Saim can’t tell if she’s kinda embarrassed or just trying to think of some good bull.
Probably bull.
Saim says, “Well, this is rude. What’s your name? I’m Bill.” He extends his hand. And a last name. What last name? Something generic and Arab. “Bill Hussein.”
Oh, you idiot.
The girl says, “I’m Sarah Perez. My boyfriend got me the ring.”
“Woo,” Saim says. He fans his face. “Your man must be crazy about you to drop that kind of money on a prize like that. He one of those banker types? Hedge fund managers? Not like Jewbacca here.”
He elbows Joe, who just stares.
Joe digs his fingers into Saim’s ribs to get the guy to shut up and reel it in.
Sarah laughs. “That’s absolutely awful. Anyway, no. My man’s not a rich guy. He’s a good man, though. A good man. I’m sure he... I’m sure he worked very hard to save the money for this.”
“You gonna marry him?”
Sarah shrugs. But smirks.
Saim says, “You tell your man that we’d love to talk to him.”
No way can a bartender afford a ring like that.
No way.
***
They walk five blocks.
Joe says, “Let’s grab some food before we go back to the bar. Take an hour. Maybe less.”
Saim says, “Yeah. I can do that.”
“Also... Jewbacca?”
Saim arches his eyebrows. “Sounded funny in my head.”
18.
Kieron wakes up. Rolls over.
Sarah’s gone.
He remembers most of last night. He remembers being an asshole. He remembers losing his cool in a pathetic and dramatic sense.
He thinks he and Sarah made up, but he’s not sure.
Maybe it didn’t sink into her head the way he hoped.
Maybe he just fucked up the best thing to happen to him in years.
His thought process goes like this:
Check Aaron.
Feed Aaron.
Find Sarah.
Use day off to score the dope and sell it.
Get them all out of here.
Make it right.
Sure.
***
He checks Aaron. Feeds Aaron.
He grabs the bag of cash and wonders where a smart place to hide fourteen grand is.
Not the bank. Fuck those places.
He gets an idea.
Then a series of increasingly bad ideas.
And he knows a guy that might be able to help.
Over the phone, he makes damn sure.
He gets the answers he wants.
Kieron tells Aaron: “I’ll be back in a couple hours, okay?” Four thousand of the pawn money in an envelope in his jacket. “I just need to see an old buddy. Need to pick something up.”
Aaron says: “I’m working, Daddy.” The LEGO ship almost done now.
Kieron nods. “Okay, bud. Be back soon.”
Yeah. He’s fuckin father of the year.
***
If Saim and Joe hadn’t been off following Sarah, they’d be pretty goddamn interested in where Kieron’s going.
***
This guy. Dude from Kieron’s days as a junkie and petty thief. Those days that seem to be rolling back into focus. Not gone at all.
This guy says, “You want a gun can’t be traced, gonna be a lot more. But that’s what I’d recommend, things considered.”
This guy. Bald head. Baggy pants. Dark hoodie over a wife beater. Got the part down pat.
Name’s Marcus, but he looks more like a Juan.
Used to fence electronics for Kieron when he needed easy cash to score.
And what Kieron’s gonna be doin... Having a piece seems like a good idea.
They’re standing in the gunrunner’s dumpy apartment off Canal Street.
Kieron looks at the weapon in his hands. Says, “The fuck am I holding?”
“Pistol.”
“Not what I meant, dickhead.”
Kieron’s never had this conversation sober before. And he sure as shit doesn’t remember much from previous discussions when he was higher than a social justice warrior’s sense of superiority.
Marcus puts his hands in his hoodie pockets. “That’s a snub nose .38. Decent revolver. Simple. Easy to conceal. But you stuck with the six shots’n it’s a bitch to reload in the middle of a firefight. If you get yo ass in one. And it got no range. No previous owners, neither. But I’d put the tape on the handle anyways so’s you can rip away any prints. Less you got gloves?”
“Yeah I remember that scene in The Godfather, too, but I don’t think it works that way in real life. I got gloves, anyway. But I don’t want no gun’s gonna be traced back to some shooting six months ago. Don’t show nothin unless it’s clean. We know each other better than that.”
“Yeah, well, been a while. Ever since you started livin the sober life, I ain’t heard jack from you.”
“I quit the junk. But I wouldn’t call it sober.”
Marcus shrugs. “Hey, money’s money. Since we old friends, I promise yo money’s always gonna be good with me.”
“Ain’t you fuckin sweet.”
Revolvers are simple. But he’s never used one before. That makes him a little nervous. He’d rather have a semi-automatic and a magazine like the old days. Something he can reload fast. Not try to fuck with putting a bullet in each chamber of the cylinder when he wants to fire again if he goes dry.
He says, “You got anything bigger?”
“Bigger caliber?”
“Just... What else’ve you got? I don’t want a revolver.”
Kieron ain’t no Dirty Harry.
Marcus puts a small, curved gun in Kieron’s hand. “That’s a Walther PPK. This one fires .22 Long Rifle. Ammo’s cheap.”
Kieron frowns. “This looks like a little girl’s gun.”
