Forty-three years old now, and more work than he could remember. Time to quit. Once he and Marshall split the money, he was heading for Arizona. See if Eli was still interested in a partner for his bar. Jack unclipped his mobile phone from his belt, flipped it open. The reception was fine. “I know, I know, it’s a bitch. Hard to believe something like that. But it’s funny how money changes people. Even people you trust.”

  “If Anna does know where the money is…” The man hesitated, and Jack could see that it hurt him to think like that. “Will you just take it and go?”

  “You have a gambling problem or something?”

  “Huh?”

  Jack finished the beer in a long swallow. “You’ve got a building in a neighborhood that runs half a mill.” He set the can on the ground, then stomped it flat. Saw Tom Reed wince at that. He chuckled, then bent to pick up the can and slip it in his pocket. “You’ve got a job that pays solid bank, and a good-looking wife.”

  “So?”

  “I’m just wondering, why would you take the money?” He paused, locked eyes with the guy. “I really want to know. I mean, what is it you want” – he gestured in a circle – “you don’t already got?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  Tom shook his head, said nothing.

  “Okay, sure, it’s tempting. Money is always tempting. But you had to know life didn’t work that way, right? In your heart? I mean, it was a bag full of money.”

  “We…” Tom hesitated. “We didn’t know where it came from. We thought it was his. Like he’d saved it, didn’t trust banks.”

  “That make it better?”

  “He was dead. We weren’t hurting anybody.”

  “That’s the problem with you people.” Jack cracked his thumbs. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t have taken it. I would. Did, as a matter of fact. But I didn’t tell myself it wasn’t hurting anybody. I wanted it, so I took it. You get my meaning?”

  “No.”

  “Let me put it another way.” He cocked his head. “You really believe you didn’t bring this on yourself?”

  Tom opened his mouth, then closed it. The moment stretched. Then Jack felt the phone vibrate on his hip. He drew the.45. “Don’t fuck around. Get me?”

  Tom gave the barest of nods.

  Jack opened his phone and read the text message.

  ANNA FLIPPED ON HER BLINKER, waited for a white construction van to pass, then put the Pontiac in reverse, turned the wheel hard, and backed into the narrow space. Before she moved to the city, parallel parking had seemed like an arcane art. Now she could do it in her sleep.

  The sidewalk was dappled with spring sunlight, little patches of flowers beginning to bloom beside the road. A red BMW was offset by an explosion of white tulips, and a flowering bush half obscured a black Honda, the engine running, a man inside fiddling with a cell phone. She strolled easy, thinking about Tom’s voice as he’d suggested they go to a hotel. He hadn’t seemed worried – just the opposite, in fact. Like he’d solved a problem that had been bugging him, and wanted to celebrate. Odd.

  Still, a hotel sounded nice. They used to do that every now and then, check into a place downtown just for the change. A vacation in their hometown, complete with big fluffy robes and a swimming pool. It had been years. Should be fun.

  She climbed the steps and dug for her keys. Checked the mailbox out of habit – nothing, again, which was getting ridiculous – and figured she’d pack her green bikini with the blue flowers, order room service and a movie.

  The door to the bottom apartment yanked open, and a burly blur came t
hrough it, a man, she could see that much as she threw her hands up in panic, and then he grabbed her, fingers steel on her arm, and yanked her inside, her feet tangling, struggling just to stay vertical as he half pulled, half tossed her through the open door. She took three or four steps to catch her balance, and was opening her mouth to shriek when she saw Tom starting to force himself up from the overstuffed chair, his hand held at an awkward angle. What was he doing here? What was going on?

  The door closed behind them. “Don’t scream, Anna.”

  There was blood on Tom’s left hand, and the way he held it was odd, a swollen mess, the pinkie off-kilter. Her nerves felt like she’d bitten metal. She gasped, one hand covering her mouth, and started forward. Then she saw the look on his face, and stopped.

  Sometimes it felt like they had known each other for a hundred years. She knew his every gesture, every expression. She could render them in her mind: the easy smile, tilted a little to one side, that drew crinkles around his eyes. The half-lidded head loll, lips barely parted, as they made love in the night. His precise squint when reading, meant not to bring the words into focus but to put the rest of the world out.

