The Amateurs (21 page)

“Anything in the glove box?”

She opened it, dug around. “Owner’s manual, sunglasses. Registration.”

“Let me see.”

The name on the form was David Crooch. As he stared at it, the letters machine-printed, he had a weird sensation, guilt and fear mixed together. David Crooch. That was the name of the man he had—

He folded the paper, stuck it in his pocket. It was getting easier and easier to ignore the things that tried to claim him. Mitch spun, looked in the backseat. An umbrella on the floor. Other than that, nothing. “Let’s try the trunk.”

A milk crate with emergency supplies: a bottle of tire-repair spray, a coil of rope, and a blanket. A lug wrench. And a black duffel bag, about the size to take to the gym. He’d gone his whole life without giving two thoughts to duffel bags, and now they were popping up everywhere. He started to unzip it.

“Maybe we should do this subtly?” She nodded to a mother pushing a stroller past them.

“Right.” He hoisted it to his shoulder. It was neither heavy nor light, and something plastic clanked inside it. Mitch shut the trunk, and the two of them climbed back into the Cadillac. The silence that fell seemed to radiate from the bag.

“Let’s see what a quarter-million dollars in drugs looks like.” He unzipped the bag and split it open.

Inside were four bottles. He reached in, pulled one out. It was rigid plastic and felt like it might crack if dropped. It was filled with a thick, dark liquid. He passed it to her, took out another. The same. Mitch fumbled around in the bag, but that was it, just the four bottles. “Huh.”

“What is it?” She leaned toward the window, holding it toward the sunlight. “Looks like motor oil.”

“Liquid heroin? Some kind of designer drug?”

“What was that club drug that was really big a couple of years ago? One of the alphabet drugs, not E or K.”

“K is ketamine. Horse tranquilizer. I don’t think it’s a liquid.”

“G, that was it. GHB? Something like that. I remember reading an article that said it was the new roofie.” She rolled the bottle, and the liquid inside moved sluggishly, leaving a trail around the side. “But it doesn’t seem like there’s enough here to be worth that much.”

“Maybe it’s something they use to process drugs?” He unscrewed the top of one bottle. Cautiously, he leaned forward and took an experimental sniff. It had a sharp chemical odor, nothing he recognized. He held it out to her, and she took a tentative whiff. “Any idea—”

Something exploded behind his eyeballs. The pain was sudden and fierce, a slamming migraine that made him clench the armrest. He fought to keep the bottle from slipping from shaking hands. The pain spread, sending tendrils down his neck, his shoulders. His muscles seemed to be tensing, fighting against themselves.

“Shit!” Jenn had her hand to her face, covering her eyes, fingers white. “Shit, oh
shit.
”

Whatever it was, it was bad. He reached for the top he’d tossed on the dashboard, the sunlight painting his arm in a glowing haze. Scraps of rusty metal tore through the tender meat of his brain. Jenn moaned, the sounds muffled by her fingers.

He concentrated on fumbling for the lid, trying not to breathe. His fingers trembled as Mitch forced himself to take hold of the plastic. He wanted to rush, to jam it down and run away, but whatever this shit was, he didn’t dare spill it. He slotted the lid on carefully and turned until it stopped, then gripped the bottle and gave it a last crank hard enough his forearms jumped.

“Got it. Get out!” Without waiting for her, he opened the driver’s-side door. The fresh air seemed to cut his nostrils. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Come
on
.” He hurried around the side of the car, slid an arm under her shoulders, began to half support, half drag her along. The block seemed endless, the sunlight sparkling in shards, the world gone watery. They passed a woman who said something concerned, but he ignored her, just hurried along.

“Where—”

“Hurry.”

They stumbled across the intersection, a horn shrieking as a cab passed. He couldn’t tell how much of what he was experiencing was from the drug and how much from the pain, whether his vision was blurry because his pupils had dilated or because he was squinting so hard. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was getting back.

When they reached her porch, it took more effort than he would have expected to haul his legs up the stairs, the muscles strangely tight and unresponsive. His lungs felt like something was squeezing them. She fumbled with her keys, finally popped the dead bolt.

