Hollow Man (9 page)

The message Gus had left made my blood boil. I picked up my phone and called him.

“Gus, what the hell are you doing?”

“Not on the phone, Dom, jeez. I guess you got my message.”

I got up from my desk and stuck my head out into the hallway, looking for McNulty. No sign of him, so I shut my office door. “Yeah, I got your damn message. And I want you to look me in the eye and tell me.”

“Fine, I will.”

“Meet me now.”

“Dude, I've got clients coming in thirty minutes and a bunch of paperwork needs to be ready for them.”

“Right, because that's more important than abandoning your friend.”

“Fine, fine. Where?”

“My place.” I left the building, checking the parking lot, hoping to see Tristan's car because this was a conversation I didn't need him hearing. He'd parked in a different spot than usual, which I'm sure irritated such a creature of habit, but it was there nonetheless, shining in the sun like he'd just washed it. I'd told Gus to meet me at my place, and he was waiting in his car in the large parking lot when I got there. He followed me up the stairs and down the hall in silence. When we got inside, I went to the fridge and poured myself a glass of milk.

“Tristan is at work, so go ahead.”

He stared at the floor. “I'm sorry, Dom.”

“I'm not understanding this. The whole thing was your idea. You came up with the guy as a potential target, you're the one who persuaded me it was realistic, this is your deal.”

“I don't want it to be. Not anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm not a criminal.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” I took three deep breaths to calm myself. “We went through all this, we talked about it. First of all, you're a goddamned immigration lawyer, Gus. That's a criminal with a license. Every dollar you earn, pretty much, is covered in cocaine or weed, or was made illegally some other way.”

“Dom, I know you're trying really hard to be offensive, and I get it, you're mad, but—”

“I'm not done being mad. Second of all, as I already said, we talked about this. What's changed?”

“I don't know. I just thought about it more.”

“You told Michelle, didn't you? You fucking told Michelle.”

“No! I did not. I absolutely did not. I promise, Dom, I really didn't.”

I looked in those doelike eyes and believed him. One of the reasons I liked having him as a friend was his inability to lie to me. “Then what changed?”

“I just thought about it. I've done nothing but think about it, and while I know it's supposed to be easy, and in some ways it'd be pretty exciting, I'm just not sure the risk is worth the reward.”

“And do you think maybe those are some things you might have mentioned earlier?”

“I'm not changing my mind, Dom.”

“It's a theft. Simple, piddly theft. Burglary of a vehicle, a misdemeanor. And you know me well enough to know that I have no plans to be caught. I'm a smart fellow, Gus, and you know I'll plan this down to the last detail. The only thing that can go wrong is that we end up with less money than we hoped.” I shrugged. “Of course, we could end up with more and your little Costa Rica shack can be a mansion.”

“I don't need a mansion.”

“Then don't fucking build one.” I took him by the shoulders. “Gus. You may not need the money, but I do. The guy we're taking it from doesn't even…he's a slum lord.”

“And that's worse than a thief?”

I smiled. “Now you're judging me? For wanting to go through with
your
plan?”

“You're right, it was my plan. But it's not anymore. Dom, the truth is I don't want to steal the damn money, and I'm afraid something will go wrong. Someone will get hurt, or killed.”

“How's anyone going to get killed? I told you I wouldn't take my gun. And if we steal the car when he's not there, how the hell does anyone get hurt?”

“I don't know, I just—”

“Maybe we'll run over an orphan on the way out. Is that what you're afraid of?”

“Very funny.”

“I'm not trying to be funny, Gus, I'm trying to understand.”

“No.” Gus was silent for a few seconds. “No, you're not trying to understand. You're trying to change my mind. I'm sorry, like I said, I really am. And you can go ahead with it and I'll never breathe a word to anyone. But I'm out, Dom, I'm one hundred percent out.”

He turned and went to the front door, paused as if he had more to say, then opened it and walked out without looking back.

I sat there quietly for a moment, wondering what had just happened. I knew he had a conscience, and I didn't mind that about him. What I didn't get was how it could come and go, how theft can be a great idea one minute,
his
idea no less, and then become something too wrong to contemplate doing. That was what made me angry, that he would bring me in to a simple, straightforward act like this and suddenly turn and walk away. I was wondering whether I could somehow talk him around when I heard a sound that snapped me to attention. At first I thought it was Gus returning, but it came from the wrong end of the apartment.

I stood and moved into the center of the room, listening intently.

With a gentle swish, Tristan's door opened, and he stood there staring at me. His eyes were wide open and his mouth agape, telling me he'd heard everything.

We stared at each other for a moment. “When did you get here?” I asked, my voice flat.

“I've been here all day. I didn't go in this morning, didn't feel good.”

