by Ben Sanders
He said, “Everything will be okay, but you have to listen.”
“Okay.”
He heard a man’s voice in the background, telling her hurry up.
Miles said, “You’re not on speaker?”
“No.”
Maybe this was like dying, having your life flash before your eyes. His memory whirred, looking for ways out. He saw Caitlyn, he saw the Kings Point house, he saw himself on the driveway, and the new man with his gun coming out to meet him—
He said, “Okay. Listen carefully, and just answer yes or no.”
Bobby Deen
The Caitlyn woman was struggling with the pressure. Bobby saw her tearing up, lip going wobbly as she talked to her old flame on the phone. She said, “Okay. No. Okay. No. Yes. No. Yes. No.”
Bobby said, “That’s enough of a reunion.”
The ex-wife put the mouthpiece to her shoulder—probably long-ingrained habit from years of phone gossip. She said, “He wants to talk to Lucy. He needs to know she’s okay.”
Nina said, “Give her the phone.”
Caitlyn did so. Lucy put it to her ear and said, “Hey. I’m okay.” She listened for a while and said, “Yes.” Then: “No.”
Nina said, “No one’s told him the instructions yet.”
Lucy said, “What’re the instructions?”
Nina said, “Just the standard: come alone, and bring the money, or else.”
Lucy said, “Come alone, and bring the money, or else.”
Nina said, “And remind him what I last told him: I always get my way.”
Lucy passed it on, and then Bobby took the phone off her and killed the call.
Nina said, “There’s no point sitting here tense. You can put the TV back on if you like, but keep the volume low.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
NEW YORK, NY
Miles Keller
Stanton was leaning across the table, trying to hear the other side of the conversation. When the call ended, he leaned way back in his seat and said, “Ouuuuuu, God,” as he rubbed his temples.
Miles said, “How the hell did they find her?”
Stanton had his eyes shut, brow furrowed. He gestured with one hand as he talked. “Look, yeah, I forgot: the guy in the hat checked the phone. They must’ve found her number.”
Shit, the burner. He’d left it right there. They’d just have to hit redial …
Stanton said, “What was with all the questions? Are they going to try something themselves?”
“Hopefully not. But it’s good to have a plan B.”
Stanton said, “But there’s no need to go up there—just call nine-one-one, but don’t give your name.”
“No, I can’t do that.”
“Yeah you can. Fucking easy, and your hands stay clean.”
Miles shook his head. “I know what she’d do.”
“Who?”
Miles just shook his head again. “Where’s the money?”
“Out front in the car.”
Miles rubbed his face. “You could have just given it to them.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know if you were prepared to pay.”
Miles shut his eyes, counted to five, opened them again. All he’d been told was bring the money—they hadn’t named a figure. Although frugality probably wouldn’t end well.
He said, “Call DeSean and tell him to meet us up in Kings Point.”
“He’s on another job—”
“Well Kenny, then. Anyone. Anyone who can meet us up there and bring me a gun.”
* * *
Stanton made calls while he drove.
For a third-party listener, the most irritating side of any phone call was the Wynn Stanton side: thick with bullshit, self-reference, self-reverence, and Stantonese. He tried DeSean first:
“Yeah, D-Man. It’s The Stanton. How you doing? Yeah, good. Listen…”
Miles tried not to. He knew Stanton was panicked, out of his comfort zone, trying to compensate with attitude, but he still didn’t want to hear it. They riffed back and forth for a minute, gutter talk and code words, Stanton looking across every now and then to see if Miles was impressed. DeSean was tied up, as suspected, so Stanton tried Kenny.
“Yeah, hey, it’s me.”
Kenny’s answer came as tinny speaker noise, and a part of Miles—a small part not preoccupied by ransom and abduction—begged for a normal conversation.
But Stanton said, “No, it’s The Stanton.”
He asked if K-man could run a pronto ten fifty-six with metal accessories up at Kings Point. Kenny had no clue what he meant.
Stanton said, “Can you meet us up at Kings Point right now? I got Keller with me, and he needs a piece.”
Speaker noise. Miles checked the glove compartment for something to do, found the photo from his hotel room: him and Caitlyn on their honeymoon. Lucy had grabbed it, as asked.
Stanton said, “What type of piece do you want? Oh man, don’t look in there, you’ll go all misty-eyed.”
He was probably right. Save the poignant throwbacks for later. Miles shut the glove compartment and said, “Something small, but I’ll work with whatever. If he’s got a snub thirty-eight, that’s perfect.”
Stanton passed it on. He said, “Where are we meeting?”
Miles said, “Parking lot of the golf club. Tell him to Google it.”
Speaker noise.
Stanton said, “He wants to know what you’re paying.”
Miles rubbed his face. “I’ll go five hundred for the courier fee, plus the gun cost.”
Stanton passed it on and then said, “And what are you paying me?”
Miles shook his head. “Just drive.”
* * *
Kenny lived in Queens, up near Astoria, so he beat them to the club. He was in a mud-brown Chevy people mover with a broken taillight.
