The Loot (Charlie McCabe Thriller)

by Craig Schaefer

  Jake pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. “Excuse me, I’m going to see if that coffee is ready. Can I offer you a cup?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  She wasn’t good. As he left her alone, shutting the door behind him, Charlie rose and padded across the office carpet. She knew this wasn’t normal interview behavior—tossing your prospective boss’s office for clues was a good way to lose any hope of landing the job if she got caught in the act—but this wasn’t a normal interview. She kept one eye on the door, her heart pounding, as she gently, slowly slid open the top drawer of the filing cabinet.

  Empty. So was the second drawer. So was the third. She heard muffled voices behind the office door. Charlie shut the bottom cabinet, wincing as it closed with a metallic clunk, and checked the desk drawers.

  Nothing but dust bunnies.

  Jake’s voice got a little louder behind the door, a little closer. Charlie darted around the desk and dropped back into her chair just as the door swung wide.

  Jake walked back in with a steaming mug in his hand, white letters on blue reading #1 BOSS. While he took his seat, Charlie assembled the details in her head like she was solving a Rubik’s Cube. She spun and twisted the facts until they all lined up just right.

  “So,” he said, “let’s move on.”

  Charlie felt the dice in her hand, ready to roll. She was about to make a gamble, a big one, and if she was wrong she’d be out on the sidewalk and still unemployed in thirty seconds. Her gut told her she wasn’t wrong, and trusting her gut had kept her alive.

  “Let’s,” she said, “but shouldn’t Sofia be in here with us?”

  He studied her, cagey. “Should she?”

  “Sure. After all, it’s her company. She’s not the receptionist. She’s the boss, and you work for her. Which has to be a little grating, considering she’s your sister.”

  FOUR

  Jake didn’t answer, not right away. He let the silence hang in the aftermath of Charlie’s accusation, just long enough to curdle. She knew what he was doing; he was giving her a chance to walk it back, to swallow her words. She declined and held her ground.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He lifted his mug in a wry salute and sipped his drink. “Also, I make the coffee. Sofia’s coffee tastes like dishwater.”

  Sofia’s voice—amused, confident, and completely devoid of her ditzy-receptionist routine—echoed over the intercom.

  “I heard that,” she said. “Hire the girl, Jake.”

  “Not yet, not yet.” He gazed across the desk at Charlie. His eyes were bright, looking more animated than they had since she’d first arrived. “Walk me through it.”

  “Okay. I knew something was up when I first walked in. Sofia flipped her nameplate down before I could read it. I’m not sure if I was supposed to see her do it or not; I’m leaning toward yes, considering the placement of the picture.” Charlie pointed to the framed photo on the bookshelf. “I was meant to spot that, at least, if I was observant enough. Side by side, the family resemblance is striking. Not enough to prove anything, but I got to thinking: Why wouldn’t Sofia want me to see her nameplate? Well, maybe she didn’t want me to see that her name is Sofia Esposito.”

  Jake steepled his fingers. “Go on.”

  “This office is a prop. Those books haven’t been opened, ever, and your filing cabinets and your desk drawers are all empty. Nobody works here.”

  “You searched my office?” His eyebrows lifted.

  “Damn right I did,” she told him. “Something was off about this place from the jump. I wasn’t just going to go along for the ride and pretend nothing was wrong. Another thing my CO always told me: If you don’t have the intel you need, you go and get the intel. Never walk into a room or a situation without your eyes wide open. Now, the intercom light was on, meaning that Sofia was listening in throughout the entire interview. And considering you made a point of calling the intercom to her attention—and to mine, indirectly—it’s not like you wouldn’t have noticed. So she was eavesdropping with your knowledge and permission.”

  “All right,” he said. “Bring it on home.”

  “You were running the interview, but it’s Sofia’s call. As to the reason for all the weirdness, I can’t say, but considering I was clearly intended to catch at least some of it, I can only assume this was some kind of test.”

  Sofia’s voice crackled over the speaker again. “Hire the girl, Jake. This one might be a keeper.”

