The Amateurs (7 page)

There was something elegant in the situation. Mitch could see the whole game, almost see the equation behind it. He’d always been decent at math. “They both stay quiet.”

“You’d think, right? But the thing is, they can’t talk to each other. If one trusts the other and is betrayed, he gets
twice
the sentence he would have if they both ratted.”

“How well do they know each other?” Jenn asked.

“Not the point.”

“Sure it is. If they’re good friends, then they’ll trust that the other guy will do the right thing.”

“Ahh, but that’s a big assumption. I mean, imagine you make that leap, and find out your buddy screwed you? He walks free, you get ten
years
. That’s such a huge consequence that it becomes less important what you can gain, and more important what you could lose. Which means it’s not about trust.”

“What is it about, then?”

“Iteration. If you play only once, the best thing to do is to betray before you’re betrayed. Even if the other guy is a friend. Because he’s thinking the same thing.”

Jenn shook her head. “Did your mother not hug you or something?”

Ian gave her the finger. “But see, if you’re going to be playing again and again, then you keep the faith. Because six months in prison beats the consequences of mutual betrayal. So over time, the best result is to play square. But only over time.”

“Where do you
get
this shit?” Alex asked.

“Game theory, baby. So how about tomorrow night?”

“For what?”

“Screwing Johnny Love.”

“Yeah, fine,” Alex said. “I can’t believe I have to find a new job. And you know what? Johnny is enough of a dick, he probably
will
tell everybody I stole from him.”

“He won’t know it was you.”

“No, I mean from the registers . . .” Alex paused. Set his glass down, turned with a bemused expression. “Are you serious?”

Ian gave a shrug that was more eyebrows than shoulders. “Why not?”

“Because it’s stealing?”

“So what? You said this guy made his money selling drugs. You know how many people probably died because of that?”

“So?”

“Robbing a drug dealer, that doesn’t seem wrong to me. Plus, there’s no way we would get caught,” Ian said. “I mean, who would ever suspect us? None of us with a record, none of us ever having done anything like this, and you with an alibi. Big payoff for low risk. Betray and win.”

“This isn’t one of your games.”

“Everything is a game. This one is the Prisoner’s Dilemma. If you’re only playing once, your best bet is to screw the other guy. Because you know he will screw you.” He leaned forward. “Look at us. The four of us are all nice people, employed, call our mothers, do the things we’re supposed to, right? But guys like Johnny don’t play that way. He just takes what he wants, and since we’re playing nice, he wins. Same with Ken Lay and James Cayne and all the others, the criminals in the expensive suits. You were the one who said they should be lined up and shot, right?”

“I didn’t mean I’d be pulling the trigger.”

“But why not? This guy is blackmailing you. He’s breaking the rules and he’s winning, and the question is, are you just going to take it? Or are you going to beat him at his own game?”

The mood around the table had changed. There was a strange tension, the joke running further than anyone had intended. Something Mitch had read that morning came into his mind. “You know what Raymond Chandler said?”

“No, Mitch,” Alex humoring him, “what did Raymond Chandler say?”

“He said there’s no clean way to make a hundred million bucks.”

“There you go,” Ian said. “There you go.”

Alex looked around the table, his expression incredulous. “You serious?”

Not really, Mitch thought. It did sound doable, and the money, well, that would change his life. But was he actually serious? Not when it came down to it.

Which is maybe why you stand holding a door for people who don’t know you exist,
the voice in his head whispered.

“We’re not robbing my boss.”

Ian shrugged, leaned back. “Your loss.” He put on that smile, his caustic armor.

There didn’t seem to be much to say to follow that, and they picked at their breakfasts. Mitch could almost hear the thoughts, read them like they were printed on everyone’s cheeks. He was a good watcher. People mistook not wanting to be the center of attention for not paying attention. Ian was easy, the narrow hunger on his face, the way he held himself straight. Alex had the tense stillness and wide eyes of a courtroom defendant, and Mitch could see him thinking of his daughter and whatever white-picket house she lived in. Jenn had a furtive glow to her. She looked, frankly, turned on.