  She had never seen the look that was on his face now. She recognized fear around the wide eyes. Pain marked in the press of his lips. And concern, concern for her, in the cock of his head and the readiness of his body. But there was something else too. A guardedness like a metal gate drawn across a store window. And through the slats of that, a sharp and sparkling accusation.

  And so she wasn’t surprised when the man behind her said, “Funny thing, Anna. Tom really believed it was in the basement.”

  She turned, her lips curling in a snarl at this creature, this monster who had hurt her husband, who had smashed his hand and drawn a screen across his eyes. She found herself staring directly into the barrel of a big gun. The hole shallowed the depth of field until everything behind that black circle was just blurry shapes, and one of those blurry shapes said, “Anna, where did you take my money?”

  IT WAS TRUE. Jack had told the truth, and his wife had lied.

  At first, when Jack had yanked open the door and snatched Anna, snapped her into the room like he was cracking a whip, Tom had reacted on instinct, struggling to get out of the chair. Ready, as always, to catch her should she fall. But then their eyes had met, and he saw what was in hers. She had taken the money.

  She had taken the money and she hadn’t told him. As a result, he’d been held at gunpoint on the dirty basement floor. He’d had his fingers smashed and broken. Had a gun held to his belly by a man clearly willing to pull the trigger. And worse than the consequences was the action. His wife had betrayed him.

  Stop. Now isn’t the time. He didn’t try to forget his feelings. He just pushed them down. If they were going to get out of this, he needed to focus.

  Anna stood a few feet away, one hand still holding her keys, the other at her side and behind, as if preparing to catch herself. “What money?”

  “You know what money, Anna.”

  She hesitated, then said, “It’s not here.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  No, Tom thought, no, don’t get cute with him, he’ll –

  Jack’s left hand lashed out in a wicked slap. From his chair, Tom saw her head jerk sideways, saw the force ripple through her body, and he leapt to his feet without thinking, instinct mingling with pure hate. But Jack was a move ahead of him, the gun swinging over to point at his chest. Tom thought about going for it. Wanted to. But there was no way he could cover the distance.

  Icy. He had to be icy. Cold and hard and able to bear what Jack dealt, so that when the moment came, he could act. He lowered his arms.

  Jack nodded, kept the gun where it was, but looked at Anna. “Let’s try this again, honey. This time, if I don’t like your answer, I’m going to shoot your husband. Now, where-”

  “Upstairs. It’s upstairs.” The words tumbled from Anna’s lips.

  “Show me.” He gestured with the pistol. “You too.”

  Tom’s mind was racing. Once they gave him the money, there was no reason Jack wouldn’t kill them. They’d seen his face, heard him talk. And for a man who was used to pulling the trigger, what were two more bodies? He would have to move first. Soon. The weight of the knife in his pocket was a comfort. His fingers screamed to reach for it, but he made himself stand still.

  “Let’s go.” Jack gestured. Tom moved to the entryway of their building. Through the glass doors of the vestibule he could see their porch, and beyond it, the street. A woman walked by with a dog, a blue plastic bag dangling heavy from one hand. Normal life, ten feet away. It made him want to scream.

  “Move.”

  Anna opened the door and started up, Tom following, and behind them Jack. Like they were landlords again, just showing the place to a prospective tenant. Two baths, plenty of street parking, a washer and dryer in the basement. Want to see the back porch, or would you rather just shoot us? Panic thoughts he didn’t have time for. The steps fell away one at a time. His legs tingled, and his palms itched. Soon. He’d never used a knife in anger before, wondered how best to hold it.

  But when Anna opened the door, hope quickened in Tom’s chest. Besides the usual squeak of the hinges, there came a series of three quick beeps. The alarm system.

  Jack heard it too. He hustled them inside, closed the door behind, his mouth set hard. “Turn it off.”

  Beep.

  Anna started for it. Tom said, “Don’t.” She hesitated. Jack whirled on him, stepped forward, raising the gun.

  Beep.

  Tom said, “He’s going to kill us. After we give him the money, he’s going to kill us.”

