The Amateurs (24 page)

The rest of the ride, he replayed that moment, how simple it had been. How simple it was all turning out to be. You just decided what you wanted, and you acted like it belonged to you. Why the fuck hadn’t he learned that years ago? Although, it occurred to him, the cooler move would have been to, after brushing the guy’s foot off the seat, turn to someone in the aisle, a woman, and offer it to her. Like,
Jack Reacher, at your service.
That would have been suave.

Rossi’s looked the same, and he had a claustrophobic moment as he remembered the last time he’d seen it, in the car with Ian, the guy playing weird music and drumming his fingers against the wheel, that manic intensity under skies saddening to dusk. He forced the thought away, replaced it with a memory of Jenn giving him a hug, wearing her Bond-girl dress. The dress he’d later slid off her long, sweet body. That was the world he lived in now.

Thursday night, and the place was busy. The usual suspects, junior-corporate-whatevers, holding martini glasses and pints and longneck bottles, loosening ties and laughing too loud and leaning in to touch one another’s arms. He slid through them to the end of the bar, and was surprised to see everybody already there, Ian slumped on his elbows, Jenn chewing on her plastic toothpick. Alex was in conversation with another bartender, and Mitch nodded in his direction, got nothing in response.

“Happy Thursday,” he said. He stepped toward Jenn, but she pinned him with her eyes, gave the tiniest shake of her head. Fine, OK. He settled for squeezing her shoulder, the skin humming under his fingertips. Ian turned his head without moving his shoulders. Though his suit was as impeccable as always, the man himself looked like he’d been wadded up and slept in. “Hey.”

Mitch glanced back and forth, said, “Somebody die?”

Jenn snorted at that, a quick little sound that he wasn’t sure was amusement, and Ian said, “Funny.”

“Next round’s on me.” Mitch raised his hand, gestured to Alex, but the guy still didn’t seem to see him. “So.” He smiled. “Victory, huh?”

Ian nodded, not looking at him. Jenn said, “Victory?”

“Sure. That was the plan, wasn’t it? That when things were done, we’d celebrate?” He didn’t want to talk too openly, but figured he could risk that much in the noise of the bar. After all, this was the cherry on top, ripping Johnny off and then drinking on his dime. Even if things hadn’t gone quite as planned, it was still a good feeling.

But the others didn’t seem to see it that way. He looked around for another chair, but the place was full, and so he rocked from foot to aching foot, trying to think of something to say, wishing he had a drink. Finally, Alex came over, drying his hands on a rag. He had fresh butterfly bandages on his face and a dark bruise. “Mitch.”

“Alex.” There was a long moment, then Mitch said, “Can I get a beer and a shot?”

Alex reached for a martini shaker. “I heard from Chip over there,” pointing with an elbow, “that Johnny has been going crazy about the robbery.”

Mitch shot him a
shut-the-fuck
-
up
look.

“I guess whoever it was”—Alex bounced back a
you’re-not-the-only-smart-one
look—“they must have gotten a lot of money from the safe. Chip says Johnny came in yesterday afternoon looking like somebody was threatening his mother. That’s a quote.” He shook his head. “He’s been in and out all day, making calls, yelling. Trying to find out who did it.”

“Did you talk to him?” Jenn pushed her glass forward, and Alex poured to the rim, the amount he’d mixed in the shaker precise to the drop. “I hope he’s paying for your trip to the hospital.”

“He said he would. Right now he’s a little distracted.”

“The people that did it are probably in another state by now,” Mitch said, getting into the spirit of it. “Besides, the police are after them. What’s a bar owner going to do?”

“You never know.” Alex grabbed a bottle of single malt from the back bar, poured Ian a generous double. “He seems pretty motivated. I tell you”—setting down the bottle and staring at Mitch—“I wouldn’t want to be the guy who robbed him. If Johnny ever finds out who it was”—he clicked his tongue—“no telling what he’ll do.”

A bloom of frost flowered in Mitch’s belly. He was suddenly conscious of his breathing. Was Alex threatening him? Was that what this was?

Jenn caught the stare and leaned forward, her face anxious. “Let’s not talk about that.” She glanced from one to the other, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. “How about a game? Ian?”

