Hollow Man (10 page)

Tristan's jaw worked silently and he stepped back. I followed him into his room, the gun still pointed in his face.

“Dom, please,” he stammered. “What are you doing?” His hands had risen in surrender, in supplication, and the terror in his eyes was magnetic to me, drawing out some kind of primordial need to exert power, to relish in dominance over another human being. I liked it, a lot.

“Dom, please,” Tristan said again, his voice a whisper. “Please, put the gun down. You're being crazy, Dom, put the gun down.” His head dipped, another moment of supplication, I thought, and he was no longer looking me in the eye.

I lowered the gun, slowly, inch by inch, and he stayed frozen in front of me, as if by moving I'd raise it up again and shoot. When the gun was hanging by my side, I spoke in a soft, calm voice.

“Why do you think I did that?”

“I don't know…I don't fucking know.” His voice cracked like he was going to cry.

“You want in, right?”

“In?”

“You want to be my new partner in this little venture I'm thinking about undertaking.”

He nodded.

“It's a theft, nothing more. Taking money from an arsehole who exploits other people.”

“Okay.” He still hadn't moved.

“But the thing is, Tristan, I needed to know how you act under pressure. I'm not expecting anything to go wrong, but no one ever is, right?”

“Right,” he whispered.

“Look at me.” He lifted his head and I saw a spark of defiance in his eyes. “You didn't faint or collapse or wet yourself, so that's good.”

A tiny smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “How do you know I didn't wet myself?”

There was, I realized, more to this computer geek than met the eye. “Change your underwear and we'll talk.”

We'd not eaten a meal together once, and I wanted to see if I could make him uncomfortable by taking him to a fancy restaurant. Actually, what I managed to do was convince him to take me. I phrased it as a buy-in, an investment, a commitment that would be richly rewarded. He was so keen to get his hands on Silva's dough that a hundred bucks on a couple of steaks seemed like a small price. As usual, though, he wasn't privy to the big picture, the real reason we were going to dinner. I'd serve up that juicy tidbit later.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“What's that place on Fourth Street, I always call it Smith & Wollensky but it isn't.”

“Simon and something. Kinda pricey.”

“I don't drink. What you lose on the food, you gain by me drinking water.”

“Yeah, fuck it. Been a while since I splurged, and this is a celebration.” He wagged a finger. “But if we take less from that slumlord than I spend tonight, I want my money back.”

“Deal.”

He went into his room for his wallet but came out shaking his head. “Can't find the damn thing.”

“I've got cash,” I said. “Write me a check when we get home. Better yet, write me a check now.” I pulled ten bills from my own wallet, all twenties, and handed them to him.

“I don't get it.”

“So sue me. I like the idea of you pulling out a wad of cash and buying my dinner. Now write me a check.”

“Okay.” He shrugged and went back into his room, coming out with his checkbook. He scribbled the amount and his signature, then paused. “What should I write on the memo line? ‘Pre-heist dinner'? ‘Celebration of conspiracy'?”

“Yeah, very funny. Since we can't remember the restaurant's name, put Smith & Wollensky.”

“Sure. You know, I can spell ‘Smith,'” he said while writing, “but—”

“No clue,” I interrupted, “just put ‘W', I'll figure it out.” He handed me the check and stuffed the cash into his pocket.

“Let's go eat.”

I drove, and on the way I filled him in on some details. He was acting giddy, and I didn't want to talk about it in a crowded restaurant.

“I already set up a camera at the place it'll happen, to watch him once or twice and also keep an eye on the place on the day we do it.”

“Okay,” he said. “Makes sense. What if someone finds the camera?”

“They won't. I have a camouflage one, which I can control and view remotely. There's a decent-sized wood very close to where he parks. It's about fifteen feet up, and I found a spot that's inside the wood but looks out through a patch where there aren't any branches.”

“It's in place already?”

“It is.”

“And the rest of the plan?”

