The Amateurs (29 page)

“Even you,” he said. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? Well, maybe you’re right. That’s why I’m here. To apologize.”

She waited, gave him nothing.

“I’ve been stupid in so many ways. Everything you said, and more.” His gaze was level, challenging. “The other night, when I came over . . . it was . . . I’d just come from Trish’s—well, from a bar—and I was hurting, and I needed someone to help me, to make it better. And the only person I could think of was you.”

Jenn stared at him, the hard line of his jaw, the muscles his shirt didn’t conceal, the haunted look in his eyes. There had been a time when hearing that would have made her happy. They’d told each other that they were just passing time and taking pleasure. But though she’d been willing to go along, it wasn’t the way she was wired. The way women were wired. Not really. No matter the promises, the words spoken, the secrets, she couldn’t sleep with someone for a year and not care about him. Not wonder about a future. Once upon a time, hearing him say that would have made her very happy indeed.

Now, though, it just annoyed her. “I don’t really know what to do with that.”

“I know.” He shifted. “I know.”

“Mitch and I . . .”

“I’m not trying to get in the middle of that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“How are things with the two of you?”

“I like him. It’s nice to have someone want you, want to be with you, want to let everyone know it.” She saw Alex wince, but didn’t feel like making it easier on him. “And he’s smart, and strong. Stronger than any of us thought.”

“But?”

“Why do you think there’s a ‘but’?”

“Isn’t there?”

“It’s just, it’s all so fast. He thinks it’s true love, that this is a musical and all the excitement is part of the fun.”

“And you don’t.”

“I don’t know. Everything is complicated.” She sighed. “You know how I told Victor that the stuff was in the bank? I lied.”

“What? But the key—”

“I got a safe-deposit box, but it was for the money. The bottles are still in the drug dealer’s car. I lied to buy some time so we could go to the police. But Mitch said that if we do, he’ll go to jail.”

“He’s right. He killed someone. He would go to jail. He should go to jail.” Alex paused, then something came into his eyes. “But you can’t live with that. Because he did it for you.”

“It wasn’t that simple, like he—”

“Come on.” Alex shrugged. “You know the truth. He did it for you. All of it.”

“Screw you.”

“You know I’m right.” His voice, in its calm certainty, was too much.

“You know what? I don’t think I know a thing when it comes to you.” The anger came quick and hot. “You spend a year alternately sleeping with me and telling me that what we’re doing doesn’t matter. Then the moment someone else is willing to step up, suddenly I’m all you can think of.”

“How’s this for stepping up?” He moved toward her, put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him, his lips pressing hers, his body hard against her, muscular and sure. It felt at once familiar and exhilarating, that old heat rising between them—

She turned her head away. “No.”

“Jenn—”

“I said
no.
” She pushed him, and he stepped back, looking wounded.

He said, “You lied to me too, you know. And I told you, my daughter—”

“Yeah. You told me.” She snorted, the anger making her hands shake. It felt good, better than being scared and confused. “Fine. Thanks for telling me.”

“I didn’t come here to fight.”

“No. You came to apologize.” She stepped back, put her hand on the door. “Well, mission accomplished.”

“Jenn, wait.”

“Go watch your daughter play soccer.” She closed the door.

 

 

EVERYTHING HAD TURNED TO SHIT.

Alex stood outside her door for a long moment, wondering if he should knock again, wondering if she would open it if he did. Finally, he slunk down the stairs, got in his car, and started counting the things he didn’t have.

No job. No family. No friends. No girlfriend. And all of it, every problem, every pain, was his fault. He’d methodically decon structed his own life.

Jenn was right. He did only look one step ahead, did ignore the things that didn’t work for what he wanted. And that had cost him everything.

Worse still, he’d put the lives of others in danger. That sick fuck Victor was out there somewhere, right now, planning ways to hurt his child. He cocked his fist back and punched the steering wheel.
Dammit
. He’d brought the boogeyman into his own daughter’s world. The reasons didn’t matter. All that mattered was that now Cassie was in danger. If something happened to her . . .