The scrape of silverware was loud. Finally, Alex looked at Ian, said, “You are making me wonder, though.”

“Yeah?”

“How’d you get that black eye again?”

I
T WAS AMAZING, Bennett thought, how much of the world looked really boring. The office park where K&S Laboratories was located, for example. A series of two-story shoeboxes centered around what had to be the lamest fountain he’d ever seen, water rolling in a piss trickle down an angled slab. How people got up every day and commuted an hour in traffic just to work in a place like this, he’d never understand.

Of course, on the inside, the lab probably looked more exciting. According to the research he’d done, about twenty percent of pharmaceuticals used some form of fluorine, which acted as a stabilizer, improving efficiency by delaying absorption. It was pretty nasty stuff; as a subcontractor developing compounds for drug companies, K&S probably had clean rooms, positive airflow suits, three kinds of safety precautions. Maybe on the inside it looked like something out of a Bruckheimer flick.

Bennett still liked his office better. With one hand on the wheel of the Benz, he dialed his cell. “Doc. You know who this is?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good. You do what I asked?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Easy. Take a breath.” He waited for a beat, then said, “Better?”

The man’s voice came through hollow and miserable. “I made what you wanted.”

“Good. I knew you were a smart guy. Now, you haven’t told anyone about our chat, have you?”

“No.”

“Your wife, the police?”

“No.”

“You’re not lying to me? Because those pictures”—he sucked air through his teeth—“I mean, that kind of thing, you wouldn’t want
anyone
to see that.”

“I haven’t. I swear.” The voice was quick and panicky.

“Then relax, brother. This will all be over soon. Here’s how it’s going to go.” Bennett gave him an address. “Let’s see you there in twenty minutes.” He hung up before the guy could respond, then slouched in his seat and watched the front door.

Two minutes later, the doctor hurried out, one hand pulling keys from his pocket. The other held a duffel bag in fingers clenched bloodless. Bennett let the doc get in his Town Car and spin out of the lot. Didn’t follow, just waited and watched. No squad cars followed, no unmarkeds roared to life.

When the clock on his dashboard said that ten minutes had passed, he dialed the phone again. “Where you at, Doc?”

“I’m on the way. You said—”

“Changed my mind. Why don’t we meet at your office in”—he pretended he was looking at a watch—“five.”

“But I’m ten minutes—”

“Drive fast.” Bennett hung up.

It took more like seven, but when the Town Car hit the lot, the tires were squealing and the engine was roaring. Again, no sign of anybody following.

Bennett let the doctor park, then slid out of his car and started over. He had that hyperalertness that always came with a deal, the feeling he could see in seven directions at once, breathe jet fuel instead of air. He knocked on the passenger-side window and enjoyed seeing the man jump.

After the guy collected himself enough to unlock the door, Bennett slid in. “Hey, Doc. How was your day?”

The man just looked at him. His nose had gauze packed in the nostrils and tape across the bridge. His fingers gripped and released the steering wheel.

“Rough one, huh?” Bennett smiled. “We’re almost done.”

The man nodded, started to reach for the bag.

“Not so fast. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where?”

“Take a ride. First, though, do me a quick favor.” Bennett jerked his head. “Hike up that shirt, would you?”

“My shirt?”

“Yeah. I hear swimming is good exercise. Want to check out your muscle definition.”

“Listen, I did what you wanted, but this is getting ridiculous.” The man trying to take control back.

Bennett smiled, shrugged. “OK. Well, nice seeing you.” He reached for the door handle.

“No! Wait.” The man grimaced, then untucked his shirt and pulled it up to show his bare skin. “I told you, I didn’t go to the police.”

“Can’t be too careful.” Bennett gestured at the road. “Let’s go.”

It was after seven o’clock, and traffic was just beginning to thin. Bennett directed the doctor one street at a time, having him get on and off the highway, make sudden turns. He watched the mirrors. No one.

God, he loved predictable people.

“OK. You know how to get to O’Hare from here?” Bennett leaned forward, turned on the radio. Scanned the dial—crap, crap, car commercial, crap, the Beatles. He put a foot on the dash, lowered his window, and reclined the seat a notch.

