Tempted by Trouble (23 page)

I put a smile on my face, hoped my split lip and bruised face had healed enough to make me look like a businessman in a wrinkled suit, a man who had slipped and fallen on an icy sidewalk and had a bad morning. The teller looked like she was a young college student, not quite out of her teens yet.

I slid her the note that let her know I was robbing the bank, a note that told her to stay calm and to quietly put all of her money in a bag. At that same moment, a worker at the drive-through called for her attention. She was distracted and looked upset and didn’t take the note. Without reading the instructions, she slid the note back toward me.

She said, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir, but I have to close my window. Please go to the next window. I do apologize.”

Then she walked away, went to the drive-through area to assist her coworker. I looked down at my note.

I took my note and put it back inside my left pocket, caught off guard by what had happened, or by what hadn’t happened. The next window was occupied, so I had to step back to the front of the line. I regrouped, did what she asked, and when the next teller was free, I went to the next window.

This girl had straight hair parted on the right side.

She said, “Good morning, sir.”

I started coughing and raised my arm so I could cough into the bend in my suit coat, and the coughing escalated, became bad enough to make me bend over and put my palms on my knees.

When I stood upright and wiped tears from my eyes, she was looking at me, her eyes wide.

She asked, “Mister, are you all right?”

I waved my hand but my severe coughing returned and refused to end. It took me a good thirty seconds to get it under control. By then every employee and customer was looking in my direction.

She stammered, “You sure you’re okay?”

I slipped my hand inside my left pocket and the sides of my fingers clung to the note, wanted to pull it out in a way that left no fingerprints. The young girl wore a cross. There wasn’t any barrier between us, only the counter itself. I could reach out and grab her if I wanted. I pulled my hand back out and with my other hand I reached inside my right pocket. The Mexican switchblade was inside that pocket. My fingers moved around that blade and came out holding a wrinkled twenty.

With my fedora tilted down over one eye, I handed the teller the twenty and asked her to give me change, said I wanted all singles. She smiled and then counted out twenty ones, slid them toward me, and told me to have a nice day. I held the money and paused. It wasn’t too late. I could hand her the note. I could be out of there in two minutes.

When I glanced to my right, a guard I hadn’t seen before was standing by the entrance, his eyes on the teller. He was a middle-aged dark-skinned man, and his body language said he was cold and overworked. He must’ve been inside the bathroom. Or he had stepped inside one of the managers’ offices.

Something clicked on inside my head, an intense realization that returned me to the tragedy in Los Angeles. I imagined that was what had happened at Wells Fargo with Sammy and Rick. The guard had stepped to the side, then seconds after the robbery had been set in motion, he had returned. Sammy had seen the soldier-turned-security-guard first, panicked, then flipped out and drew his gun. I’d bet the security guard had done the same, panicked and made it a showdown. Sammy and the guard had fired at almost the same moment and both of their shots had found flesh and blood. Then Rick had grabbed the money and Sammy and did his best to flee the bank.

I heard laughter, the jovial laughter that came from two dead men, Rick and Sammy. They were standing by the door with their guns drawn and pointed at people. They looked normal.

All of a sudden I felt nervous, my mind first telling me that I was robbing a bank, then my mind reminding me that the note was still inside my pocket, that no crime had been committed.

The security guard stared at me, as did everyone else. Coughing had put an unwanted spotlight on me. This wasn’t a business that could stand up to the heat from spotlights. Then insult came to stand with my injury. The security guard came to me, not to arrest me, but to bring tissues.

Under the eye of every employee and customer, I bumped by Rick and Sammy, exited the bank coughing. When I collapsed inside my Buick Wildcat, I shivered like I had fallen inside a block of ice.

Rick and Sammy were sitting in the backseat. I saw them in the rearview mirror.

My cellular rang. It was Jackie. I didn’t answer.

Sammy’s head was split wide and blood ran down over his face like sweat. Rick’s chest was opened, his insides ragged and exposed, his white shirt turning a deep red.