Cassie. He glanced at the clock. He’d be late, but there was still time to make her soccer game. He fired up the car and headed for the highway.

What now? Go cheer on the sidelines with the other divorced dads and hope everything worked out? That Trish and her new hubby could protect his daughter if a psycho came calling?

What if Jenn and Mitch blew it on Monday? What if they decided to go to the police? What if they didn’t, but Victor thought they had?

“Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.” He jammed on the gas and blew by a CTA bus pulling to the corner.

Everything was so tenuous. Cassie should be safe
if
Mitch didn’t screw anything up.
If
Victor didn’t decide they were playing him, or that he needed some extra insurance. Hell, Alex had been so distracted in her hallway, trying to talk sense to Jenn, it hadn’t hit him until just now what a risk they were running. Lying to a guy who had managed to find them effortlessly, a guy who had Johnny Love terrified, that was beyond dumb. It was reckless. Mitch and Jenn were throwing dice with his life. A horn blared as he passed a sedan on the right.

He remembered the conversation at brunch the other day, Ian explaining another one of his games. What had it been called? Prisoner’s something. How the point of the exercise wasn’t trust. How in the logic of game theory, abstracts like trust and love and goodness didn’t come into play. In a world where everything had consequences, where it was always a choice between the lesser of two evils, the best strategy was to betray before you were betrayed.

That was a lesson Mitch and Jenn, the happy couple, sure seemed to have learned.

The helplessness was the worst. Back when it had just been the four of them in danger, he was OK with the risk. But this? His daughter?

He had to protect her. He had to make sure that no matter what happened, she was safe.

That she was somewhere no one could get to her.

 

 

AFTER FLUSHING THE COKE AND MAKING A PLAN, all Ian wanted was to get moving, to make something happen. But while Davis was more than happy to hear from him—damn near ecstatic, actually—he’d explained that it was his little girl’s birthday, and that they were having a party. “She’s turning six. Twenty friends, a clown, the works.”

“Jesus. What happened to a cake from the store and those candles that relight when you blow them out?”

“Tell me about it. My wife, you know. It’s what they do these days. Anyway, what’s up?”

“You remember Hudson-Pollum Biolabs, right?”

“Remember it? You kidding? It’s financing the party. And Janie’s college education.” A pause. “Why? You have something else like that, something hot?” The hunger in his voice was unmistakable.

“Maybe. Can we get together?”

“How about lunch on Monday? My treat.”

“Can’t wait till then.”

“Something I can help you with over the phone?”

“No.” It was one thing to buy drinks, ease him into it. Another to chat while Davis stood in his family room. Ian had to sell the guy. “Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s something I don’t want to talk about over the phone.”

“Why, is it . . . umm . . .”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just, I need to be careful. It’s complicated. . . .” He let his voice trail off, imagining Davis leaning forward. The guy might be a brilliant scientist, but a poker player he was not. “There are confidentiality issues, regulations.”

“I hear you.” There was a pause. “You think it might have a payout like last time?”

“Hard to say. But if you help me, and it does turn into something . . .”

Davis sighed. “All right. My wife’ll be pissed, but I could sneak away tonight. Say about nine?”

“No earlier?”

“It’s my little girl’s birthday, Ian.”

“Right. Right. Nine.”

Which left him with nothing to do but pace and stare at the carpet and try not to lick his coffee table for leftover powder.

It was one thing to realize he’d been a fuck-up—to have his only real friends tell him—and decide to do something about it. It was another to actually have to suffer through the hours. That was the thing about decisions. The act of deciding was easy.

The living with it, that was the trick.

