The Amateurs (6 page)

“What it is, what you need to know, it’s just a little side deal I’ve got going on. A guy I know who likes to pretend he’s tough. I want you to stand around, wear a shirt shows off those muscles.”

“You want me to be a bodyguard?”

“Nothing like that. It’s a, what do you call it, a pageant. You’re there to make things look a certain way. You’re set dressing.” Johnny nodded at that, pleased with the description.

“Set dressing.”

“Yeah. You stand with your arms folded. Don’t say anything. Just look mean.”

“Umm.” Alex hesitated. “I’m not sure—”

“Two hundred bucks. Should only take ten minutes or so.”

Alarm bells started chiming in Alex’s head. A meeting in the back office, him pretending to be muscle? He remembered the things he’d told the others, Italians coming in with briefcases and leaving empty-handed. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about a new restaurant. “You know, Mr. Loverin, that’s not really what I’m about.”

“What do you mean, it’s not what you’re about?”

“I mean, whatever this is—I just—well, I’m really not into that kind of thing.”

Johnny took his feet from the desk, sat up straight. “What kind of thing?” His voice thin and his eyes narrow.

Shit. “That came out wrong. I just mean, if it’s OK with you, I’d as soon stick to my regular job.”

“Your regular job.”

“Yeah.”

“You work for me, right? So your regular job, it’s doing what I tell you, isn’t it?”

All right. First Trish, now this. Enough. “When some drunk gets rough in the bar, I handle it. But this is something else. I’ve been here a while, and I’ve heard some things, and whatever this is, I don’t want any part of it.”

For a long moment, Johnny said nothing. Then he ran his tongue slowly over his lips. “That’s a pretty big speech, kid.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect.”

“A pretty big fucking speech indeed, coming from an assistant fucking manager. You’ve heard some things? Good for fucking you.” He cracked his thumbs. “There’s a recession, you know that? Every day I get people in here looking for work. Plenty of people who could do your job. You ever think of that?”

“Mr. Loverin—”

“You had your say. Now it’s my turn. You do this very simple thing I’m asking or you find yourself another job. But you better not even
try
to tell people you worked here. Because when they call—and they will—I’ll tell them that I fired you for stealing from the register. I’ll tell them you’re an ungrateful little punk been ripping me off for years.”

“That’s not true.”

“I said it, so it’s true. Get me?”

How the hell had they ended up here? One minute he was coming in to cover a shift, now he was in danger of losing his job? Part of him wanted to stand up and tell Johnny Love to screw himself.

But then he remembered his bank account, maybe two hundred bucks in it. He thought of Trish, and the way she’d started in on him about the child support from the moment he saw her. He could find another job, but Johnny was right; if he tried to go to another bar, the owner would call. Sure, he’d be able to find something eventually, probably something better. But how long would it take? And what would Trish say when he told her he’d been fired?

What would she say to Cassie?

Then Johnny smiled. “Anyway, you’ve got this all wrong. It’s no big deal. Just a show, kid. No need to get your stockings twisted.”

Alex felt another cocktail of emotions coming on. Two parts sickness in his stomach, one part pissed-off, with a twist of what-choice-do-I-have? “Mr. Loverin, I need this job. But—”

“Good. Tuesday. And you know what? Let’s call it three hundred.” He reached for the phone, dialed, rocked the chair back on two legs. “Mort! How the hell are you.” Johnny laughed, then looked up at Alex as if surprised to see him still standing there, and jerked his head toward the door.

H
E WASN’T GOING.

Mitch lay on his back, one arm behind his head. The night had been cool enough to leave the bedroom windows open, and the breeze blew the curtains in flips and swirls, morning sunlight blinking as they parted. The room went from dark to bright to dark.

He could imagine the scene this Thursday night. Them asking where he’d been, why he’d missed brunch. Just shrugging, saying something came up. Playing it cool, like Jack Nicholson. Aloof. In control.

Of course, Jenn would be there. Probably wearing a sundress.

He stared at the ceiling. Sundress. Jack Nicholson. Sundress.

Mitch kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed. Maybe he’d be late.

He showered, NPR in the background. The subprime housing crunch, the Dow plummeting, the Bush administration pushing for war with Iran because the two wars they already had were going so well. He shaved carefully, then killed the water and dried himself with the same towel as always, even though there were two hanging in the bathroom. Two because that’s what grown-ups had, just in case someday there were two people showering.