“Huh?” His skin was pallid and sick, and he’d finished half the scotch in a gulp. “Umm. I don’t know.”

“
You
don’t have a game?” Her tone light as May. “What’s the world coming to?”

“Fuck if I know,” Alex said.

“You have a bad day too?” Mitch put his jacket over the back of Jenn’s chair, unbuttoned his cuffs and started to roll them up. “You guys are about as much fun as a Smiths reunion.”

“I guess I just got up on the side of the wrong bed,” Alex said. “You ever do that, Mitch? Get up on the side of the wrong bed?”

“You mean the wrong side of the bed.”

“Yeah. Right.” Something in his eyes an accusation. What was that? Did the guy actually think he’d be ashamed for being with Jenn?

It came in a flash. All the looks between Alex and Jenn that had stretched a half second too long. All those shared cab rides north. The man’s moodiness, the way he still hadn’t gotten Mitch a drink, the way he seemed to be trying to pick a fight.

Something twisted in him. Alex with his broad shoulders and muscles and sensitive stories about his daughter. All this time, even while he knew, he
knew
, that Mitch was carrying a torch. All that time he’d been fucking Jenn.

He felt dizzy, hot. The air in the bar was close and thick. He had a panicky feeling, like the world was slipping, or like he was. Like he was a little kid again, gawky and shy and falling down in gym class. In just a moment the laughter would start.

“Come on, guys. Let’s not be like this. This is a celebration, remember?” Jenn looked back and forth, brushed hair behind her ear.

“What are we celebrating?” Alex had the look of a man vibrating inside. “Everything is falling to shit.”

“Hey, man.” Ian looked up from his empty glass. “Keep it cool, OK?”

“Cool? Why?” Alex shook his head. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old bartender. I live in a one-bedroom in a crap neighborhood. My ex-wife is taking my daughter away.
This is not the way my life was supposed to be.
”

“Everybody feels that way sometimes.” Jenn’s voice was pitched low and consoling. “It’s natural.”

“Yeah, well, not everybody has detectives calling to talk to them about a robbery, do they?”

“You saying that’s somebody’s fault?” Mitch asked.

“It’s the Jolly Green Fucking Giant’s fault. It’s whoever robbed this place and shot someone out in the alley’s fault.”

It was like the guy wanted them to get caught, the way he was pushing the envelope, hinting too broadly. If anyone heard this, told Johnny, they’d be in trouble. What was Alex doing? Didn’t he realize he was putting them all in danger? Did he just not care?

“Get back up on the sumbitch,” Ian said in a startlingly realistic Tennessee drawl.

“Huh?”

“Something my dad used to say. He was a big one for clichés, my pop. Cleanliness and godliness, early birds and worms. ‘Son, it ain’t about falling off the horse. It’s how fast you get back up on that sumbitch.’ ”

“That’s what I need. Platitudes.” Alex shook his head. “All due respect, but fuck your dad right now, OK?”

Ian gave a thin smile. “Sure, buddy. It’s your world. We’re just furniture.”

“Guys.” Her tone pleading.

Things were falling apart, but Mitch couldn’t find it in himself to care. A week ago these had been his closest friends, his urban tribe. Only it was all built on bullshit. One of them was a secret cokehead, another had been screwing the woman he loved; and her, she’d lied to him about it. Not to mention that he was the one in the most danger for a risk he hadn’t wanted to take in the first place.

Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was true. So fuck it.

He leaned forward. “We were talking about games. Here’s one. Answer this for me. What’s the worst you’ve ever screwed over someone you said you cared about?” He fixed Alex with a glare. “Ready, go.”

The toxic silence tasted of copper.

Ian stood. “I’m taking off.”

“No, look,” Jenn’s eyes wide, imploring. “This is stupid. We’re just—”

“We’re just done with each other,” Alex said. He straightened, picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “Right?”

There was a stab in Mitch’s chest, and a child’s urge to take it all back. But he said, “Yeah,” then jerked his jacket from the back of the chair, turned to Jenn. “I’m leaving. Are you coming?”

“I . . .” She looked back and forth. “No. I’m going home.”

“I can take you.”

“Not tonight.” She stood, picked up her purse. Pulled a couple of twenties from her wallet and dropped them on the bar. “It doesn’t have to be like this. But you guys with your egos. You’d rather all crash and burn than get over each other.”

