The Amateurs (12 page)

“Trust me.”

“If you’re wrong—”

“If Alex is wrong, we won’t do it,” Mitch said. “The point is that there isn’t much risk. None of us are going to be stupid about it. Right?”

Ian’s eyes darted back and forth. “Wait a second. We have to do this.”

“Why?”

Ian wiped at his nose with one shaking hand. “Well. Yeah, you’re right.”

Shit. Of course.
Mitch stared at him, said, “You OK?”

“What? Sure. I’m just, you know, excited.”

“Look, we do this right, it’s simple,” Alex said. “No danger to anybody.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“What?”

“Well, you’re not the one robbing the place, are you?”

“I’m in this just as much as you.”

“Sure. We’re carrying pistols, you’re filling pitchers.”

“Fuck you, man.” Alex stared hard and level. Mitch made himself stare back. It felt good.

“Guys,” Jenn said. “Stop. We’re in this together.”

Alex turned. Mitch blew a breath. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I better go.” The bartender bent, pulled his jacket from the arm of a chair. “I’ll see you soon.” He walked to the door, pulled it open, then stopped, turned back. “Good luck.”

Mitch started to say something sharp, then caught himself. Why was he coming on so hard? They were friends, the best he had. It was just the stress of the thing. “You too, buddy.”

Alex smiled, nodded, then stepped out. The door swung closed behind him. For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Jenn closed her fingers around the grip of the pistol, extended her arm, and sighted down the barrel at the city.

“Bang,” she whispered.

 

 

THE RENTAL WAS A FOUR-DOOR CHEVY that smelled new. It was also a bright metallic orange. “Subtle,” Mitch said.

Ian shrugged. “What they had.”

“I like it,” Jenn said. She opened the passenger door and slid in, tucking her skirt beneath her legs. Ian started the car and pulled out of his parking garage, fingers tapping a manic beat on the steering wheel. Nerves, she supposed. She knew she had them. Last night, laying in bed, she’d been socked with a tidal wave of fear. Miles from the pleasant shivers she’d been riding, this was pure, animal panic. She’d grabbed at the phone on the bedside table, started to punch numbers, to call the others and cancel.

It took all her will to hang up the phone, get out of bed, and walk into the bathroom to splash water on her face. And when she did, the woman in the mirror looked unfamiliar. She had the same cheeks, the same eyes and lips, but there was something different. She looked tired. Beat down. Someone who had never seized the chances life offered.

So she’d forced herself back to bed and spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling. And in the morning, the face in the mirror was just a face. But the nervousness remained.

In silence, they drove north, battling the after-work migration from the Loop to the neighborhoods. With traffic, it took almost half an hour to make it to the restaurant. Ian pulled to a stop and put on the blinkers. He was piano wire and static electricity.

Jenn sat with her purse in her lap. Her heart pounded fast and hard. She felt awake, slapped by life.

“It’s not too late,” Mitch said from the back. For a moment, she wanted to collapse, to thank him. To climb gingerly back down the steps of the high dive and tell herself it didn’t matter.

Instead, she reached for the door handle. Stepped out, heels clicking on the concrete. Mitch got out as well. His expression was complicated, concern and fear and something else. “I’ll be OK,” she said.

“Anything happens, anything at all . . . just be careful, OK?”

His concern touched her. He and Ian had the riskiest part of the plan, and yet here he was, worried about her. She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. He smelled like aftershave. She felt his arms tense, and then his hands slid around her back, fingers warm on her skin. For a moment they held it, then she moved back, not sure if she was embarrassed or not. “For luck.”

He nodded, said nothing.

You’re a Bond girl. You’re a heartbreaker with a pistol in your purse.
She forced a smile, then turned and walked toward the door.

 

 

IAN HAD TRIED TO HOLD OFF. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew he was doing too much of the stuff. But about twenty minutes before the others came over, he gave in and chopped up four lines. Just a little pick-me-up to sharpen his edge.When this was done, he’d ease off. Maybe quit entirely.

“When do you think they’ll get here?” Mitch sounded nervous.

“Probably after dark?”

“They’re meeting inside. What does it matter if it’s dark?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that when criminals do things?” Ian leaned forward, clicked on the stereo, then spun through his iPod. “You in the mood for anything?”

“Am I in the mood for anything?”

“Music.”

Mitch stared at him, shook his head. “Jesus.”

Neutral Milk Hotel it was, then. A little bit discordant with a lotta genius running through. Ian didn’t have the first idea what the singer was talking about, but he liked it anyway, liked the way it wove against his thoughts.

“How much did you do?”

“Huh?”

“How much cocaine, Ian?”

“You want some?”

“No.”

“Then mind your own business.” He tapped his fingers against the wheel, sang along, “
The only girl I ever loved, was born with roses in her eyes, but then they buried her alive . . .”
The light turned green, and he went right. They were swinging in wide blocks, circling the place every couple of minutes. “Anyway, relax, would you? This is going to be easy.”

“Easy. Sure.”

“I’ll bet you ten grand it goes fine.”

“I don’t have ten grand.”

Ian smiled. “You don’t have it
yet
.”

ALEX THREW HIMSELF INTO WORK. Most bars, Tuesday night was quiet, but the restaurant did enough business that they got plenty of overflow, yuppie happy hour, Internet daters who started with a drink before deciding if the other was cute enough to buy dinner. He filled the ice bins and wiped the back bar, replaced a couple of bottles that were running low.

“Hey, stranger.” Jenn flowed into a chair. She looked better than good.

“You want a drink?”

“I probably shouldn’t.”

“One won’t kill you.” He reached for a shaker, poured vodka, splashed vermouth.

She looked around, then leaned on her hand. Whispered, “Is he here?”