  Jack said, “Turn off the alarm, Anna. Do it now.”

  Beep.

  The three of them stood frozen. Tom had his hand against the hem of his pocket, but couldn’t move, didn’t dare, not while Jack stared at him.

  Beep.

  “Goddamnit,” Jack said, his voice irritated more than angry. He stepped forward and put the barrel of the gun under Tom’s chin, then turned to Anna. “Turn it off.”

  It was the best chance he was likely to get. Tom dug into his pocket, fingers grazing the ridged plastic of the handle, twisting his body at the same time, his first thought to get out of the line of fire, his second to bring the knife up. Time went liquid, and he could see everything at once without any of it really registering, a twitch around Jack’s eyes as he sensed Tom’s motion, the counter-slosh throbbing of his head as he jerked back fast, another beep from the alarm panel, Anna’s mouth opening to scream, the faint hitch as the knife snagged the edge of his pocket, slowing him down. His chin passed over the gun even as Jack pulled the trigger, a roar like the world breaking, but no pain.

  Then he had the knife clear of his pocket, and lunged forward, not planning anything fancy, just stabbing underhanded as hard as he could. He saw Jack twisting too, left arm coming down, and Tom tried to adjust, to make it to the stomach, but Jack was too quick, his forearm slammed into Tom’s hand, weird with resistance and suddenly wet as the blade cut flesh. Jack roared and spun, bringing his gun hand up in a gut punch. The breath blew from Tom’s lungs, and he struggled to swing the knife again, but Jack stepped into him, a hard shoulder-check that knocked him back. His feet caught, and then he was down, the knife bouncing away. Jack dropped to crouch on his chest, the gun unwavering on Tom’s forehead. He was panting, and his eyes blazed, and something wet dripped onto Tom’s face.

  Everything was still, just the three of them locked in the ear-ringing aftermath of violence.

  Beep.

  Jack said, “Turn off the goddamn alarm.”

  “Okay,” she said, stepping to the panel. “I’m doing it. Don’t hurt him.” Her fingers danced quickly over the keys, and the beeping died.

  MARSHALL JERKED UPRIGHT IN HIS SEAT, one hand on the shotgun, one on the door handle, lips open, leaning forward, poised, waiting. To a civilian, that
might have sounded like anything, a firecracker, a truck backfiring, but he knew it for what it was. He waited to hear the second shot.

  Nothing. He sucked air through his teeth and stared down the block. One shot. That was strange. The plan had been that after Jack got the money, he’d tell Tom and Anna to lie down, then put a bullet in each of their brains. Nothing personal, just business.

  Maybe Jack had needed to kill one of them to coerce the other. Marshall leaned back in the seat. One shot wouldn’t bring the cops. Neither would a second or a third, most likely. It was the kind of neighborhood where people never assumed the worst.

  Still. If he was wrong. If one of them had managed to get the gun away from Jack or get to a phone. Sitting on Will Tuttle’s block with an illegal shotgun and half the police looking for him? Bad place to be. The smart thing would be to take off. But the money was inside that house. He knew it, knew it in his gut. If he left now, he cut himself out of the take.

  Marshall took out a cigarette, spun it between his fingers. “Come on, Jack,” he said. “Come on.”

  JACK’S LEFT ARM THROBBED, a heat timed to his heartbeat. Without taking the gun off Tom, he twisted his arm to get a look. Shit. It was a pretty good slash, five diagonal inches across the top of his forearm, the skin puckered and pulled away to reveal pink tissue. Blood came free, and wiggling his fingers sent shocks down his spine.

  Where had the fucker gotten a knife? If it hadn’t snagged as he was pulling it out… Jesus. Something nagged at him, but he couldn’t place it. No time. Things were getting out of hand. “Now.”

  Anna said, “It’s in the heating vent.”

  “Which one?”

  “The kitchen.”

  He nodded, stood slowly, his eyes on Tom. “Let’s go.” Forcing the pain away. Let them think he couldn’t be wounded, that he was stronger than they could imagine. Fear was good. He tried to think things through, see every angle. The gunshot would have been heard for a block. Marshall would have heard it. Would he split?