by Sam Wiebe
Dubbing the cases the twins, she set the shelf and shoes back the way they were. Then she started thinking how she’d do it, how she’d run off with the twins and live to spend the money.
* * *
Ronnie Trane had three rules for breaking into places. First rule: keep your edge, be smooth going in, and don’t overthink it. Tighten up and you start screwing up. Rule two: no drugs, no more booze. A little weed maybe, a couple tokes to help keep it all smooth. Three: never go back. Forget about what you didn’t get the first time. Greed spells prison.
That one time he got busted, Ronnie broke all three rules by the time the cuffs were on. Tripping a silent alarm in the same Altamont mansion he’d robbed the month before. He’d helped himself to a bottle of Cabo Wabo and drank most of it by the time he tried to make it over the back fence with the pair of vases in a sack.
Counting off his rules now as he drove along Chartwell, waiting up the street in the stolen Corolla until the lights in the house went off. Parking over by Vinson Creek, he walked back to the driveway, making it look natural, like Lonzo was expecting him to drop by, middle of the night.
Ronnie kept his eyes wide and ears sharp, ready for anything. Picking up a newspaper from the driveway, he headed around the back and slipped a hand in his pocket for the glass cutter—knowing the alarm-company stickers on the windows were fake, no surveillance cameras under the eaves. Lonzo used to brag when Ronnie was driving him around how he dared any asshole to break into his place. Being armed to the teeth was the only security a man needed.
Since Lonzo had fired him, Ronnie hadn’t been able to find a straight job, not a decent one anyway. Nobody was willing to take a chance on an ex-con. It got him thinking a little payback was due.
He started staking out Lonzo’s place, learning his routine and making sure the crook hadn’t got a dog. He read in the North Shore News about some guy breaking into a place in Deep Cove last month, getting cornered by one of those German breeds. Had to lock himself in the upstairs can, the dog snarling and bashing against the door. The guy ended up making a 911 call on himself. Cops and canine control coming and finding the guy with a pillowcase stuffed with silverware next to the toilet. Never going to live that one down in any house of corrections.
Ronnie had followed them tonight, Lonzo and Bobbi coming out of Venue. Lonzo staggering, Bobbi having to drive. Perfect. Ronnie trailed the Mercedes across the Lion’s Gate Bridge, giving himself a pep talk, convincing himself this guy had it coming.
Looking at the lights of the houses on the slope, thinking this part of town had been good to him. Broke into over a dozen places in what Ronnie liked to call Martini Hill. Scored over twenty-five grand in cash, jewelry, and easy stuff to fence. Ronnie feeling confident, thinking he knew these streets and the rich folks with their valuables and secrets, cars worth over a hundred grand in the driveways, usually more than one. Only got busted that one time. Ronnie blamed the booze.
* * *
First Bobbi got her hands on some club drug from a dealer in North Van, a guy Lonzo didn’t know. The dealer promised this shit was the bomb, some name she couldn’t pronounce, assured her it would last half the night.
Then she slipped enough in his drink at Venue to knock out a horse. Listening to his ragged snores now, she got out of the bed. Lonzo rolled her way, flopping his arm across her pillow. Bobbi waited till he settled, waited for the beast down his throat to start up again. Going barefoot past the windows that rose to the high ceiling, the panorama of the city lost in a bank of clouds, top of the British Properties. Great view when it wasn’t raining. Going to the can, seeing the lit pool shimmering out back, the raindrops making little circles in the water. Lonzo always bragged about this place being worth ten million, easy.
Sitting on the toilet, she did some deep breathing and played it through one more time: take the Beretta he kept next to the bed, grab the twins, take his car keys, and get the hell out of there. Then pray there was enough cash to put an ocean between her and Lonzo, thinking maybe Paris would be nice.
Back in the bedroom, she was careful not to bump into things. Slipping into her panties, hooking her bra in back, she went to his nightstand and took the Beretta from the drawer. Lonzo out cold, the beast getting snagged between an inhale and exhale. That’s when she heard it.
