Transgressions

by Ian Rankin (ed)

  Yates ignored me; he was tremendously adept at making people feel transparent. Steve, however, was simply too big to miss. Besides, he and Yates had met before (Steve had only ever referred to him as “that skinny bastard").

  "So,” Yates said, “is he okay?"

  Steve shrugged his bull shoulders, limp and careless. “He's okay, sure. He's with me. He's fine."

  Yates blinked. “Good. Please, come in.” And so we were invited into the seventh and the largest room in the Hard Rock Hotel's Elvis Suite, the priciest in the building. “As is evident,” said Yates, “my employer—soon to be your employer—isn't entirely well. Both strains of cellulitis and staphylococcus are fully antibiotic-resistant. Daniel Holloway, I regret to admit, and much to our organization's chagrin, will be gone in a matter of days.” Yates spoke as if Holloway wasn't in the room. In a fairly upsetting way, he barely was. Even still, his eyes were alert. They darted between Steve, Yates and me, but that looked to be as much communication as he could muster; the most expressive noises came from his chest—pops and gurgles of phlegm and whatever else was down there. So maybe Yates was right, maybe the third-person treatment was called for. “Our organization has always been known for its resourcefulness, and although traditional methods may have failed, we believe a more radical treatment may be open to us."

  Steve shifted his weight. “The Black Box,” he said. I could hear the grin on his face.

  Yates gave Steve a long look. “We'd very much prefer if you could refrain from making direct reference to the object."

  I nodded. “Sure, sure.” There was no disguising the obsequiousness in my voice. I felt pitiful hearing it.

  And once again, Yates ignored me. “Research indicates that in its present housing the device is too small to be of use to Mr Holloway personally, but we believe the basic technology is transferable, provided you can provide us with a prototype."

  Steve looked out the window. “The guy's a stage magician, right? So no problem, we'll get it.” He returned his eyes to Yates. “You think it's real? I always thought it was just a trick."

  "We can't be certain the remedy will be a success, no. For this reason we've decided to include a not-withstanding clause in your contract, predicated upon the item's ability to function as speculated."

  Steve narrowed his eyes. “A what kind of clause?"

  Yates peeled back the skin of his briefcase and offered Steve a revised copy of our contract. To me he proffered a bulging manila envelope. I assumed it was filled with specs—photographs, information on the mark and his schedule, some aging magician badly in need of a haircut. “It's simple,” Yates told us, referring to contracts, “if the item doesn't perform its intended purpose, you both agree to forfeit payment."

  Steve flipped through the pages but it was clear he wasn't reading a word. “You never said anything about—"

  "I believe our offer to retain your services is more than generous.” Yates, employing all the languid force of his position, plucked the contract from between Steve's big fingers. After taking a moment to smooth the pages across the Graceland wet-bar, he produced an elegant ballpoint. “Please sign."

  Steve glared, but after a moment he accepted the pen without saying anything. I did the same. Once the papers were autographed and copies scanned into Yates's handheld, we left Daniel Holloway to his untimely death.

  Out in the corridor, Steve spat on the carpet. “Fucker,” he commented, safely waiting until the door clicked quietly shut. “Tell me—just tell me that guy doesn't need his fucking teeth kicked in."

  "We can't afford it."

  Steve stared at the lock. “We can't afford it or you can't afford it?"

  I coddled Steve with a sigh and tugged his sleeve toward the elevators. When Steve got angry he was a monster. Halfway down the hall, Steve shook free and followed me of his own accord. In any case, he was right. I couldn't afford to blow it.

  There was a painting hung up between the elevators. A girl on a beach. She was standing up, her legs spread (but not too wide), looking out to sea. Both hands were up at her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun, so the curve of her one visible breast was lifted, swept up by the tightness of skin. It looked to me like somebody's idea of a new life. It reminded me of Alice.

  * * * *

  ( F )

  * * * *

  She was hiding behind one of the cracked-plastic menus, even though she knew all the dishes by heart. “I thought you might've stood me up."

  "Never.” I kissed her cheek. “Just busy with work.” The waiter appeared and we both ordered spaghetti and a glass of water.

  Without the menus between us, Alice leaned forward. “How'd the meeting go?"

