“Sorry, no. Unless you’re sweepstakes people.”
They shared a chuckle.
Terry said, “We’re with the collections agency. I’m sure you’ve gotten a few letters from us already, unanswered, and that’s why we’re here. You mind if we come in and talk about it?”
Gibbs propped an elbow on the doorjamb and grinned. “So, my CD club sent over a couple of guys to lean on me?”
“Pretty much. Step back, please.”
When the man didn’t budge, Lancaster raised his hand and pressed Gibbs firmly on the chest, sending him back a foot. He wore a do-nothing expression, hands at his sides. Messy hair and glasses halfway down his nose. Terry followed them in and closed the door. He locked the deadbolt.
“Let’s sit down,” Terry said. He peeked in doors and found the dining room. “In here.”
A bright room, a china cabinet against the wall, an oval table centered, white lace tablecloth with an empty candle holder, a stack of napkins, and tall glass salt and pepper shakers. Terry yanked an end chair, tall-backed with handles, and sat down, crossing his ankles. Lancaster wandered off.
“Where’s he going?” Gibbs said.
“Checking. We don’t want any dirty surprises. What, are you sick today?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You’re in the robe, at home in the middle of the day. Don’t you work?”
Gibbs crossed his arms. “I thought you knew all about me.”
Terry sighed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple up and down with itching fingertips. “Look, they give me a name, an address, and an amount. That’s all. I’m trying to make this easy for both of us.”
“It’s not all that much, really. Two-ten and some change?”
Terry scanned the clipboard, gaze following a finger. “I’ve got three-fifty.”
“No, that’s way overboard. You know how it is with these clubs, right? After a while, you forget, they send the wrong stuff, it’s a hassle to send it back, and then they forget about you.”
“Mr. Gibbs, I know exactly how it is, which is why I never join them.” Terry pulled a pinkie across his throat while gritting his teeth. “Serious shit. Now, what’s with you not working?”
“I’m working at home. I have a book due next week.”
“What type of book?”
“A science textbook for high school. I used to teach, now I write textbooks and give lectures to other science teachers.”
Terry looked at Gibbs like, Really? That’s just weird.
Lancaster strolled through, hands in pockets, bored shrug as he went out the opposite door. Gibbs turned in his chair and watched, then said, “I don’t want him going in there. That’s my study.” Gibbs stood and followed before Terry could stop him.
The study was hardwood floor and rugs, wall-to-wall bookcases, one with awards and certificates instead of books. The desk was a long old wooden table. A notebook computer on top, opened, with an aquarium screensaver bubbling, surrounded by stacks of paper and books. Lancaster was browsing bookshelves.
“See anything you like?” Gibbs said.
Lancaster pointed to a high shelf. “Catch-22 was good. But not Origin of Species. Nice concept, bad writer.”
Terry came into the study behind Gibbs, held the man by the shoulder. “He’s examining the scene. We have to plan these things, you know. It takes hitting the right nerve in order to make you admit you should pay us.”
“Look, this is illegal. I’ve got some friends I could call.”
Lancaster turned his head to Gibbs. “You shouldn’t have said that. It sounds like a threat.” Then he went back to looking at book spines.
Gibbs slipped from under Terry’s hand and crossed to his desk. He fingered the touchpad, which brought up his word processor screen, half filled. He palmed the desk wide and hung there, tired like he had run a marathon.
“Here I am, halfway through a chapter on energy, describing inertia, when I get you two come looking for money. Because I didn’t pay my CD club. Ridiculous.”
“Everybody has a job to do. Some jobs make more global sense, see? Like what you do, or firemen, or nurses. Others fill in little niches. Think about tax lawyers and middle managers and guys who fix roller skates. And then what we do, because bills have to get paid. They just do. That’s something economic,” Terry said.
Gibbs turned around. Lancaster stopped looking at books and was interested in the couch. He lifted the blue cushions for a look under, found nothing. He sat on the couch, but shifted and bounced, reached behind him and pulled out his 9mm. Terry looked at Gibbs expecting fear, maybe confusion, and he got both. Shit, even Terry was uncomfortable—Lancaster had never pulled it out on a job before. Normal people didn’t play tough with guns. Normal people did whatever the people with the guns said and hoped they would leave. Terry hoped Lancaster could keep his finger off the trigger this time.