“We watch through the camera during the day of the theft. Just to make sure all's cool, we can take turns. In the evening, we'll head
out there. Around nine. Check again on the camera when we arrive.” As we turned onto Fourth Street, I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pencil and a pad of paper, handing them straight to Tristan. “I'll describe the place, you draw it. Something my dad used to do with the rabbit and hare trails on the farm—you'll remember it better if you draw it yourself.”

“Okay, sure.” He took the pencil and paper.

“The main road is quiet and leads past the front entrance to the park, put that down here. We ignore that and go on about a hundred yards or so to a track which runs alongside a field, bordering the park. When the track meets the wood, it doglegs to the right. About twenty yards after it bends is where Silva leaves his car. Right before it bends, there's a blind spot, invisible from the main road, from the mobile homes, even from where Silva parks. It's a cutout, so we'll pull off the track there.”

I glanced over as Tristan put finishing touches to the map. He'd noted the location of the camera in the woods, the place where Silva left his car, and the other important points on our treasure map.

“So how does it go down?” he asked.

“With as little fuss as possible. When he's in one of the trailers collecting his money, we'll break into his van and drive it to a secondary location. Then, we'll have a set of bolt cutters and plenty of time to get into the steel cage he's built into the back of the van.”

“How do you know about the cage?”

“Surveillance.”

“OK, then what?”

“Then maybe we let the air out of his tires and drive the hell away from there.”

Tristan chewed his lip, then asked, “How much money are we talking?”

“No way to know.” My first instinct was to lie, to try and shave a larger portion off for myself, but I'd read enough novels and seen enough movies to know where greed led you. And in this case, he'd
see the money for himself when we got it, be there for the accounting. And, of course, I really didn't know exactly how much there would be. “Gus said tens of thousands, and if we hit him at the end of his run, that could be right.”

He let out a low whistle.

“So how much do you owe?” I asked.

“Not tens of thousands. But not too far off.”

“That's a lot of gambling.”

“Yeah, I'm aware of that.”

“Maybe pay off your debts, then use some of the money for treatment or counseling,” I suggested. He shot me a look, like he wasn't sure if I was serious or kidding. We sat in silence for a moment.

As we pulled into a parking spot, Tristan turned toward me. “Hey, Dom. Can I ask one thing?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“No guns. I know you like your guns,” he smiled to acknowledge what had just happened. “But seriously, if the guy shows up while we're, you know, taking his van, let's just split. Leave. No fighting, no guns, just split.”

He reminded me of Gus, of course, as if by somehow having a gun present it'd automatically get used, death and destruction raining down of its own accord. And yes, I suffered from impulsiveness and “Poor Behavioral Controls,” but the one thing about sociopaths—our strongest instinct is self-preservation. And I knew that pulling a six-shooter on a sweaty, overweight Mexican ran second best to, well, running.

I killed the engine. “I wasn't planning on taking my gun, don't worry. Don't make this into more than it is, just five minutes of taking someone's car and we're done.”

“And their money,” Tristan grinned.

“Yeah, that is the point,” I agreed.

“Is there a risk of getting stopped by the cops on the way home? Have you checked the route back?”

“Yeah, of course. Plus,” I said, “I have a badge. I've been stopped three times for speeding, and as soon as cops see the badge, they pat the top of the car and wish me a happy day.”

“That's good. Awesome even.” He sat back and furrowed his brow. “One other thing. I don't know the guy at all, but you're sure Gus won't be a problem?”

“A problem how?”

“Do you think he'll change his mind and want to do it?”

“No. And I have no desire to take all that risk to split the money three ways. At some point, it becomes not worth it, and for me, that's splitting it three ways. Even if he wants back in, it's not happening.”

“Cool. What about afterward?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think he'll hear about it and, you know, want a piece of the action?”

“Blackmail?”

“I guess.”

“No. I can absolutely, definitively, tell you he won't do that. And,” I added cheerily, “if he does, then I have my little friend Mr. Colt in there, don't I?”