Bobbi’s own breath caught. Standing, she held the Beretta ready, hearing it again, a slight rattle at the bedroom door. Grabbing her robe, she slung it on, moving to the door, sure she saw the knob turn. Bobbi wanted to shake Lonzo awake and press the gun in his hand, but he was drugged and useless.
The knob turned again, somebody on the other side of the door, working at the flimsy lock. Bobbi raised the pistol, feeling her heart and the wet under her arms, aiming just above the knob, her finger on the trigger.
* * *
Crawling in through the basement window had been easy. It took Ronnie two minutes to work his way through the house, stopping every few steps, listening, using the pen light to guide his way. The snores coming through the door sounded like a phlegmy musical with a chorus of wheezing. Getting past the flimsy lock on the bedroom door, Ronnie turned the knob, easing it open and peeking in, saw Lonzo splayed across the king bed. Thinking, man, how does that chick Bobbi sleep next to that? Guessing she was in one of the other bedrooms.
Keeping to the shadows along the wall, Ronnie moved to the nightstand, knowing Lonzo would have a gun in reach, the man bragging about all the firepower he kept stashed in the house. Easing open the drawer, finding nothing, he went to the dresser. Ronnie knew about Lonzo’s getaway cash, Lonzo bragging about that too, saying it was to make a hasty exit in case the Mounties came banging at his door. All Ronnie had to do was find it, sure Lonzo kept it close to where he slept. He was helping himself to the Rolex and wallet on top of the dresser when he felt it—steel pressed to his ear. He froze, his heart jumping. The hairs on the back of his neck prickling, bladder nearly letting go.
Taking the pistol from his ear, Bobbi waited for him to half turn, wagged for him to go to the can. One hand holding the pistol, the other snugging the dressing gown closed, she stepped behind him, easing the bathroom door closed.
“The hell you doing, Ronnie?” she whispered. Remembering the way he used to glance at her in the rearview, always pretending not to listen in on their conversations in the backseat while he played chauffeur.
“Hey, Bobbi.” He shrugged, catching her scent.
“Here to get your old job back?”
“Funny.” His eyes going to the pistol. “So, now what?”
“That’s not the question.” Thinking a moment, she reached behind her for the knob, keeping an eye on him, saying, “Give me a hand, and maybe you come out of this.”
Not sure what she meant, but he nodded anyway.
Opening the door, she pointed to the walk-in closet, keeping the pistol on him. Whispering for him to move the shoes and lift out the lower shelf. Taking out the twins, one in each hand, he tiptoed behind her through the bedroom, Lonzo still out cold, snoring away like a freight train.
She stopped in the hall, whispered, “Wait here.” Leaving him at the top of the stairs, she disappeared back into the room.
Ronnie thought of rushing down the stairs, knowing he was holding Lonzo’s getaway cash. Still thinking about it when she returned, clothes draped over her arm, a pair of shoes in her hand, the pistol in the other. She motioned for him to walk ahead of her down the stairs. At the bottom, she told him to hang on, dropping the robe. Not too dark to make out the black bra and panties, Ronnie watched her slip into her clothes. One foot at a time going into the shoes.
Then she led him through the kitchen, to the garage. Ronnie acting like the chauffeur again, carrying the luggage, following her into the garage, glad to get out of there.
Pressing the fob, she unlocked the trunk of the Benz. Ronnie laying the twins in there and easing it shut.
Popping the door locks, Bobbi tossed him the keys, saying, “You drive.”
Getting in the passenger side, she pressed a button on the remote clipped to the visor, the garage door going up. Ronnie starting the car and backing down the driveway, driving the way he came, past the hot Toyota. Rolling down Chartwell, not fast enough to attract attention, the lights of the city like stars before them.
“How about putting that away,” he said, glancing at the pistol. “You’re making me nervous.”
She ignored him.
“Man, that’s some racket coming out of him,” he said, going for some chitchat. “How you stand it?”
Bobbi told him about the club drug cocktail.
“Jesus.”
“Wanted to be sure, you know. No surprises, like him waking up when I’m walking out with the twins.”
Ronnie shook his head and laughed, saying, “Never pictured it, the two of you anyway.”
“You going Dr. Laura on me now, Ronnie?”
“Sorry, really none of my business.”