“Look, you can have the CDs back. The order was wrong, and I should have taped the box back up—”
“No, no, no,” Terry said. He walked towards Lancaster with his hands out, shaking them. “What are you doing? Put that away.”
“It jammed into my back. It was cutting me.”
“Put it away,” Terry said, not bothering to disguise anything, voice going too high.
Lancaster stood from the couch, holstered the pistol, the glare at Terry not an act. He smiled an apology at Gibbs.
Terry said, “We have to carry for our own protection. We never threaten a client with a gun. I’m sorry if it looked that way. No, real professionals wouldn’t sink that low.”
“He’s got a pool,” Lancaster said.
Gibbs adjusted his glasses. “What about the pool?”
“Let’s go take a look,” Terry said, hand outstretched asking Gibbs to lead. It usually only took a moment or two of innuendo to get a mark to cave by this point. Stand poolside with the guy, run through the situation again with a hand on his shoulder, never actually say what could happen otherwise.
They followed Gibbs through the dining room and kitchen, then out the back door. The pool was in-ground, a small rectangle with a low diving plank surrounded by wrought iron patio furniture. A high privacy fence hid similar postage stamp yards on three sides. On the opposite side of the pool, a small tin shed stood on the leftover grass.
“Looks nice. You keep this up well,” Terry said.
“How deep?” Lancaster said.
“It’s eight feet. Eight feet.”
The water was clear so that the tile shimmered and warbled as the sunlight slipped on top. Bright. The weather was early spring comfortable there. No breeze. Lancaster walked around to the diving board. He stood on it and made a few pretend hops. Arcing his arms and all that. Then he said, “Is the shed locked?”
“No.”
“What’s in there? That where you keep the chlorine and chemicals?”
“Sure. Can we go back inside now? I’m busy. My wife will be home soon. I promise. Tell your company that I’ll pay tomorrow.”
“But you won’t pay,” Terry said.
“Yeah, I will.”
“No. As soon as we leave, you get brave again. Saying, ‘Screw this, I’m not paying a dime,’ and firing off a letter to get them off your back.” Terry wanted him to cave so bad before it went further. “I’ve seen it a hundred times.”
“You morons never pay,” Lancaster shouted. He was bumping around in the shed. Terry imagined he might come out with a chainsaw.
Birds chirped. It was a nice day regardless. Gibbs sweated in his heavy robe, be it the heat or the pressure, probably both. Lancaster came out of the shed with a bucket of chlorine and a bottle of PH stuff. Terry gripped Gibbs’ shoulder like a father-in-law does a son-in-law. They walked to meet Lancaster at poolside as he untwisted the cap off the PH bottle and then let the whole thing drain into the pool.
“Hey, that screws up the water!” Gibbs said.
“Exactly.”
“This doesn’t make me want to pay. I
t gets me mad.”
“Not for long. Mr. Lancaster, let’s proceed,” Terry said.
Lancaster kicked the bucket over so that the chlorine powder lumped into the pool and sizzled and swirled, milky white currents. Gibbs hissed. Terry was ready to pour on the final spiel, wear the man down with a few more sentences. Before he could, Lancaster kneed Gibbs from behind, forcing him to his knees, then grabbed his arms, bent them back, holding the man’s head inches above the water. His feet kicked and they nearly lost balance but held on. Terry reached out to Lancaster, got a bad vibe from dark eyes, so he retreated to the wooden fence.
“It’ll burn your face, your eyes, maybe your hands, your lungs if you suck any water in,” Lancaster said.
“Don’t do this, please.”
“Come on, man, we have to do it. You know that.”
Gibbs caught the fumes in his nose and mouth and coughed like he had TB. Hacking and wheezing at poolside with a frat boy thug hovering over him. Terry peeked through the slats to see if the neighbors were listening. What if Lancaster kills him anyway? We get some pocket change, but then he comes right back out and holds him under?
