The Amateurs (10 page)

Jenn was staring at him, something happening to her smile. Depth and warmth filling in what had been a façade. Depth and warmth and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of admiration.

He pulled out his chair and sat back down.

“You sure about this?” Alex spoke quietly. “If you’re in, you’re in. No backing out.”

“Fuck you.” Saying it, he felt cool, strong. He stared the bigger man down. Alex leaned back, raised his hands.

“OK,” Ian said. “What else?” He had the same sparkle in his eyes as when he’d talked about playing blackjack, splitting nines all night.

“A lot of little details,” Alex said. “And one big one. We need guns.”

“No other way?” Jenn asked. “What about knives?”

“No. The point is to scare him silly and act fast. He’s not going to be scared of a couple of guys with steak knives. Not for the kind of money we’re talking.” He paused. “What about those replicas that shoot pellets? They look real. There’s even a law they need to have a big orange tip because cops were shooting kids. We could buy a couple, paint the front part . . .” Alex trailed off.

“What about a gun fair? They still have those in the South, don’t they?” Jenn looked around. “We could take a road trip.”

The discussion was so ludicrous that Mitch almost laughed. All that tough talk, all for nothing. Some criminals they were. Now that they came to the hard facts, it was obvious that they couldn’t handle it. He relaxed, knowing the whole thing was about to be scrapped.

Then Ian spoke quietly.

“I can take care of the guns.”

Y
EAH BABY YEAH. It was on.

Ian had that magic tingle, the edge-of-life feeling, when for a second he could almost see past the world and into the machinery that ran it: the man behind the curtain, the gears that powered the watch, the silicone that made the model. Perfect how things had worked out. Just when life was getting a little too serious, wham, out of nowhere, this impossible opportunity. With a simple night’s work, he’d be even. More than.

“Here is fine,” he said to the cabbie and passed a twenty forward.

“Here” was a Milwaukee Avenue corner too far south to be fashionable, a bleak stretch of shops with Spanish signs in the window offering financing no matter the credit. Tucked between a Popeye’s Chicken and a payday loan place was a depressingly well lit bar. Half a dozen patrons sat in silence, ogling the back wall, where six-packs and fifths were available for purchase at liquor store prices. None of them even turned when Ian stepped in.

He glanced at the bartender, nodded, then walked through the back door and into a narrow vestibule. A security camera pointed from the corner, and he gave a two-fingered salute. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a buzz sounded from the steel-reinforced door in front of him, and he opened it and stepped through.

The room on the other side was done up with a simple elegance designed to seem luxurious and yet not so comfortable it invited lingering. No seating, a humidor but no ashtray, a side bar with glasses but no ice.

“Ian.” The girl behind the desk managed to make it sound like three syllables, a slow purr. She uncrossed and recrossed million-dollar legs. “Back so soon?”

“Business this time.” He winked at her. “The big man in?”

“Let me check.” She picked up a headset, held it to her ear, then pressed a button. “Ian Verdon is here to see Mr. Katz.” After a moment, she said, “No problem.” She cut the connection, then hit Ian with her hundred-watt smile. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, D.”

“Want me to pull some chips for when you come down?”

“Nah. Not today.” He started for the stairs, readying his pitch. Katz would resist at first. He’d remind Ian of his debt, maybe play the tough guy to save face. But in the end, he’d go for it. Why wouldn’t he? A simple business proposition.

There was another door with another security camera at the top of the stairs, and again he waited. This time, when it opened, it wasn’t a swimsuit model on the other side, but a neckless black man, wings of muscles straining from shoulders to skull.

“Terry. How you doing?”

“My man Ian.” The man smiled, held a hand up, and Ian clasped it, slid the fingers to lock, then pulled away with a snap. “How’s it goin’, dog?”

“Life is beautiful. You?”

“Can’t complain, baby. Can’t complain.” Terry gestured him forward.

The room at the top of the stairs was everything the one below was not. Leather couches flanked a glass coffee table with an open bottle of Gran Duque and a marble ashtray. The air was rich with the smell of good tobacco. Four flat-screens mounted side by side showed horse races and a baseball game. He could curl up and spend the rest of his life here.

