Of course she wanted to go inside. How could she not? This woman was an unknown variable. She did not factor into Marcey’s plans. Marcey bit her tongue, her gaze never leaving the woman’s hard eyes.
“Who are you?” Marcey asked again.
The woman’s body was fluid in her movements, despite her large frame. Marcey wondered if she’d been an athlete—maybe a dancer—when she was younger. She moved with the grace of one used to being nimble on one’s feet. Marcey stepped back, the heel of her boot catching on the edge of the unit. She didn’t stumble, not quite, but it was close. Her foot ached as she straightened, and the woman was there, looking down at her from her great height.
“My name is Shelly Orietti.” She held out a hand. That was why her face was familiar. She was the Shelly from the photograph. “And you are?”
Marcey hesitated before politeness overruled her anxiety about intimidating strangers. “Marcey Daniels.”
“This storage unit does not belong to you, Marcey Daniels, so why are you here?”
Marcey shrugged. “Like I said, there’s a book. Arrived in my mail a few weeks back.”
Stupid, stupid. Why had she brought up the book again?
Shelly let out a low curse. “That man.” There was a smile in her voice, even if it didn’t reach her lips. Her tone was rueful. She stepped back from Marcey to plunge her hands into her pockets. “He probably saw something in you then, I’d guess.”
“Weird…because I’ve never met him in any official capacity.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but she didn’t think she wanted to air her dirty laundry about Charlie Mock and the chess sessions where he’d been too chickenshit to tell her who he was.
If this shocked Shelly, she gave little sign, a genuine-seeming smile blossoming at her lips. Marcey tilted her head to one side, watching Shelly. In a moment of relaxation, her entire demeanor changed, and she seemed far friendlier than before, her hands emerging from her pocket, casually falling to her sides. People could not be trusted by their body language alone. The lesson of the lying smile was one Marcey had learned when Linda Johnson nodded at her testimony, a smile at her lips, only to turn around and use her words to divest Darius of his freedom. Linda Johnson’s eyes were hard when she’d listened to Marcey’s testimony in that courtroom and later listened to her beg for mercy and leniency, but Shelly’s eyes were soft. Kindness seeped into their warm brown, and crow’s feet creased at the corners of her eyes.
“So, you’re not the heir.”
“According to his lawyer, he’s my father.”
Shelly’s eyebrows shot up. “Your father? But that’s—”
“Yeah.” Marcey rubbed at the back of her neck. “I didn’t even know.”
Shelly stepped forward, moving almost reflexively. Marcey took another step backward into the unit, and Shelly’s fingers twitched, as though she wanted to reach out and hug Marcey. Marcey swallowed. She didn’t want a hug from a strange woman in the middle of the Bronx as night fell.
“Oh, child,” Shelly said at length. “I am so sorry. Charlie was a piece of work, but he wasn’t stupid, at least not stupid like this. I wish I could undo what he did. You don’t deserve that.” She inclined her head. “But you’re here, at his unit, which means he left you the details.”
“The details?”
“Of his life. Or at least his last job.” Shelly pushed past Marcey, heels clicking on the floor. She crossed to a work bench and began opening the drawers of a small utility storage chest sitting in one corner. “Could you get the light?”
Marcey reached over and fumbled for a moment before her fingers connected with the plastic-and-metal plating. The room flooded with light, and Marcey felt the breath leave her chest. This was it. Somewhere, locked away in this trove of a single man’s history, there was the groundwork of a job. And maybe, if Marcey was creative about it, she could use that job to humiliate Linda Johnson. She’d have to look at it. Charlie Mock had beaten Johnson once before. Maybe the way he’d done it was locked away in here. Marcey refused to sit idly by while that woman used her and Darius as a tool for career enhancement.
Charlie Mock had been meticulously organized in life. Just looking at this room where everything had its place spoke volumes about the man. Marcey was no master at understanding body language, but she’d always been able to read a room. Under a layer of dust, there were carefully rolled-up schematics, stacks of notebooks, binders of photographs, and, in the middle of the far wall of the room, a single photocopy of a painting tacked to the center of a corkboard. It was nothing more than a face. A face contorted in a silent scream.