“Oh Jesus oh Jesus I’ll pay you okay? Oh Jesus I’ll pay you.”
“Yeah, you will.”
He coughed more, caught his breath, had that “about to vomit” cough going. Then he said, “I’ll get my checkbook and pay you—”
“No check.”
“No check? They always want checks.”
“They’ve run out of patience with you. You can give us a check and then stop payment. Or it could bounce. And if they get mad a second time, it won’t be this easy next trip,” Lancaster said.
“I promise, it’ll be a good check.”
“Bad answer? Ready to dunk?”
“Come on, man,” Terry said. He crawled to Gibbs’ side and whispered, “I’m trying to help you here. This guy’s serious.”
Lancaster nodded. “I’ll sing, too. Won’t pull him up until I get through all of ‘Boot Scoot Boogie.’”
“No, no,” Gibbs said. Pathetic little girl whine.
Lancaster pulled him up and let go. Gibbs scuttled back and crossed his arms.
“Okay, fine! Cash! I’ll give you cash!”
They waited for Gibbs to get to his feet, then followed him into the study. He looked through his wallet.
“Three fifty,” Lancaster said, completely in charge. Terry hung out in the dining room, not wanting to watch the rest of this.
“That’s too much.”
“Interest and expenses. Three fifty, you bastard.”
Gibbs pulled out a hundred and twenty-four dollars, handed the cash over. He said the rest was in his bedroom. Lancaster followed Gibbs to the bedroom, where he looked through drawers, and then looked through his wife’s bedside hutch. He pulled out her secret money stash and counted out two hundred twenty, then shook his head.
“No ones or fives. Sorry.”
Terry and Lancaster made eye contact a moment. Lancaster said, “Cut him a break?”
“I’m feeling a little embarrassed about this anyway. Usually we don’t have to go so far. Sure. A six dollar break.” Terry nodded at Gibbs, reached out for the money. He folded it and stuck it in his coat pocket.
On the way out, Terry grabbed his clipboard. He apologized quietly to Gibbs, then said, “If they send you more letters, pay again anyway, okay? Don’t remind them about us, because we’re not supposed to exist. Like black ops. They’ll deny everything. So it might end up costing more than you thought.”
Gibbs didn’t say anything. He stared at the floor and shivered.
Lancaster opened the door. They walked through, Terry calling back, “Good luck on the book” before closing it.
*
Outside on the sidewalk, Terry and Lancaster headed for their car. It was parked a few blocks away, near where they’d started the rounds earlier looking for a sucker.
Terry split the money, handed Lancaster his share.
“I can’t believe it. Not bad,” Lancaster said.
“I told you. He was about to break, though. You didn’t have to go so far.”
“That wasn’t so far. He’s not even bruised. Only thing is he’s got a fucked-up pool.”
Terry shook his head, watched the sidewalk, feelings of junior high returning. He was good friends with the bully as long as he didn’t criticize. A little sarcasm cost him a chokehold behind the band hall one afternoon. Hurt like a mother. Before the past few days, he didn’t think Lancaster would hurt him. Now, it was more like fifty-fifty.
“Think he’ll tell?” Lancaster said.
“Probably. Nobody will believe him at first. He can’t prove we weren’t who we said we were. And the descriptions? Lose the hat and shave, whole new face. Bingo.”
They got to the car. Lancaster dropped into the driver’s seat, and Terry settled into the passenger side. The engine started and they pulled away. He cranked the classic rock station. Mountain’s ‘Mississippi Queen.’
Lancaster said, “You were right, though. The good thing about America. Everybody’s in debt.”
FIVE
The cowboy Norm gave Alan the name and address of his thieving partner and half the three grand upfront. Lydia had laughed at him when he asked if she was really going through with it. She said she had some old untraceable guns in the garage, Ronnie’s emergency stash, and told him to take what he needed. So Alan kept playing. He supposed if he wanted, nothing was really holding him to Lydia other than good sex and easy money, but he was beginning to feel like a lap dog.
He took a drive over to the mark’s house, parked on the curb, and decided to learn the guy’s routine. After a couple days, Alan didn’t think there was a routine. The guy hadn’t left the house. Alan spent most of the time glancing over some horse racing magazines—Daily Racing Forum and Mid-Atlantic Thoroughbred—and eating chicken nuggets from Wendy’s.
