by Alex Kava
Max stepped in slowly, but the apartment wasn’t bad. If he hadn’t had to endure the hot, smelly, fly-infested climb, he might have called it cozy.
She offered him a seat in what had to be her favorite chair. It faced the TV set and had a small fan blowing directly on it. He declined, insisting she sit, letting her think that he was being polite when he simply liked the feeling of control standing gave him.
“I checked all the charges, Ms. Comstock. With the crack cocaine charge alone you’re in some pretty serious trouble.”
Her head went down as though she was ready to be punished. He tried to determine how old she was. Sometimes with crack whores it was difficult to tell. If the crack didn’t whither their skin, their horrendous nutritional habits did. He decided she might actually be pretty if she cleaned up and put on ten pounds. As for her age, he guessed that Carrie Ann was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Her rap sheet had only estimated it. He wondered if Carrie Ann even remembered how old she was.
“I can help you, but we need something you can bargain with. You understand what I’m saying?”
He knew if she was a friend of Heather’s she would understand. She looked up at him, and yes, there was already a look of recognition and relief in her bloodshot eyes. That was one thing he liked about his clientele. They could be very grateful to anyone who offered help. They were so used to everyone giving up on them—family, friends, even the justice system.
“When the time comes you’ll need to listen and pay close attention to what I tell you. And you’ll need to stay clean through the end of the week. If you want to stay out of jail, you’ll need to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
She nodded, sitting on the edge of the chair as if ready to do whatever was necessary right now. “I know I’m in big trouble. If I just could have one more chance. That’s all I need.”
“I know. That’s why I’m going to help you.” Max wiped his forehead again. God! It was hot in the small apartment and yet Carrie Ann didn’t seem at all affected by the heat. She didn’t even have any of the windows opened. He wondered again why the hell he bothered to come to his clients’ homes. This was ridiculous.
“I really appreciate this, Mr. Kramer. I don’t know what I’d do if you couldn’t help me. I really can’t go to jail.”
“And you shouldn’t have to. But like I said you’ll have to be able to do and say what I tell you. Okay?”
Another nod.
“I know you’ll want partial payment today,” she said as she slid off the chair onto her knees. “Right?” Without looking up at him she reached up and began pulling down his zipper.
In a matter of seconds Max Kramer remembered exactly why he came to his clients’ homes.
CHAPTER 9
10:45 a.m.
Melanie watched the waitress’s frustration grow. It wasn’t her fault the cook kept getting Jared’s order wrong. But the woman shouldn’t be taking it out on Jared, either. How could she expect him to eat runny eggs when he’d ordered them fried and well done? Okay, maybe not the first time. Melanie thought she had heard him say sunny side up, too, although she didn’t dare say so. Besides, Jared insisted he hadn’t, and Charlie backed him up, saying Jared should know how he ordered his own eggs. Here they were, arguing with the waitress for the third time, the entire Cracker Barrel dining room watching them.
Melanie wanted to squirm her way out of the booth. Instead she looked out the window, wishing they weren’t the center of attention. She had spent a lifetime trying to blend in, trying to be like everyone else. That’s how she had survived her childhood, and as an adult that’s how she had become so good at lifting the things she did. She strived to be seen as ordinary as she possibly could, never drawing unnecessary attention to herself. It allowed her to blend in whether she was shoplifting at Lowe’s or Dillard’s or even Borsheim’s.
Jared, however, seemed to want everyone to notice him, to see what injustices had been done to him. Had he always been like this? Or had his time in prison changed him? He usually didn’t waste so much time with the small crap. Mostly he just focused on the things or people who pissed him off. Why get so pissed about some fucking eggs and whether they were firm enough? Or was it really about eggs? Hard to tell with Jared these days.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t like me, Rita,” Jared was saying in that same tone Melanie had thought earlier was sarcasm.
“No, not at all,” the waitress said. “I’m just wondering why it took you several bites to figure out they still weren’t to your liking.”