“Anyway, you telling me you don’t snore?”
“Not like that.”
“Yeah, well, guess we’ll see.”
Wondering what that meant, Ronnie coasted down the hill, seeing the flashing lights and barrier as they turned at the top of Taylor Way. His heart back in his throat, thinking it was the cops. Turned out to be a work crew in safety vests, one guy setting out orange cones, a couple others dealing with what looked like a burst water main. A flagger waved them down a single lane along the wide boulevard.
Ronnie got in the left lane, set to take the ramp and head east on the 1. Bobbi telling him to turn right instead, the pistol still aimed at him.
Powering up the ramp, sailing along. Didn’t speak again till they were near Caulfield, then Ronnie said, “Could be he’s got some tracking device in the cases. Should pull over, have a look. See how much we got.”
“Just drive.”
Staying in the outside lane, Ronnie kept an eye on his speed. No desire to get pulled over. They were quiet till they rolled past Horseshoe Bay, no lines for the ferries at this hour.
Then she asked, “Why’d you pick tonight?”
He told her he’d been watching and waiting. How he’d seen them that time, her and Lonzo at the bistro six months back, Ronnie standing in a job line across the street. Said it came to him soon after that. He figured Lonzo owed him.
She told him what happened inside the bistro, the way Lonzo just walked in and took her from Carmen Roth. “He owes you shit, by the way.”
“Maybe so, but still, we got two bags of his money. One for you, one for me.”
“That’s how you see it, huh?”
“Think it’s fair, yeah.”
“Yeah, well, think again.”
“You know how much’s in there?”
“No.”
Ronnie frowned, feeling his phone vibrate, reaching for it, doing it slow. Could be Maxwell, pissed off about the missed appointment, calling at a ridiculous hour to remind Ronnie he could send him back to the can—just like that. But it wasn’t him.
Bobbi leaned close and looked at his screen.
“How d’you like that?” Reading the text, he told her it was the recruiter he saw all those months ago, how he’d long given up on it. “Says the last assistant didn’t work out.”
“What kind of employer texts at this time of night?”
“You got no idea what it’s like out there.” Reading the rest of it, Ronnie said he’d been short-listed to assist some big star.
“Like who?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“Pffft.”
Bobbi looked out at the scenery rushing past. The two of them talking about different jobs they’d had, people they both knew, most of them gangsters. Laughing as they passed a sign that read Squamish up ahead.
Ronnie thought of making a grab for the pistol, Bobbi acting like she forgot it was in her lap. He could take it all, leave her the Benz, and jack himself a fresh car in Squamish, drive back down, get his stuff from his flat, and split town. Maybe drive east. Saying, “You mind I turn on the radio?” Reaching for the knob, he turned it on.
Bobbi switched it off.
“You don’t like country?”
“Turn at the light.”
Putting on his flasher, getting in the left lane, guessing she was dropping him off at the McDonald’s. Hopefully with some of the cash. Then she’d drive off and ditch him. Maybe he should be glad she hadn’t shot him.
Showing him where to park, she told him to make hers black.
He reached for the keys.
“Uh-uhn.” Giving him a smile, hand on the pistol. Ronnie noted her painted fingernails.
He got out and went into the restaurant, seeing himself on the first bus back to the city, likely with none of the cash. Stuck following up with the recruiter with the pierced lip and green hair, then calling Maxwell, sucking up and telling him the good news, saying sorry for missing his appointment. Back to scraping the bottom.
He came out sipping a large. The Benz was parked where he left it. Bobbi in the passenger side, talking on her cell. Going back in the door that said Welcome, he ordered one for her. Going back to the car, he heard the country, some Willie Nelson number. Ronnie got in, handing her a cup, saying, “Thought maybe you’d be gone.”
“Did cross my mind.” She set the cup in the holder, stared straight ahead.
“So, how about it? We check the cases, see how much we got, see if they’re wearing bugs.”
“Was him on the phone.”
“Lonzo?”
She nodded, trying to smile past the scared look. “Man sure is pissed. Wants it back, his million bucks.”
Staring at her, Ronnie mouthed the amount.
“Yeah.”