  "The what?"

  "Your big meeting, remember?"

  "Oh.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, it went well."

  "Looks like it went miserably."

  "Honestly, it went well. We got the job. First step, right? So now if—well, we still have to, I guess close the sale. So the really big meeting is still coming.” With Alice, nearly everything I did was a meeting. “But things look good."

  "So more late nights?"

  "One or two."

  "But you're free on Tuesday, right?"

  "Tuesday."

  "I promised them three times already. You can't back out."

  "Tuesday. Yeah, I think so."

  Alice made an ugly face. She or I or both of us together had to work pretty hard to make Alice look ugly. “Dinner, remember? Dinner with my parents."

  I laughed, a low, self-deprecating gurgle. “Shit. I'm sorry, I didn't forget. Tuesday night. No problem."

  "Peter, listen, how do you think I feel? How do you think they feel? They're barely an hour out of the city and they've never met their soon-to-be son-in-law. It's ridiculous."

  "I know. With my traveling and—but you're right. That's my fault. I've been too busy lately."

  The waiter appeared with two plates of spaghetti and a plastic pitcher of well-iced tap water that smelled strongly of chlorine. We both let the food put a stall in the conversation. Alice laid a paper napkin across her thighs. It was hard to believe this place was her favorite restaurant; I'd convinced myself long ago she deserved better. “What do you think of Hawaii?"

  Her attention stayed on her plate. “It's hot, it's beautiful. You know what I think of Hawaii."

  "I know you always wanted to go, so why not on your honeymoon?"

  That got her. All the ugliness was gone. “You're serious?"

  I didn't answer right away. I puffed out my lip; I pretended to reconsider. “I don't know. I hear Jersey's nice."

  "Peter!"

  "Of course—yeah, I'm serious. I told you, the meeting went well and we got the job. So we're good as gold. Once I close the deal—” I reached across the table and covered her hand. “I love you, Alice.” I said it again because I honestly meant it. “I love you."

  She bit her lip. “Hawaii. I don't believe it.” There was a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. It almost felt like we were planning a job together.

  "Believe it. And I'm finally gonna meet your parents."

  "Finally."

  I twirled some spaghetti thoughtfully. “I just hope they like me."

  "Me too. Maybe I should apologize in advance for my father."

  I laughed. “Apologize? I haven't even met him yet. Give me some credit. He's gonna love me."

  She slipped her other hand under mine; the little engagement ring scraped my palm. “Yeah, I'm just being silly."

  * * * *

  ( E )

  * * * *

  Steve had us booked into room 26 of a suitably anonymous place called Heaven's Oasis. Like a lot of motels, the name was inversely proportional to the quality of everything inside. The front doors were propped open with a rolled-up newspaper. A yellow sticky note was taped to the glass—please come in—but the front desk was abandoned. The stairwell smelled of mildew; the corridor smelled of urine.

  Steve was wai
ting for me. When he opened the door he was just in his underwear, but he couldn't have been more imposing if he'd greeted me in a gorilla suit. In any case, he was almost as hairy. “What took you so long?"

  "Dinner with Alice tonight. Afterwards we—you know."

  "Fuck, Pete, you can't wait just a couple days? Until after the job?” Steve crossed the room to a pressboard table smeared with photographs of the magician's home. Some of the documents spilled over on the badly concaved bed. With a couple thick fingers, Steve pushed the photographs around the table. “You ever think that maybe people like you and me, people like us—shit, we never get married. Too much of a distraction."

  "I think you take it too seriously."

  "It is serious."

  "Just a job. It's like any job."

  "Says you."

  "Says me."

  Steve sighed. “What do you think about Tuesday?"

  "For what?"

  "For the job! The job like any job, you dumb shit."

  I took a breath. “Why Tuesday? I think Tuesday's bad. I can't."

  Steve hadn't yet looked up from the photographs. He laughed, mostly to himself. “What happened, you book a date?"

  I didn't answer right away. Seeing him there—hunched over, dwarfing the table, the muscles in his back like a set of camel humps—it'd make anybody nervous. “Tuesday's bad."

  "I guess you'll have to rearrange your schedule."

  "I just can't."

  Steve straightened up. “So what? Monday? Sunday? You wanna do it right now? Let's go."