Melanie’s eyes went back to the window and the parking lot outside. This waitress was only making matters worse.
“I guess I was just in shock, Rita. I couldn’t believe that you could screw it up for a third time.”
Jared’s voice had that singsong tone that made Melanie cringe. Outside in the parking lot she concentrated on a KKAR-news station wagon whose driver had a map spread out on the hood, holding it down with the palms of his hands to keep the wind from blowing it away. But he wasn’t looking at the map. Instead, he was scanning the sky, and that’s when Melanie noticed how dark the clouds had grown. Several pole lights that lined the lot had automatically started blinking, as if trying to decide whether or not to come on. Up on Interstate 80 she could see headlights.
“Forget about it, Rita.” Jared was responding to something Melanie had missed. “I don’t want any more eggs. What might make me happy—”
“Let me guess,” Rita interrupted him. “You’d like me to not charge you for the eggs.”
“Actually, considering how many times you and your friend back in the kitchen screwed up…” He lifted his hands, palms up in a hopeless gesture, allowing her to fill in the blanks.
“You’d like me not to charge you for your entire breakfast. Is that it?”
“If you insist.”
“Jesus,” Rita muttered, scratching out a new ticket. “It’s no skin off my nose. I get paid this afternoon, cash my check, pick up my daughter, and we’re off for a whole week in Vegas.”
“Really? Vegas?” Jared sounded so interested that Melanie glanced at him from her perch at the window. Was he finally cutting the poor waitress some slack? “Well, you have a good time, Rita.”
“I’ll pick this up whenever you’re ready. No hurry, of course.”
Melanie wondered if the poor waitress would be back. She stared at Jared, trying to decide whether he meant what he said. Did he respect that the woman stood up to him? Hard to tell. He sat back in the booth, grabbing his fork, wiping off leftover eggs with the napkin and then finishing his manicure.
“You said in your message that today is the day,” Melanie said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. But when Jared’s eyes found hers, she knew she hadn’t been successful.
“Rita threw me off track,” he said, putting his thumbnail in between his teeth to reach what the fork’s prong could not.
“But we’re still doing it, right?” Charlie jerked forward, knocking the table and sending Melanie’s untouched coffee splashing over the cup’s lip. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
Before Jared could answer, a mechanical symphony started playing in his shirt pocket. He grabbed the cell phone, looking for the on button. Melanie knew the phone wasn’t his. In the last week she had seen him using what seemed to be a different cell phone every time.
“What?”
Melanie glanced at Charlie. His outburst suggested he knew more about what they were doing here than she did. But Charlie seemed as impatient as she felt. She could see a slight twitch to the left side of his body and knew, though she couldn’t see it, that his left foot was pumping up and down a mile a minute under the table.
“I already told you, I’m handling it,” Jared said into the phone, sounding neither angry nor particularly urgent. “It’ll be taken care of today.”
Whoever was on the other end must not have been convinced because Jared sat listening, his eyes scanning the parking lot. She
couldn’t measure his expression, but his silence bothered her. Who could possibly have commanded Jared’s respect to be allowed such a long audience? Finally Jared said, “I told you, I’ve got it taken care of.” Then he flipped the phone shut, slipping it back into his shirt pocket.
“What’s going on, Jared?” Melanie asked. “When are you gonna let us in on this job that you’ve been planning?” Out of the corner of her eye she could see the look exchanged between Jared and Charlie, and then she knew. She knew for certain what she had already suspected. She was the only one at the table who wasn’t in on the plan. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Okay, keep it cool,” Jared said. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”
She heard her son snicker beside her, and she shot him a look that immediately silenced him like only a mother could.
Jared sat forward, elbows on the table, his hands together in a fist at his lips as if to protect his words. Melanie followed his eyes as he swept them across the restaurant’s dining room. Oh, sure, now he was suddenly concerned about not drawing attention to himself?