“We need to wash.” He started for the sink, thought better of it. Pulling her with him, he headed through the bedroom and into her bath. He twisted the water to hot and started to strip off his clothing.

“I can’t.” She clenched her teeth, her hands fumbling behind her back. “My fingers.”

Mitch spun her around and undid the clasp of her bra, yanked her skirt and panties down. Then he opened the shower door and stepped in, held out a hand to help her. They got under the water, the two of them huddling close. A week ago he’d have cut off a finger for this kind of situation, but now he had no thought at all for her nudity. “Soap.” He cursed, fumbling through her stuff. Grabbed the same bottle of coconut crap he’d found before, squirted it into her hands and then his. He lathered hard and scrubbed his hands and face, alternating turns under the water with her.

It might have been the water or the soap or just time, but slowly, very slowly, the muscles in his back and shoulders began to relax. The headache didn’t go away, but at least it stopped getting worse. He let out a long breath. “Are you OK?”

She looked up at him. “Is that a trick question?’

 

 

“WE SHOULD GET RID OF IT.”

“How?” They sat at opposite ends of her couch, him back in his robbery clothes, her in a soft bathrobe, knees tucked to her chin. “I don’t think we should just throw it in the garbage.”

“Why not? I mean, whatever it is, it will end up at the dump. Kill some seagulls. Big deal.”

“Maybe someone will get into it first. Maybe a kid.”

She bit her thumbnail. With her hair damp and the robe, the gesture made her look like a little girl, and he had the strongest urge to move to her, wrap his arms around her shoulders.

“Besides,” he said, “this is what Johnny was buying. If something does go wrong—”

“You said it wouldn’t.”

“I don’t think it will. But if it does, this could be valuable. It must be some sort of concentrated chemical. Something for processing serious quantities of drugs.”

“It looked so
normal
.”

She was right. He could still see them in his mind’s eye, the bottles ordinary, the liquid like thick, strong coffee.

Very damn strong.
“We need to hang on to it, at least for a while. If everything goes as planned, we can figure out a safe way to get rid of it then. Maybe, I don’t know, put it in a box, pour concrete around it.”

“Concrete?”

“Whatever. You get my point.” Mitch leaned into the couch. His headache was fading, but the memory was enough to make him wince. “I don’t think we should tell the others about this.”

She looked at him over tented knees. “Why?”

“You know I love them both.”

“But?”

“I’m not sure they need to know. I’m not sure . . .” He hesitated. It was a big statement, especially considering what they were in the middle of. “I’m not sure we can really trust them right now.”

He expected her to get mad, to call him a hypocrite or worse. But she just nodded slowly. “I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Ian with the coke. And Alex . . . I don’t know.”

The words spread like a warm balm through his chest. It had kept him up at night more than once, the thought of the two of them together, big strong Alex, the sensitive weight lifter with the daughter, the guy who never had trouble talking to women.

Focus.
“OK. So we keep it, and we don’t tell them about it. That way we’re covered if something comes up. If nothing does, they never need to know.”

“They’ll think of it eventually. The same way you did.”

“We’ll tell them we got rid of the car.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t we going to?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?

“Because that’s where we’re going to keep this stuff. At a safe distance. Besides, that way if somehow the cops do get involved, search our places—”

“We don’t have to explain it.” She smiled. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

“I’m trying.”

She leaned forward to take his hand. “I’m glad.”

That warmth spread farther.

T
HE MAN REFLECTED IN THE WINDOW was standard-issue Lincoln Park: designer jeans, faded Cubs hat, and a baby carriage. Somewhere between youth and middle age, in vaguely good shape. He stopped at the north corner of a restaurant called Rossi’s and propped one foot up on the brick base a of the storefront to tie his shoe. As he did, the dark shadow of a limousine slid wa vering past in the glass.

It stopped in front of the restaurant. The blinkers came on. The side windows were opaque, but the windshield framed the driver, square-jawed with restless eyes. For a moment the car idled, and then a door winged open and Johnny Love climbed out. Two broad-shouldered men followed, glancing up and down the street. The three walked to the front door of the restaurant and went inside.