Stanton put his window down and cut his lights as he pulled alongside. Kenny was sitting with his elbow on the sill, looking across at them, seeming unbothered about their nighttime rendezvous. He had K-pop on the stereo and he was nodding to the beat, dyed red hair teased and gelled and looking like a well-stoked bonfire.
Stanton said, “What were you going to do if you got pulled over for your taillight, cops found you packing heat?”
Kenny said, “Didn’t happen, so I don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, because you been working for me, got a bit of Stanton in your blood.”
“Right: make me like a no-threat has-been…”
Miles tuned them out. The parking lot was almost empty, but it was high pedigree. Black bitumen that looked freshly hosed, little shrubs with brass name plaques carefully spaced along the curbing. The lane markers were probably freshened up every week. The street was out of sight, hidden by trees, but he could see the portico for what must have been the clubhouse, over to their right. There was a second building as well—a restaurant, maybe. He could see the yellow glow of windows through the trees: this perfect frame hanging there in the dark, like a portal to a new dimension—or a new tax bracket, perhaps.
He said, “So that’s the clubhouse over there—and is that a restaurant?”
Stanton was sweating, breathing through his mouth. He mopped his brow with a forearm. Miles caught a line in English from Kenny’s stereo: “love me all night.” Stanton said, “That’s the restaurant I told you about—real good. One of those celebrity chefs set it up. They got a section that’s just normal American, and then this other bit that’s full-on Japanese. Sushi and stuff.” He was overdoing the chat, trying to forget he was scared.
Miles said, “Do you have to be a member to get in?”
Stanton said, “No, it’s cheaper, but they still let you eat. We should go back sometime, Ken. Shit it was nice.”
Miles sat for a moment trying to think.
Stanton panted and wiped his brow. He said, “You know what I think: I think you should just call the cops and get the hell out. You got the money, you can just be gone, say sayonara to the whole thing.�
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Miles ignored him, looked across at Kenny. “What did you bring me?”
Kenny said, “Smith thirty-eight. I’ll come over.”
“No, stay there a minute.”
He got out of the car and walked across the lot toward the restaurant. Twin lines of solar lights marked a path to it through the trees. He wandered halfway down for a better view, and then stood with his hands in his pockets, as if weighing up his dinner prospects. Straight ahead was a lobby area, and on either side were banks of windows looking into the restaurant. He saw chopsticks in action on the left—obviously the Japanese section. There were tables with people eating in twos and fours, and a horseshoe bar with plates moving on a sushi train.
He could hear cutlery chiming faintly, and a breeze making a low moan in the trees. There was a waiter in the lobby behind a maître d’ station, but he couldn’t see Miles standing out there in the dark. He turned around and walked back across the lot and got into Stanton’s car.
Stanton said, “They got a table for three?”
Miles said, “Kenny, if you want to hang around, I’ll pay you twenty grand.”
Stanton said, “Oh Jesus, here we go.”
Kenny patted his door panel—two dull booms. He said, “Depends what I gotta do.”
Miles said, “Are you in or not?”
“You have to tell me what I’m doing.”
“I need a yes right now. How bad do you want twenty grand?”
Kenny puffed his cheeks, let the air out slow. “Thirty. And the courier fee and gun charge on top.”
Miles looked at Stanton and said, “I need to borrow your car.”
Bobby Deen
Having the TV back on made the ex-wife even more uncomfortable. She must have felt a certain obligation to sit looking at it, because she did, watching the picture vacantly as Nina in turn watched her.
He figured she was a college lecturer. There was a legal pad at her feet, with a page of notes headed, “Popular culture and reflections of politics—is reality worse than fiction?” Bobby had no idea, and he had no idea why people devoted brainpower to those kinds of questions. His mother followed politics, and Connie had a little bit, when she was sober. She’d liked Clinton, because he had a kind voice and looked responsible.
He didn’t like the atmosphere, and he suddenly realized why: watching TV in your own home is like the peak of relaxation—self-awareness disappears. So being watched while you watch TV is to give up something private. And doing it at gunpoint would be a whole new level of intrusion. They were wrecking one of the great urban pleasures.
He walked out without saying anything—getting this funny feeling that talking was prohibited. He still had the cordless phone with him. He went into the study and stood looking out at the fountain while he dialed Charles Stone in California.
Charles took a long time. Eventually he picked up and said, “Yeah?”
Bobby said, “I’ve got her. If you keep the plane on standby, I’ll have her back tomorrow morning.”
For a brief, weird moment he wasn’t actually sure what he believed. He gave the line, and felt empty as he said it. And maybe that meant he was vulnerable as well, like all kinds of convictions could take root and change what he was going to do.
Charles said, “The plane’s gone. I didn’t have the pull to hold it overnight.”
That threw him for a second.
Charles said, “People came by the house—fucking New York guys who’re moving out West. Said they have a controlling share in the business now.”
Normally there was background noise—drinks, or things being thrown—but not now. It was like he was locked in the bedroom, coming to terms with it.
Charles said, “And I mean … I’m screwed, basically. Nina went behind me and let this East Coast outfit buy in.”
Strange to hear the old man just telling it straight, not raising his voice. He must’ve been devastated. He said, “So if you’re part of it—”
“I’m not—”
“If you’re part of it, Bobby, I suggest you watch your back.”