  "You know I need this to work out, so I don't want to screw it up. I want to plan it out. What about Wednesday, before sun-up?"

  "Fuck, Pete.” Steve pointed at the documents on the table. “His tour ends on Monday night, so already Tuesday cuts it pretty close. Wednesday's for shit."

  "I just think it has to be Wednesday. I need that extra time. I need to practice."

  Steve folded his arms over his chest; they hugged each other like a pair of hillsides. He uncoiled one and wagged a finger in my face. “What'd I tell you, Pete? We don't get married—it's not what we do.” After that, he turned his back on me. He just stood there. I almost would've preferred a broken jaw.

  "So what then? Wednesday's okay?"

  He shook his head and pushed a puff of air out through his teeth. “Ever since we started together you've been wanting to ‘start fresh', right? That's fine, and maybe this is it. But you ever think that maybe you first gotta end fresh before you start over again? You ever think of that?"

  It was probably the wisest thing Steve had ever said to me, probably the smartest thing he'd said to anybody. I was flattered he said it to me. I stared at his back. The maze of tattoos that went across his shoulders and down his arms seemed oddly still; I was used to seeing them dance and swell as he moved. “So how about Wednesday,” I asked, “before sun-up?"

  Steve shrugged. “Fine. Wednesday."

  I felt some of the tension run out of me and suddenly I remembered the six-pack I was carrying. I held it up. “You want a beer?"

  Steve kept looking over the pictures. “Yeah, I do."

  There was a bottle-opener screwed into the wall beside the light switch. I pried open two bottles and returned to the bed.

  "Thanks."

  I pointed at the photographs. “You think it'll work?"

  "I fucking hope so."

  "Me too. It's a lot of money."

  Steve looked at me. “That's not what I meant. I told you about my cousin in Canada? Well she's sick, one of those new pneumonias. So if this thing works, then maybe—"

  "Yeah, maybe. He's a magician right? So maybe."

  We sat there for a while, looking over the specs on the mansion, the safe—what looked to be a standard Gardall—and all the drawings of the Box itself. We looked over everything and didn't say much. Not until the beers were finished. Steve handed me his empty. “Two more."

  I was prying open the second bottle, with the first tucked under my elbow, when something went snap inside the bathroom. I flinched and the bottle under my arm slipped out and smashed to the floor. “Shit!” I looked behind me, through the half-shut bathroom door. “The fuck was that?"

  Steve came over with a nasty grin on his face. He stepped over the splatter of glass and beer and switched on the bathroom light. “I hope that's your beer,” he said, pointing at the floor. He crawled behind the toilet and when he stood up he was holding an enormous rattrap, complete with an enormous rat. It'd nearly been guillotined in two. Even still, it twitched furiously, each half trying vainly to escape. Steve held it up and blood poured into the sink, more than I would've expected. Steve held it up to his face and watched carefully until the rat went limp. “Yep,” he said, “it's dead."

  "Wonderful. So get rid of it."

  With one hand, Steve snatched the un-smashed beer bottle from me. He took a long swallow and flicked the last of the rat's innards down the drain. “Whaddaya mean get rid of it? We need it."

  "Ugh! What the hell for? Shit, we'll probably catch something."

  "Shut up. Yates said the thing's gotta work, right? Well, this right here's our test case.” Steve lowered the rattrap delicately, placing it in the sink as if was worth millions. And I realized yeah, maybe it was.

  * * * *

  ( D )

  * * * *

  Alice's parents lived in a modest bungalow with pink aluminium siding. We turned into the driveway and I saw Alice's father for the first time—standing in the garage, shirtless, coiling a black extension cord around his forearm. There was loose skin under his arms and more around his middle. He threw a dirty rag over his shoulder and came out into the sun, squinting.

  "You must be Peter.” He offered me his hand.

  I took it and his name—I'd been repeating to myself the whole way there—crawled under one of the many rocks in my head. “Yeah,” I said, “nice to finally meet you."

  "Uh huh.” He looked me in the eye. His grip didn't let up right away. “Gil. You can call me Gil."

  "Right, of course. Wow. How are you?"

