Master of None (6 page)

“Son of a bitch works fast, doesn’t he?” I gripped the armrest hard. “I hate to ask, but you know I have to. Are you planning to cash me in?”

“No.” She gave a short laugh. “The thought crossed my mind. Like I said, though, I hate him more. Don’t worry—I put out word that you were on my shit list a long time ago. No one will come looking for you with me.”

“Great. That’s reassuring.”

“If I wanted to reassure you, I would’ve lied. What’d you do to Trevor, anyway?”

“Stepped on his foot and scuffed his loafers.”

“Come on, Donatti.”

I had to fess up. How embarrassing. “He hired me to lift something, and I . . . lost it.”

“You’re kidding.” Her laughter was genuine this time. “You
lost
a score? Shit, you really do have the worst luck.”

“Tell me about it. Of course, Trevor thinks I double-crossed him, fenced it to somebody else. He wants me alive so he can torture me to find out what I did with it. And I’m sure he won’t take ‘I lost it’ for an answer.”

“That’s rough.” Jazz tapped the brake a few times as we passed a posted speed limit of forty-five heading into a small town. “What’d he have you lift, the Hope diamond?”

“Actually, it was some crappy old knife. Piece of junk, far as I could tell. But you know collectors. They have the most screwed-up reasons for wanting things.”

Jazz nodded and fell silent.

I watched her concentrate on the road for a few minutes. She picked up speed again when we hit the edge of East Bump-in-the-Road, or whatever that little huddle of buildings called itself. “Was that all we had to talk about?” I asked.

“I wish.” Jazz drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Aren’t you wondering why I agreed to help you after all this time?”

“I figured it was because of my charming personality. Or, barring that, the money.”

“Charming. Not the word I’d use.”

“How about eccentric?”

“Would you lay off the wisecracks for a minute? This isn’t easy for me to say.” Her expression hardened, and her hands clamped the wheel. “I have a son.”

“
What?
Where?” I glanced back, half expecting a kid to materialize behind my seat.

“You moron. Do you really think I’d bring him out in the middle of the night to hang out with a bunch of thieves? He stays with my sister when I’m working.”

I smiled. “How is Molly? Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s fine.” Jazz gave me an odd look. “My son just turned two last week.”

“Okay.” My mind raced. Obviously, she wanted me to understand something, but my exhausted brain refused coherent thought. Was she trying to say she was getting out of the business? I’d certainly buy that—thieves weren’t good role models for kids. “I’m . . . uh, sorry?”

“Damn you, Donatti. Don’t you get it?”

I started to shake my head and froze. I hadn’t seen Jazz in almost three years . . . and there’d been no shortage of baby-making activity between us back then. Jesus. She couldn’t be telling me what I suspected. What would rip the rest of my soul out and crush it—because, for fuck’s sake, being a thief wasn’t enough to ensure my spot in hell. No way Jazz could be saying I’d accidentally become a father.

But she was.

When my tongue failed to move, Jazz spoke for me. “I have a son. And so do you.”

If I had been driving, I would’ve wrecked us right then.

Since I wasn’t, my body’s sudden, stiff reaction to the news jerked the seat belt tight across my chest and squeezed the breath from me. I stilled, closed my eyes, and felt shock leach through a constricted windpipe to clot in my gut. “Why?” My voice scratched across the sandpaper on my tongue and slithered over dry lips, as if I was expelling snakes instead of words. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Don’t you think I tried, you jackass? You’re never easy to find, not even when you want to be accessible. And obviously, you didn’t.” Jazz kept her furious gaze averted. “I spent a year looking for you. From when I found out I was pregnant until Cyrus was three or four months old.”

My throat tightened further. If it shrank any more, I’d asphyxiate. “You named him Cyrus?” More snakes, wiggling in the air between us. I’d been utterly trashed back when I confessed to Jazz the bizarre middle name my unknown parents chose to inflict on me. Not that the rest of my name was much better. But since they were dead, I’d never been able to unravel that particular mystery. There
had only been a birth certificate, and it wasn’t talking.

“We call him Cy.” Her expression softened for an instant and then returned to rage. “I couldn’t take worrying about where the hell you were, what you were doing, whether you were even alive. A few times, I thought you must have figured it out and took off so you wouldn’t have to deal with me. With us. Finally, I decided you’d have to be all or nothing. And since you weren’t around, you became nothing.”

