The Amateurs (23 page)

“Listen, you slick—”

“Alex.” Trish spoke softly. “I should have known you’d try something like this. You couldn’t just let things be.” She turned to him, hit him with steady brown eyes. “You always did things the hard way. Always denied what was right in front of you. Ignored the facts that didn’t fit AlexVision.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Please. Can’t you accept reality? Can’t we do this without ruining everything?”

He stared at her, his mouth open. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you think you’re doing this for Cassie. But you’re not. You’re doing it for yourself. And I’m begging you. Please don’t. Please?”

Alex looked around the table. “Do you honestly think I’m going to just sit back and let you walk out with my daughter?”

Trish lowered her head to one hand, closed her eyes. It was a gesture he remembered well, a pose she held while she was gearing herself up for something. The recognition brought a surprising stab of sentiment.

Finally, she raised her head, looked at the lawyer, and nodded.

Douglas said, “Mr. Kern, I’m sorry to have to do this, but in light of your pattern of missed payments, and at the request of my clients, I’m going to recommend to the judge that this settlement be reexamined, and specifically that visitation rights be limited, if not removed altogether.”

“What?” He felt his stomach fall away.

“In addition to which, while this case is being considered, I would ask that you make no attempt to see the child without seventy-two hours’ notice, and only in the presence of one of the parents.”

“I’m one of the parents.”

Douglas sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kern. I know this must hurt. Please understand that all of this is for the good of the child.”

There was a long silence, and then Scott said, “It’s time for you to leave, Alex.”

He stared at each of them. The lawyer, bland and lethal, a fountain pen in his hand. Scott marking his territory. Trish seemed like she was about to cry, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. His hands shook, and the pulse in his head seemed loud. “What are you saying? Are you—”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Trish said to the cabinets. “I tried to warn you.”

 

 

HE WAS DRUNK. That much he knew. That much made sense.

It had felt good to key the lawyer’s Lexus on his way out, leaving a wicked scratch across the driver’s side. But that hadn’t erased the memory of what had happened, and the idea of staring at the walls of his shithole apartment was intolerable. So after driving back to the city, he’d gone to the shithole bar at the end of the block instead. It was one of those places no one knew the name of, a too-bright space decorated with neon signs for cheap beer. He’d taken a stool and asked the bartender for three shots of Wild Turkey, done them in quick succession, and gestured at them again.

“Bad day?”

“Fuck you.”

The man had snorted, shrugged, then poured the shots again. “Hope you choke on them.”

“Me too.” He picked one up, knocked it down, then put his elbows on the bar and his head in his hands.

How had it come to this?

Alex was the first to admit that nothing in his life made much sense. Hadn’t since he hit adulthood, really. There was a myth that everybody’s life proceeded according to a larger plan. Where he’d gotten that idea, he wasn’t sure, one of those things picked up in childhood, along with the idea that love lasted forever and that the good guys won and that it was never too late to change everything. It was a lie, all of it. Your buddies didn’t come in at the last second to save you. Things didn’t work out. People weren’t happy. Or if they were, that was just so that when unhappiness hit, it stung worse.

And yet the fabric of the lies was so dramatic, so interwoven into every facet of his life, that he didn’t know where to begin to untangle it. Every story his parents had read at his bedside, every teacher in every school, every sermon he’d ever heard, they all taught that life made sense. That if you tried to live well, and if you looked hard enough, there was a pattern and a plan.

But here he was. Here they all were, he and Jenn and Mitch and Ian. Four people of good health and no major handicap. They should have been happy. Content. Hell, just satisfied. He’d have settled for satisfied.

But was Ian, with his flashy suits and expensive apartment? Mitch, with his won’t-harm-a-fly mentality and quiet daydreams? Jenn, hoping purpose would just land in her lap? They had everything going for them and nowhere to go.

It was close to one in the morning by the time he hailed a cab, drunk, tired, and desperate for comfort.

