The Amateurs (11 page)

No one seemed to notice.

T
HERE WAS ENOUGH SPACE between the oncoming traffic and the double-parked cab to drive an eighteen-wheeler, but the jerk in the Lexus laid on his horn anyway, creeping past at two miles per. Why was it, Jenn wondered, that the people with the nic est cars were the worst drivers? Was it that they fetishized them and were afraid of any little ding? Or were they people who didn’t feel all that safe to begin with, and figured an expensive car protected them somehow?

Whatever. She hadn’t owned a car in years, and liked it fine.

She crossed mid-block, heading east. In high school, she and her friends used to come here, Clark and Belmont, to visit the head shops and thrift stores, play at being punks in the Alley. Back then Mohawks didn’t draw a second glance, and most everyone had a biker jacket. Now it was expensive boutiques, the old army surplus rebuilt into a multistory chrome thing that belonged on the cover of
Architectural Digest
. Nice enough, but she missed the grimy feel the area used to have. Not truly dangerous, but fit for a little wild-side walking.

Speaking of
. . .

The thought ambushed her again. Ever since Alex had showed up at her door, full of arguments and plans, every so often the reality of what they were doing would yank the world out from under her. She’d be going through her day, talking on the phone, helping a couple plan their honeymoon, sunlight through the front windows, everything normal, and then—
wham!
—all of a sudden she’d remember that tomorrow night she was going to be wearing a mask and holding a gun.

And each time it happened, a delicious shiver ran up her spine.

It was scary, sure. But in that good way. Sometimes she didn’t want a guy to be gentle, to touch her softly and whisper in her ear. Sometimes she wanted him to shove her face-first on the mattress and slide into her hard, to have one hand yanking her hips back and the other twisted in her hair, to do it rough and fierce and primal, without all the gloss. To drive the bed across the floor and knock the books off the shelves. Maybe not the most feminist desire, but there it was.

The thrift shop was hipster heaven, complete with retro furniture, silly gifts—who actually wanted a Jesus action figure?—and punked-out counter staff, each posing harder than the last. She checked her purse with a girl sporting a twice-pierced lip, got a laminated picture of Chuck Norris in return, and moved to the racks of clothes.

After the dinner party, Alex had asked if she wanted to come up, and she’d almost said yes. The whole adventure had her charged, and while he was a good lover to begin with, under the circumstances, it would have been something else entirely. But in the end, she’d mumbled an excuse about needing sleep. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him; she did, on one or two levels. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. It was like she’d been sleepwalking the last years. Now that she’d been slapped awake, she didn’t intend to let that feeling go.

Jenn picked through the racks, looking for simple, dark clothing, unremarkable, settling on faded jeans and a couple of work shirts, the stitching worn. The shoe selection was limited, but it was easier buying footwear that purposefully wasn’t supposed to fit.

Mitch had surprised her that night, coming up with good ideas, practical points they hadn’t thought of. Not only that, but he’d pushed back against Alex, told him to fuck off. She wasn’t one of those women turned on by chest beating, but it was good to see him stand up for himself.

Not true,
she argued with herself. Well, maybe a little bit true, but it wasn’t like she had asked him to, had batted her eyes or put on a simpering voice. She’d even told him it was all right if he didn’t want to go along, and she’d meant it.

Well, OK, so what? Certainly was a contrast to what she’d grown accustomed to, the emotional distance so many men cultivated. Alex was a good guy, but he’d gone out of his way to make sure they stayed a secret. It was kind of nice to have someone not just
wanting
her, but also doing something for her. Risking himself. Another feminist paradox—the last thing she was after was a man who didn’t respect her strength, but what woman didn’t secretly relish knowing a guy would stand up if called on?

Enough
.
First things first. Once they were done with Johnny Love, once life had settled into a new version of normal, there would be plenty of time to think about Alex and Mitch. Or not. Meanwhile, she had to find a place that sold ski masks in the middle of summer.

The tingle hit again. She smiled.

THE YMCA SPEAKERS were playing dance crap, but Alex had headphones on the Hold Steady singing how some nights the painkillers made the pain even worse. He leaned back on the bench, hands behind to catch the bar. He pressed it firm and smooth off the cradle and started his third set, the grip rough against his hands, timing each move to his breath, down slow, up smooth, no wavering or wobbling. The first ten were easy, the second ten a strain. He thought of the phone call from Trish, of her new husband moving to Arizona. And what was he supposed to do? Hang out here in a shitty apartment? Move to the desert, trailing after his ex-wife and her new husband like a puppy? Give up his daughter?

No. Lift. Goddamn. Lower. Way. Lift.

Working out calmed him, burned off the stress. He was in the mood to hit it hard, tear all his muscles and wake up with that good, deep ache, but tomorrow night was too important to be slow or hurting. He limited himself to another half hour, then showered and walked home through summer streets.

“Alex.”

The voice came from the darkness behind him, and he spun, the gym bag slipping from his shoulder. Squinted. “Mitch?”

The man stepped away from the tree he’d been leaning against. “We need to talk.”

“Jesus, you scared me.” He bent for the bag. “Come on up.”

“No.” There was something unfamiliar in his tone. “I’m not staying. You and me, we have to clear something up. I know what you’ve been doing.”

“Huh?”

“With Jenn.”

Shit.
He thought they’d been careful, had kept it from everyone. Not that it mattered, exactly, but it had just seemed simpler to not make an issue of it. Jenn might fool herself, but he could see the size of the torch Mitch carried. The kid went all fifth-grade anytime she blinked.