“Terrific. So what does this kid—Cyrus, I mean—think about not having a father?”

“He isn’t old enough to understand. And don’t you dare get pissy with me because you pulled a disappearing act.”

“I didn’t disappear.” I drew a deep breath and tried to calm my stuttering heart. It didn’t help. “I mean, I wouldn’t have, if I’d known. I’m sorry, Jazz. It’s just . . . this is a lot to take.”

“I know.” Her scowl softened. “I’m sorry for that, but there wasn’t a way to ease into it gradually.”

“Yeah. I guess not.” I stared through the window, watched the silhouettes of rolling hills and staggered trees rise and fall over the darkened landscape. Such a bleak picture—nothing out there for miles. I’d never considered having kids. As far as a serious relationship, Jazz was the closest I’d come, and only because the word
marriage
had actually crossed my mind a few times before I took off. Hell, once I even came close to stealing an engagement ring for her.

But I hadn’t acted on the thought. In fact, I’d barely considered the future at all. The farthest ahead I ever looked was the next score. Even that didn’t matter. I only kept stealing because I didn’t know how to do anything else.

“I took an out-of-town gig when I bailed on you,” I finally
said. “Thought it’d be best to lay low for a while. Figured you could take care of yourself.”

Jazz made a thick sound, not quite clearing her throat. “Where’d you go, Mars?”

“No, Canada.” At the time, it was the most desolate place I could think of that was still habitable, and I’d wanted to get as far from humanity as possible, before I screwed anyone else over.

“Is that where you found him?” Jazz indicated the still-slumbering djinn with a jerk of her head.

I laughed. “No. He found me. I’ve tried to steer clear of partners, ever since . . . the thing with Lark.”

“The hookup out in Fremont? What’d you do to him?”

“You mean he didn’t spread the word? Thought he’d have a contract out on me by now.” I returned my attention to the window. This was one conversation I didn’t want to have.

Jazz had other ideas. “What happened, Donatti?”

“Nothing.” I clenched a fist. “Just me being me. I fucked up.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.”

I groaned. One of the few things I’d learned about women was when they said something was fine, they actually wanted to rip your entrails out and strangle you with them. “We hit a place up in Albany,” I said. “Some Egyptian artifact—you know that stuff he collects. He was hot for this one. Practically drooling over it.”

“I didn’t know Lark went out on active gigs. Isn’t he a techie?”

“Yeah. But he wanted to be there, and I thought I could handle it.” I let out a shaking breath. “The place was wired to hell and back. Lark broke through everything in less than three, and we had a fifteen-minute window. I figured we’d make it in five, with two of us. So I brought him in.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I gave a weak laugh. “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said. “It should’ve been a simple in-and-out. I’d canvassed the place myself, but I missed something in the sweep. One lousy sensor, hooked to a separate rinky-dink tertiary system. Goddamned alarm sounded like a cheap doorbell. But it still triggered a downline. Everything sealed off before I could even remember where the entrance was.”

Jazz shook her head. “You didn’t have a backup?”

“Lark was the backup. At least, he would’ve been, if I’d left him outside.” My stomach clenched at the memory of what had happened next, but my mouth went ahead and spilled. “I brought us out on the roof. Didn’t know there was a little construction going on up there. And. . . well, Lark isn’t exactly sure-footed. I was helping him cross some open beams, and I kind of dropped him. Two stories.”

“My God,” Jazz whispered. “You didn’t . . .”

“No. He survived. I scaled down the back while the cops swarmed the front and dragged him into the van we were using. Drove him to the hospital. Told them we’d been out drinking, and he took a header down some stairs on his way to piss.” I couldn’t look at her anymore. “They told me his spine was damaged. That he might never walk again. I stuck around until he regained consciousness, and he gave me one chance to live. He said if he ever saw me again, he’d kill me. So I left.”

No,
I countered silently.
I didn’t just leave. I ran
. From Lark, from the life and the guilt. From her and from myself. But I still hadn’t managed to get rid of me.

“When did this happen?” Jazz asked after a moment’s silence.

“Two days before I planned to hook up with you.”