The mark’s name was Randy Tompkins. He came outside to get the mail and the paper dressed in indecent shorts and flip-flops. Wild-assed frizzy hair, probably liked it that way. He had one visitor, a short woman who could’ve been in high school (or mistaken for it), bright blonde with heavy make-up. She came by, stayed a while, and when she left, lingered at the door for long embarrassing kisses. She scratched her legs a lot.
Lydia rang Alan’s cell phone. “You done yet?”
“Soon. I thought I could get him while he was out, but he doesn’t leave.”
“Then just go in there.”
“I’ve been here long enough to be noticed. How about I borrow a different car and come back tonight?”
Lydia was quiet. Alan thought he heard music over the line—McCartney and Wings? And then a faint voice.
“Have you got company, Sweetie?”
“No, no one here.” Too quick. Alan started thinking he was right about her and Norm. Her story about him was hot, yeah, though Alan felt a little pissed afterward. Lydia made him feel better, though. She said he had the animal in him while Norm had been a fumbling kid. It could’ve been a smokescreen, though. Maybe she was ready to give the grown-up Norm a second chance.
“I’ll come over for lunch,” Alan said.
“Sure. Bring Mexican.”
He turned off the phone and looked up, surprised to see Tompkins on the sidewalk, still goofy and half-naked, standing with arms crossed, a heavy stare aimed at Alan.
Shit, Alan thought. He was careless for a minute and the guy spotted him. Under the dumb exterior, Tompkins was still a successful drug pusher, one who hadn’t been caught or snitched out. Successful enough that his own partner wanted him out of the way. Alan was impressed before remembering he didn’t really want to go through with this.
He let the window down and motioned for Tompkins to come over. Tompkins eased closer, arms still crossed, bending at the waist for a better look.
“I’m a little lost,” Alan said. “I was looking for a green Volkswagen. Some guy on this street was selling it, I think. You
seen one?”
Tompkins shifted his look from Alan to the Monte Carlo. “This car’s nice enough.”
“The bug’s for my daughter.”
Tompkins nodded and Alan waited, thinking the guy would say he hadn’t seen one, maybe try a different street. Instead, “Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?” Alan said.
“I’m saying you’ve been parked out here a long damn time, and you were here yesterday, too. I should have said something then.”
Alan wanted to crank up and go, get out of sight before Tompkins could get the plate number, a fake registered to an address in Alabama, courtesy of Terry and Lancaster. If he ran, though, the gig was over and no telling how Lydia would react. She trusted him to pull it off, so Alan said, “Maybe you’d better get in.”
Tompkins laughed and shook his head, got louder and louder.
Alan pulled out his fake ATF shield, something he’d picked up to help him get away from odd jobs gone bad before he met Lydia. Any drops, spoiler trips, or messenger runs went south, the shield bought five or ten minutes to make some distance between him and the scene. He flashed it at Tompkins.
“Mr. Tompkins, I’m here to save your life.”
*
Five minutes in the car and Tompkins was convinced that his partner had tried to hire a hit man, but hired “Special Agent Mitchell” instead—Alan helping keep Tompkins alive until it was time for money to be exchanged.
“We then would have approached you about faking him out. You’ve seen that before? We stage you like a corpse at a crime scene, take some pictures. As soon as the final payment is in hand, bam, he goes to jail.”
“Why not arrest him now?”
Alan clicked his tongue. “You don’t want it thrown out of court, do you?”
Tompkins nodded like he understood. Alan hoped he could do this quickly, since the guy smelled awful. Thick musk. Alan wondered if pheromones attracted the high school girl more than Tompkins’ ugly ass looks.
“You pretend like you don’t know anything, and it’ll go smoothly. Believe me, nothing will happen in the meantime. Stick to the plan and put on a good act in front of Norm until I contact you again.”
Tompkins pushed the door open, then stopped with a foot out and a foot in. “Wait, aren’t you going to still keep watch on me? You know, in case of an emergency?”
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