Rick said, “You’ll be with us soon, Dmytryk.”

But when I pursed my lips and I turned around in anger, no one was there.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to purge my madness and erase the ghosts of crimes past.

I reached and touched the backseat where they had been, felt moisture and trembled when I looked at my hand. For a moment I saw blood on my fingers. Dark red blood. Then that blood was gone and the moisture staining my fingers and palms was nothing more than my own sweat.

Cars pulled into the lot and parked illegally in front of Blockbuster and the Kroger grocery store. People hurried by, but frozen windows that were fogged over hid my heated misery. My body wanted to ball up into the fetal position, but there wasn’t enough room. I leaned forward, my hands gripping the steering wheel with all my might. I was sweating like I was in labor. Anger flowed from my eyes like water from a broken faucet.

My cellular rang again. It was Jackie. Part of me had hoped that it was Cora. I answered.

Jackie said, “What happened in L.A.?”

“What did Eddie Coyle and Cora have to say?”

“Answer me. What happened between the safe house and when I woke up in Phoenix?”

“I have no idea what you mean, but we can talk. But not over the phone.”

“The phone’s not bugged. I’m alone and driving. And I’m not recording. I don’t need to.”

“In person. Not on the phone. Face-to-face.”

“I’m on Camp Creek heading toward Dallas. Meet me at the safe house now.”

“Not the safe house. Find some other location in the same area. Maybe in Hiram.”

“Don’t give me orders. This runs the way I say it will run, Dmytryk.”

“Don’t pull my strings like you’re in charge.”

“You’re underwater on this one. Be careful what you do or say.”

“Jackie Brown, I will get to Dallas when I get there.”

“Where are you?”

“Off I-285, parked outside a bank wondering how much money they have inside the vault.”

“I know you’re not about to put us at risk by doing a job.”

“Then wondering how long it will take to drive to Mexico.”

“You’re not thinking about skipping out on me, are you?”

“Why would I do that? Because I owe you a few grand and now you’re trying to throw a noose around my neck?”

“Maybe six hundred thousand.”

“What?”

“This job they have. We’re looking at six hundred thousand.”

“They said twenty grand each.”

“This is a real job, Dmytryk. This is what we’ve been aiming for.”

I paused. “You’re lying.”

She said, “Didn’t Cora and Eddie Coyle give you the updates this morning?”

I took a deep breath. “They haven’t told me the details, not yet.”

“Only Cora knows the details. And by the way, this being a six-figure job, what you owe me has gone up drastically.”

“I hear the greed in your voice. It sounds like sweet music in my ears.”

“Don’t patronize me. My silence does not come cheap.”

“All so you can be a good mother and kidnap your kid.”

“Get to Dallas. If you’re smart you’ll get there before Eddie Coyle and Cora get there.”

“When I’m ready. If I’m ready. I’m having second thoughts.”

“You owe me and you will pay me.”

“You lied to me. That betrayal should cancel out my debt.”

“Mess this payday up for me and I’ll come to Detroit and I’ll bury you, Dmytryk.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It could take a week or months, but I’d find you.”

“I wouldn’t hide from you, Jackie. I’d meet you halfway and put a hole in your head.”

“But before I did any of that, I’d fly back to L.A. and put one lucky writer six feet under the ground. One way or another, Abbey Rose is on borrowed time. Were you sleeping with her? Is that what this is about? I don’t know how you ended up in that SUV with her or why you let her go, but I’ll go back and do what you should’ve had the guts to do. If she was your mistress, I don’t care. She knows too much.”

“Abbey Rose isn’t in this, so leave her out. I’ll pay you what I owe and not a dime more.”

“We’ll see about that. We’ll see how much Abbey Rose is worth to you.”

“Touch Abbey Rose, just say her name one more time . . . if you even
think
her name, you’ll see a side of me that will make you run to meet Sammy’s open arms.”

“You don’t scare me.”

She hung up the phone.

I did the same, closed it and let it fall into my lap.

I whispered, “Six hundred thousand dollars.”

