Marshall's Law

by Ben Sanders

  ‘What’re you having now?’

  He kept to the right of the stairs on the way up so they wouldn’t squeal. The canned laughter getting louder, blue light in the corridor where it snuck around the edge of her door. He went into the spare room and took a bundle of yarn from the top drawer of the dresser.

  ‘Is that you prowling round?’

  ‘Yeah. Just me.’

  Her door didn’t squeak when he opened it. He sat down in the chair beside the bed. Her eyes were still on the TV, remote loose in one hand, the phone nestled in on the far side. He took a hit off the chocolate milk and set the bottle on the floor beside him. The chair creaked and cracked. It was an old wicker thing, bits sticking out all over, like a bird’s nest.

  ‘What are you watching?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some thing. You know that show, where there’s three doors, and you gotta pick the door that has the car?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘It was on before, and a guy won the car.’

  ‘Probably a rerun.’

  ‘Yeah, but he still won. You make sure you finish that, won’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Y’milk.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’

  ‘You don’t get it in you now, you take it with you tomorrow. Otherwise it’ll just sit there.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  She’d hung plates on the wall, ornamental things featuring dogs’ faces bordered with pink trim. They all had that friendly wet-eyed look, mouth open and tongue showing. Framed black- and-whites, too, pets she had as a kid, mostly dogs. German shepherds were her favourite. She was always digging at him about having no decorations, no photos or anything, and there was so much in here he thought she was trying to boost the household average.

  ‘You get me my yarn?’

  He leaned over and set it on her lap.

  ‘Oh good. I needed some like this. Where’s my knitting needles?’

  ‘By the TV there.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  He said, ‘How’s the foot?’

  ‘Kinda sore. Throbbing, sorta.’

  ‘Least you know it’s not fallen off.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s the one good thing.’

  He said, ‘I’ll swap your bandage over.’

  ‘OK.’

  He pulled a corner of the blanket up, exposing the limb. It was easier like this, seeing it separate from the owner. Like some component for repair, not the flesh-and-blood parts of your mother. The foot was deep red, a corned-beef colour, fat and smooth as liver, with a bandage wrapped around her ankle. Puffy skin starting to fold in over her toes. He sat there a few seconds, just staring at the wall.

  ‘Better you do it fast.’

  ‘I know. Just thinking about something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just something.’

  He stood up and walked to the dresser where her headphones were hooked over an open drawer, held them at arm’s length so he could find the free end. He plugged it in the little socket on the TV, and the sound cut back, coming through tinny on the headset.

  ‘Hey. It’s just pictures now. Bring the noise back.’

  He went around the other side of the bed, playing out the cord carefully, placed the phones on her ears.

  ‘Yeah, that’s better. Sheeyit.’

  She squinted at him and shouted. ‘Why I gotta have these anyway?’

  He leaned in close and lifted one speaker. ‘Because I need to make a call. And I don’t need’—he turned and looked at the TV—‘Frasier in the background.’

  He walked back around to his chair and sat down, pulled the telephone across the bed.

  ‘Hey. Just watch it.’

  The buttons were about an inch square, numerals in twenty-point font, good for old people. He dialled Dexter’s number again, started unwinding the bandage as he listened to the ringing.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Ludo said, ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  The bandage grew moist as he neared the wound, the wet stain slightly larger on each layer. Her skin was pale when he touched it, crabmeat-white for a moment before the red rushed back. He knew it was going to be bad. He leaned back in his chair and held the phone with his hand so he didn’t have to tilt his head.

  Dexter said, ‘Yeah?’

  Ludo looked at the bandage a second and then watched the silent television. ‘You got those Chinese guys closing in because you won’t pay.’ He almost said what you owe, but that might have tipped it too far.

  Dexter said, ‘Yeah, and?’

  This’d be hard to talk about. No one liked to do it. He brought a leg up and laid the ankle on the other knee, settled down comfy, getting the body language right, even if the man couldn’t see him. He said, ‘So obviously money’s pretty tight. And if money’s tight, I worry that maybe I’m not gonna be remunerated.’