“I told you before there’s a big job I want to do. When the time’s right. Well, the time’s right.”
“Why today?”
He readjusted himself, sighing into his fists as if he shouldn’t need to explain himself to her. If he said the time was right, she should just believe him. Five years ago, that’s all he would have needed to tell her.
“There’s a bank branch about a half mile up the road to the left,” he began in a hushed tone. Melanie and Charlie, almost in unison, scooted closer to the table. “On an ordinary Monday there’s usually a stash of cash that comes through. Area businesses depositing their weekend takes. But Monday was Labor Day. Huge weekend. Families eating out, shopping. Extra travelers on I-80. Should be a nice chunk of change that came in those doors yesterday and today. Wells Fargo won’t get to this location to pick it up until after closing today.”
“You can’t be serious.” Melanie didn’t even bother to disguise her disbelief. “You can’t possibly be thinking of knocking off an armored car?”
“Keep it down, Mel.” But he wasn’t angry with her. Ever since he got out of prison, he seemed so calm. Almost too calm. “Not the car. The bank. I figure we do it right before closing time.”
Then he sat back, finished, picking up the fork again.
Charlie seemed satisfied, also sitting back and chugging some ice from his glass, crunching it. His jerking left foot was now quiet. Melanie looked from one to the other. They couldn’t be serious. A bank? That was totally out of their league, and yet neither of them looked to be joking. Neither of them looked the least bit concerned or anxious.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jared said, suddenly tossing the fork aside, pulling out his wallet and tugging loose a couple of ones and a folded ten-dollar bill. “Forget the stock market. This is my way of doubling my money.” As they watched, he carefully placed the ten in the middle of the table before flipping it over a couple of times. Melanie could see the bill had been cut in half. Jared folded the two ones and slid the ten in between, letting it peek out just enough. Then he put the money on top of the ticket, set his water glass on a corner and was ready to go.
Melanie had to admit she was impressed. And when Jared casually tossed the cellular phone into a corner trash can in the parking lot, she found herself thinking they might actually be able to knock off a bank.
CHAPTER 10
11:30 a.m.
Platte River State Park
Andrew struggled with the bag of MatchLight charcoal, tugging it with his one good hand to try to get it out of the trunk of his car. He was disappointed to see it was only a ten-pound bag. It felt like a twenty-five-pounder. As if to compensate for his pathetic weakness he tucked the bag under his arm and grabbed the six-pack of Bud Light, ignoring the pinpricks of pain that crawled up his good shoulder, across the back of his neck and over his wounded arm.
He was tired of making the trips back and forth to the cabin, though it was less than fifty yards. Actually, tired wasn’t the appropriate word. He was irritated. Even now, with his good arm and hand full and a pain dancing from one shoulder to the other, he considered grabbing the fishing rod and tackle box. But the approaching thunderheads convinced him to leave the fishing gear for now. It was just as well. It would only be one more disappointment if he realized he couldn’t cast left-handed.
He noticed a slice of color moving through the trees, a car making its way up the road. With no free hands available, Andrew raised his chin in an effort to wave to the driver of the Ford Explorer. He waited, wishing he hadn’t been so stubborn in thinking he could carry both the charcoal and the beer, feeling the pull in his wounded shoulder even though it wasn’t bearing the weight. Again, he tried ignoring the pain, refusing to put anything down, especially not now. Not in front of his friend.
He watched Tommy Pakula pull up beside him. Before he got out of the Explorer he was shaking his finger at Andrew.
“You sure you should be carrying all that, Murderman?” Tommy asked, but he didn’t embarrass Andrew by attempting to relieve him of his burden. An ex-fullback, Tommy stood about three inches shorter than Andrew but with broad shoulders and biceps that stretched his T-shirt sleeves. He grabbed his own cooler and Bag-N-Save sack from the back seat. “I brought some filets since it looks like we won’t get any fish.”