 

 

SHE’D BEEN AFTER the maintenance crew to fix the lock on the foyer of her apartment building for months, but Alex was glad to see they hadn’t yet. He pushed through, climbed the stairs, hesitated in front of Jenn’s door, then rapped three times, hard. He was wobbly on his feet and in his heart, and he just wanted to burrow deep into soft sheets warm from her body, breathe in the smell of her, and let himself fall into the abyss. He banged again. Waited a few moments, and was about to knock a third time when he heard footsteps.

The door swung open. Mitch stood inside, wearing jeans and no shirt.

Alex stared. Spun, glanced around the hallway. Had he somehow given the cabbie the wrong address? What was—this was the right place. He turned back to the door. Mitch said nothing, just crossed his arms. There was a hint of swagger in his pose, bare chested and with messed-up hair, the guy clearly wanting him to do the math.

The corner of Mitch’s lips curled into a slight smile. “What’s up, Alex? What do you want?”

“Nothing,” he said and turned away.

S
HE WASN’T MUCH USE AT WORK, but she went. Didn’t really see a choice. So while Mitch was in the shower, she’d gone through her closet, looking for an outfit that didn’t take any effort. Settled on a calf-length black skirt and a fitted tee, thrown lipstick on, skipped the mascara, and told Mitch, over the hum of the water, that she had to run.

Last night had been unexpected. She hadn’t planned to spend it with him, not again, not so soon. But after they had found the chemicals, something had snapped in her. She hadn’t wanted to be alone. If she was alone, she might think about what they had done, and she didn’t want that. It wasn’t a rational thought, but then, the last few days hadn’t been rational.

Again their lovemaking had been intense, the two of them moving well together. In the middle of it, when she’d been on her knees on the bed, she’d cocked her head and looked back at him, a patented move that always drove guys crazy. But when their eyes locked, for a second they’d both stopped. It had been a bad moment, as if all the fear and shame had poured into the room like fog. By unspoken accord they’d both started up again, more furiously than ever, knowing what the alternative to action was. Together they had blotted out the world, screwed it away until they collapsed in exhaustion and sleep seemed possible.

And half an hour later, Alex had come to her door.

“Who is that?” Mitch went bolt upright, his eyes darting.

She knew, from the first knock, but couldn’t think of a way to tell him without explaining more than she wanted to. So she’d shaken her head, said she didn’t know. He’d gotten out of bed, pulled on his jeans, and gone to answer.

When he came back a few minutes later, he said, “Alex.”

“What did he want?”

“He didn’t say. I think he was drunk.” His tone giving her an opportunity to add something. But she had just said, “Huh. Hope he’s OK,” and turned over, wrapping the sheets around her. After a moment, Mitch had lain back down, and they’d drifted into the awkward fugue of bodies not used to sleeping next to each other.

Her workday morning was a blur. She answered e-mails and checked airfares and talked on the phone in a daze. Twice her boss asked if she was OK.

Around noon, she finally made a decision. Yes, her life had gone crazy. Yes, the sky was falling. They had killed someone, and the police were looking for them, and they had a gallon of liquid heroin stashed in a stolen Cadillac. But there were two options. She could either curl up under her desk like some useless soap-opera chick. Or she could deal with it.

So she’d headed home, retrieved her share of the money, and gone to the bank. A politely bored assistant manager had walked her through some forms, then led her into a back room. He handed her one key, and then took one from his own ring, and they turned them together to unlock a safe-deposit box the size of a shoe box.

“You can take it over there,” he said, gesturing to a small alcove screened off by a curtain. “When you’re done, put it back and lock it, and you’re good to go.”

She’d thanked him, then waited for him to leave. She set the box on a small desk, opened her bag, and took out the money in its Ziploc. Hiding it felt right, gave her a sense of moving forward. One item checked off a list. That good feeling lasted until midafternoon, when Mitch called to remind her they had to go to Johnny’s bar tonight.

Ready or not, the Thursday Night Club had to ride again.