“That’s some picture.” Marcey leaned forward to get a better look. “Makes the place seem real homey.”
Shelly let out a little snort of laughter, glancing up at the picture. She shook her head before going back to her rummaging. Half muttering to herself, she said, “Kat truly thinks she can reproduce that?” She said it like “fat chance” and Marcey frowned.
“Who’s Kat?”
The girl in the picture, the other one, her name was Kat.
“No one.” Shelly answered. She held up a pack of cards. “Got what I came for. You take care now.” She brushed past Marcey and out of the storage unit.
That was…it? She was just going to walk away? No. She could have the answers Marcey wanted about Charlie. Devon hadn’t been able, or was unwilling, to tell her much about Charlie. Marcey lunged for the light switch and flicked it off. She pulled the unit’s door shut and clicked the lock into place. Breathless, she ran after Shelly.
“Wait!” she called, her boots squeaking on the concrete floor. “Shelly, wait!”
Shelly was already nearly out of the building by the time Marcey caught up to her. She cast an annoyed look at Marcey before buttoning her coat up and heading out into the snow. Marcey followed, zipping up her jacket and frowning as the snow thickened. Ted, from his place in the facility window, watched them go with narrowed eyes.
The city was awash with the warm yellow glow of streetlights against freshly fallen snow. Their feet crunched in the two-inch accumulation. The city fell silent when it snowed, and Marcey hardly dared speak for fear of breaking that quiet serenity.
“You know about Charlie.”
“I do.”
“Can you tell me about him, what he did, why he was in prison? How he managed to get off when Johnson had him dead to rights?” Marcey babbled, half a step behind Shelly’s long strides.
Ignoring her, Shelly kept closer to the buildings, turning down several side streets and then up an alley lined with garbage cans. At the far end was a set of stairs and a glowing neon sign advertising a pool hall and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Shelly stepped gingerly around a half-empty Chinese take-out container and popped her collar against the wind. The outline of the pack of cards was gone from Shelly’s pocket, vanished up a sleeve or into her purse, Marcey wasn’t sure.
“Will you at least talk to me?” Marcey begged. She followed Shelly down into the bar. It was smoke-filled—even though smoking indoors was illegal—and dark. Very dark. Marcey peered around owlishly at the slouching old men at the bar who watched a grainy television feed of the Knicks game and nursed their drinks. A well-muscled man at the far side of the bar jerked his chin to Shelly, who nodded back politely. The guy looked like The Rock, but far scarier. Still, Shelly didn’t seem bothered by him, sliding off her coat and then hanging it on the rack beside the door.
Should I just leave? Marcey wondered, as Shelly headed toward the Not-The-Rock. She glanced over her shoulder at the door. She could always wait. Hang out until whatever business Shelly had with these guys was done, have a beer, watch the Knicks lose.
“Marcey?” Shelly called. Marcey whipped around. “Leave your coat out here and come on.”
Not needing to be bid twice, Marcey tugged off her coat and hung it beside Shelly’s. No one in the bar paid her any mind when she crossed the room.
“Hold out your arms,” Muscles said. Marcey did so, and he p
atted her down. “There’s a one-hundred-buck buy-in, kid. You got that?”
There was no time to look to Shelly. Muscles was looking at her with the intensity of a guy who wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of someone. It didn’t matter if she was a tiny girl or not. Marcey nodded mutely and tugged her wallet out of her back pocket. She’d gotten money for the trip and hadn’t spent any of it. There were six crisp twenty-dollar bills there for Muscles to see. He grunted his approval and ushered them through the back door.
Beyond the door was a storage room for the bar. Kegs lined the walls. Cleaning supplies were cluttered together with bottles of Budweiser and Miller Lite, dull with dust, on wire structures shoved toward the back. At the center of the room was a low table, with a handful of older women sitting around it. A few raised their hands in greeting to Shelly, and the only man in the place chewed moodily on an unlit cigar.
“We don’t take newbies,” he grunted.
“She’s fine, Earl,” Shelly answered. She nudged Marcey. “Sit over there.” She pointed to a spot across the table from a woman with blue-gray hair and thin lips. “That’s Candy. Next to her is Latoya.” Latoya had a cherry-red wig. Her velour jump suit was shabby, though, the color faded and stained. She gave a little wave.
