Tempted by Trouble (10 page)

She laughed and laughed and laughed. And when the laughter had moved beyond maniacal, it became so deep that she lost her breath. Jackie inhaled so deeply it looked as if she were suffocating, as if she were drowning in sorrow, and when she threw her head back and gulped air, when she could exhale and inhale, the laughter was gone, replaced by a series of curt screams that shattered any residual echo from the laughter, the screams icy and hot all at once, each scream reverberating and sending chills up and down my spine, that shrill the eruption of the inner volcano, the releases of pent-up denial and disbelief. She doubled over and when I went toward her, she moved away from me, stumbled into the kitchen, and picked up a plate. She threw the plate against the wall, and before the last bits of the plate had settled, she was grabbing everything in sight, began throwing glasses and knives and spoons before she turned over all of the food on the kitchen counter, threw things until there was nothing else to throw, and when that was not enough, she fought to breathe again, then went down on her knees, collapsed on her backside, and gave her angry and irate tears to her hands. My instinct was to try to hold her; that instinct to protect a woman was a man’s flaw that had proven deadly to many. I wanted to contain her rage, silence her before people came knocking on the door, but I went to her, and as I said her name over and over and tried to quiet her, she fought with me, lashed out at me with both her hands and her words, as if it was my fault that Sammy had been shot.

“
You
should be dead,
not Sammy.
You should be dead.”

Her depraved words almost sent me into a rage, but I held back. I stepped away and she hurried and got back on her feet. Her words echoed. She wished me dead again. Whatever she saw in my face and body language made her take a step back and scramble through things in the kitchen in search of a weapon. She picked up a steak knife and gripped it inside her hand, held it the way a solider holds a knife, her body ready. The news had brought the truth and the truth was too much for her to bear and now I was the epicenter of all faults.

She faced me and growled, “
You should be dead, Dmytryk.
”

I reached inside my pocket and took out the gun she had given me, the same gun that had been used back at the Village Green.

She snapped, “Is that supposed to scare me?”

I firmed my voice and snapped, “Just put the damn knife down.”

We faced each other for a short part of eternity. The anger in her face changed, her bottom lip trembled, and her anger moved aside and allowed her sorrow a front seat among her litany of emotions.

Her words changed from fury to a frantic plea. “Shoot me, Dmytryk. In my heart, shoot me. Get this pain out of my chest and if you can’t get the pain out, kill me and make it go away.”

“Geesh, Jackie.”

“Shoot me. Please, just shoot me. Get me out of this miserable world.”

Her hair draped her face, came loose and covered her psychosis, fell across the makeup that failed to mask her troubled skin, and she gnarled her lips, bared her teeth, and gave me a rabid stare that was as grotesque as it was powerful. She snapped again, said words that made her sound no better than a feral, dirty-mouthed hooker, cursed and told me to shoot her like she was a dog, like they had shot Sammy.

“Think about your kid, Jackie.”

Those simple words widened her eyes and pulled her away from whatever evil place she was visiting. She looked down at her hand, stared at the knife she held, then closed her eyes. The knife slipped from her fingers and landed on the tattered linoleum in the kitchen.

I put the gun back inside my pocket. It had never been pointed at her.

After that, I backed away from her.

Food decorated the walls and run-down shag carpet, the dinners I had made over the last days thrown a pot at a time, then whatever she had spilled on the counter being slung a handful at a time, food that ran down the walls and made it look like the room was melting or like an abstract exhibit that should be at a museum in London or Germany. I kept my distance and looked at Jackie, her hair flying about her face as she released her angst. She stood before me, fuming in grief, bewildered, fraught, tormented by bad times, bad marriages, lawsuits, economic madness, and the death of a lover she needed.

Outside, the din from Koreatown piped into the room as red and yellow neon lights flashed across insanity.

Jackie leaned against the kitchen wall, winded, her chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. She evaluated the mess she’d made, then picked up the bottle of vodka, one of the few things that she hadn’t thrown. She found a paper cup and filled it, then drank it like it was Kool-Aid.