The man in the center of the far couch had thinning hair and a newspaper in his lap, a faded Navy anchor on one thick forearm and watery dark eyes. “Ian.”

“Mr. Katz. Thank you for seeing me.” Ian set his briefcase down, then sat and crossed his legs. “Any surprises this morning?” He hooked a thumb at the televisions.

“One or two,” Katz said. “You.”

His palms went slippery, but he held himself still.
Show respect, but not fear.
“I’ve fallen behind.”

“It’s out of hand.”

“I know. I appreciate your patience.”

Katz nodded. “How’s the eye?”

“It’ll heal.”

“You understand my position.”

“Of course. You were doing what you had to.”

“I like you, Ian. You’re a good customer. But you play recklessly. You bet too much, and at the wrong time. Normally, someone gets as deep as you, it would not be just an eye.”

“That’s what I’m here about.”

“Good. Good.” Katz picked up his cigar and took a long puff, then blew expert rings. “A man should pay his debts.”

“I agree.”

“The case is for me?”

“What?” Ian looked at it, then back up. “No, I’m sorry. You misunderstood.” Katz’s eyes narrowed, and Ian spoke quickly. “I mean, I will pay you. That’s what I’m here about. But I don’t have the money yet.”

“No?”

“Not yet. But I’m going to get it.”

“When?”

“Very soon. The day after tomorrow.”

“How much?”

“All of it.”

Katz nodded warily.

“The thing is, I need a favor first. It’s a small thing. In order to get your money, I need something from you.”

“You want me to loan you more money for gambling, no? Hoping to win back what you owe?”

“No. No, sir. I know better than that.”

“A lot of foolish people think they can.” Katz rolled his cigar between his fingers. “So, then, this favor.”

“I have a way to get the money. But I need”—Ian paused—“I need weapons.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Guns. Two or three of them. I can return them with the money,” he said, feeling foolish the moment the words were out of his mouth. The blast he’d taken before he arrived was wearing thin, his invulnerability fading. He hurried on, tongue thick in his mouth. “I mean, if you want them. They won’t have been used. Fired, I mean. But I need them to get the money from someone.”

Katz stared at him, the old Jew’s face expressionless. He never played cards in any game Ian had heard of, but he had a hell of a poker face. Katz leaned forward and set his cigar in the ashtray.

Suddenly, Ian felt something behind him, a force like a moving brick wall. An arm shot around his neck, and he just had time to say, “Terry, Jesus—,” before he was yanked upward, the muscles tightening around his neck, his air cut off as he was dragged backward halfway off the couch. His hands flew to the bodyguard’s unwavering arm. His legs kicked as he fought for breath, eyes bugging.

Katz rose from the other couch. Normally a study in slowness, now the man moved in a blur. His hands went to Ian’s shirt, fingers sliding inside the fabric. He yanked open the oxford, buttons flying to bounce on the glass table.

Ian tried to speak, couldn’t get a word out, not a breath. Spots shimmered in the corners of his eyes. Katz moved to Ian’s belt, fingers deftly undoing it, then tearing the catch of his pants and zipper. His trousers slid down his legs. Katz took hold of his underwear and jerked it down. Without any squeamishness or hesitation, he reached out to cup Ian’s testicles, his fingers dry and cool as he lifted them, felt behind.

After a moment, he stepped back. “Who sent you?”

The arm around his neck loosened a notch, and Ian gasped, sucking air into his lungs. He coughed, the shudders razors in his throat. “Wh-what?”

“Who sent you? Not the police. Who?”

“No one! No one sent me. I swear to God.” His body was shaking. His hands fought for purchase against the slab of granite encircling his neck. “What is this? Terry, let me go, what are you—”

“You come to me asking for guns. Why?”

“I need them to get your money. That’s all, that’s the only reason.”

Katz stared at him. He turned, picked up his cigar, sucked in, the cherry glowing bright red. When he replied, his words were smoke. “You think I’m a fool.”

“No! Jesus, no.” Ian felt a flushing warmth in his belly, realized he was about to piss himself, barely shut it down. What had happened, how was he in this position, hanging half-naked from the arm of a bodyguard? “I just need the guns to get what I owe you.”