“What is this?” Marcey hissed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Shelly just winked and took her seat next to Earl. Marcey sat down between Candy and Latoya, confused. This was some sort of underground gambling ring for old folks. Or something.
“Where’s Tony?” Shelly asked, leaning back and selecting a dusty Miller Lite for herself from the rack. “He said he was gonna be here.” She popped the top off her beer and set the cap aside.
“You just wanna see his face when you wipe the floor with him again,” Candy groused. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke all over Marcey. “It’s unusual for you to bring a friend to our weekly get-togethers, Shelly.”
“What can I say, sometimes I get sick of y’all’s faces.”
“Fat chance.” Candy laughed. Latoya slapped her on the shoulder.
From her pocket, Shelly produced the deck of cards. She cut them neatly, shuffling them with the skill of a casino dealer, the many rings on her fingers flashing in the low light. When she did the bridge, she made sure to leave all the cards face up for a moment. Earl, Candy, and Latoya all leaned forward and squinted at the cards, scrutinizing them.
“Is this a new deck?” Earl asked.
“Yes.” Shelly said. “Bought ’em at the Duane Reed this morning.”
That was a lie. Under the table, Marcey’s knee started to bounce. She chewed the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying anything. Why was Shelly lying? What was this game? Her mind raced as Shelly explained the typical rules of Texas Hold ’Em to Marcey and everyone put their money on the table. As if they didn’t know. Marcey’s crisp twenties were small compared to the stacks the others had. Shelly produced a roll of twenties from her pocket the size of Marcey’s fist.
The door opened once more, and Muscles came in with a tray full of empty glasses, a bucket for ice, and a bottle of Jack. Behind him trailed another guy, this one far meaner-looking than the old-timers gathered around the table. He had tattoos running up his arms and was well-muscled despite his age. He looked over the table as Muscles passed out glasses to everyone and set the bottle and ice on the wire rack next to some scouring powder.
“The fuck is this?” His voice was rough—a smoker too, evidently. “We don’t take outsiders.”
“This is Marcey, Tony,” Shelly said calmly. She sipped her beer. “She’s good for it.”
Tony turned his chair backward and sat down heavily, eyeing Marcey from across the table. “She better be.”
Swallowing back a retort, Marcey glanced to Shelly. Tony set her on edge. She wanted to beat him. Shelly was lying about the deck of cards and where they came from. This was a game. She was being tested.
CHAPTER 4
Marcey, Just Escaping
Shelly was a sharp dealer. She played the river well but never seemed to bet more than Marcey thought was reasonable for these old-timers. Tony watched Marcey like a hawk, knocking back first one, then two, then three fingers of whiskey before the first round was fully completed. Marcey folded the first time, stuck with a two and a seven and shit on the river. Shelly won, her fingers twitching as she scooped up the handfuls of fives and ones that Earl and Latoya threw down on the table. Candy also folded.
The second round was similar. Tony drank another two fingers of whiskey. Marcey sipped on hers and threw more ice into it than she would have liked normally. What Shelly was doing required her full attention, and alcohol never helped her concentration. This time Marcey had a queen and there was another on the table. She bet cautiously, watching Tony from behind her glass, her cards on the edge of the table. He was watching her too, his eyes a little owlish with booze.
“You look familiar,” he said.
Marcey set another dollar in the pot and then added two more. “Call. Raise you two.” She tilted her head to Tony. “Must have one of those faces.”
Tony shook his head. “Nah, you look like someone. Some rat bastard who swindled—”
“Marcey has nothing to do with that life, Tony,” Latoya cut him off. She tossed a twenty into the pot. Marcey’s eyes grew wide. What was she sitting on? Marcey’s gaze slid to Shelly, who pursed her lips slightly, looking at the pot. Latoya tapped her fingers on the table. Her nails were long and painted matte periwinkle blue. “Look at ’er, for fuck’s sake. She’s dressed like she’s still in college.”
“It’s Friday night,” Marcey pointed out.