  He cracked a smile. “You’re half-right, but the half that counts. Sofia and I are partners. We inherited the company from our dad, fifty-fifty. Thing is, I’m not much of a desk jockey, and she graduated from Wharton with an MBA, summa cum laude—”

  “So I handle the business end,” Sofia chimed in, “while Jake is in charge of field operations. And you’re right: nobody works here. We use this office for meetings. Our real HQ is up in Cambridge. Functional, but off the beaten path and just a little too shabby for impressing the clientele. My dear, beloved brother also uses this place for messing with people’s heads from time to time. It’s his hobby.”

  “So this was . . . what, exactly?” Charlie asked.

  “Your interview,” Jake said. “The purpose of this exercise was to test your detail skills and, just as importantly, see how you reacted in an unfamiliar, possibly dangerous situation. If you hadn’t noticed anything was off about this place, or worse, if you did notice but decided not to say or do anything about it, I’d be politely thanking you right about now and showing you the door. Charlene . . . can I call you Charlene?”

  “I go by Charlie,” she said.

  “Charlie. Do you know the length of the average assassination attempt?”

  She shook her head. “Not long, I’d guess.”

  “Five seconds. There’ve been studies on this. Five seconds, from start to finish. And at the end of those five seconds, there’s usually a fresh body on the floor. The assassin or the target. But just like at the poker table, people have tells. Spotting those tells, those little giveaways that let you know trouble is coming, can save a client’s life.”

  “Half noticing, half doing something about it,” Sofia added. “Most people freeze up in a crisis situation. They turtle and hope somebody else will take care of the problem.”

  “You didn’t.” Jake’s smile grew. “You searched my office. I love that. Usually when I pull this bit, the best I can hope for is a verbal confrontation. You actually went digging for more facts before you laid your cards on the table. Anyway, you’ve got the right background and the right attitude; everything else can come with experience. I’d like to give you a test.”

  “Another test?” she said.

  “An on-the-job kind of test. We’ve been hired for a corporate event tomorrow night, and I’m shorthanded. Party security, basically a milk run, nothing too exciting, but it’d be a perfect chance to try you out. See if you fit the job, and if the job fits you.”

  “Tomorrow?” Charlie blinked. “Don’t I need, like, training and certification—”

  “Security companies have to be certified in Massachusetts,” Sofia said over the intercom. “Employees just need a five-thousand-dollar surety bond, which . . . hold on, typing . . . you will have, in about twenty minutes. I assume you haven’t committed any felonies or crimes of moral turpitude?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Well, you’re still young. There’s plenty of time.”

  “What about a gun?” Charlie asked.

  “Eventually, yes,” Jake said, “but not for tomorrow night. Our people generally only carry firearms at the client’s request or if I think a situation looks dicey. Otherwise, I prefer less-than-lethal weapons—less potential legal liability if things go off the rails. Do you have an LTC?”

  “I had a license to carry before I shipped out, but it has to be expired by now.”

  “Get your paper reupped and let me know. We reimburse on firearm purchases.”

  “To a reasonable degree
,” Sofia said. The sudden sharpness in her voice, and the pained look on Jake’s face, told Charlie that someone had abused that privilege recently. Possibly Jake.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” he said. “Realistically, most of our clients don’t need protection from anything but the paparazzi. We’re there to sell an image. On that note, dress code: any given event might be classified as formal or informal, and informal still means the sharper end of business casual. You’re not just representing the company; you’re representing our client. Regardless of the dress code, always wear shoes you can move in. Assume you’ll be on your feet for at least an eight-hour stretch at a time, maybe longer.”

  “And tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “Informal. What you’re wearing is fine. Always wear a blazer or a suit jacket: whether you’re carrying a weapon or not, you should look like you might be. We like to keep the bad guys guessing.”

  “Any chance of a company car?” Charlie asked, picturing her dad’s pickup in a high-speed chase.

  “Sure,” Jake said, “but there’s only one, and it’s mine. I’ll tell you up front: this isn’t a high-paying career. Yeah, it’s better than uniformed security, but you won’t be living the lifestyle of the rich and famous.”