The man with the baby carriage exchanged one foot for the other, carefully untying and reknotting the laces. Then he straightened and headed south, whistling as he pushed the stroller. He smiled down into it, and said, “Beautiful day, huh? How’s my favorite baby boy?”

When the carriage was parallel to the limo, Bennett leaned forward, lifted the fuzzy blanket and picked up the Smith he’d concealed beneath. Then he turned with a fluid motion, opened the side door and flowed in, pointing the gun at the man on the seat opposite, a stylish dude in a beautiful suit.

“Tell your driver it’s OK.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed.

“Sir?” The voice came over the intercom. “Do you—”

Victor thumbed the microphone. “Everything’s copacetic, Andrews. Thank you.” His voice calm.

Bennett nodded and closed the door without looking. “You know who I am?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Good. Now I know that Johnny told you he’d brokered a meeting. But instead of having it in his restaurant with your security watching, I thought maybe we’d have it right here. I hope you don’t mind me changing the plans.”

“Depends what you’ve changed them to.”

“Fair enough.” Bennett leaned forward. “I’ll get to the point. I didn’t burn you. We’ve never met, but I’m coming here with respect.” He spun the gun sideways, then set it in his lap and removed his hand. “This was just a precaution to make sure we had a chance to talk.”

Victor watched him move. His eyes were difficult to read. A poker player. Abruptly he scratched at his chin, and Bennett forced himself not to react to the sudden motion. Victor said, “You’re a careful man.”

“The people who think consequences don’t apply to them end up on the floor. Yeah, I’m careful. You’re Johnny’s buyer, I presume.” Bennett raised his hand. “It’s OK, you don’t have to answer. I know you’re careful too. What did he tell you about me?”

“That you had a specialized product. He also said that you may have been doing the whole thing as a con. That both the people who robbed him and the corpse in the alley might have worked for you.”

Bennett nodded. “I figured it was something like that. You don’t mind my asking, did he volunteer that, or did you have to press him?”

“Why?”

“I want to know how annoyed to be.”

Victor considered for a moment, then shrugged. “I pressed him. But he’s silly putty, not steel.”

“There’s an understatement, brother.”

“My turn for a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Bennett?”

“Just Bennett. Like Prince, only taller. Two reasons. First, to tell you that I didn’t rip you off. Second, it wasn’t just you that got robbed. Someone made off with my money.”

“So you don’t believe Mr. Loverin was in on it?”

“Johnny?” Bennett shook his head. “Risk screwing me and you both? He’s stupid, not dumb.”

“I agree.” The man paused. “That does put the suspicion back on you.”

Bennett fired a grin. “If I’d stolen from you, we wouldn’t be having this lovely chat. I’d have blown your brains across the back window.” He said it lightly, theatrically.

Victor returned the smile. “Andrews, show Mr. Benn—sorry, just Bennett—what ‘copacetic’ means.”

There was a buzz, and the partition rolled down. The driver was perched on his knees in the front seat, a Colt 1911 zeroed in perfectly steady hands. For a moment, Bennett’s grin faltered. He snatched for it, got it back. “Very nice. The partition isn’t bulletproof, I take it?”

“Just the exterior glass.” Victor turned. “Thank you, Andrews. That’s fine. And you can relax now. I think we understand each other.”

Bennett picked up his pistol, snapped the safety on, and leaned forward to tuck it behind his belt. “So. You know I didn’t steal from you, I know you didn’t steal from me, and neither of us believes Johnny is suicidal. Where does that leave us?”

“Seems unlikely the robbery was random. Someone knew something.”

“No kidding. How are you working it?”

“To start, Johnny is spreading his name and money around, asking for tips.”

“Risky.”

“Only to him.”

“Still.” Bennett cocked his head. “Even if he gets something, Johnny is about as subtle as a strap-on cock.”

“You’re right.” Victor leaned forward. “What I need is someone on the ground who has a brain. Who can operate with a little grace.”