Behind me, Sammy frowned while Rick smiled like a politician.

Rick said, “She’s lying, you know that, right?”

Sammy said, “I was barely dead and you were in bed with Jackie.”

“She came on to me, Sammy.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“You chickened out in that damn bank, Dmytryk.”

“No wonder Cora left you for that smooth-talking Eddie Coyle.”

“
Shut up.
” I rubbed my face and groaned.

“You’re nothing but a piece of crap of a man in a nice suit.”

“I bet Eddie Coyle was hitting that while you were home waiting for her to come back.”

Teeth gritted, I turned around and fired two shots where Sammy had been. No one was there. A few deep breaths later I dropped the gun on the passenger seat.

I whispered, “Come back, Sammy. Come back and I’ll kill you again.”

I stared at the Bank of America for a moment, my windshield wipers on high, battling a mixture of snow and sleet that was coming down. I rubbed my eyes to get some clarity, then I pulled out and drove Cascade Road past I-20 and on toward Fulton Industrial.

Rick and Sammy were living and breathing inside my head.

Jackie had become a vise grip and she had me by the balls.

And Cora had me by the heart.

Two days ago
in L.A.

After I had stuffed Jackie’s drunken body into the backseat of my Buick Wildcat, I returned to the scene of the crime to dispose of the stolen getaway car I’d totaled. It was gone, and by now they had run the plates and knew the car was hot. My DNA was on that airbag. If the car had been there, I was planning to pour gas inside and set the car on fire. I couldn’t go to the tow yard without being arrested.

With Jackie unconscious and moaning in the backseat, I’d driven another mile east of that richness and parked across the street from a one-level stucco home. From there, I saw a soft light was on inside the front window. A television was on in what must’ve been the master bedroom, its screen lighting up a small window on the left side of the house. It was after three in the morning but someone might’ve been awake. From where I was sitting it looked like she had a Christmas tree up too.

I was in the Crenshaw District, right off Vernon in the heart of the Leimert Park area. I opened my car door and stepped out into a two-way street that had timeworn foreign cars parallel-parked in both directions. Hands inside my pants pockets, jaw clenched, and shoulders hunched like James Dean in his iconic photograph, I focused my eyes on the modest home where Abbey Rose lived. Cars passed every now and then, but the area was serene.

In the distance, a car alarm sounded. Every step of the way I searched for police cars. My heart beat like I was being chased. Very few homes had lights on. Homes meant families. Homes meant people who worked nine to five, some beyond those hours. The barrio was lined with single-level homes, the streets and yards decorated with palm trees. A block away was the start of a series of two-level stucco apartments that had been built at least fifty years ago, the same time frame for all of the stucco and brick homes. Most of the palm trees were tall enough to feel just as old. Nothing in the area looked any newer than half a century.

There was a five-foot-tall white metal gate that led to Abbey Rose’s yellow stucco home. All the houses on the street were close to each other, no more than three trash-can widths from one driveway to the next. I opened her gate in small degrees before I stepped inside and paused. Her wrecked SUV was in her driveway. It had been backed in. That damaged BMW confirmed I was in the right place. I frowned, then I slid my hand inside my pocket and took out what I needed. I took another step toward the front door.

From the front window I had a good view of a dining room table and a small Christmas tree. What I saw sitting on the dining room table pulled me closer. My father’s fedora was on that table in plain sight, spotlighted where I could see what I had left behind.

I’d do what I had to do in order to get that hat back.

I took another step forward, a step that activated the porch light. Brightness hit me like the spotlight from a police car. At the same moment, grass rustled behind me and I heard intense breathing.

Someone or something lurked behind me. I turned around in time to realize something was being swung at my head. I ducked, but not fast enough. The solid object grazed the left side of my head against my ear. It wasn’t a dead-on blow, but it was enough to make my world erupt. The fire that had been inside my heart created electric colors in my brain, a display of fireworks as the ground rushed up toward my wounded face. If that blow had been dead-on, the only color I would’ve seen would’ve been black.