“I saw your car in the parking lot at work.”

“No. You can't have…” He shook his head, then understanding dawned. “That's Susan Walton's new car. Same as mine, just…newer.”

Which explained the different parking spot and its shininess. I silently cursed myself.

“Dom, what the hell's going on? What are you planning on doing?”

“Nothing. Mind your own business.”

“Dude, I heard most of it.”

“Again, mind your own business.”

“You know, you're in my apartment, discussing committing a crime. And I heard everything. That makes it my business.”

“Did you hear most of it, or everything? Either way, no, it doesn't make it your business.”

“I have to report this to the police.”

I laughed, unable to help myself. “Report what, exactly?”

“You and your friend Gus. You're planning to steal someone's car and there's money in it. I may not be a prosecutor, but I'm pretty sure that constitutes a crime.”

“Talking about it doesn't. Sorry, matey, there's no crime unless something happens, and nothing's happening.”

“Talking about it, planning it, that's a conspiracy, isn't it?”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, we're talking about it like people talk about winning the lottery or doing away with their mother-in-law. Wishful thinking.”

“Right, so Gus was just backing out of some wishful thinking.”

“Leave it alone, Tristan. I'm serious.”

He shifted in the doorway to his room, a sly smile on his face. “You don't know much about clearing your Internet history, do you?”

My heart thumped in my chest but I said nothing.

“I heard you guys talking so I jumped online. I can access my stuff at work from here in about twelve seconds, look at whatever I need to. That thing you guys do, where you use a draft folder for messages? That's only mildly clever. I mean, the reason you do it that way, know about that method, is because that politician got found out, right? A military general or something, wasn't he?”

“You're starting to irritate me, Tristan.”

He moved into the living room and leaned against the wall. “Look, we both know I'm not calling the cops. But I need money.”

“Everyone needs money.”

“Do you know what I do in there when the door's closed?”

“I can guess.”

“Yeah, but you'd guess wrong. I gamble a lot. And I mean
a lot
. Not many gamblers make money.”

I stood. “Then my advice to you is simple. Stop gambling.”

We locked eyes as I moved past him into my room, and the urge to hit him surprised me. I resisted it but slammed my door a little too forcefully. I stood in front of my desk and stared at the laptop I'd bought for this venture. Whatever Tristan had seen, it wasn't on this. I was sure he couldn't get in without the password—he wasn't that good, else he wouldn't be working for a county salary, he'd be in the private sector. Then again…how well did I know him? Not very,
and certainly not as well as I thought. He'd been able to uncover my deleted messages, maybe some Internet searches I'd done early on. I tried to remember how much I'd done, what he might have seen. The location, possibly, and maybe even the amount of money. One, maybe both. Maybe neither. The first day or so after Gus had mentioned the idea of a heist, I'd been characteristically impulsive and reckless, but only because I'd never really thought it would happen. As it become more possible, more likely, I'd been more careful. And, of course, I thought I'd deleted all that stuff.

I put my anger toward Tristan to one side and thought about my position. He was right on the law; I was technically guilty of conspiring to commit a crime. I didn't think he'd call the cops on me, though—he had nothing to gain from that.

In the corner, my guitar case beckoned to me. I flipped it open and took out my guitar, then sat on my bed, strumming idly. I played random chords, ten in a row and quickly, and then tried to remember the order of them, playing them again. It was a way to clear my mind, focus on my fingers and familiar sounds to the exclusion of everything else. I messed up, though, and found myself hitting the strings too hard, squeezing the neck of the guitar too tightly, and I almost threw the instrument down in frustration. I stayed there, on my bed, my head in my hands until my eyes caught sight of the box holding my second-favorite instrument. I kept it in a small safe by the bed, and I leaned over and punched in the four-digit code. The door popped open, and I took out my Colt .45 revolver.

I didn't carry it with me, ever, it was too valuable, too beautiful. And too heavy. My fingers still stung from the guitar strings, but as I turned it over in my hands, the weight and coolness of the gun felt soothing. That something so lethal could also be so beautiful was not new to me. The Holland & Holland I'd learned to shoot with was a work of art, and worth tens of thousands of pounds. Had I stayed in England, I would have taken possession of my father's pair of Purdey shotguns, handmade and worth even more. No, it seemed
right to me that if life was imbued with value, that which took life away should be more than a cheap hunk of metal churned out by a factory in China or Siberia.

The cylinder click-click-clicked under my fingers, and my eyes feasted on the gun's meticulous finish, Colt's trademark royal-blue steel barrel and cylinder, and its hand-fitted walnut stock inlaid with a gold Colt medallion.

