by Brad Smith
‘I’ve known since my first week here. And so does everybody else. What did you think was going on with you two?’
Frances shrugged. ‘Just that it works. Analyzing stuff is not always a good idea, you know.’
‘I agree with that part,’ Stacy said. ‘But he adores you. Take my word for it.’
‘I’m very happy to know that.’
‘You can’t tell him that you know,’ Stacy warned.
‘Why not?’
‘You just can’t.’
‘How do you happen to know all this?’ Frances asked. ‘You’re a kid.’
Stacy touched her fingertip to her temple. ‘Yeah, but up here I’m wise beyond my years. What else do you want to know?’
‘I’m good for now,’ Frances said smiling. ‘Just being adored has made my day.’
Stacy laughed and reached for another tart. ‘I might eat this whole plate. Hey – I saw the Thanksgiving show last night. It was good.’
‘Well,’ Frances said doubtfully, and she drank her tea.
‘What was with the hockey player though? Was he stoned?’
‘Just stupid, I think.’
‘Oh,’ Stacy said, clearly disappointed. ‘Well, it’s a good thing he can skate,’ she said after a moment. ‘I googled him while I was watching. Dude makes five million dollars a year. Playing hockey.’
Frances looked up from her computer screen. ‘And why did you google him?’
‘He’s really good-looking, Frances. I mean, come on.’ Stacy sighed. ‘That was before I found out that he’s stupid.’
‘Now he’s not as good-looking?’
‘Matter of fact, he’s not. What’s wrong with me, Frances?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ Frances laughed. ‘When are you flying home anyway? Are you good to work tomorrow?’
Stacy carried her tea to the desk across from Frances and sat down at the computer there. ‘I decided not to go.’
‘Why not?’
‘Flights are so damn expensive at Thanksgiving. Total rip-off.’
‘I can get you a flight on my air miles,’ Frances said. ‘I’m not using them. It’s Thanksgiving. Go be with your family.’
Stacy began to type into the computer. She didn’t say anything for a while.
‘What’s going on?’ Frances asked.
Stacy typed some more numbers and hit enter before looking over. ‘My dad has this new girlfriend. She’s, like, a year older than me. She bothers me, Frances.’
‘Because she’s so young?’
‘No. Because she acts as if she’s his age. She talks to me like I’m her daughter, giving me advice on what to wear, who to date, makeup tips. She’s my age, she should act it.’
‘I wouldn’t like that either,’ Frances said.
Stacy shook her head. ‘On top of that, my mother resents her. Of course. So I have to be careful how many hours I spend at my dad’s, and how many with my mom. I feel like they’ve got a stopwatch on me, to make sure they get equal time.’
‘Sounds like a lot of fun.’
Stacy smiled. ‘So, I can buy an expensive plane ticket, put up with a crowded airport, and spend three miserable days in Vancouver with my dysfunctional family. Or I can hang out at my apartment, drink some wine and binge some Netflix.’
‘Or you could spend Thanksgiving here at the farm.’
‘No. I’m not intruding on you and Carl.’
‘You’re right, you will not be intruding on us,’ Frances said. ‘But you are spending Thanksgiving here.’
NINE
Chino’s house was built beside the scrap yard, a clapboard bungalow with aluminum siding, once white, now faded in most places to the slate gray of the metal. There was a concrete patio behind the house, cluttered with lawn chairs and a picnic table and half of a forty-five gallon drum turned into a barbeque. Chino’s Harley was on jack stands beside the drum. The bike hadn’t moved in nearly a year.
Bug pulled into the yard and stopped by the open door of the shop, his window down. He waited for a few moments for Chino to walk out of the shop and when he didn’t he drove over to the house. He shut the ignition off and sat there, wondering how much Chino had blown at the casino. The night was hazy; Bug remembered sleeping on and off in the Pontiac, waking up every time Chino came out and went into the trunk for more cash. Bug remembered Billy too, sitting behind the wheel, too pissed off to sleep. He had a right to be pissed. The sun was up when they finally headed for home.