“Man, James Bond used a Walther.”
“James Bond was whore-hopping Eurotrash.”
“Christ. All right.” Marcus lights a cigarette. Offers one to Kieron—who considers the cancer stick with a careful eye before thinking, Fuck it, and plucking one from the pack.
Marcus scratches the side of his head. Says, “Okay. Hang on.” And disappears into the hallway closet for a minute.
Kieron looks around. Sees some porno mags.
Who the hell buys porno mags anymore?
He sees a bit of toasted weed sitting in the bowl of a pipe. An overflowing ashtray.
The place is a pigsty. But fuckin Marcus, yeah, he’s got a sixty-inch flatscreen TV and the newest Xbox whatever and the nice computer and the guns and, shit, do people have their priorities outta whack. Like folks on welfare who always seem to have the newest shoes and smartphones.
Says the guy who smoked heroin for ten years and let a nutbag dealer fuck his passed-out girlfriend.
Marcus snaps Kieron outta his own dumb head. Says, “We knockin you over to the nine-millimeter side of things.”
He carries a silver briefcase in. Snaps it open. Sets it on the bed.
Two shiny black guns sit inside. One Kieron recognizes from the movies. A curvy Beretta. But he’s used that kind before and doesn’t like it cuz the slide bites at the skin between his thumb and index finger when he fires it.
Kieron points at the other. “I like that one.”
Marcus says, “Sig Sauer P226. That motherfucker’s a real workhorse of a gun. Navy SEALs use it. Thing kicks ass.”
Kieron plucks it from the foam of the briefcase. Feels the weight. “It’s light.”
“Little over two pounds. Even a whiny bitch like you should be able to manage.”
Kieron pops the magazine out. Racks the slide back. Gets used to the action of the
gun. Where the safety is. The weight he needs to put on the trigger.
Marcus says, “Mag’ll hold fifteen rounds. Since we old buddies and all, I’ll give you two mags at no charge. Ammo’s extra though. You got a holster? I got one you can keep on your hip.”
“I was thinking I’d keep it in my jacket pocket. Or stick it in the waistband of my jeans. Hidden. Y’know?”
Marcus laughs. “I knew a guy. Thought he was all gangsta. Kept the gun hooked in his pants. Man. He blew his nuts off on the G train when he tried to pull on someone. Balls ended up red and white goo on the floor.”
Kieron says, “I’ll take a holster.”
***
Kieron sticks the Sig and the holster and the mags and the ammo high up in his closet where Aaron can’t reach and where Sarah shouldn’t go looking. All the crap stuffed in a little duffel bag.
Then he plays LEGOs with Aaron for a bit.
Cuz he should.
Ship’s almost done, after all.
***
Sarah gets back. She walks in on Kieron taking a Polaroid picture of Aaron. The kid holding this giant spaceship. It’s almost as tall as him.
Sarah claps. “That’s awesome.”
Kieron says, “Ain’t it?” Proud. “We should find some way to preserve it. Laminate it. Hang it up on the wall somehow.”
Aaron fidgets and walks the ship over to the couch. Lays it down, gentle. Says, “We need more LEGOs now.”
Kieron says, “Why? You planning another big project?”
Aaron rolls his eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”
Kieron smacks himself on the forehead. “Of course you are. Sorry. I forgot that you’ve always got ideas. I’m an idiot.”
Sarah mutters. “No arguments here.”
***
Kieron touches Sarah’s hand a few hours later. After it’s dark. Them sitting on the couch in the living room. Aaron asleep since they kept the kid up till about eight in morning.
Kieron says, “I need to go out tonight.”
Sarah looks at him. Her eyes plead. “Is there any way I can get you to stay here?”
“I just... I need to. Need to start figuring out how to make things right. And I will. But tonight is part of that.”
Sarah doesn’t say anything.
She lets go of his hand.
***
Kieron walks into the bar.
He sees Chase, the part-time dude who covers his days off, and nods in the guy’s direction.
Chase says, “You come in for a freebie?” Smile on his lips.
Kieron says, “Nah. Just running by. Need the bathroom. Got Sarah and Aaron upstairs. Need privacy, y’know?”
“She on your dick?”
Kieron grins. “In all the right ways.” He hates himself for the comment, but he’s gotta play it off. “Just popping out to see a buddy of mine from way back.”
Chase smirks and then Kieron makes his way to the bathroom stall. He tries to get the holster sitting on his hip right. So he can draw from under his leather jacket and not look like an idiot.
Or at least not blow his nuts off.
Some asshole bangs on the door.
Kieron feels bold. Wants to open the door and stick the Sig in the fucker’s face. Maybe say something smart. Make the guy back down.
Instead he flushes the toilet, puts his backpack on his shoulders and turns on the faucet. Makes like he’s washing his hands.
He opens the door and says to the guy so eager to get in: “Was a big shit. Had to kill it with a shovel.”
***
Kieron steps out onto the sidewalk. The bar door closes behind him. Latches click into place.