“Yeah, well, you’re certainly the expert on guys, aren’t you, Tasty.” The look on Alex’s face was pure meanness. “All that experience.”

Her face paled and eyes widened. Then she just shook her head. “Well, it was good while it lasted.”

“What was?” Ian asked.

“The Thursday Night Drinking Club.” She gestured with a sad smile. “Us.”

T
HE VIEW WAS SPECTACULAR, Bennett had to admit. Outside Ian Verdon’s floor-to-ceilings, the city was glowing geometries, the river tinged pink with that shadowless five o’clock light. Magic hour, photographers called it.

He stared for another moment, then turned away, spun in a slow circle. The condo was tastefully modern, with clean lines and low-slung furniture. He walked over to a set of bookshelves, more pictures and knickknacks than books: a shot of a dude against a split-rail fence, face lined as ten-year-old boots; a box of Monte cristos with a broken seal declaring them Cubans; a sleek hourglass with pale blue sand. Idly, he opened the cigar box. Inside was a mirror, a razor blade, and a glassine bag filled with white powder. Lookie lookie. He poured a small bump on the back of his hand and snorted.

Damn.

He packed it back away, careful to put everything in the exact same spot. Addicts were clueless about a lot of things, but never their supply.

There was a cheap phone on the bookcase and a cordless in the kitchen. He chose the cordless. Shit was so easy these days. You could order any damn thing from the Internet. It took two minutes to crack open the phone, do what he needed to, and close it back up. He glanced at his watch: 5:30. On a Friday night, that might be pushing it a little. Best to head out.

Bennett replaced the phone, took one last look around the apartment, then stepped out, locking the door behind him. He strolled down the hallway, the indirect-lighting-and-muted-carpet combo that yuppies couldn’t get enough of, then punched the button for the elevator. As he waited he whistled, badly, savoring that chill ease of quality cocaine.

The doors parted and a gaunt dude in a nice suit stepped out. His hair was gelled and mussed just so, but his eyes were sunken, and the greenish remains of a shiner marked one. “Excuse me.”

Bennett smiled, stepped aside, then climbed into the elevator and rode it to the garage. He stood in the shadows near the gate, and when a black Wrangler pulled up to it, he waited till the Jeep was through, then ducked out.

His Benz was at a pay lot two blocks away. He climbed in, reached in the back and pulled out his laptop. As it booted, he opened his cell phone, dialed *67 to block caller ID, and then Verdon’s phone number.

The man answered on the third ring. “M’ello?”

Bennett said nothing, drew the pause out. Theatre.

“Hello?”

“I know what you did. And I’m coming.” He closed the phone, then turned to the laptop.

The trace program was silent for thirty seconds. Then the transmitter he’d put in Ian’s phone sent the number the guy was dialing. There was a pause as it ran the number against a reverse directory, and a name appeared.
McDonnell, Mitchell.
Twenty seconds, then the line disconnected. No one home. Ten seconds later, another number appeared, and another name.
Kern, Alex.

Bennett smiled.

God, he loved predictable people.

J
ENN WAS PAINTING HER TOENAILS and trying not to think.

She wasn’t a high-maintenance girl, one of those shiny chicks perpetually ready for a fashion shoot, blushed and mascaraed and highlighted, tanned and toned and bubble-butted. She’d had a girlfriend once who, when a boy would stay over, would set the alarm so that she could get up, put on her makeup, and come back to bed dolled up. Even did it with steady boyfriends, guys she saw for months. Everything about that sounded exhausting to Jenn.

But she liked to paint her toes. It was a summer indulgence, a celebration of sundresses and strappy sandals. She did it with the TV on something low-calorie,
Inside the Actors Studio
today, Matt Damon up onstage being charming. And she needed indulgence, needed something pleasant and routine to distract her from the steady rhythm of fear and guilt that beat through her. Ever since the robbery, her dreams had been nightmares, bright flashes and dark red liquid, shadows looming and reaching. Then the scene in the bar. And finally last night’s conversation with Ian, the man panicking about a crank call. He’d been breathless and sputtering as he told her, and all she could think of was his coke habit. She’d reassured him it was nothing, but as always, the fear hit in the middle of the night, telling her that it could be more.