  Bit accusatory, but at least he got it out there. Funny how he used big words when he was tiptoeing around something. ‘Remunerated.’ Maybe fancy was more polite.

  Dexter said, ‘Uh.’

  He could have left it at that, waited for Dexter to come back with something more, but he said, ‘And Tol and Perry don’t have a big price tag, made me wonder if things are getting kind of desperate.’

  Dexter didn’t answer. Silence on the phone was worse than face-to-face. You never knew what was cooking. Emotions stoking in the blind seconds. He watched the TV without seeing, this bright montage of nothing. Shadows in the room synched with the flicker.

  Dexter said, ‘Yeah. Things are sorta tight.’

  There we are.

  Ludo said, ‘Right. You still got that fancy house, though.’ Being gentle with it, so he’d come clean.

  Dexter didn’t answer.

  Ludo pushed him a little further, sensing there was room. ‘So what’s the story?’

  Dexter said, ‘Uh.’ More creaks and groans, like he was rolling over in bed. ‘I got in deep with this guy Feng. As you know.’

  Ludo waited, let him say it at his own pace.

  Dexter said, ‘But if you find our man in time, it’ll be OK.’

  ‘Our man being the Marshall man?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Ludo didn’t answer. He saw the play now: use the profit from the Marshall contract to pay off the Asians. It’d take big balls and good timing.

  Dexter said, ‘So what are you after?’

  Ludo whistled through his bottom teeth, easy now with no food. ‘I just want my dollars. You know.’ He thought about it a moment, wanting to talk serious without going mushy. He said, ‘My mother’s on the way out, been circling the drain a while. I just want to help her check out in comfort.’ Watching her as he spoke. ‘Because right now it’s not all that great. If we’re being honest about it.’

  Dexter didn’t answer. Ludo watched the TV again, still not really seeing it.

  Dexter said, ‘You’ll get paid in time.’

  ‘You don’t know how much time I got.’

  ‘You’ll have money tomorrow if you find our Marshall.’

  ‘But I gotta do it by midnight, right? Or you’ve got pissed-off Chinese knocking at your door.’

  Dexter didn’t answer, and Ludo was quiet too, just watching commercials, knowing they’d got through the hard part. Easier now he’d asked about the finances. Eventually he said, ‘You know how people say the world doesn’t owe you anything.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He put his legs up on the bed beside his mother, crossed his ankles. ‘It’s not true. People follow bad turn after bad turn, same way some people get all the good fortune. There’s two ends of the curve, and they both have a pretty long tail.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I reckon, my mom, the world owes her something. Just to balance out what’s happened up till now. Like, my old man was a piece of shit, made her bring us up, and then kicked her out. Now she’s got this thing on her leg, honestly, you saw it, you’d think it’s some
special effect, win an Oscar.’

  Dexter said, ‘Yewkhh.’

  ‘And her kidneys aren’t too great, either. So.’

  Dexter didn’t answer.

  Ludo said, ‘I’m not trying to go all soft on you. Like, you don’t need to talk at any funerals. But I just want a bit of an upgrade. You know.’ He looked around, and he was glad it was night, because it hid the truth of things. ‘Something more than a shit TV and shaky windows.’

  ‘You’ll get paid.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ He nodded slowly. ‘But I had this idea.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Can we maybe have a bonus added on? If I get the guy alive?’

  Dexter chewed on that a second. He said, ‘There’s a bonus if the guy’s still breathing, so yeah. I’ll go ten percent on what you’re getting now. If you can set it up.’

  Ludo whistled through his teeth again. ‘It’s a big risk, though. I’m thinking more like fifty, all up. Nice and round.’

  Quiet on the line. Then Dexter said, ‘All right, fifty. But if I pay the extra, he’s gotta be fully with it. He’s gotta know who’s standing in front of him, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. That sounds fine.’ He nodded to himself, rocking one foot back and forth. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  He clicked off. The TV was on an infomercial now, some treadmill thing, but his mother was still rapt, mouth slightly ajar. He put the phone on the bed and started work on the dressing.