 

 

WHEN HIS CELL PHONE RANG, Bennett was sprawled on his back across the bed with his head hanging off the edge, the world upside down. His hands were laced over his chest. His phone pinged quietly, a sound like a depth charge. He glanced at the caller ID, then answered the call. “Johnny Love, Johnny Love.”

“Yeah, hi, Benn—”

“Don’t say my name.”

“Why?”

“This is a cellular phone.”

“But you said my—”

“So I had a chat with our mutual friend yesterday.”

“Yeah, I . . .” The man sounded winded. Nervous, maybe. “I heard about that. I don’t know what he told you, but, kid, you gotta understand, I didn’t give you up.”

“Why, Johnny, I never said you did.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“But now that you mention it, you fat fuck, I think I might tear your spleen out.”

“No, hey, wait—”

“Just kidding. He told me he asked you pretty hard.”

“Well, you know, I hope you know that I would never sell you out. I told him you were involved, that’s all.”

“You didn’t mention anything about me running a burn on you both?”

“Well.” A pause. “I mean, what do you want me to say? He was going to throw me off a ten-story building.”

“The more I get to know this guy, the more I like him. So what’s on your mind, Johnny?”

“You know I been putting a lot of money out on the street. Letting people know I got robbed, that I’ll pay for a lead on the fuck ers that did it. Vic—our friend told me I get anything, I’m supposed to give it to you.”

“So what’ve you got?”

“A Jew bookie. Well, more than. Runs a private casino, some girls. Guy name of Katz.”

“Heard of him.”

“Apparently some dude, some yuppie dude, owed him about thirty. Katz was gonna whack him, the dude said that he had a mark he and his friends were going to rob, he needed a couple more days. Anyway, short story shorter, the yuppie came in yesterday with thirty large. Cash money.”

Bennett sat up straight. The blood rushed from his head, and he closed his eyes to fight the world’s wobble. “Katz have a name for you?”

“Yeah. You got a pen? Guy’s name is Ian Verdon, that’s V-E-R-D-O-N. No address, but—”

“I can find him.”

“Right. So should I meet up with you?”

“No. Don’t do a thing. Don’t tell anyone his name, don’t send guys looking, don’t tell anyone about him, don’t do a goddamn thing. Get me?”

“Yeah, sure, kid. Whatever you say.” He paused. “You just tell the big man that I’m doing my part, OK?”

“Sure. By the way, Johnny, when this is over, I think I might shoot you.”

“Just kidding.”

 

 

MITCH HAD A QUEER déjà vu feeling as he folded his jacket over one arm and climbed on the bus. No, not even that, exactly; déjà vu was more ephemeral, a sort of untraceable feeling that you had done something before, stood in the same spot, seen the same beam of sun. This was different.

It was more like a video game. That was it. Like this was just a level called “The Ride to Johnny’s,” and he’d played through it before. It had that same patent unreality, the way the bus growled and shook, the packed crowd, body odor and averted glances, glazed eyes and headphones. One week ago today he’d hopped on this same bus up from the Loop. Only in that round of play, things hadn’t turned out how he’d liked. He’d been ignored, ridiculed, left hanging by his friends. He’d gone home drunk and alone to dream about a woman who seemed destined never to notice him.

Then, somewhere between then and now, he’d hit the Reset button. Decided to reload the level and play through again. To do it differently.

And would you believe it? The same bored-looking black kid in the same Looney Tunes jacket, his leg aggressively thrown into the empty seat beside him while standing passengers crammed the aisle.

Mitch smiled to himself, fought through the crowd to stand next to the guy. “Excuse me,” he said, the same as last time, and the same as last time, the guy took a look and then turned away, ignoring him. Figuring him for just another scared white man.

Not anymore. Mitch didn’t say anything else. He just leaned down, gripped the guy’s shoe, and pushed it off the seat.

The man sat up fast, his eyes narrowing. Mitch stared back, no smile, no apology. Just a level gaze. His heart was going a bit—not like the guy would do much on a crowded bus, but still—but he didn’t blink. Just stared.

And after a moment the kid sneered, said, “ A’ight,” and turned back to the window. Mitch slid into the open seat.