As they neared the airport, the doctor said, “About those pictures. I never did anything like that before. It was . . . I don’t even know why I did. I was just . . . curious. Wasn’t thinking. I swear to
God
, though, I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m begging you.”

“You do what I wanted?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t fool around? Try to make something a little different, figure I won’t be able to tell?”

“No, I swear.”

“Long-term parking.”

“Huh?”

“Head for long-term parking.”

The man nodded. “I love my wife. My daughter. More than anything.”

Bennett cocked an eyebrow.

“I know. I
know
. It was stupid. I just. It’s a weakness. A compulsion. It’s not my fault, something I would choose.”

“Go up to the top level.”

“If I have to pay for what I did, that’s fine. I just don’t want anyone to know.”

“Park over there, in the empty part.”

The doctor pulled in, killed the engine. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

“I believe you, Doc. And if you did what I wanted, everything will be fine. You’ve got my word. So”—Bennett jerked his thumb toward the backseat—“I’m going to ask one last time. Did you get clever with me? Admit it now, I’ll give you an opportunity to make good. But if it turns out that you messed with me . . .”

The man was shell-shocked, eyes red and nose swollen. “I made what you asked for.”

“Then your worries are over.”

Even with one window down, the shot was deafening in the closed confines of the car. The bullet took him right in the temple, passed straight through, and shattered the driver’s-side glass, spattering the car door with gore. Bennett didn’t waste time looking around, just wiped the gun off, wrapped the man’s dead hand around it, then dropped both to the seat. The gun bounced and slid to the floorboards. Bennett set three photos in the doctor’s lap, then wiped off the radio dial, took the duffel from the back, and started for the terminal. Kept an easy pace, just a businessman on his way to a flight. He opened his cell phone, dialed.

“Yello?”

“Crooch. It’s me. We’re on. Be ready Tuesday night.”

“Yeah, listen, about this. I don’t know, man. I’m having second thoughts.”

“What’s not to know? It’s simple.”

“If it’s so simple, why don’t you do it?”

“Ahh, Croochy, you’re looking at it the wrong way.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re missing the opportunity. This is a painless way for you to settle up with me. Just run an errand, drop off one bag, pick up another. That’s it. And in return, think of the weight off your shoulders. Do right Tuesday night, come Wednesday morning, your worries are over.”

“And we’ll be square? Clean?”

“Absolutely, brother.” Bennett smiled. “You got my word.”

C
OMING OFF A DOUBLE, bone freaking tired, the first thing Alex noticed when he came home was that the light on his answering machine was blinking again.

Not much sleep the last couple nights, and that filled with dreams of Cassie handing him stacks of hundred-dollar bills, of strange dark rivers and the sound of waterfalls, of flying that turned to falling. All he wanted was a big vodka, a shower if he could summon the will, and bed, where if he was lucky the pillows might still smell like Jenn.

He walked to the machine, almost hit Play, picked up the phone instead. Pressed the Caller ID button, then the back arrow.

Trish.

Alex stomped into the kitchen. Glass, ice, vodka. He took a long sip, felt the muscles in his back unclench. Took another, then refilled the glass, tucked the bottle back next to the frozen pizzas.

Over the past few days, she’d left a couple of messages. He’d checked them just to make sure Cassie hadn’t been hurt, but hadn’t otherwise responded. They’d all been terse little things, and the tone had scared him.

The streetlight outside his front window brought a globe of tree limbs into brilliant relief, the leaves bright green near the light, then fading to brown and gray and finally black as they moved outside the circle. He had this theory that life was kind of like that. A circle of now that could be seen clearly, and then a past and future fading out, growing disconnected. When he thought back to earlier versions of himself, he could remember things, moments, some of them crystal clear. Birthdays in the backyard. Shooting hoops in his driveway, the smell of tangled forsythia bushes that backed the hoop, the warmth of the sun, the clean ease of stretching for a rebound. But it felt so far away that it wasn’t even just like it hadn’t happened to him, it was like it had happened to someone that a friend had told him about. Two degrees removed.