by Chuck Hogan
“Rick,” said Maven.
He had never called him Rick before. Always Ricky. This threw everything off.
Ricky looked at Suarez and Glade on the other side of Maven. Maven did the introductions, and Ricky’s buddy, a small guy next to him, nodded with a quick tip of his chin, then looked back at his beer. Maven felt the contrast between them, him and Glade and Suarez, big guys, vital, energized, and Ricky and his friend, slump-shouldered, nearly invisible.
“Long time no see,” said Ricky, a Sam Adams tangled in the fingers of his good hand.
“Been busy,” said Maven, uncomfortable and showing it, nodding too much. “I’m working real estate now. With these guys.”
Ricky looked them over again. “Real estate. Wow.”
“Yeah,” said Maven. “Funny how things go.” Ricky was still sizing up Suarez and Glade, who were paying for the beers. “City Oasis?”
“Still there.”
To the others, Maven explained, “We used to work together at this convenience store in Quincy.” In this way, he was bringing Ricky into the fold and at the same time distancing himself from him: some guy I used to work with. “That dickhead cop still come in?”
“Still comes in.”
“Holy shit. Crank mags?”
Ricky was flat. “And a protein drink.”
“Right, crank mag and a protein drink. Christ.”
Then came the nodding pause they had both been waiting for.
“So, you guys, uh, eating?” asked Maven.
“No,” said Ricky. “Just hanging.”
“We’re gonna …” Maven pointed to the rear of the pub, the tables. “You wanna join us?”
“No,” said Ricky. “We’re cool here.”
Both of them going through the motions. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
This was his exit slot, but he couldn’t leave Ricky like this. Suarez handed Maven his beer, and Maven told him and Glade to go on ahead, he’d catch up.
“Man,” said Ricky, once they stepped away, “you really dropped out of sight. Like a stone.”
“I know, things happened pretty fast. I’m working a ton. I … I should have come by.”
“Yeah …”
“Said good-bye. I just got really caught up.”
Ricky nodded, letting Maven twist.
“What nights you at the Oasis?”
Ricky told him.
“I’ll come by. We’ll hang out. Still get free Sour Patch Kids?”
“All you can eat.”
“You work with anyone else?”
“He didn’t hire anybody after you left. Not enough business. On my own now.”
“Just you and Tyra.”
“Right.” Ricky showed the tiniest of smiles. Just enough for Maven to break free.
“I’ll come by then.”
“You should,” said Ricky, lifted. “Definitely.”
Maven glanced at Ricky’s buddy’s back at the bar, getting a weird low-level vibe from him, then walked back to join the other two. He took a chair facing away from the bar so there wouldn’t be any awkward cross-glances after the fact. Another ten minutes or so passed before the blushlike heat of the encounter wore off. When Maven got up a little while later to hit the john, Ricky and his buddy were gone.
As their burgers arrived, Suarez’s phone rang. It was Termino, letting them know that Royce had made a reservation at the Berkeley Grill for nine o’clock. They looked at each other, each taking a quick bite or two out of his burger, then downing the rest of his beer before heading back home to get cleaned up.
ON FEAST NIGHTS, ROYCE HIRED A TOWN CAR TO DRIVE THEM, INSISTing on traveling in style, even when the restaurant was only a couple of blocks away. The street-level dining room of the Berkeley Grill was once the commodities trading floor of a famous tea company, a room with massive Corinthian columns and mahogany paneling with green marble accents, and Royce favored a round table in the rear corner. They sat there in dress jackets, like gentlemen, even Termino, shoe heels sharp on the polished oak floor, drinking Budweisers and feasting on starters from the raw bar. The headwaiter, Sebastian, knew Royce by name and always sent over some new appetizer for a taste, and the chef emerged from the kitchen for a handshake and a laugh. Royce placed five identical orders—ten-ounce Kobe cap steak, medium rare—then everyone and everything else went away, the entire city retreating as all the energy in the room was sucked toward their round table. For the remainder of the meal, their round table became the city, the only place in it that mattered.