The house was unlocked and Bug walked in without knocking. The place smelled of stale beer. A radio played somewhere, some sports talk show. There was a cell phone on the counter, lights blinking. Bug moved from the kitchen to the living room, calling out for Chino. He looked out the front window to the road and called again, louder this time.
A moment later the radio shut off and Chino came out of a bedroom into the hallway, half stumbling, wearing just his shorts. He glared at Bug before detouring into the bathroom, leaving the door open while he pissed. Bug heard a tap running then, and the sound of Chino drinking directly from it.
‘What?’ he snapped when he came out.
‘We’re fucked, that’s what,’ Bug told him. ‘That guy Bones, works for Tommy Jakes, was at my house this morning.’
Chino lit a cigarette and sat on the couch. ‘What’d you tell him?’
‘I didn’t tell him nothing,’ Bug said. ‘Told him I didn’t know nothing. Then he wants your address.’ As he talked, Bug went over to look out the front window again, as if expecting company.
‘You didn’t give it to him?’
‘I said I didn’t know it. He didn’t fucking believe me. I want to know how he found out where I live, Chino.’
Chino wouldn’t look at him. He sat smoking, sullen.
‘You tell him?’ Bug demanded.
‘Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because Tommy asked for it. All right?’
Bug cursed and came over to sit down on a chair beside the couch. ‘How much is left?’
‘I don’t know,’ Chino said. ‘Four grand maybe.’
‘How’d that happen? Why didn’t you stick around and lose it all?’
What had happened was that Chino had been kicked out of the casino after accusing the blackjack dealer of cheating. Otherwise he undoubtedly would have dropped the whole wad. But he wasn’t telling Bug that.
‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ he demanded. ‘How’d you like me to hand you over to Tommy Jakes on a fucking platter?’
Bug fell silent for a time. ‘Come on, Chino.’
Chino smoked the cigarette down and lit another. He went into the kitchen and found a bottle with a couple of ounces of rye left. He picked up his blinking cell phone and brought up the display before tossing it aside. He walked over to the back door and looked out the window there, toward the shop, as he drank the whisky from the bottle.
‘We’d better go talk to him,’ he said at length.
Tommy Jakes wasn’t at Hard Ten when they got there but the snotty blonde bartender was and she got busy on her phone the moment Chino and Bug walked through the door. The Wild Lucifer clubhouse was only five hundred yards away and there was a garage out back where some of the gang worked on their bikes. Chino and Bug ordered a pitcher of beer and were sitting at a table, the same table they’d met Tommy at the last time, when Bones came in through the back. He just stood there, watching, as if making certain they weren’t going to leave. Fuck him, Chino thought; if they were going to leave, why would they show in the first place?
Nervous as he was, Bug still tried to sweet talk the bartender when she brought over the beer. She looked at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Tommy Jakes came in twenty minutes later, wearing a suit and tie. He was clean-shaven and had his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. When he walked through the front door, Bug reached for his glass to have a drink; his hands were shaking. He wasn’t thinking abo
ut the bartender now. Tommy got a cup of coffee from the bartender and came over to sit down.
‘I was getting worried that you boys might have met with some misfortune. I’ve been calling your cell, Chino.’
‘I got your message,’ Chino said. ‘Figured I’d just drive on over and see you in person. What’s going on, Tommy?’
‘What’s going on?’ Tommy repeated. He had a sip of the hot coffee. ‘What is going on is that I don’t see my money. Is it under the table? Did you leave it in the parking lot?’
Chino showed surprise. ‘You don’t have it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The kid never dropped it here?’ Chino asked.
Tommy didn’t say anything then. He drank more coffee and sat back in the chair, watching Chino. Bug was looking at Chino too now. Bug didn’t have much of a poker face even under the best circumstances. Tommy waited Chino out.
‘He was told to drop it here on his way home,’ Chino said. ‘You telling me he didn’t show?’
‘You’re referring to our young Indian friend?’ Tommy asked.
‘Yeah.’