  “I’m used to sleeping on cots and eating MREs while people try to kill me on a regular basis. Three square meals and a little spending cash in my pocket, I’m a happy woman.”

  “That’s what I love to see,” Jake said. “Low expectations. I mean, an adventurous can-do spirit. Combined with low expectations.”

  Sofia cleared her throat. “We do offer health insurance after your three-month probationary period. Also, a 401(k) plan, nonmatching.”

  “Come on out to our place in Cambridge tomorrow morning,” Jake said. “Ten a.m. sharp. We’ll get you set up, introduce you around, and you can sit in on the briefing. After that, I’m going to pair you up with one of our veteran operators; tomorrow night your job is to shadow him, learn, and do what he does. Think you can handle that?”

  Charlie smiled. This felt all right. Better than a desk job in Biloxi.

  “I can definitely handle that.”

  Charlie went shopping. She told herself it was just common sense: she was going to need more outfits for work, after all. And she’d earned a little retail therapy. Tapping into her savings just this once couldn’t hurt, especially since she was about to have a steady income again. There was still the matter of passing her “test” tomorrow night, but she had a good feeling.

  For the first time since leaving the service, she had a good feeling about life in general. Nothing to the job but to show up, do her very best, and prove what she was capable of. Same thing she’d been doing for years.

  Wandering the racks of a discount outlet, Charlie chose her new professional wardrobe with an eye for utility. Blacks, beiges, subdued colors that worked in combination, and nothing that would make her stand out in a crowd. Slacks she could run in, breezy blazers that could cover a shoulder holster without looking lumpy. She ran her thumb over fabric, checking its weight, testing seams; whatever she bought was going to have to last a while.

  She came in under budget. One little treat, she told herself. She cradled her bags in the crook of her arm while she lingered in a sunglass kiosk. Bodyguards on TV and in the movies always had imposing sunglasses. A clerk watched her move from pair to pair as she checked her reflection in a narrow mirror.

  “What are you looking for?” the clerk asked her.

  “Something stylish, classic, with an understated ‘don’t mess with me’ kind of vibe.”

  He handed her a pair of jet-black sunglasses.

  “Wayfarers,” he said. “You definitely want Wayfarers.”

  The look worked for her. She bundled her bags into the pickup truck, whispered a prayer as she cranked the engine, and shouldered her way into early-afternoon traffic. It was normally an hour’s ride back to Spencer, and a sluggish clump of traffic bumped it to a ninety-minute crawl. The drive gave her time to get her priorities in line.

  Step one, she thought, ace this test and get the job. Step two, get a truck with an engine that doesn’t cough like a ninety-year-old chain-smoker.

  Step three was getting out from under her father’s roof. Her heart sank, just a little, as the pickup puttered into the driveway. Beyond the front door was gloom and dust, television and empty beer cans, and a past that didn’t have a place for her anymore. The space between her and her father didn’t feel like a gap. It was more like an invisible wall studded with razor blades; she wanted to reach out and try to touch him, but she knew it would hurt. She wasn’t sure if he wanted to reach out to her, too, or if he just wasn’t interested. They existed just as they had the last time they’d seen each other, three years ago at her mother’s funeral: trapped in a state of polite neutrality.

  At least she had a story to tell. Maybe it’d spark an actual conversation. Worth a shot. Charlie turned the keys in the front door, stepped into the gloomy, half-lit living room, and froze.

  The pictures lining the mantel were down on the floor, glass shattered, frames twisted. The shards of a broken lamp decorated the grungy rug. Her father was slumped back in his recliner. One eye stared blankly at the ceiling; the other was buried under a ziplock bag filled with ice cubes.

  “Dad!” She ran to his chair, crouching down at his side. “Let me see. What happened to you?”

  She pried his fingers back. He had a hell of a shiner, his left eye puffy and dark. He yanked his head to one side, away from her, and pushed the bag of ice back into place.

  “Nothing. It’s fine.”