He shot me that look again, the one that told me he didn't know whether I was serious or kidding. I was pretty sure I was kidding.

“So when are you thinking this happens?” Tristan asked.

“I have the camera in place and I know what his route is. Next week is the end of the month and, according to the trusty Internet, it'll be dark by ten p.m. Which is also when he'll be there for his last collection.”

“Next week?”

“Yep.” I smiled. “Any reason why not?”

I wanted to practice. I couldn't do a run-through of the theft itself. It had too many moving parts and was also a matter of planning, not practice. No, I wanted to test myself so I'd know how it felt to be a criminal. After so many years resisting that very temptation, I needed to break the seal, give up my virginity, phrase it how you will.

Or maybe that's what I told myself so that I could break into the pub and find out who'd screwed me over.

The Monday before the theft, I played it safe and made a trip to the suburbs to buy a black hoodie and a pair of gloves. I thought about getting a balaclava, but I wasn't planning on being seen, and somehow it felt too theatrical, too silly.

The Norman Pub was closed Monday nights, like a lot of clubs in Austin, which left a good number of people strolling the sidewalks, looking for a piece of music to listen to or a drink to buy. And wandering people meant more cover for me.

By 8 p.m., dusk had settled over the city, in that perfect-crime light that makes strangers hard to see but not yet suspicious. I parked two side streets away and ambled casually toward the pub. It was still baking hot, so I held my hoodie in one hand, sweat prickling my forearms. I cut down an alley that ran behind the pizza place and the pub. It was a dead-end alley, no use for anything but drug deals and paid-for hookups, and as long as I got there first, its users would about-face the moment they saw me. The rancid smell of rotting
food coming from the three garbage cans was also encouraging, repellent to even the most desperate drug or sex addicts.

I'd been to the pub the night before and left a window to the bathroom unlocked. Not the most sophisticated entry technique, but it was predicated on the assumption that by closing time Marley Jensen would be drunk and make no more than a cursory check of the restrooms. Standing by the window, I pulled the gloves from the pocket of my hoodie, but they were new and stiff, and when I put my hand to the glass and pulled on the lip of the frame, I couldn't get any real purchase. I took the gloves off and levered the tips of my fingers under the edge and pulled once, twice. My assumption had been wrong.

Even unsophisticated plans need a backup, and this one involved a small rock and a fervent hope that it sounded louder to me than anyone else who might be around. I listened for a moment as I pulled my gloves back on, then reached through the broken pane and unlatched the window. All seemed quiet inside and out, so I hoisted myself up and wriggled into one of the grimiest and most graffiti-infested bathrooms in South Austin. Its darkness felt like a sanctuary.

I crouched on the floor and waited for my eyes to adjust. I had a flashlight in my pocket, but I wanted to operate without it as far as possible, as nothing screamed “intruder” quite like a small light bobbing around inside a closed premises.

After a minute, I moved to the bathroom door and peered down the hallway. At the far end was Marley's office. The door to it was closed, but a weak, yellow light bled into the corridor, and it somehow irked me that he'd locked the bathroom window but left his office light on. I wasn't worried about him being there, though; his car hadn't been out front when I drove past, and Monday nights he drank in his buddy's bar on Sixth Street.

I crept down the hallway, my eyes glued to the office door, my ears alert for any sound. The place smelled musty, the stale beer and
unwashed carpet odor that all pubs had, a smell that made me a little queasy at the best of times. Which this obviously wasn't.

I reached Marley's office and listened at the door. No sound, so I turned the knob and pushed it open. A banker's lamp spilled light onto the desk, but I saw no other signs of life. Time pressed in, its edges sharpened by the fact that I didn't really know what I was looking for. Maybe an e-mail chain on his computer or perhaps a couple of CDs bearing my name and the name of the lying bastard about to endure a campaign of harassment.