“Talk normal. Yeah, he’s in the back.”

“He say anything?”

“He fired a cook, then said that it was getting harder and harder to find good wetbacks.”

“What a peach.”

Alex shook her drink hard. Too many people thought you were just supposed to mix it, but the whole point of a martini was to shake till the ice cracked into tiny slivers. After a minute, he poured it into a glass, skewered a couple of olives, set them on top. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said, and smiled. She reached into her purse, pulled out a cell phone. “So I programmed the message for the boys in advance. One line. It took, like, five minutes. Is it just me, or is texting the stupidest form of human communication ever invented?”

“I think that’s MySpace.” He poured himself a shot of vodka, clinked glasses with her, tapped his against the bar, and then threw it back. A group of twentysomethings in shiny shirts came in, talking loudly, and he went to serve them. As he poured their drinks and made their change, he could barely hear the noise of the bar over the contrary thoughts jumbling in his mind, skidding and colliding like cars out of control.

He wanted to call the night off. He wanted the night to go forward, but for it to be over. He wanted to be twenty again, he and Trish and Cassie still together, a family, the future open and bright. He wanted to pull Jenn off the stool and take her in the back and yank the straps of that dress off her shoulders. He wanted a cigarette.

None of that matters
.
Only Cassie matters. This is just one more thing you have to do for her.

“Goddamn. There is such a thing as angels.” The voice pulled him from his trance. Johnny Love looked Mafia chic in an orange shirt with a paisley silk tie, his hair slicked back. He leaned on the bar next to Jenn like he owned the world.

“Johnny,” she said and smiled. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too, sweetheart. Here for that dinner?”

“Not tonight. I just came to see Alex, have a drink.”

“You know, you’re breaking my heart.”

“You look like a big boy.” She brushed her hair behind her shoulder. “You can take it.”

Johnny laughed, gestured to her glass. “You’re empty.”

“That’s OK—”

“Nonsense. Can’t let a woman like you go thirsty.” He turned to Alex. “Make her another, huh? Grey Goose, on me. Then let’s go back to my office.”

The muscles of Alex’s shoulders locked tight, and something soft traced the inside of his thighs. He fought the urge to look at Jenn. “Sure.”

Johnny said, “Forgive me, gorgeous, I got work to do. But stick around. Maybe we can have a drink together later.”

Alex picked up the shaker, his fingers numb on the metal. He didn’t hear the rest of what Johnny said to Jenn, didn’t hear her responses. He focused on the cocktails. Hers was easy, but his—one part shit-scared, two parts resolved, a twist of a prayer, knock it hard and bang it back—that one was tough.

He set the martini down, then followed Johnny to the back room. At the door, he risked a glance over his shoulder. Their eyes locked as she reached for the cell phone.

Point of no return.

 

 

HE KNEW IT WAS PROBABLY NOTHING, but Mitch couldn’t help but think of the way Jenn had kissed him. They hugged all the time, and she threw in a cheek kiss often enough. Just a friendly gesture. But this time, something had felt different. When he’d put his arms around her, he hadn’t been hugging her like a friend. And she hadn’t seemed to mind. Had, in fact, seemed to lean into it a little bit.

And that wasn’t all. Ever since that night at Ian’s, when he’d spoken up, took control, he’d felt strange in a good sort of way. Like something inside him was breaking loose. Standing up to Alex, the thing with Jenn, it was part of the same process. All of it tied to this thing they were doing, this crazy chance. Four normal people who had never won deciding to storm the casino. Could life really be that simple?

The phone in his pocket vibrated and he jumped like he’d been stung. He pulled it out and keyed the button to read the text.

The philosophical mood vanished like smoke. Jesus Christ. They were really doing this. He stared at the screen, blinking.

“What?” Ian looked over with wide eyes. “What is it?”

Mitch could hear his pulse rage in his ears, feel his face begin to flush. This was going to go wrong. He knew it, felt it.

“Are we going?”

It had been a game until this second, but playtime was over. His lungs felt like they had a leak.

“Mitch?”

“Yes,” he said. “We’re going.”

Ian spun the car in a U-turn. A guy in a pickup heading the opposite way laid on his horn. Ian gave him the finger.

“Easy.”

“I’m easy.”

Mitch took a deep breath, then another.
Get it together. She’s depending on you. They all are.

He opened the glove box, took out a pair of driving gloves. His fingers were sticky, and he had to fight to get them on. He set the mask in his lap, the black cotton staring up at him like a Hallow een ghoul. Outside the windows, twilight was giving way to purple dusk, about as dark as the city ever really got. A group of teenagers hung on a corner, chatting and laughing, and for a stabbing second he envied them.

Envying teenagers? Now you
know
you’re scared.

The thought made him smile inside, just for a second, but it helped.

They passed the restaurant. At the corner, they turned left, then left again into a narrow alley behind the building. Ian drove thirty yards to nose the car up to a rusting steel Dumpster, then killed the engine. The music died with it, leaving only the sounds of their breathing.

“Is this really happening?” Ian’s face was pale.

Mitch rubbed at his temples with gloved fingers. Huffed a breath in, one out. Then he straightened, passed a mask and gloves to Ian. “Here.”

“Are we—”

“It’s too late now.” Mitch looked over. “Just keep it together.” He opened the door and stepped out. The alley smelled faintly of rotten milk. The summer air was humid. He rapped on the trunk, waited as Ian fumbled for the release.

The brown paper bag holding the two remaining pistols looked harmless. Mundane. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Latin music played faintly, tinny like it was coming through a cheap radio. He unrolled the top of the bag and took out one of the guns, a black automatic. He started to tuck it behind his belt, then froze. Pulled it back out, staring down at the unfamiliar metal in his hand.