She didn’t react to the admission, but I suspected she’d formed her own opinion of my actions. Coward, she probably thought, or worse. The truth was that I hadn’t wanted anything to happen to her because of me. I didn’t want to ruin her life—or anyone else’s—the way I had ruined Lark’s.

Apparently, I’d done it anyway. I left her alone to raise a child I’d fathered.

While my brain tried to work out a coherent explanation, bright flickering light at the corner of my eye commanded attention. A glance in the side-view mirror confirmed what I feared. Cops.

“Oh, shit.”

“What . . .” Jazz began. A siren interrupted. “Damn it.” She eased down on the brakes and guided the van toward the roomy, deserted roadside. “Think that guy at the motel called them?”

“Maybe. If he could manage to find a phone.” I leaned over and twisted to face the back. “Ian, wake up. We have a problem. Maybe two or three problems.”

No response.

“Ian!” I shouted this time. “We could really use your help, like
now.
”

Silence.

Jazz gave me a curious look. “How could he help? If anything, he’ll only make them more suspicious. Especially if they see he’s been shot.”

“He . . . uh, you’re right. He can’t help.”
Or won’t.
Didn’t this qualify as a need? If nothing else, I
desired
to stay out of jail. This master gig was highly overrated. I felt less like Cinderella and more like used drywall. Perpetually screwed.

Cops could smell panic. I forced myself to relax. Probably
just a routine stop, some small-town fuzz trying to fill a quota. I’d offer to pay the ticket later.

Jazz glanced at me. “This is going on your bill.”

“Right.” I shook my head and fought a smile.

Blue-white light flooded the driver’s-side window. A cop’s flashlight. Jazz turned her head, and I squinted against the glare. The beam remained steady for long seconds. The cop moved off. Footsteps circled the back of the van. The figure reappeared at my window and repeated the holding pattern with the light. At last, the cop switched it off and tapped on the glass—my first clue something about this situation didn’t wash. I wasn’t the one with the license and registration.

Grimacing, Jazz lowered my window with the controls on her side.

The backwash from the headlights revealed the cop’s movements clearly. He stepped back, still gripping the heavy flashlight in one hand, and with the other drew his piece.

“Step out of the vehicle. Both of you. On this side.”

I stared at the gun and reached for my seatbelt. This made four. Not that I was counting.

T
HE
COP DIRECTED US TO STAND AGAINST THE VAN, FACING HIM
. “If either of you have any weapons, toss ’em now.” He gestured with the flashlight to the weed-choked ditch beyond, keeping the gun trained on us. Mostly on me.

My stomach clenched. This wasn’t routine. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Conner, you dirty son of a bitch.” Jazz pulled her Glock and threw it hard, narrowly missing the man in uniform. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Deal?” I barely managed to get the word out. The world
tilted viciously, like a carnival amusement ride at double speed, and my legs threatened to fail at holding up the rest of me. Once again, reality refused to make sense. “You made a deal with the cops?”

“Not the sharpest pencil, are you, Donatti?” Conner sneered. “Your little friend is dealing with Trevor. I’m just here to make sure she follows through.”

The carnival ride screeched to a stop. Anger and pain focused my thoughts. I should have seen this coming—though it still hurt, more than the ass-kicking I’d expected from her in the first place would have. Jazz was a thief, just like me. Wouldn’t I have done the same?

No, I decided. I wouldn’t have. Not to her. Even before I knew about the kid.

“Gavyn . . .”

She gutted me with a word. She’d never called me Gavyn before. Too late to start now. Ignoring her, I eased away and assessed the situation. Jazz obviously wasn’t going to be any help. If I could throw this Conner guy’s guard off, I might be able to take him down. But what about Ian? The djinn must have truly passed out . . . if he was still alive. Even he wouldn’t be callous enough to ignore this disaster.

The distance between Jazz and me grew by subtle degrees. I’d gained almost two feet when Conner swung the flashlight and belted me across the face, knocking me to the ground. I snarled and cupped a hand against the blood streaming from the corner of my mouth. Fuck, that hurt. Tasted awful, too. Like sucking salt from a hot nail.

“Don’t even think it, Donatti. Next time, it’ll be a bullet. Get up and empty your pockets.”