  ELEVEN

  Cohen

  He landed at JFK at six A.M. The terminal was swank: lots of gleaming surfaces, none of the grey plastic and phlegm-coloured light he remembered at LaGuardia, though it was a few years since he’d visited. He rode the AirTrain to the rental car offices at the next terminal, and ten minutes later signed for a brand-new Dodge Charger, pitch-black with tinted windows. He got GPS for no added charge, telling the desk girl he was in town on a fugitive hunt. She didn’t seem impressed, but she waived the fee and said she didn’t want him getting lost.

  He collected his Dodge and headed north on the interstate, the GPS’s nifty arrow guiding him. His last visit had been for a drug trial and the feds handled the tab, but this being an unsanctioned jaunt, he doubted he could claim expenses. As far as hotels went then, he figured Brooklyn would be better than Manhattan.

  He asked his phone for advice, and Google took him to the Best Western in Prospect Park. They had a room free on the third floor, so didn’t mind his early check-in. He took the stairs up to stretch his legs, let himself in with the key.

  The room wasn’t bad: the window faced east, giving him a view of Fourth Avenue. Brooklyn was waking up under grey light, the traffic heavy and complaining, not a gentle start to the day. There was a supermarket on the left of the hotel, and a dentist and an undertaker in some low brick units across the street. Everything a man could need.

  He checked his e-mails and saw that Miriam had sent him through the number for his FBI man, a guy named Sean Avery. He called Loretta first, knowing she’d be pleased to hear he was still in one piece.

  She said, ‘You call at this hour, I think it’s going to be bad news.’

  ‘Cupcake. No call from me can be bad news.’ Regretting it as it left his mouth, setting up fate as a target.

  She said, ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Found myself a hotel, just standing at the window, taking in the sights.’

  ‘Does the office know where you’re at?’

  He said, ‘No, but they will. It’s only five o’clock where you are, I got another four hours.’

  ‘Lucas.’

  ‘What?’

  She said, ‘They tell you to come home, you’re going to come home, aren’t you?’

  He leaned one foot back on its heel, like trying to squeeze out a bargain. He said, ‘Once I’ve seen some people. I won’t be long. I got the car and the room for three days, so be a shame to cut things short. I’m at the Best Western. by the way. Prospect Park.’

  ‘I don’t like how you’re kind of . . . I don’t know.’

  He said, ‘What?’

  ‘Parsimonious with the truth.’ Using her Scrabble talent on him. She said, ‘Like you got something going on you don’t want to tell me about.’

  He said, ‘Would it make you rest easier, I told you I got a New York mistress?’

  She didn’t answer.

  He said, ‘Give each of those girls a kiss for me. I’ll be back before you know it.’

  Ludo

  He was out of bed by 6:15. Another hour would’ve been nice, but he couldn’t justify sleep-ins now that there was drama afoot. He left the lights off and showered and dressed in the dark. His mother called out when he creaked the top stair.

  ‘Whyn’t you put a light on?’

  He said, ‘Keeps the cost down.’

  ‘You going to do me some breakfast?’

  ‘Yep. In about thirty minutes.’

  ‘All right. You know how I like it.’

  He went downstairs and checked the view from the living room. No one out there at this hour in the cold, but half a block away on the other side of the street was a brand-new Lexus sedan. Right there under a streetlight, not worried about being seen. It’d be those Chinese guys Dexter couldn’t pay, trying to tell him things were at the point of turning dire. He wondered if it was the same car he’d seen at Dex’s place last night, or if they had a whole fleet of them. Identical cars, driven by identical Asians.

  He went into the entry hall and opened his gear cupboard. There were about fifteen coats in there now, different uniforms he’d either stolen or had his mother decorate with logos: Bank security, FedEx, UPS, paramedics, even a blue sports coat she’d screen-printed with FBI. There were a couple axes in there too, and three motorbike helmets left over from a bank job five years ago.

  Back in the living room, he took the phone off the wall and stretched the cord so he could watch the street, dialled Dexter’s car supplier, Norman, on his cell.

  ‘Car shop.’

  ‘It’s Ludo. I need some wheels for this morning.’

  ‘Any requests?’