T
HE GIRL HAD HAIRLESS LEGS that flashed white as she drove downfield, the soccer ball racing ahead like a puppy. Her hair was bound in a ponytail, and her look of grim determination was visible from the stands. The first defender fell for a fake, had to turn and come back, out of the running with one bad move. The second put everything into a wicked slide-tackle, right foot out, back arched, other leg curled beneath, but was half a second late. Then the only thing between the girl and glory was one dirty kneed ten-year-old. The attacker set up with a soft left tap, wound up her right, and the ball was a black-and-white streak rocketing for the goal.

Even knowing what he planned to do, panting under the terrifying enormity of it, Alex was caught up in the moment. The smell of grass and dirt. Team jerseys bright as candy. A coach’s yell from the sidelines. Late afternoon sun basting his shoulders.

And especially Cassie, in the goal, making a flying leap, her arms stretched out, braids whipping behind, coming not just off the ground but near horizontal, suspended for a moment of grace as her fingers stretched, stretched, and then tagged the ball, knocking it down to bounce harmlessly in front of the line.

The crowd exploded. It was a play-off game on a beautiful day in an expensive suburban neighborhood, and packed with parents and grandparents and siblings and friends. Even so, Alex had thought it a little too risky to sit on the home-team side. Which meant that as his heart filled with joy for Cassie, as he looked across the field and saw Trish and her new husband leap to their feet and scream, all he could do was sit among the parents of the other team as they groaned at his daughter’s perfection.

A few minutes earlier, he’d sensed Trish’s eyes rove across him. He’d made a point of staring downfield and clapping, his baseball cap pulled low to screen his face. He’d tasted bile at the back of his throat, sure that even at that distance she not only recognized him but saw into his heart, saw what he planned to do. He imagined flyers in post offices, digital billboards on the highway flashing the Amber Alert. That weird disconnect of the pictures that would be included, snaps taken at happy times, a birthday or a vacation.

Was he really about to do this?

His stomach was sour, and he couldn’t stop tapping his toe. A woman muttered something as she passed, and he snarled, “What?”

She turned, spooked. “I said excuse me.”

“Oh.” He exhaled, forcing a smile. “Sure.”

This was the only option. On the surface it looked foolish, but to anyone who knew the whole picture, what he was planning made perfect sense. His daughter was in danger. He was going to take her somewhere no one could hurt her. Simple as that. When it came down to it, what more important role did a parent have than keeping his child safe?

Besides, maybe Mitch and Jenn could pull it off, and if they did, Victor would leave them alone. At that point, he could bring Cassie back, no harm done. Trish would be furious, but she might learn something along the way. Like what it felt like to be helpless while someone took your child.

When Alex had arrived, he’d pulled past the neat lanes of approved parking spaces onto the grass at the edge of the lot, then did a three-point turn to leave the car facing out. It was a walk of maybe fifty yards. As soon as the ref blew the whistle for halftime . . .

On the field, Cassie’s team had regrouped and were steadily moving the ball forward, maintaining a good passing game. Her coach was big on not cultivating stars, said that soccer was a metaphor for life; you had to work together for victory. In the opposite bleachers, Trish nuzzled into the crook of her new husband’s arm. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she laughed and punched his shoulder.

How had he ended up here? How had he ended up . . . this?

An easy choice in a hard world. When it came to priorities, he’d only ever had one.

One of Cassie’s teammates dribbled ahead at an angle, then turned and banked it to the other forward, who fired off a straight blast, plenty of power but no artifice. The opposing goalie caught it easily, then spun and discus-hurled it down the field. As it landed, the referee blew the whistle. The first half was over.

The world seemed to be phasing in and out. Not quite wobbling, more a wet sort of zoomy feeling tied to his heartbeat. Alex wiped his palms on his jeans, suddenly aware of the texture of the fabric. All around him happy fathers talked to happy mothers. Little boys with action figures turned the bleachers into war zones. Girls Cassie’s age had cell phones out and were texting one another. The sun beat down, hotter somehow at this hour than at noon. Hundreds of voices, the sounds of scraping shoes and clicking cameras, it all blended into a whirlpool of noise, spinning and scraping past his ears, a maelstrom he couldn’t separate into individual elements.