“You’re dressed like you’re nineteen and off to your first party,” Candy answered. She gestured to Marcey’s ratty T-shirt and the holes in the knees of her jeans. “And not even one where you’re fixin’ to get laid. Boys don’t like girls who dress like that, hon.”
“Who says I care about what boys think?” Marcey drained the rest of her drink. She added another twenty to the pot, and then threw in another on top. “Raise.”
“I’m out.” Candy folded. “Isn’t my night.”
Marcey reached for the bottle of whiskey, only to find it gone before her fingers could close around it. Tony snatched it away. “I bought this bottle, kid. It’s for me, not you.”
“Fine,” Marcey retorted. She sat back, checked her cards again, and let them lie. She wouldn’t bet again. A competitive streak in her was waking up, throwing off the dust of years removed from high school soccer games. She leaned forward, the small pile of her winnings from the previous hands between her elbows, watching Shelly watch Tony. He was the mark Shelly was after, but why? He didn’t bring more than two hundred bucks to this game. Shelly didn’t have more than five hundred. There was no point in risking something like this for such a low reward. Crime was always high risk; it should have high rewards.
Shelly flipped over another card, this one a king, and glanced around. Everyone nodded. They all called the bet. Marcey’s leg was bouncing again. Tony’s eyes were bulging, bloodshot with booze. Marcey held her breath. The final card was a ten, the same suit as the others. She’d won. A small smile pulled at Shelly’s lips.
“Awesome.” Marcey pulled her winnings toward her.
“Lucky draw,” Tony grumbled, but it was almost affectionate. “Beginner’s luck, maybe.”
“Just admit you lost, Ton’.” Shelly bridged the deck and started to deal once more. Tony won that round, and the round after that. His smug smile grew wider with each passing hand. Earl lit his cigar and blew blue smoke all over the table, making the game seem as though it was inside a cloud.
After four more quick rounds, confusion overtook Marcey’s thoughts of bad luck. Tony was winning, every single hand. Latoya and Candy had good hands, but Tony always seemed to win on the final river card. He played recklessly, until he’d amassed much of the available cash to win.
Latoya got to her feet unsteadily. “I’m ou
t. Shelly, we still on for lunch Tuesday?”
“Uh-huh. Got an endo appointment, but I should be free by one.”
“Got it.”
Shelly dealt again. That time Earl won, but it wasn’t on a great hand. Marcey started to watch Shelly’s hands as she dealt the cards. Mostly Shelly folded, losing dollars here and there. She won a hand two rounds later, recouping her losses. Candy bowed out then, and then Earl, retreating to the bar to wait out the snow.
Alone at the table with Shelly and Tony, Marcey felt the temperature drop by degrees. Shelly dealt the next round and they played in silence, seeing bets and raising. Tony’s expression darkened when Shelly kept raising the bet. Marcey was running out of cash. She didn’t have a bad hand: a pair of twos, and the river would give her a pair of nines as well. But it wasn’t a winning hand in this game. No one had much of anything last hand, and this hand wasn’t much better.
There was no reading Shelly’s face, but Tony’s expression grew more and more smug with every passing moment. Marcey threw her last twenty into the pile, not really caring anymore. She just wanted to get out of there before the stakes grew too high and she ended up screwed. She wasn’t trying to make a fool of herself. Shelly wouldn’t tell her any more about Charlie if she thought Marcey was an idiot.
A thought struck her then. Would Shelly think she was stupid for wanting to dig into Charlie’s past when Darius’s parole hearing relied on Marcey keeping her head down and her nose clean? Would her want for revenge be seen as noble in Shelly’s eyes? Marcey glanced at Shelly. Her cheekbones glinted in the light and her throat bobbed as she hummed and called Marcey’s bet. Would she think Marcey was justified, or just carrying around the guilt her privilege afforded her?
“Why don’t we play for something real then?” Tony asked. His voice pulled Marcey from her thoughts. He pulled a small bundle from his pocket and unloaded it in the middle of the table, on top of the already full pot. Marcey’s breath caught. Inside the bundle were three small, rough stones. They looked like quartz, but Marcey guessed by the way Shelly was eyeing them that they were anything but quartz. “She has to keep playing. Keep you honest, Shelly.”
A Heist Story Page 4