She whispered, “I didn’t mean it. I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You meant it. And I should leave before another tragedy happens inside this room.”

“Not right now.”

“I’d hate for another one of us to end up dead. And I’d hate for that person to be me.”

“Don’t go.”

“Then take it easy on the vodka.”

She asked, “Mind giving me that gun?”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m not going to shoot you.”

“If you’re contemplating a reunion with Sammy, think about your kid. And if you still feel compelled to act like a loon, let me know and give me a twenty-minute head start before you pull the trigger.”

We stared at each other for a moment, then I reached in my coat and handed her the weapon.

She held the gun and stared at me, her eyes dark, red, and swollen.

She said, “You should’ve had a gun, Dmytryk. Then you could’ve saved Sammy.”

“We can’t turn back the clock.”

“You could’ve saved them both if you’d had a gun.”

I said, “The way you’re holding that gun, Jackie, it’s making me a little uneasy.”

She put the gun down on the counter and turned around, bumped into the kitchen counter, almost lost her balance, then stepped over the mess she had made like she was negotiating a minefield. She sashayed away, threw her hips side to side, and headed to the window, stood there drinking and shaking her head like she was struggling to not let her thoughts drive her crazy, releasing the occasional chuckle of disbelief, the neon lights making her appear and disappear, like the problems inside my head.

She whispered, “Sammy’s dead. Sammy really is dead. I can smell him in this room, smell him on my skin, can feel him inside my body, and he’s dead. I have the scent of a dead man on my body.”

“We need to worry about Rick.”

“Turn that television off. I can’t handle seeing Sammy pop up on the news again.”

“We need to get updates on Rick.”

“I don’t care about Rick. Something went wrong inside and I bet it was Rick’s fault.”

“If Rick isn’t dead, if they hold his family over him and get him to talk, we’re screwed.”

“Rick would never talk. Look, Sammy’s dead and I have to stay focused. You’re right. I have to think about my child. That’s what this is all about. I’m not robbing banks for kicks. I’m on a mission. Every dime counts. Every dime. This job was just a small job. And this small job was going to lead to a bigger job. Then me and Sammy . . . Sammy . . . Sammy’s dead.”

I let the conversation end on her words.

She whispered, “Turn the television off, Dmytryk.”

I ignored her.

Jackie adjusted her skirt and moved her out-of-control hair away from her face, tried to summon some sophistication but failed miserably. I went back to monitoring the television. She finished her drink, went into the kitchen and picked up the gun, then came toward me, made me back away.

Jackie shot the television three times. She killed the newscasters as they smiled.

The television died as every other noise in Koreatown magnified and covered her insanity.

Then Jackie went back to the kitchen and made herself another tall glass of vodka.

Legs crossed, Jackie sat
in a plaid chair and maintained conversation with Mr. Smirnoff. I turned on my laptop and searched for the same news that Jackie had destroyed, but what I found wasn’t real-time. All I had was the app on my phone, so I let anxiety lead me around the cramped apartment while I monitored police bands. An hour later Jackie’s cellular rang and she staggered inside the bedroom and took the call. I stopped pacing long enough to spy out the window at the row of dingy apartments on the street. Jackie came back and extended her personal phone.

Her eyes told me who was on the other end of her cellular. I knew it was her savior. My hand went up in a motion that told her to hold on. I turned off my laptop before I took her phone. I wanted her savior to wait for me the way others waited on him. Jackie ran her fingers through her hair and walked away, sashayed to refill her glass, her four-inch heels taking her tipsy sway across the claustrophobic room.

I said, “Eddie Coyle. The man from Rome.”

“Well, if it isn’t the blue-collar executive with no vowels in his ugly name.”

Despite the fear and tension in the air, I played along and said, “I have two vowels.”

“Either way, long time no talk to.”

“Long time,” I said in agreement. “Where are you?”