  Alice stepped between us and slapped her father on his belly. “Honestly, Dad, you could've at least dressed yourself.” Her father shrugged and pulled the rag off his shoulder. He wiped his hands and moved aside so Alice could lead us both indoors.

  Alice's mother was dark and reedy. She reminded me of the worn wicker furniture we'd passed on the way in. Unlike Alice's father, however, her name was sitting right there, on the tip of my tongue. But I decided to be polite nevertheless. “Mrs Bremen,” I said, “great to finally meet you."

  "Please, Peter,” she said, almost flirtatiously, “call me Heddy. Just a pity it took so long! Alice tells us you keep quite a busy schedule."

  "Yeah, well, that's true I guess."

  In the little dining room, Heddy had prepared an enormous dinner. There was Caesar salad with too much garlic; mashed potatoes with too much butter; vegetables fried up with too much heat. There was a whole roast chicken. Alice's father, covered up in a bleach-stained golf shirt, slapped me hard across the back. “What sort of man are you?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  He had two bottles under his arm. “Home-grown or limey?"

  I never drink whiskey—not even with Steve—but I figured the bottle of JD was the wiser choice.

  "Good man.” He found us each a glass and poured generously.

  During the meal, wherever I could, I steered conversation toward Alice—her childhood, her old friends, her old boyfriends. It wasn't just a diversion. It wasn't simply a façade to keep me from talking about ‘work'. Alice's life, proudly recounted by her mother in liberal detail, was mesmerizing. The more harmless secrets that were brought to light, the more Alice's ears and throat blushed red and the more I wanted to hear.

  Alice's father didn't offer much. In the time it took me to sip my way down to the bottom of the glass, he'd polished off the bottle. Eventually, after reluctantly cracking into the Glenlivet, he spoke up. “Peter,
” he said, gesturing at me with a carving knife, “Alice tells me you're in, what is it now, speculation?"

  "Real estate. That's right."

  "I hear you can make a bundle in that racket.” He gouged the chicken and sliced away the last of the meat. “So that means what? You're rich?"

  I gave everyone a weak smile. “Well, no, not rich. Not yet at least. It's like any investment, really.” I was speaking by rote, recounting whatever I'd imagined myself saying to this man, from across this once-imaginary dinner table. “There's risk, certainly, but if things go well—and I'm anticipating they will, I mean with this next investment I'm involved in—then it's true, there's potential for a fairly large return."

  Alice's father stared at the chicken on his plate. He gave a little nod.

  I felt Alice's hand on top of mine. “The deal he's working on now,” she chirped, “it's going to pay for the wedding."

  Her father giggled and poked Alice's shoulder. “Just make sure you have him inspected beforehand."

  "Gil!"

  "What? I'm serious. Christ, everybody's got something these days."

  Alice's mother gave me a bright smile. “I'm sure Peter is perfectly healthy.” She shifted in her chair, turned her back on her husband. “From what Alice tells us, it certainly sounds like an exciting line of work. But now, when you say risk...?"

  "Oh, nothing to worry about. In my line there's hardly any. I'm quite conservative really. One day, I'd love to let you see our office back east.” I laughed like I believed it myself. “Honestly, we all look like a bunch of accountants."

  Alice's father snorted.

  "Dad!"

  He raised his glass at me, practically in a toast. “I know about people, Alice.” He looked at me. “We can smell our own, hey? I'd bet my ass that—well, let's just say you don't look like the accounting type to me. Hell, you don't even look like the real estate type.” He exhaled. “Hnh. I don't know what you look like."

  Heddy reached over the table. “Gil, really!"

  "It's okay,” I said. “I understand. I think I've always been a little rough around the edges.” I looked Alice's father in his reddening eyes. I wondered if telling him my true vocation would be an easier pill for him to swallow. I imagined there was a good possibility that if I told him the truth—Gil, your daughter's marrying a thief, and a damn good one—he'd likely shake my hand and offer to rent the wedding hall. “With all due respect, sir, I've been a real-estate speculator all my professional life. I think it attracts people like me, because it can be so unpredictable. But that's exactly what I don't like. After I close this next deal, I'm hoping I'll be able to ... settle down.” I squeezed Alice's hand. The pressure shot up her arm and she grinned like a child.