Tommy turned in his chair. ‘Bones, there been any Indians around here toting a bag full of cash?’
‘No.’
Tommy turned back to the table. ‘Looks like you got a problem, Chino.’
‘That little fucker,’ Chino fumed.
Tommy held his palm up. ‘Before you start going on about somebody taking you off, I’m going to interrupt you, Chino. You took this on. You – nobody else. And now you owe me fifty-five grand. Whether this Indian has it, or it’s stuffed beneath your mattress or you used it to buy yourself a new Cadillac – you owe me fifty-five grand. When do you intend to pay me?’
‘Soon as I track that little fucker down. I’ll bring you his head on a spike.’
‘You’re not listening to me, Chino,’ Tommy said. ‘I don’t care about the Indian. And I don’t want to hear tough talk about somebody’s head on a spike. I want my money.’
‘You’ll get your money,’ Chino said. ‘I’ll guarantee it.’
‘I know I’ll get it,’ Tommy told him. ‘I don’t know if it’s going to be the hard way or the easy way, but I’ll get it. You want to go the easy way, you’ve got twenty-four hours.’
TEN
Carl was on his right side on the carpet, his hands bound behind him with plastic electrical ties and duct tape across his mouth, wound round his head a couple of turns. There was blood running from his temple down his jawline and into his shirt.
He had walked right into it. When he saw the dog on the lawn, he couldn’t register what might have happened. All he could think was that there’d been an accident. There were often hunters in the area, after ducks and geese on the river or deer in the bush, although Frances wouldn’t allow deer hunters on the farm. Still, Carl could only think that a stray shot from an adjoining property, or from down by the river, had struck the pup.
So he’d walked in, like a sap. In the same moment that he saw Stacy, bound and gagged on the couch, he was hit, probably with the revolver the man had in his hand now. The man had to have been standing behind the door, waiting. When Carl came to, he was on the floor. His temple throbbed like an enormous toothache. Seconds ago he had watched the big man knock Frances down and pick her up again. Now he was forcing her to look at Carl and Stacy.
‘You see how things are?’ he was saying to her. ‘Right now everybody’s still alive. You’re the one can keep it that way.’
Carl kept his eyes on Frances, and when she looked at him he fiercely nodded to her and waited for her to react. Finally she did, returning the nod, her eyes desperate. Frightened. Her breath was coming in gasps. Carl could see her struggling to comprehend what was happening. And why.
Carl was doing the same. He was – if nothing else – encouraged that the men all wore masks. It meant that they intended to leave them alive. There was nothing else remotely encouraging about the situation. Carl couldn’t imagine what they wanted. Since coming to and gathering his senses as best he could against the pain in his head, he could only speculate that this was a case of mistaken identity. These guys were in the wrong house.
The big man, still holding Frances by the hair, propelled her past Carl, shoving her roughly into a wingback chair. The turkey she’d been carrying earlier was by the fireplace. There was a fire going there; Stacy must have lit it when she came in from work.
Using only his legs, Carl scrambled around on the carpet, determined to maintain eye contact with Frances. Now he looked quickly over at Stacy as well. She was curled on the couch, recoiled from the skinny guy in coveralls beside her. She was wearing a skirt that had hiked up, displaying her thighs. Her eyes were frantic. The skinny guy was watching the big one, who was obviously in charge. The third man was by the front window, keeping watch, it seemed.
After pushing Frances into the chair the big man pulled a coffee table over in front of her. He sat down on the table and leaned forward, the revolver dangling in his left hand while with his right hand he reached out to brush back the hair from her face. His eyes behind the mask were small, the pupils dilated. Frances was still wearing her coat and she shrank into it, away from him.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘You gonna play ball with me?’
Frances nodded, looking away from the man to Carl, a few feet away.
‘You look at me, bitch,’ the man said. ‘You don’t look at him. I’ll put a fucking bullet in his head and throw him out on the lawn with the dog. You want that?’
‘No,’ Frances said quickly, forcing her eyes back to the man.