Before the steak arrived, Royce slipped off his new wristwatch and passed it around. Not a wristwatch, he informed them, but a “Big Crown Telemeter Chronograph.” Maven took it in his hands and felt the new leather of the strap, the fluted top telemeter ring of the oversize face, then turned it over and viewed the Swiss gears working inside the see-through crystal back. He passed it on to Glade, and it found its way around to Termino, who barely looked it over, returning it to Royce.
“Got one just like it,” Termino grumbled, the others laughing at him.
Then Termino pulled back his sleeve. He did have one just like it.
Royce passed out three black boxes labeled ORIS. Three identical timepieces. “I hear any of you call it a watch, I’m taking it back.”
Maven buckled his, admiring the oversize stainless-steel casing, the solid feel of it on his wrist.
“Retails for two grand, in case you’re wondering,” said Royce. “I did better than that, of course, but it’s the thought that counts. And here is the thought. We are at the top of our game right now. A game no one else could play—not at this level. Look around at these people here. These civilians. They call us heroes, right? But they’re afraid of us. You can feel it. They were much more comfortable with us over there, protecting them and their wealth. Not back here looking to get some of that for ourselves. The country-club door is closed. But—we’ve been to the other side. We’ve seen it. We know, and they know, that all this civility is a construct. A fantasy, and a pretty thin one at that. Our presence here is a reminder they don’t want to get. Because if it all started to go south stateside, who would be running things? We would. This round table right here. Be running everything. And I happen to believe that day will come. That the pendulum will swing back, and all the warriors who got civilized out of the power structure will reclaim their glory. But, for now, we have to dwell in the shadows. Like kings in exile. Waiting for the day.”
Maven had heard variations on this theme from Royce before, but never so bold a call for revolution. Glade said, “To the exiled kings,” and everyone drank.
“They say, ‘Work hard,’” continued Royce, “but what they mean is ‘Obey.’ They got from us what they needed and now have to find ways of keeping us out. They want us to come back and be good little checkers on their board, plodding along one space at a time. But they forget that the warrior in us got activated. We come in like bona fide chessmen, badass rooks and bishops and knights, breaking all the rules, jumping their kings, and they’re like, ‘Fuck was that?’”
Maven grinned at Royce miming someone getting ripped off. But Royce wasn’t looking for laughs.
“They want us tamed. They want us happy and distracted. To keep us in line. But look at us here. We defy.” He raised his bottle. “Tomorrow? Who knows what it will bring. But right now—tonight—we are the shit. Far as I’m concerned, this round table right here is running this city. Salud.”
THEY LEFT THE STEAK HOUSE WITH BELLIES FULL OF MEAT AND BLOOD full of Bud. Royce wanted to go someplace to get a decent cocktail, but he allowed himself to be outvoted and the Town Car took them up to Bukowski Tavern, a narrow bar on Dalton Street dangling over the Massachusetts Turnpike. A no-pretensions, cash-only bar to balance out the clubby steak house.
“Grunts with money,” said Royce. “Dangerous fucking combination.”
Glade and Suarez cornered up with Termino, making enough noise to clear out a pocket of space at th
e kitchen end of the bar. Maven settled in at a window overlooking the cars speeding below them. The collar of the bartender’s vintage RATT concert T-shirt was cut straight down to the midpoint of her cleavage, and it was worth the price of a draft just to watch her pour it. Royce let the “Wheel o’ Beer” spin and ordered a round of whatever came up.
“Glade tells me you’re all getting street bikes,” he said, sitting alone with Maven.
Maven nodded, swiping the foam off his upper lip. “We all caught the bug, watching these Harleys all day.”
“We’ll go up to New Hampshire, get them there. No sales tax, and they’re used to seeing cash.”
Maven nodded again, the matter decided with inebriated certainty. “No Danny tonight?”
Royce threw Maven a close stare that made Maven wonder if his voice had said something other than those three words. Maven didn’t know why he had asked in the first place.