“Don’t sound so relieved.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I was looking forward to the fishing part. I just don’t particularly like eating fish. My idea of a cookout is tailgating in the parking lot before a Huskers game. You know, with a nice thick slab of real meat, fresh out of the cooler. Not fishing all afternoon and only catching some puny six-inch thing that needs to be cleaned before you cook it.”
“I told you we wouldn’t be eating it. This is a catch-and-release lake. Besides, you’re missing the point. Fishing isn’t necessarily about catching fish.”
“Right, sure.” Tommy set the cooler on top of the Explorer just long enough to swipe sweat from his forehead, his hand continued over the top of his head, a habit he had developed since he began shaving his head. Andrew wondered if Tommy needed to remind himself that he no longer had hair or if he simply liked the feel of it. “I didn’t realize you were like the Zen master of fishing.”
“You’d see what I mean if you’d just give fishing a chance.”
“Yeah, right.”
Tommy picked up the cooler, and Andrew led the way to the cabin, trying not to flinch from the pain, though his back was to his best friend and he wouldn’t notice.
“So, what did the doctor have to say? How many more weeks you stuck in that fucking slingshot?” Tommy asked.
“At least three,” he managed to say without sounding out of breath.
“Holy crap, that’s a bitch. How can you even write?”
“Very slowly.” He put down the load outside the cabin so he could open the screen door for Tommy. That courtesy, Tommy allowed, and he squeezed in past him.
“That’s partly why I’m so far behind deadline,” Andrew found himself repeating anytime someone mentioned his writing, the subject tripping some kind of automatic guilt response. Truth was, his injury was only a small part of the manuscript’s delay. He didn’t want to admit the real reason, as if the simple admission would seal his fate. Andrew Kane didn’t believe in fate or luck. Then he realized that Tommy didn’t care, probably hadn’t even heard Andrew’s lame excuse. Instead, he was checking out the four-room cabin.
“This place is pretty cool,” he said before ducking into one of the back bedrooms.
“Yeah, I love it.” And he did. It wasn’t as rustic as it looked. Though the walls were lined in knotty pine and the ceiling made up of rafters, there was also a skylight of small paneled windows, a modern bathroom and shower, a furnace and A/C unit. The kitchenette featured a full-size refrigerator, an electric range and a microwave that had been added since Andrew’s last visi
t. The screened-in porch that overlooked the lake and the treetops was where he’d be spending the majority of his time, hopefully working late into the night as he had in the past, writing by the flame of a lantern.
This had been his retreat, his sanctuary, and it had never failed him…yet. He had penned his first book here, but he hadn’t been back for several years, too busy to afford himself the luxury of its solitude, its isolation. Instead, he usually ended up writing bits and pieces in airports, waiting for his next flight, or in hotel rooms over cold, mediocre room service. Who would have thought being a writer would include so many hours on the road and in the air? In a strange way the broken collarbone had been a godsend, a painful sign for him to slow down and reassess his priorities. A reminder of why he had wanted to do this in the first place.
“Where’s the TV?” Tommy was back after an inspection of the bathroom.
“There is none.”
“No TV?”
“Nope. No TV, no radio, no phone, no Internet. Can’t even get good reception for my cell phone.”
“Holy crap. How long did you say you’re staying out here?”
“Two weeks.”
“This is why you have no life, buddy. How can you handle being out here by yourself for two fucking weeks?”
“I need to get away from the day-to-day distractions. Besides, I brought a nine-inch portable TV—if that makes you feel better. You know I can’t be away from the news for too long.”
“Day-to-day distractions? I hate to tell you, but that’s just life.” Tommy picked up the case of Bud Light and started putting the bottles carefully in the refrigerator. “So it sounds like you have the same philosophy about writing as you do about fishing,” he said from behind the refrigerator door.
“How’s that?”
“Fishing isn’t about catching fish, right? Sounds to me like writing about life isn’t about living life.”