Marley's desk was surprisingly tidy, three stacks of papers, a dozen CDs, and a closed laptop computer. I sat in his chair and sifted through his papers, mostly bills and flyers for upcoming bands. No telling notes bearing my name or listing my songs. Same with the CDs. All looked to be from solo musicians or bands wanting to play at the pub. I recognized a couple of the names, but none seemed like candidates for treachery—either their sound was totally different from mine or they were so new, Marley never would have taken allegations by them seriously. Plus, I imagined my CD would be clipped to the one belonging to the deceitful wanker I was after.

I opened Marley's laptop but stopped moving when I heard a sound from the hallway. I sat perfectly still, wondering if my ears were playing tricks on me. But there it was again, a shuffling sound.

I put my hands on the desk to rise, but froze in position as a burly figure swung through the doorway, his gun pointed at my chest.

“Let me see your hands!” the man snapped.

I held them up, my eyes glued to the little black hole in the end of his gun. Weapon focus, it's called, and it's the reason eyewitnesses tend to be hopeless when their assailant has them at gunpoint. I dragged my eyes away from the barrel and looked at the face of the man, recognizing him a fraction after he recognized me.

“Dominic,” he said. “What the fuck?”

“Nice to see you, too. Do you mind lowering that thing?”

Otto Bland was sweating, far more scared than I was. Wet patches sat under his armpits, and for no apparent reason I wondered where he'd been hiding and what he'd been doing in the dark as I broke in. One thing I was sure of: I didn't want his greasy finger on the trigger. He complied with my request, but hesitantly, as if I might actually be there to do him harm.

“What are you…? Jesus, Dom, I could've shot you.” He stared at me like I was an alien. “Fuck, did you break in here?”

“No comment.”

“You did, man, I heard glass break in the bathroom.” He shook his head in confusion. “Why?”

“Long story, but believe it or not, I'm still one of the good guys.”

“I'm pleased to hear that, I really am.” He holstered his gun and pulled out his cell phone.

“Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?” I stood up, my hands extended, telling him to slow down.

“Dude, I gotta call this in.”

“The police? No, no you don't.”

“Yeah, I do.” He sounded apologetic, but resolute. “I'm sorry man, but you can give your explanation to the cops; if it's all good they'll let you go.”

“Jesus, Otto, I broke a window and crept into the fucking bathroom, they're not going to let me go. This is burglary, which means I spend tonight in jail and, assuming I bond out, I spend tomorrow clearing out my desk.”

“That's harsh, man, and I'm sorry, I really am. But it's either you or me.”

“No, it's not.” You fucking moron. “Look, I came here for a good reason, a legitimate reason, and if we stop talking I'll be out of here in about eight minutes. No one needs to know.”

“Not that simple.”

“Why not?” I masked my frustration. It wouldn't help to get mad at the guy.

“Marley has cameras. Digital ones. They'd have caught you in the hallway.” His face changed as a thought occurred to him. “And they'll catch me coming in here and finding you. Sorry dude, like I said, it's you or me.”

Cameras were supposed to be my friends. Fuck. My mind went into overdrive. I knew there was a way out of this, it was just a matter of finding it.

“Delete the footage,” I said.

“I can't. The software he has puts a little red mark when something's deleted. How do I explain that?”

“So what happens if we do nothing? Just ignore it. He's not going to scroll through twenty hours of video tape on a hunch you're keeping secrets.”

“He will when he sees the broken window.”

“So explain it. Kids, or vandals.”

“That alley is used by hookers and dopers, everyone knows that. And anyone with half a brain will know the window was busted to break in here, so I'll get fired either for not noticing or for not calling the cops. And like I said the other week, I can't afford to get fired.” He looked at his phone. “I'm really sorry.”

I sat down. One thought loomed in my mind, pressing into my consciousness like a knife: he needed money, I needed out of there. And I had just one thing to bargain with, and given how he was looking at his phone, very little time.

“Wait.” I held up a hand. “Just so we're clear, you're worried about your job and don't give a crap that I broke in. This isn't a morals thing.”

“I don't…” He looked confused. “No, I don't care why you're here. I don't care that you're here. I just need to do my job.”