“She calls you Gridley.”
Maven nodded, eager to elaborate. “Turns out we’re from the same town. Couple of years apart.”
“I know why she never went back. What about you?”
Maven shrugged. “I did go back, once. My sister’s funeral. Half sister.” His grip on the bottle grew tighter. “Nothing for me there.”
Royce saw something in Maven’s expression that pulled him closer. A darkness that intrigued him. “What’d you think about that, back at the restaurant?”
“Yeah, it was great, the meal—”
“No, I meant, what we talked about. What I was saying.”
“Oh. Yeah, it was interesting.”
“I’m not looking for fucking feedback, Maven. I want to know what you think.”
“About what you were saying?” Maven shrugged, not knowing how to say this. “It’s kind of dangerous, I guess.”
“Dangerous.”
“… Unless I missed something.”
Royce backed up, ready to take another run at it. “Look, the other guys, Glade and Suarez—I know my rap is wasted on them. You’re different.”
Maven shook his head.
“Sure you are. This, here in the States, it’s Candy Land. This is a dream. A fantasy compared to over there, which was reality. Cold reality. But here comes the bitterest irony. Over there, in the real world, you had power. A rifle in your hand, a flag on your shoulder. Over there, you were a king. But back here in fantasyland, you’re like anybody else. Only less so, because you’ve been gone so long, you’re a couple of steps behind. See? All backwards. In reality, a king. In fantasy, a peasant. A dangerous fucking peasant. A peasant who knows what it is to be a king.” Royce leaned closer again. “That seem right to you?”
Maven tried to inhale a little sobriety, feeling over his head here. “No, but—we’re winning, right? We’re beating the system.”
“Absolutely we are. For now. But what happens next?”
“Next what?”
“It’s just common sense. Things can’t go on like this forever, right? Things are going to reach a critical mass at some point. Then what? Do we call it a day? Or is there another stage in the evolution?”
Maven turned his head for a different angle of understanding, but it didn’t work. He looked down at the new timepiece on his wrist instead, the second-hand needle doing a slow lap around the face. “I don’t really want to think about what comes next.”
“You’re crazy not to. Why?”
Maven shook his head.
Royce made a face. “Tell.”
“You’ll think I’m a jinx.”
“If I ever believed in that sort of thing, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“I’m just waiting for the worm to turn.”
“Go on.”
“Look, I’m not being ungrateful. I’m extremely grateful. For the opportunity, for this beer—for fucking everything. But the thing is—trouble has a way of finding me.”
Royce sat back, not perplexed, not amused. “That so.”
“Historically, yeah.”
“You’re saying you got the mark on you. So how do you explain all this good fortune in your life now?”
“Exactly. It’s all tits and butter. That’s what’s got me worried.”
“That you never had it this good?”
“Never in my life.”
Royce finished his beer. He looked disappointed—or maybe that was just Maven’s impression, as he felt he was always giving Royce wrong answers. “Who knows, Maven?” said Royce, standing up with his empty bottle. “Maybe your luck has changed.”
ANALOG GROOVES
LASH RECOGNIZED THE FAMILIAR MUSK OF STUPIDITY UPON ENTERing the Barnstable County lockup and decided he had been spending entirely too much time in jails. He feared becoming like a career garbageman whose nose can no longer discriminate between sweet and sour.
This, he thought, as he looked at the faces of the men doubled up in the cells, is the side of the Cape that few people see. Turns out it’s not all sand dunes and ice cream shops. He was buzzed through another door and found the Harleton cat’s cell wide-open. Overweight, white, the executive type, dumping toiletries off the wall shelf into a plastic bag.
Lash said, “Hi, there.”
The guy turned, startled, seeing Lash filling the open door. A man walking freely inside the lockup. Harleton looked behind Lash, expecting others. “Who are you?”
“I’m Boston Celtics legend Bill Russell, how you doing?”