“Lemme see it.” Ronnie held out his hand, meaning her phone.
A puzzled look, she handed it to him.
Opening his door, he dropped it out, crushing it under his heel.
Bobbi stared at him, the pistol pointing at him.
“Can track us by it. The car too. I say we jack another ride, maybe that one.” Glancing at a plain van in the next row. “Figure this shit out.”
“Not going anywhere in that.” She sipped some coffee, saying, “I know this guy, he’s got a chalet up near Whistler. Spot with a fireplace and pool, real nice. He’ll let us crash till we figure things out.”
“He know Lonzo?”
“Carmen Roth, the guy from the bistro.”
Ronnie looking at her, then they were laughing, sipping their coffee.
“Any chance he’d give us up?”
“None, ’specially after I tell him how I drugged Lonzo and ripped off his cash.”
More nervous laughing. Ronnie finally saying, “Okay, so we drive up, wait till morning, then you call this Carmen, see what he says.”
“I’d call him right now, but you just killed my phone.”
Reaching in his jacket for his, handing it to her, looking at the pistol back on her lap. Saying, “You ever shoot one of those?”
“Not yet.”
She punched in directory assistance, and he started the engine, knowing that lunatic Lonzo D’Cruz would be coming after them. The strange thing, Ronnie wasn’t worried. In fact he was feeling pretty good about the way things were turning out. Ripping off a million bucks and running sure beat the hell out of picking up some A-lister’s dry cleaning. Then he was thinking about the chalet and sleeping arrangements.
The Landecker Party
by Nathan Ripley
Mount Pleasant
They’d opened another American Apparel on this side of the bridge, this one a fifteen-minute walk away from our place. Glass, plastic, primary colors, sex as branded by a Montreal megalomaniac pervert who’d drive his own business into the ground in just a few more years. I bought a gray T-shirt from a girl named Crissie who I’d seen last Tuesday at Rivko’s doo-wop night at Shine, and around the city for the last few months, roughly since the start of the 2007 school year.
“You hear about the L
andecker party?” I asked her while shaking my head no to the plastic bag she was offering.
“Who’s Landecker?”
“It’s a booze, not a very good one. It sells okay back east, and now they’re trying to make an impact out here, I guess. Anyway, Landecker threw us a sponsorship—my friend Mark and I do shows—for a house party. Free drinks. It’s our place, 16th and Oak-ish. I can write down the address if you want to come. Friends are cool too. Not many, but feel free.”
“Cool,” she said. Crissie was nineteen, tops, about four years between us. “Getting booze to sponsor your party is like, it’s like—getting food to sponsor your dinner, or something. Sorry, that’s lame.”
“I’ve been trying to make the same kind of joke for the last week and I still can’t get it to work.”
* * *
Mark and Esther were still playing around when I got back, mixing some brutal new-country Tim McGraw shit with a pretty great house track, creating a sickening aural soup that made them giggle and made me want to pour a warm Coke onto Mark’s PowerBook. We were on the lower floor of a shitty two-level, and Mark and Esther had the music cranked already, hours before anyone was due here.
The upstairs neighbor had been gone all week, his Jetta missing from its usual parking spot. Nice dude, a kid from Taiwan who near as we could tell was AWOL from his Sauder School of Business program and waiting for his parents to find out and haul him back home. We were surprised he was living in this place, one of the last true dumps on the block, instead of one of the endless condo buildings, only about half of which were tarped and scaffolded up for leaking roof repairs. He’d introduced himself to us when he moved in over a year ago, told us his name was Phil, waved off our occasional invitations to driveway beers, but clearly did some extremely committed partying of his own. In hangover he metamorphosed into a disapproving phantom, leaving us imploring Post-its about needing sleep. He’d knock on the door and run back upstairs, leaving notes on our door that said things like, Pls turn down your Call of Duty. But I’d seen Phil at an after-hours in the West End no less than three times in the past month, a booze-free and drug-heavy space where Mark and I netted five hundred dollars to split for playing from two to seven. A pretty shit deal, looking back on it, but we used each gig to get better at mixing, at reading a room. The more serious we were at clubs and parties, the more we could goof off at home.