‘All right,’ the man said. ‘You see what we got here, don’t you? As of this minute, we own your family. You, the hubby on the floor and the daughter over there on the couch. We own them. And you’re going to buy them back. You’re a businesswoman, right? Well, this is a simple business transaction. OK?’
Frances nodded again, somehow buoyed by the suggestion.
‘Now this is what you’re going to do,’ the man said. ‘You’re going to go back out that door, and you’re going to drive into town to your bank. It’s Friday night, the banks are open. You’re going to withdraw a hundred thousand dollars and you’re going to bring it here and put it in my hand. A hundred grand.’ The man straightened up and sat watching Frances for a moment. ‘Are you with me so far?’
‘I don’t know if I can—’ Frances began.
‘Yes, you can,’ the man snapped. ‘You think you have options? You go to the cops and we’re going to kill your family. You come back without the money and we’re going to kill your family. You do anything except what I just told you and guess what? We’re going to kill your family.’
Instinctively Frances started to look at Carl again, but stopped herself. The big man saw.
‘Go ahead and look at him. You want to ask his advice?’
The man got up and went to Carl. He knelt down and put the barrel of the revolver against Carl’s forehead. ‘What do you think the little missus should do, pal? Are you worth a hundred grand, you and the little cutie with the nice legs on the couch over there? What do you think?’
‘All right,’ Frances blurted out.
The big man suddenly backhanded Carl across the face, the sickly sound of the blow resonating in the quiet room. He stood up and turned to Frances.
‘I don’t think your hubby likes me,’ he said. ‘Get your ass moving now. And you had better think up a story for the bank, TV lady. Why you need that kind of coin. Tell them you’re buying a Porsche or something and the dude wants cash. Make it real, whatever you come up with.’ He paused, watching Frances. ‘The quicker you get this done, the quicker we’re out of your life. You can go back to playing pretend on the fucking television.’
Carl’s eyes were watering from the blow, but he was watching the big man intently. The TV lady, he’d said. So this was not a case of mistaken identity. The farm had been the target. But why would they think they could get money here?
Carl could see Frances gathering herself. Another person would be on the floor, whimpering. Not Frances. She glanced across the room to Stacy.
‘It’ll be OK,’ she said quietly, holding the younger woman’s eyes for a moment. She turned, gave Carl a quick look and started for the door.
‘Hey, you want to say goodbye to your family?’ the big man said. ‘You know, in case you fuck up and never see them again?’
‘I’ll see them,’ Frances told him.
The big man smiled. ‘Tough chick, eh? Maybe I had you wrong.’
As Frances drove away, her headlights swept across the lawn and she saw the pup there, lying dead in the grass, a pool of blood beneath its head. She didn’t make it a mile down the road before she had to pull over. Her hands on the steering wheel were shaking so badly she nearly struck an oncoming car. She pulled into an overgrown lane that led down to the river, drove a few yards and stopped. She sat there motionless, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.
Her cell phone was in her coat pocket. She took it out and held it in her hand. At one point she punched in 911 but then shut it off. She didn’t know what to do. She had no idea what to do. In fact, there was only one person in her life who would know and that person was back at the house, bound and gagged on the carpet. She could call Rufus Canfield, but what could he do? He was a small-town lawyer with a game leg. He was hardly the type to rush the house, and he was too smart to call the police. Or maybe the opposite was true – maybe he would insist on calling the police. Maybe that was, after all, the smart move. There was a chance that the asshole with the bad breath and the gun was bluffing. Maybe a very good chance.
But not good enough. Frances was not about to take that risk.
She had to play along and hope that it worked out as the man claimed it would. He’d been right about one thing – she had no options. She took a deep breath and then she realized there was a truck parked alongside the lane, fifty yards farther in, tucked into the brush. She turned her lights on and saw that it was a white Dodge half ton. It wasn’t all that unusual to see; fishermen and hunters sometimes parked there before heading down to the river. She turned on her high beams to get a look at the license plate. After another minute she put the car in reverse, backed out of the lane and started for town.