“Vancouver, but I’m loading up.”

“Working a job?”

“More like vacation. We’re preparing to fly back toward Rome.”

“I heard the weather was pretty bad in that part of the world.”

He asked, “What in the world happened out there in L.A.?”

Teeth clenched, I relived the nightmare, described the horror, and told Eddie Coyle about the morning, about the moments when Rick and Sammy had exited Wells Fargo.

Eddie Coyle said, “No way you could’ve saved Rick or Sammy?”

“No way. It was unexpected.”

“We have to expect the unexpected.”

“They came out shooting. Sammy was already hit.”

“They were down when you pulled away?”

“Sammy’s head was open and the bullet that went through Rick’s chest, it shattered the car window. His chest was opened up. Sammy was dead.”

“Sounds like it was really bad.”

I rubbed my eyes. “The bullet that hit Rick, I have that bullet in my pocket right now.”

“Glad you made it out. I’m sure Rick or Sammy would’ve done the same if the roles had been reversed. We don’t leave anyone behind unless we have to, and I’m sure you had to, because you did.”

“You said the driver never leaves the car.”

“The driver never leaves his passengers either. But if Sammy’s brains had been blown out and Rick had taken one like you say, you had no other options, I’m sure.”

I didn’t know how to take his last statement, so I held the phone and bottled my temper.

“Jackie said you handled some woman today, Dmytryk.”

First I touched my busted lip, then I touched my tender face.

I whispered, “No witnesses.”

“A witness is a guaranteed ride to jail.”

“Guaranteed, Eddie Coyle. Guaranteed.”

“She said that you did it and walked away like it was nothing.”

I let his words hang.

Eddie Coyle said, “I know it’s a bad time, but, well, if you’re interested, of course at the risk of coming across as being insensitive, I have another job coming up fast, real fast, and I really need another man.”

“Where?”

“Georgia. That’s why I was calling Jackie. She just told me about Sammy and Rick. I send my condolences and prayers, but despite that situation I need a crew, people I know and trust.”

“What’s the take?”

“One hundred thousand. That’s low end. Guaranteed. Five-way split.”

“One hundred thousand.”

“You’ll get twenty. It’s not much, but it’s better than peanut butter on crackers.”

I paused for a moment and looked down at my well-shined Johnston & Murphy shoes. There was a point in my life when one hundred grand would have been laughable. Now twenty thousand was the life preserver that would keep me from going under, maybe keep me afloat until the next ship came my way and saved me from drowning or drifting at sea.

I said, “At the risk of sounding insensitive, I need the money.”

“If you make it to exit seven in the next four days, we’ll take it from there.”

He’d said
if.
Not
when.
A sinking feeling consumed my body.

We ended the call. Eddie Coyle was in a hurry. He was a man who was always in a hurry.

A savior never had time to rest.

I tossed the cellular to Jackie. Despite being toasted, she caught with her left hand.

Jackie whispered, “Dmytryk, you said you needed three grand?”

“Four. I need to get my hands on four thousand as soon as possible.”

“Gambling debt or you plan on spending the night with a couple of hookers?”

“None of your business. I just need it.”

Jackie stood and paced the room, her turn to walk the worn carpet.

I went to my duffel bag and opened it up. Off to the side were applications for grad school. There were job applications as well, only the latter seemed like a waste of good trees in a bad economy. Most companies did online submissions, but a few still used paper.

She paused a moment. “I’m really surprised that Eddie Coyle invited you in on his job.”

I closed my duffel and faced her, my expression terse. “You think I can’t handle it?”

“Did I say something to upset you?”

“Don’t question me and what I’m capable of.”

“That’s not what I was doing, but maybe somebody should.”

“If anyone can’t handle it, it’s you. You lost it before. You were ready to face off with LAPD with a .22. You held a knife and wished me dead. You went Elvis Presley and killed the television, and now it feels as if I’m being questioned here. I’ve worked with Eddie Coyle. What he is and how he is are nothing new.”