“Right. Because you need the money.”

“Yeah, of course, I told you that before. Why the fuck else would I be here?”

“Shooting for that bar in Florida, I remember.”

“Right. That bar. Meanwhile, I have no money, I keep losing jobs, and I'm sick and tired of…pretty much everything.”

Perfect. “Then I think we can help each other.”

“What do you mean?” The phone stayed in his hand, more lethal to me than his gun.

“Sit down, I'll explain.”

With that same confused expression on his face, Otto pulled a chair to the desk and sat, leaning forward as he listened. I didn't want him in on the theft; I knew better than anyone that the more people involved in an illegal scheme, the more people there were to squeal. But I wasn't bargaining from a position of strength, and I was confident that the lure of tens of thousands of dollars would be too much for a man like Otto to ignore. I didn't think about what I'd do if he didn't go along with it. I plan well and think quickly on my feet, but I'm not infallible. I suppose that a part of my conceit was the presumption that I could convince him. Luckily, the idiot stayed quiet as I laid out the rough edges of the plan, and his eyes stretched wide when I gave him the numbers.

“Shit, thirty grand each? That much?”

“Yes,” I lied. “Conservative estimate.”

“Why would he carry all that? It doesn't make sense.”

“Habit, mostly. He started doing it when he collected a few hundred, kept doing it when he was collecting thousands, and saw no reason to change a successful business practice. He doesn't see it as a risk—he sees it as a monthly chore and a way to avoid paying taxes.”

“A hundred grand.” He was like a junkie eying a syringe after a long, dry spell.

“You in?”

“Sure. Hell yes, I'm in. What do you need me to do?”

“First things first. We need to get rid of any camera footage of me.”

“He'll know I was playing around with it and fire me.”

“We've already established that, Otto. But we're taking the money this weekend, so I can spot you a couple of hundred until then, okay?”

“No, I'm fine until the weekend.” His shoulders slumped, and he finally tucked away his cell phone. “I guess I'm just sick of being fired.”

This is where I was supposed to feel sorry for him, so I made an effort and pulled the right face. His weakness, though, his pathetic, beaten-down spirit, was good for me because I knew that he'd be malleable and do what I told him. And his natural sense of self-preservation would mean he'd keep his trap shut afterward, head to Florida, and be out of the way entirely. Also, he'd snuck up on me pretty well, and he knew how to hold a gun, two assets that might come in handy along the way.

“The video?” I prompted.

“I can do it on the computer.”

I slid the laptop to him and watched as he switched it on.

“You know the password?” I asked.

“Isn't one. His staff uses it for communicating with and researching bands, that kind of stuff. He has another one for accounting, or so he told me.” He tapped on a few keys. “There's the cameras. Now let me see…” He sucked on his lower lip as I battled my impatience. Finally he spoke. “Right. I deleted footage from the one that would have caught you and shut it down for the next thirty minutes. If he notices, and I'm sure he will, I'll tell him I heard something and was checking, accidentally deleted it.”

“Great, thanks. Wait, let me use that for a minute, will you?”

“Why?”

“Because that's why I came here. Some bastard is screwing with me, using Marley, and I want to know who.”

“Sure.” Otto passed the laptop back to me. He stood but hovered in the small office, so I shot him a look. “I'll wait out here,” he said, “but don't mess anything else up on his computer, okay?”

“I'm not planning on deleting or changing anything. Just looking.”

Otto mumbled something and shuffled out of the office. A moment later, I thought I heard the clink of a bottle neck on a glass, but he might have just been moving an ashtray. The way his life had gone, I wouldn't have blamed him for drinking on the job.

I spent five minutes looking through Marley's e-mails but didn't see anything related to me stealing music, so I switched to the folders on his desktop. The second one I opened was called “No Play List” and a sub-folder inside read “Dominic.” I took a deep breath, double-clicked on the file, and started on the three listed documents. The first was the lyrics from my song, with my name on top. The second contained the lyrics from his song, with his name on top.