He tells himself: If you’re gonna stop, now’s the time. You got the gun. The mags. But you can still make a left. Go the hell up to your apartment. To Sarah. To Aaron. Forget this crap. Deal with the jewelry problem later.
Or.
“Take the ten left over from the jewels. And hit the dope house. And maybe try not to die. Then turn the dope around. Turn that ten into a hundred. Get the fuck out of New York for good.”
Yeah.
19.
Joe drinks from a shitty cup of coffee. Spits out a few bits of grind. Says, “Son of a dick, there’s your guy.” He watches Kieron make a right outta the bar. “What’s our play?”
Saim watches the bartender. Sees him in a bit of a hurry. Black hoodie. Leather jacket. Sporty lookin backpack. Yankees hat.
Saim says, “Follow the guy. See what he’s up to.”
“On account of we’re concerned citizens and definitely not trying to act in any professional capacity. Us being suspended and all.”
“Yeah, exactly. Just a coupla dudes.”
“Armed dudes.”
“Armed, concerned dudes.”
“Sure.”
20.
It’s colder than Kieron thought. He’s glad he brought the hoodie.
He walks up Avenue A. Past competing bars and an appliance shop called BEST HOU KEEPING—the goddamn “S” and “E” in “HOUSEKEEPING” been missing so long he always thinks it’s about maintaining an Asian guy.
He shifts the weight of the backpack from shoulder to shoulder. Tries to make it sit better. Make it comfy.
But the Sig on his hip, well, that feels pretty all right.
He sees a woman outside one of the dive joints. She looks like Sarah. For a moment, he thinks about turning around.
No.
He mutters to himself. “This is what I gotta do. This gets us outta New York. Nobody really likes what they gotta do, but that doesn’t change shit.”
So he keeps going.
***
Christ, where is this place anyway?
7th and C. A dumpy kind of apartment building that takes up the whole corner. Blue-grey. Not falling apart, but neglected.
No cameras outside the place.
Nobody looking.
Kieron sees the emergency fire escape along the 7th Ave side of the building. And he sees it as a way up. Then in.
He takes off his boots. Tucks them next to the garbage bins outside. Not thinking anyone will take em—who would want em? Things’re beat to hell.
He’ll be fast.
He slips his gloves on.
Moves some boxes to build a staircase. Tests the weight of the ladder, in case it all wants to come down when he tugs.
It’s solid.
Just gotta get to the third floor.
***
Kieron slides the glass open. Then the screen. Slips one leg in. The other. Then he’s standing in the hall, looking at apartment numbers, trying to find 306. Place the Russian thugs say this dope guy is.
The overhead light sputters once, then goes out.
The floor’s silent.
Dark.
He can see a little from streetlights outside.
Shadows mostly.
The apartment numbers catch the glare.
He steps light. Cautious. Impossible to hear him moving in his socks.
He pulls the Sig from his hip. Holds it low at his side. He ain’t planning on shooting anyone. But he’s knows what he’s walking into.
Fuckin stupid move.
Drug den. Loaded with dope he can turn around.
And it’s all for Aaron, right? And Sarah? So you can pretend you’ve been a great dad. Yeah. Great dad.
Like you don’t just wanna get in there and shove H up your nose like the old days. Cuz that was so much fun. Look how well it turned out.
“That ain’t me. Not anymore.” Kieron grips the doorknob to 306. Stops himself. A dealer’s gonna expect someone looking for drugs. But they’d knock. Or ring. They ain’t gonna try the goddamn knob.
Feels so wrong, but he does it.
He rings the
buzzer.
Hi. It’s your friendly con-artist robber. Just showing up for a late night appointment.
Kieron tucks himself against the wall on one side of the door. Doesn’t want to be in front of the peephole when whatever asshole’s inside looks through.
Just be cool. Be smart.
When the guy cracks the door, stick your foot in. Show the gun. Get that damn door open otherwise the walls are gonna get a fresh coat of red.
Sounds good in Kieron’s head.
Except the whole floor’s so quiet.
How many drug dealers you ever know keep 9-5 business hours? How many you know don’t like playing music till all hours of the night... Then morning? Always supposed to be a party, right?
This is wrong.
This is very wrong.
The quiet. Either people staying quiet or people turning a blind eye or—
Kieron turns. He’s ready to run. Hit the streets.
Get anywhere but here.
There’s a sudden flurry of movement in the shadows. Something hits him in the chest like a hammer blow. He can’t breathe. Something harder hits his head. All he can see are explosions in the corners of his vision.
He slumps to the ground.
21.
Saim and Joe stare at the front of the building. This filing cabinet-looking place in Alphabet City. And Joe says, “Guy’s been in there forty-five minutes.”
“More like an hour.”
“You know what I mean. What’s he doing? We saw him take off his fuckin boots and crawl up the fire escape. Slip in a damn hallway window. That’s breaking and entering right there.”
“Except we ain’t cops right now, remember?” Saim chews on it. Considers it. Maybe the guy’s picking up or dropping off money. Or narcotics. Maybe just visiting a friend whose mom is asleep. None of this shit means anything unless they talk to the motherfucker.
Joe says, “He getting his dick wet?”
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