  Normally he had to just take what was offered, but he paused and thought about it, keeping an eye on the Lexus. He said, ‘What was that one Ryan Gosling had at the beginning of Drive? Where they do that chase through L.A.?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’ Ludo heard fingers clicking. Norm said, ‘Impala. Yeah, we can do an Impala for you.’

  ‘Don’t need anything special, just got to be clean. And backup plates, if you can.’

  ‘Sure. You going to be returning it?’

  Ludo said, ‘If I can. Otherwise send Dexter the bill.’ It wouldn’t help his money woes, but too bad. Finding the Marshall man wasn’t cheap.

  ‘When you want it?’

  Ludo said, ‘Seven-thirty’d be good.’

  He saw the Lexus’s driver’s-side window come down an inch, cigarette smoke drifting out the gap.

  Norm said, ‘Seven-thirty’s a stretch. I could do eight-thirty? I gotta get my mother off to bridge. Swear to God, you never seen a woman move so slow.’

  ‘Yeah, can imagine.’

  ‘And, you know, you finally get her in the car, and she’ll decide she gotta go back for such-and-such, or take a shit or whatever. Gotta do that two or three times.’

  Ludo said, ‘Eight-thirty’s fine.’

  ‘Cool. You need any extras?’ He laughed and coughed wetly. ‘We do trunk fit-outs too, case you need accessories.’

  Ludo said, ‘Yeah, actually, cardboard box’d be good.’

  ‘Cardboard box. All right.’ He laughed. ‘We got a special going right now, hire a car, get a cardbox box free, any size you like. How big you want it?’

  Ludo said, ‘Biggish, but I gotta be able to carry it. I dunno, say five feet by two, something like that.’

  ‘Five by two. OK. We’ll have something. You know that Catholic church, Ninety-eighth and Astoria? The big brick place?’

  ‘Yeah. I know where you mean.�
��

  ‘It’ll be waiting for you there. Can go to confession when you pick it up.’

  Ludo said, ‘Probably doesn’t count, you give the priest a heart attack.’

  He hung up and went through to the kitchen and switched on the light. He took an apple from the fridge and pared it carefully at the counter. He liked to get it all in one peel, a single spring-shaped rind. He diced the fruit and put it in a pot on low heat with a sprinkle of sugar, and then went back upstairs.

  In his bedroom, he removed his trench coat from the back of the door and shrugged it on, and then knelt by the bed. He kept a Remington 12-gauge and an old Beretta M9 on the floor beneath his mattress. The pistol had lived under his pillow for a few years, but he knew a guy, Ronnie Fisk, who’d had the same approach up until the day he drilled himself by accident. Ludo’s policy since then was no-guns-in-the-bed. He slid out the shotgun and stood and slipped the weapon under his coat. His mother had sewn him a four-inch square pocket just above the bottom hem, a perfect socket for the muzzle.

  He made it back along the hallway, but she called out again when she heard him on the stairs.

  ‘You got my breakfast going?’

  ‘Yep, be done soon. I’ll bring it up when it’s ready.’

  She said something else, but he didn’t hear. He went downstairs and then out the front door, not hurrying, taking his time to close up after himself. It was less than thirty degrees out, his first breath a cold flood through his lungs. He wore the coat unbuttoned and held it closed with one hand, keeping the shotgun upright under his upper arm.

  When he reached the Lexus, the tinted driver’s window didn’t lower, but there was still a gap at the top to vent the cigarette smoke. Ludo stopped about six feet away and checked left and right before speaking, his breath steaming as he talked.

  He said, ‘You going to put the window down, or do I have to break the glass?’

  Nice and steady with the delivery, let them know he didn’t care either way. But the glass came down with a muted and expensive purr, retracted all the way into the door.

  Ludo said, ‘There we are,’ and moved in a step to see two Asian guys up front, both in their late twenties. They wore cheap suits that had the same gloss as their gelled hair, Asian-sounding music on the radio. Nothing in their hands, but they could be packing under the jackets. He leaned forward and saw there was another guy in back, fifty or so, tanned and slight. Like one of those health freaks you see, into their quinoa and jogging.