The guy shrank back, a dry toothbrush in his hand. He was on the verge of walking out of this place, and now here was a black man in his cell messing with him. “They said my lawyer is coming.”
Lash looked around. “Not here yet.”
Harleton appeared pained, waiting to be let in on the joke. “I don’t know who you are.”
“Let’s just say that I’m an agent of the Drug Enforcement Administration. And let’s just say that you were found three days ago all trussed up in your family’s home on some island-sized golf course, along with three known heroin dealers and eleven pounds of weed.”
Harleton’s mouth flinched, his eyes cheating around the room in anticipation of a beating. “My lawyer is on his way.”
“You said that. I guess your family popped for bail. Very considerate, in light of the circumstances. Very forgiving. I gotta tell you, my son played host to a drug deal in my house while I was away in Florida? He’d be coming up with his own damn bail money.”
“I’m sure you don’t know anything about my family—”
“But I know about you, Mr. Harleton. You’re the fuckup son, a grown man still taking help from parents he doesn’t respect. But I’m not here to scold you. I wouldn’t waste my motherfucking breath.” Lash cursed because Harleton expected it from him. Lash had no problem being his scary stereotype. “I don’t even care about your case. Someone else will handle it, and they will be left holding the bag when you screw. Now, don’t give me that shocked look—you think I don’t know you’re going to run?”
Harleton was over his initial fear, his mind-set back to A man like me doesn’t belong in a place like this. Lawyers had been consulted, bail had been posted. The world he knew was righting itself like a good ship in a storm. “Run where?”
“Like I said, somebody else’s problem. Two days is a good long time to be tied up, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“Your parents know you better than you think. Two days without hearing from you, and they call the police, ask that their house be checked. Osterville cops find you bound up with a bunch of felons and weed. One of the felons was beat-up. They recovered a casing and a round on the floor—and yet no firearms anywhere in the house. The round was scored and mashed, meaning it had been fired and impacted with something—and no bullet holes in the house. They found heroin movers and heroin buyers—and yet no money and no heroin. See a pattern here?”
Harleton kept mum.
“I’m not here about you. I’m here about the guys who ripped you off.”
Harleton’s ey
es, accustomed to a lifetime of blinking and prevarication, held firm.
“These other shits you were with, they’ll deny anything occurred. Especially after going to such lengths not to get taken. The island. This gated little golf sanctuary. Only to be made fools of. Which is where you come in. One bridge connects to the mainland, and the guy at the gate, he checks names. So your guests, they had reason to feel pretty secure. But they didn’t pay enough attention to the beach, huh?”
Lash started to pace inside the small cell. He wasn’t even looking at Harleton now, Lash putting all this together in front of him. Harleton’s role in Lash’s ratiocination was that of the finger around which a knot was being tied.
“Coming in by water. That shows skills. Were there four or five of them?”
Lash didn’t need straight-out answers. Just being near the guy allowed him to see. In the way a psychic worries a possession of the recently disappeared, or a bloodhound pokes his nose in a shirt. This was why Lash had come all the way out to Cape Cod.
“I’m betting the shot came from your side. Because the round was blunted, like it hit Kevlar and bounced away. That explains the guy getting smacked around. He got a shot off … and yet he wasn’t killed in retaliation. That’s enormous restraint, isn’t it? Heat of the moment? These guys are disciplined, they’re patient, they’re prepared. And plenty well equipped. A lot of which says cops. But the amphibious stuff—no. Maybe federal … ?” Lash played this out in his mind. “Maybe some rogue tactical team, freelancing. Or ex-agents. But how do they know? Field intel. That’s the fucking weak link here, that’s the key. If I can find any agency, local or federal, that was onto you”—Lash pointed to Harleton, still standing with his back against the far wall—“or those others … a snitch somewhere … somebody undercover …”
Harleton relaxed a little more. Now he’d had some time to think. “Cops?”
Lash looked up at him. “That surprises you. They didn’t seem like cops? Do cop shit?”
Harleton clamped up again.