He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Made coffee. Sipped it slowly. The clock read 10:37. If he left now, he’d be right on time. He poured a second cup, picked up a novel.

It was funny. When the four of them had started hanging out, they’d all had other people they thought of as their “real” friends. But time kept passing, and those people got married or moved away or just got lazy in that late-twenties way, never leaving the house, always saying they’d love to get together but never doing it. And so Thursday nights went from optional to mandatory, and before long, they started adding more occasions. Dinners at Ian’s condo in the sky. Cubs games in the summer. And lately, Saturday brunch.

That seemed to be the way with life. The things you were now, today, were the things you really were. Maybe you used to play guitar; maybe in the future you’d take up bowling. But what you did
now
, the people you saw, the books you read, the dreams that woke you, they were the real you. Not some construct of what you wanted to be or once were.

At 11:02, he stopped pretending to read and went for a cab.

Though named like a convenience store, Kuma’s Corner was a cross between a heavy-metal bar and a café, with tasteful lighting and tattooed waitstaff, eggs Benedict and burgers named after bands. Mitch had timed it right, strolling out on the small patio to find the three of them already there. Jenn flashed white teeth, motioned to the empty chair beside her. No sundress, but a strappy shirt that showed off her shoulders.

He sat, smiled, then saw Ian. “Whoa!” The guy’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, thick flesh ringed in bright purple and dark black. “Jesus,” Mitch said. “What happened to you?”

“He won’t tell us,” Jenn said. “But I think it was a woman.”

“I did tell you. I tripped. I was out late, came home buzzed, caught my foot on the mat.”

“And hit the doorknob with your eyeball?”

“Yeah.” Ian reached for his beer, drained half in a pull. “Nice shot, huh? Doorknob, one; Ian, zero. But I’ve got plans for revenge.” He smiled. “Anyway. You’re missing a hell of a story. Alex is beginning a life of crime.”

“It’s not funny, man.” Alex had dark circles of his own.

“Hold on. Let me order.”

“I did it for you,” Jenn said. “Chilaquiles, right?”

Mitch looked over and smiled, suddenly ten feet tall and lighter than air and very glad he’d come. “Yeah. Thanks.” He held the look a moment, then turned to Alex. “So?”

“His boss is using him as muscle,” Ian said. “He’s gonna get medieval on some tough guys.”

“Would you quit it? This is serious. My boss is—”

“An asshole?”

“Well, yeah. Yesterday he was fiddling with the safe when I walked into his office, and he freaked like I caught him jerking off.” Alex shook his head. “I calm him down, very polite, use his last name and everything. And he says he wants me to come to a meeting. Like, an after-hours kind of meeting. A side deal, he wants me to be his bodyguard.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. And I say no, still very polite. He says I don’t do this, I’m fired, and he’ll tell everybody I’ve been stealing.”

“Hmm.” Mitch could picture it, the skeezy guy condescending and threatening at once, big tough Alex having to stand there and take it. The thought almost made him smile.
Payback’s a bitch
. Then he saw the look in his friend’s eyes and immediately felt bad for feeling good.

“You got that far before,” Ian said. “So? Are you going to do it?”

“He signs the checks, right? But then—” Alex stopped at the arrival of a ferret-faced blonde balancing plates down the length of a tattooed arm. Ian ordered another beer. After she walked away, Alex said, “But then it got worse.” He pushed his plate forward and leaned on his elbows. “I got to wondering what Johnny was doing in the safe, right? I mean, he was so concerned with it.”

Mitch cut into his breakfast, scooping up corn tortillas and salsa verde and pulled chicken.

“So after he took off, I went back into the office, and I opened the safe.”

“I’m surprised ‘Johnny Love’ gave you the combination,” Jenn said.

“He didn’t. A couple of months ago he was after some information in there, something about a real-estate deal. Manager wasn’t working, didn’t want to come in, so he called and gave me the combo. It’s Johnny’s birthday. He makes a point of showing up every year on his birthday to see who remembers.”

Jenn gave a sharp, high laugh. “This guy gets better and better.”