“How?”

“There’s a guy I know. He has a lot of money, cash, in a safe.” He knew he shouldn’t say anything about the job, but the look on the old man’s face . . . “I’m going to get it from him.”

“You’re going to rob him.”

“Yes.”

“You.” Katz snorted. “A degenerate, a drug addict in a suit. Who will be frightened of you?”

“It’s . . . I won’t be alone. My friends and I, we have a plan. I’ll get your money, all of it. I swear.”

Katz stepped forward. “These friends. Do they have the money you need?”

Ian stared. For a second, he almost lied, anything to get free, get out of here. But where would that lead? “No.”

“But they’ll help you.”

“Yes.”

“You know how much you owe?” Katz put one finger to his temple, tapped it. “More than thirty thousand dollars. You know what I do to people who owe that kind of money and cannot pay?”

“Yes.”

Katz laughed. “No. You think you do, but you don’t.” He stepped forward. Put his right hand close to Ian’s chest. The heat from the cigar a hairsbreadth away felt nice for a fraction of a second, then quickly began to burn. He wanted to struggle, but any motion might push his bare flesh against that glowing ember. He felt tears in his eyes.

“Mr. Katz, sir, I will pay you every cent I owe. I swear I will. I
swear
.” He locked his eyes forward, the heat against his chest a living thing, so close, like it wanted to burrow into him.

“You have good friends,” Katz said, “to help you this way.” He moved his hand, the cigar tracing a burning line down Ian’s belly. “Especially since you’re not such a good friend. You know why? Because your friends, now they are part of your debt. You are not the only one who owes now.”

“No, I . . .”

“Shh.” Katz slid his hand down farther. The glowing ember of the cigar was a half-inch from his balls. Ian whimpered and squirmed.

“You know what happens now?”

“Please. Please. No.”

Katz smiled. “No?”

“Please.”

“If I give you what you ask, what then?”

“I’ll get the money. I’ll bring it straight here. I swear to God.”

“You’ll run.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, your friends . . .”

“I understand.”

“And if you get caught with these guns?”

“I will never say your name. No matter what.”

The man put his left hand against Ian’s cheek. Slapped it softly twice, like a favorite uncle. “Good. That’s good.” Then his right hand shot forward. The searing tip of the cigar bit into a testicle.

The pain was shocking, unbearable in its suddenness. A terrible smell of scorched hair rose. Ian screamed and jerked, helpless as the ember burned deeper.

Then the cigar was gone, and Katz turned away. “He is OK now, I think.”

The arm around his neck vanished, and Ian collapsed onto the couch. His hands went immediately to his crotch. He stared downward. The burn was the size of a quarter, the skin peeled and furious with ash and blood. He wanted to break down and cry, to call for his mother, to just vanish.

“Terrence. Three pistols for our friend. Make sure they’re clean.”

Ian gasped for breath, his hands shaking. “Mr. Katz, I swear—”

“Enough swearing. We understand each other now. Right?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good.” The man ground the cigar in the ashtray. “My money. All of it. By Wednesday. Or”—he shrugged—“for you and your friends.” Katz bent, picked up Ian’s briefcase. He popped the latches, then Terry set something metal inside. Katz shut the case and held it out.

With trembling hands, Ian reached for the handle. He rose slowly. His pants were pooled at his feet, and he bent to haul them upward. The motion sent fireworks of pain up his spine.

“Now. Go.”

Ian left.

The stairs were a blur, nothing but a hint of color. He held his pants closed with one hand, the case in the other. At the base of the stairs, the woman behind the desk said something that he didn’t hear. He pushed past her to the vestibule and the bar. No one glanced up as he half staggered, half ran out the door into bright summer sunlight.

On the sidewalk, he looked in all directions, wild-eyed. A Hispanic couple stared.

He set down the case. The catch to his pants was broken, but his belt was still in the loops. He fastened it with fumbling hands. Pulled his shirt closed and tucked it in raggedly. Ian took a step, then the world went spinny. He grasped at the metal rim of a trash can and leaned over, acid in his throat, his mouth a desert. He fought for breath, struggling to keep from vomiting, shirt torn open, pain twisting through his belly.