Still, why bring it up now? Unless . . . double shit. If Mitch knew about him and Jenn, he might back out of tomorrow night. If he did, the others might too. The whole thing could fall apart. “Listen—”

“No, you listen. I know you think you’re the big man, our fearless leader, but that’s bullshit. And I’m tired of you treating me like I don’t exist.”

“What are you—”

“Using her to get me involved. You knew that I wouldn’t let her go in there with just Ian to protect her, and you used that.”

“Mitch—”

“Admit it.”

Alex sighed. “Yeah.”

“That ends now. All of it. Trying to tell me what’s what, that there’s no changing my mind, that everything runs the way you want. Johnny Love may be your boss, but you aren’t mine, or hers.” Mitch stepped closer, his face hollowed out by the streetlight above. “You think you’re such hot shit? You’re a bartender, Alex. A bartender who can’t pay child support.”

Confusion was turning to anger. “Watch it.”

“Or what? You’ll kick my ass? This isn’t middle school. I’m smarter than you. And you need me tomorrow, and afterward.”

“Look, ease up. I didn’t mean any harm. I just needed your help, man.”

“Yeah, well, I’m tired of being ignored,
man
. Tired of you thinking you’re better than all of us. I’m going tomorrow night. But I’m not doing it for you, and I’m not doing it because you manipulated me. I’m doing it for me. And yeah, because I’m worried about Jenn. Something you ought to be as well.”

“I am.”

“Bullshit. You’re only thinking of yourself.”

“I’m doing this for my daughter.”

“She’s not my daughter.”

Alex took a deep breath. He had the strongest urge to tell Mitch where to cram the tough-guy act. But he couldn’t risk it. Everything depended on tomorrow night. “Is that it?”

“One more thing. You ever try to play me like that again, you ever lie to me, and we’re through. At very least.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that if you want to be my friend, start acting like one. Or I’ll start acting like we’re not.” With that, Mitch turned and walked away, a quick, nervous step.

Alex watched him go. Part of him wanted to run after the guy, apologize, remind him that they were buddies, that he was sorry if he’d been a dick. Another part wanted to tell Mitch about the noises Jenn made just before she came, the way she mashed her eyes shut and made soft, quick moans that barely left her throat. See how the guy liked that.

Alex shouldered his bag, turned, and walked up the steps to his empty apartment.

 

 

THE CONDO WAS COLD, the AC cranked all the way. Ian sat on the couch in just a pair of briefs, a bag of frozen peas between his legs. The flat-screen was on HBO, some monster movie, a screaming heroine running down a long dark hallway. With the volume muted, it seemed almost existentially horrifying, the way her lips opened soundlessly as she stumbled and fell before getting up to stagger forward again.

Ian leaned forward, picked up the mirror, held it to his nose, sucked in a long rail of white, and then another in the same nostril. His left had started bleeding earlier, and he had a Kleenex twisted into it, the end hanging out like a tail. He wiped the bitter coke residue on gums gone numb, then set the mirror on the coffee table. Beside it, three pistols lay in a neat line, the metal gleaming dull.

Outside the windows, the city burned.

“
J
ESUS. You look amazing.”

Jenn smiled, gave a little curtsy, one thin arm holding the edge of her skirt. “Like a Bond girl?”

“Like all of them,” Mitch said. “Rolled into one.” The words came unplanned, and he had a sudden fear that they were the wrong ones. But her smile widened.

“Let’s get to it,” Alex said from behind her. “I have to be at work soon.”

Mitch followed them into the living room. Ian’s condo was spotless as ever, something out of a magazine, except for the table in the center of the room, where masks and gloves were piled alongside a brown paper bag.

“Mitch,” Ian said. He wore baggy black jeans, a bowling shirt, and brown work boots. “Thanks for suggesting the outfits. I look like an idiot.”

“You do not,” Jenn said. “You should wear real-people clothes more often.”

“Suits are real-people clothes.” Ian gestured at the table. “Yours are there. You can change in the bedroom.”

“Hold on,” Alex said. “Let’s see the rest of it.”

Ian walked to the table, picked up the bag, and held it out. For a moment, everyone stood still. Then Jenn stepped forward, reached in, and pulled out a chrome revolver. She looked hypnotized, the gun in her palm, fingers not quite wrapping around the grip.

“It’s heavy,” she said.

Mitch stared at her. The dress she wore was designed at the intersection of elegance and sensuality, something he imagined a two-thousand-dollar-a-night call girl might wear, strappy to show off bare shoulders and cut to mid-thigh. With the gun in her hand and the intense look on her face, she was the single sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

“It’s loaded,” Ian said. “So be careful.”

“Where did you get them?”

“A guy I know.” Ian looked away.

“What kind of guy?”

“Does it matter?”

“OK,” Alex said. “Jenn bought gloves and masks for all three of you. We went over everything the other night. No need to do it again, right?”

“Actually, I was thinking,” Ian said. “The timing. Why don’t we just go into the office and be waiting when Johnny comes in?”

“No,” Mitch and Alex said in unison. They looked at each other, a little smile playing on Alex’s lips. He nodded a
go-ahead
gesture.

“No. Johnny might go into the office alone. You and I have to come in when he and Alex are both there. That’s the whole point. Plus, if we’re waiting, the safe will be locked.”

“So? We know the combo.”

“But how would we? It will get Johnny wondering. We can’t afford that.”

Jenn said, “How do we know that Johnny won’t wait for these guys, whoever they are, to come in the front door of the restaurant, and then all of you head back together?”

Alex shook his head. “Not his style. Remember, he wants to be the big man. He’ll wait back there. A king on his throne, granting an audience.”

“You sure?”