“Worse and worse.” Alex’s features went dark in a way that reminded Mitch of his fluttering curtains, blinding sunlight to deep gloom. “You know what was there?” He paused, then looked over his shoulder. Pitched his voice low. “Cash. A lot of it. Like, stacks of hundred-dollar bills.”

Mitch stopped chewing. Next to him, Jenn leaned forward the barest amount, more an intake of breath than a calculated motion. For a second, the crowded patio seemed to fall silent, and he could hear the rustling of leaves above them, the sound of traffic on Belmont.

“Nice.” Ian picked up his water glass and held it against his bad eye, the ice cubes tinkling. “You had me going.”

Jenn looked around the table, at Ian, at Alex, at Mitch, at Alex again, back at Ian again. “Is he kidding?”

“Of course he’s kidding.”

“I’m not.” Alex said it simple and quiet and firm. “I wish I were.”

“You’re serious?” Mitch set his fork down.

Alex nodded. “On my mother.”

The silence fell again.

“What did you do?”

“I packed my pockets and snuck out the back. Brunch is on me.” Alex stabbed at his eggs. “What do you think? I locked up, went back to the bar, and quietly shit myself.”

“You didn’t touch it?”

“No.”

“Come on.” Ian set down the water glass. No less puffy, his bad eye was now just slick with condensation. “Not even a little?”

“No.”

“How much was there?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t know,” Alex said around a mouthful. “A lot. Thing is, I got to thinking. What if it’s got something to do with the meeting? I had figured, you know, he was having trouble with his vegetable suppliers, wanted me there so he could look like the old tough Johnny Love. But there had to be a couple hundred grand. What if he’s going back into the drug business? Meeting with Colombians?”

“Or Outfit guys,” Mitch said. “Or undercover cops.”

“Jesus. If he got busted and I was there . . .”

“You have to find a new job.” Jenn’s voice was sharper than normal.

“Ya think?”

“You’re missing the worst part,” Ian said. “Insult to the injury. The money.”

Alex’s jaw fell open, then he gave a sound that wasn’t much like a laugh. “Three hundred bucks. I’m a bodyguard at a six-figure drug deal, and the cheap bastard is offering me three hundred bucks.” He made the sound again.

“You know what you should do?” Ian held a beat. “Clean out that safe before you quit.”

“Tempting,” Alex said. “But I think even Johnny Love could figure that one out.”

“Well, all you need to do,” Mitch said, “is not quit. Do it on a night you aren’t working, and don’t quit.”

“Right. Right.” Ian nodded, cracked his knuckles. “Keep a straight face.”

“Better yet,” Jenn said, “
we
should take it.”

“Yes!” Ian gave her gun fingers. “That’s it. In fact, do it on a night you
are
working. You stand at the bar all night, meanwhile, we’re emptying the safe.”

“We could cut through the roof with a torch,” Jenn said, “and then rappel from a helicopter.”

“Or tunnel in from the building across the street,” Mitch said, getting in the spirit.

“Meanwhile, I distract Johnny,” Jenn said. “I’ll wear one of those Bond-girl dresses from the Connery years. The short, mod ones that the villains’ girlfriends had. I’ve always wanted to.”

“I love it when a plan comes together,” Ian said, and raised his glass. “To screwing Johnny Love.”

“Screwing Johnny Love.” They clinked. Mitch leaned back in his chair, glad he’d come. A flawless blue sky and good friends. A sudden scrap of music began, Brandon Flowers urging
smi-ile like you mean it,
from the cell phone beside Alex’s napkin. He picked it up, shook his head, then hit a button to silence the notes.

“Work?”

“My ex.”

It seemed like maybe a look passed between Jenn and Alex, but it was just a flickering thing. Mitch dug into his neglected breakfast.

Ian said, “You guys know what the Prisoner’s Dilemma is?”

Alex groaned. “Not again.”

“What?”

“Let me guess. It’s another game.”

“Funny you should say that,” Ian deadpanned. “In fact, yes.”

“You do anything besides play games?”

“So,” Ian said, “two criminals are arrested. The cops know they did it, but they don’t have enough evidence. So they put them in separate cells and offer each a deal. If one rats on the other, he goes free. His partner, though, gets ten years. If they both keep quiet, the cops can only hit them with something minor, say, six months. But if both of them betray the other, bam, the cops can nail both, and they each get five years.”