I couldn't afford this gun when I bought it, but I bought it anyway. Or sort of bought it. I played on an indoor soccer team for one season, three years previously. Our goalkeeper had been a gun dealer. He'd also been a drunkard, which was fine for day games but if we played any time after seven in the evening, he either showed up swaying or didn't show at all. For one game, though, a five o'clock game, he didn't show up. He called the captain of the team the next day to say that he'd been arrested for drunk driving, his third time, which made it a felony. He hadn't known what I did for a living, but when he found out, he coyly asked if I could give some advice. I went to his shop and browsed while he served another customer. Which is when I saw the Colt.

He came over as I was looking at it, entranced by it the way a magpie is drawn to something shiny, and as we talked, my eyes kept dropping to the glass case between us, the beautiful, almost-liquid quality of the steel. I didn't even notice the price, I didn't care. Same for whatever he was telling me, I couldn't care less whether or not he went to prison except for the fact he was a decent goalkeeper, when sober. I just wanted that gun.

He must have seen that, my lust for it. It's not like we made any kind of deal because I didn't know who was handling his case—it could have been me or one of the other thirty trial-court prosecutors. I did promise to put a good word in for him, and that seemed to be all he wanted. I walked out of the shop with my bones humming with excitement, a thrill that was almost sexual, and that gun in a triangular, plastic case that I threw away as soon as I got home.

On reflection, it wasn't the best way for me to acquire a gun. Or
anything else. But I never regretted getting my hands on it, because the few times I'd given in to powerful urges like that one, worse things had happened than me acquiring a new toy.

The bullets were loose in my little safe, and I collected a few in my hand. I didn't keep the gun loaded because it was more like a piece of art than a weapon. And the process of loading and unloading it was a part of the art, performance art perhaps. Slipping the bullets into each slot, the almost-imperceptible hiss of brass on steel, the reassuring sound of the rim clinking into place, the click of the cylinder revolving to accept another bullet, and another, and another. As I filled each chamber, I thought about my options. If Gus was well and truly out, there were just three things I could do.

The first was to abandon the plan altogether, forget about it and move on. I rejected that immediately because I needed the money. More than the money, I had released the impulse to steal the money and I knew myself well enough to know that I couldn't put it back in the bottle. I was standing over the counter, staring at the Colt all over again, and listening to reason was like listening to that guy talking about his life, his case, his fears. Empty words that meant nothing, other than opening the door to me getting what I wanted.

The second option was to go it alone. That would allow me to keep all the money for myself. But it meant that two people would hear about the heist and know I'd done it. They'd know about the money. They might just want some, and since they hadn't taken part in the theft, they would have leverage over me and no liability. And as a practical matter, I didn't know how I'd pull it off alone. My idea was for one person to drive us both there, for me to steal the van and drive it away to a nearby location, where we'd unload the cash and either torch the van or just wipe it down very carefully. That was a two-man operation and I was down to one.

Which meant that the third option was to bring Tristan in, just as he wanted. If I did, he'd be as liable as me and therefore keep his trap shut. I could do all the planning, keep control of the operation,
and just have him drive me there. I'd have to share the cash, but then I'd always expected to have to do that.

The problem was that I didn't know Tristan the way I knew Gus. I didn't know how he'd react under pressure or whether he'd chicken out at the last minute. I told myself that knowing someone didn't make a difference, which Gus had proved by backing out on me.

The other problem was that I didn't like being forced into this position. What I really wanted to do was scare the daylights out of Tristan so that he'd leave me alone, leave the plan alone, and give me time to work on getting Gus back on board.

I caressed the barrel with my fingers and felt my breathing slow and deepen. I pictured the end of it against Tristan's forehead, then imagined him waking up to find the gun between his eyes. I wondered what he'd say or do and whether his eyes would dart about like that little rabbit's, whether his body would press back into the sheets as if to make himself disappear. And, just for the slightest of moments, I pictured my finger on the trigger, the pads of my forefinger lying on that little blue tongue of steel, squeezing it slowly but surely until my nosy, meddling, and dangerous roommate's eyes stopped moving and his body settled into his bed, no longer trying to wriggle its way into invisibility.

I stood up with the gun in my hand, appreciating the delicate difference in the weight when it was loaded. I walked to my door and went out into the living room, the pistol down at my side. A rectangle of light surrounded his door, and I walked slowly toward it, drawn not by the light but by my own impulses, some inner power that possessed me.

Two feet from his room, I paused. I raised the gun and held it straight out in front of me. I tapped the barrel against his door, three hard taps, and kept the gun raised, point-blank to the door.

I heard a rustling from his room, and a moment later Tristan flung the door open. I caught a glimpse of his expression, dark and angry like he'd been practicing his self-righteous speech, but the blood drained from his face in an instant when he saw the gun, blue-black and lethal, pointed straight at his nose.