  “It is not fine,” she told him. “What happened?”

  “Fell down. Hit my head on the counter.”

  “Bull. Shit.” She pointed at the wreckage. “You fell and accidentally trashed the pictures on the mantel and broke a lamp on the far side of the room on your way down? That’s some skilled falling. You could go on the road with an act like that.”

  He squeezed his good eye shut. “I’m taking care of it, Charlie. It’s not your business.”

  “I am making it my business,” she said. “Now tell me what really happened.”

  FIVE

  Charlie loomed over her father, hands on her hips, making it clear she wasn’t going to budge until he told her the truth. He sighed his surrender.

  “I . . . owe some people,” he said. “I’m a little behind, that’s all.”

  She remembered what Dutch had told her, the rumors about her father’s debts.

  “You started gambling again.”

  “Just a little,” he said. “Here and there, you know? I was on a hot streak. Real hot. Then I got cold, so I was trying to . . . you know, get back again.”

  “How much do you owe?” she asked.

  “I was so close I could taste it. Then that goddamn Bruins game, against the Senators. Who sends a center out on the ice with a bum knee? That coach oughta be drawn and quartered—”

  “Dad,” she said. “How much?”

  He sagged in the recliner.

  “Twenty,” he said.

  Charlie squinted at him. “Thousand?”

  He gave a tiny nod.

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” she said.

  “I was up, all right? I was fifteen up. I’ve never been fifteen up in my life. At that point, I mean, it’s like you’re playing with the casino’s money; you can’t lose.”

  “Casinos don’t send people around to punch your lights out when you don’t pay up. Who’s your bookie?”

  “I don’t want you involved,” he said. “This is my problem to deal with, not yours.”

  She threw her hands in the air. She paced into the kitchen and bit back every single word she wanted to scream at him. Breathing deep, counting to five, then to ten. Then she realized she could count to a million, and it wouldn’t make her any less furious.

  “I’m involved, okay? I’m not going to stand by and do nothing.”

  “Why not?
That’s about what I’d expect.”

  She froze in the kitchen archway.

  “Meaning?”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” he said.

  “No. I don’t. Explain it to me.”

  “Your mother was dying.”

  “I was in Afghanistan.”

  “You could have come home,” he said. “I looked it up, compassionate leave—”

  “I was fighting a war.”

  “So was I!” he shouted, lurching upright and shooting a glare at her with his good eye.

  Then he fell back into the recliner and stared up at the ceiling.

  “So was I,” he said, his voice soft and crumbling around the edges. “And you weren’t here.”

  Leaden silence hung between them. Charlie folded her arms across her chest, tight. There was a more immediate problem to solve here. She was at her best when she had a problem to solve, something to fix. Guilt could wait. It always did.

  “I want the name of your bookie.”

  “These are dangerous people, Charlie.”

  “I just spent eight years surrounded by dangerous people,” she told him. “Some of them were trying to kill me. Some of them were on my side. And I learned from all of them. Best teachers I ever had.”

  “What do you think you’re gonna do, huh? You go stirring up trouble, what are you gonna accomplish? You’ll just make things worse.”

  “Give me a name.”

  He stared at the ceiling. She stared at him and waited. Eventually he broke.

  “Jimmy Lassiter,” he said. “He runs his book out of a tap house called Deano’s, over in Charlestown.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie said.

  He didn’t reply. She eyed the shattered ruins of the lamp on the carpet. Then she opened the hall closet and went rummaging for a dustpan and a broom.

  Her father wasn’t going to clean up. She’d have to do it for him.

  Deano’s felt like it might have been classy, once, but the owners had either stopped caring or just given up along the way. The brass railing of the nearly empty bar was grimy with fingerprints, and the mirror behind the rows of bottom-shelf booze hadn’t been dusted in a dog’s age. Sickly ferns dangling from wicker planters wilted like the hopes and dreams of the handful of drunks who called this place home. The sun was setting outside, sizzling in the midsummer sky, and the dirty gold light through the plate glass windows turned the narrow bar into a muggy, murky cavern.