Here we go: here’s the threat coming. But Charles surprised him. He said, “I only ever gave her what she wanted. House on the hill, pool to swim in, car, whatever. And she still turned on me. And it’ll happen to you too if you don’t keep looking behind you.”
Bobby didn’t answer.
Charles said, “But I guess you’re no different, really. I set you up, gave you the job, turned you into somebody. And now you believe you’ve got better options. So don’t come by the house. You probably think you can take my wife and take your fee as well. I’m not that fucking stupid, Bobby. You’re lucky I don’t send someone past the condo, check in on your mother.”
That should have made him say something, but he didn’t bother. It was just empty musing. He actually felt sorry for the old boy, everything coming apart around him. And it was the Nina effect, too: when you had her, you needed nothing else.
Charles said, “Maybe if I’m lucky, one day she’ll knife you in the back. Or you her. Something like that anyway.” He laughed emptily. “You can take her to bed, Bobby, but you can’t trust her, believe me.”
Charles hung up, and Bobby stood there looking out through his own reflection to the Cupid statue in the driveway.
THIRTY-EIGHT
KINGS POINT, NY
Miles Keller
He stopped on the shoulder just past the golf club and turned on his iPod. Someone—probably DeSean—had swapped audiobooks. Hawking’s A Brief History of Time had replaced The Luminaries. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t listening for entertainment. He just needed something to reset his head, so he could go into it calm.
He drove with one earbud in and the other dangling. The narrator talked about black holes, and time running backward. Reversed time didn’t bother him. There were things he’d like to revisit. He wondered, though, if mysteries were infinite, or if science had so much traction that eventually people could discover anything. There’d come a time when they could plug you into a computer and see your whole life as information. Dots on a graph, seventy or eighty years long. They’d point to a dip and say, That was the worst thing he ever did. Or, That was the moment he could have pulled out of it. They’d do summaries for you: best and worse, read it out on your deathbed, so you knew your finest moments. Or whether your gut feeling was right about your low points.
He could see the house coming up on his right: the long driveway with the statue in the turnaround. The white walls and the terra-cotta roof. DeSean’s SUV was parked down the end. He remembered they’d stolen it from outside the hotel. He turned in and let the car coast gently, used Stanton’s cell to dial the house.
A male voice answered—probably the hat man he’d seen in the hotel lobby: “Yes?”
Miles said, “It’s Miles. I’m in the driveway.”
The hat man said, “There’s a garage to your right. I’ll open the door, and you can pull in. What you’re going to do, you’re going to put your window down and have one arm hanging out, and the other on the wheel so I can see your hands.”
“Okay.”
“Easy, right?” And he was gone.
Miles pressed pause on the audiobook and pulled the earbud out. He didn’t want it mistaken for a phone accessory, make them think he had the cops in his ear. But he’d pushed pause without thinking, as opposed to just letting it run. So maybe he’d be coming back to it. Maybe his subconscious had made a ruling on the matter, and figured he’d be okay.
He used the button and buzzed his window down and hung his left arm out over the sill. The night was cold and smelled of cut grass and dew. He saw a rim of yellow light along the bottom of the garage, a thin band that grew wider as the door went up for him. He crunched across the gravel at walk speed and nosed into the vacant space beside a Porsche SUV.
In a doorway to his left, the hat man stood backlit by warm house lights, one hand on the garage-door switch and the other holding a gun.
Miles
waited, his arm still hanging out the window, the hand feeling fat and tingly from the pressure of the sill against his biceps. The motor was still running, but he didn’t want to touch the key unless he was told. The headlights were blazing off the wall in front of him, putting stretched nightmare shadows through the cabin.
The electric door motor groaned and the door came down behind him.
The hat man said, “Turn the engine off.”
Miles put the car in park and killed the engine, put his hand back on top of the wheel.
“Open the door using the outside handle and step out.”
The guy knew what he was doing. He didn’t want to be shot with a gun hidden below window level. Miles patted blindly for a second before he found the handle, and then flicked his wrist to make the door swing open a few degrees. Then he sat there facing forward with both hands raised.
“All right. Push the door open with your knee, swivel on your ass, and step out. Keep your hands up.”
Miles did so.
“Kick the door closed.”
Miles nudged the door shut with his heel.
“Lean against the car and put your hands flat on the roof.”
Miles did as he was told, and let the hat man pat him down for weapons.
The hat man said, “So now I can open that trunk and take out a bag of money, right?”
Miles swallowed, felt his heart slam against the car window, and said, “It’s back up the road.”
There was a long silence, and then the gun touched the back of his neck—a quick tap, not so long that he could spin and take it.
The hat man said, “That should be a bullet for you right now.”
“And then there’s no way you’ll get the money.”
“Why’d you leave it? Did you wonder what it feels like to take a bullet?”
Miles said, “They had a homicide up here last night. Anyone who hears a gunshot is going to call it in. No one’s going to take the risk it was just a car backfiring.”
No answer.
Miles said, “Shall we see what Ms. Stone has to say about it?”
The hat man seemed to think it over. The pause stretched. Then he said, “Walk backward. Slowly. We’re heading for the TV noise.”
