by Ben Sanders
‘This would be a strange joke.’
‘Are you OK?’
Marshall stacked the two bricks of cash. He said, ‘I grew up in Indiana. Moved around a lot because my mother didn’t have a lot of money, so we sort of went from one shit place to another shit place, got kicked out when the landlord figured out the rent wasn’t going to happen. But then we got a trailer, which was nice. Bit of stability for a while, and my mother started dealing heroin. I don’t think she was too good at it, because we never seemed to have any money. But some guy she knew had got her a hookup, so when the trucks came through heading for Chicago they’d offload a little bit for her along the way.
‘I used to go out there for the pickup, meet the guy. The driver, I mean. Used to meet him at a diner sometimes, sit down for coffee. Every now and then he’d just stop by a turnoff and let me know where he was. Guy’s name was Lewis, always wore a cap, and this funny little vest with his cigarettes in the pocket.’ He patted his chest.
‘This one time, I went out to meet him, we were sitting there at the counter, and he says he’s not happy with his cut, said we need to be paying him more. I was fourteen, I think. But I remember weighing it all up in my head, ticking through the pros and cons of what could happen. And I was pretty sure I’d be all right. So I said to him, OK, let’s go somewhere quiet and talk about it. Like I was thinking it over and we could come to some arrangement. Didn’t think he’d buy it, diner was quiet enough as it was, else we wouldn’t be doing the swap, but he followed me out, and I kind of dilly-dallied around looking nervous so he’d get ahead of me, and we went to his truck, and when he slowed down I just kept on walking and kicked him through the side of the knee. Broke his leg.’
He thrummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I justified it by saying I was trying to make ends meet, but then so was he. And what’s to say he wasn’t struggling more? However bad you think you have it, someone has it worse. But yeah, I’m OK.’
Lana didn’t answer.
Marshall said, ‘Not all bad, though. Whenever I go to a diner I always remember old Lew. And his leg. I was looking for this missing girl last year, down in Albuquerque? Met these traffickers one morning to talk about it, real bad guys, but I knew I’d be OK if it came to it. Because of what happened when I was a kid. I thought, if I could take care of Lewis when I was fourteen then I can take care of these guys twenty years later. And I did.’
Lana didn’t answer. Progress on her cigarette seemed to have halted.
Marshall said, ‘So what I’m getting at, hurting people doesn’t faze me too much. Long as they deserve it. And I think I’m pretty safe on that front. At least today.’
She took a breath and said, ‘I needed the money to look after my dad.’
‘Yeah, but he’s dead now.’ Marshall stood up. ‘I don’t care if you’re on the take, just as long as it doesn’t affect me. Nice seeing you, Lana.’
He walked out and left the broken door open.
Perry
He felt better about things, now that he had a gun in his hand. He sat on the bed, elbows to knees, head at an angle to hold the phone against his shoulder. The ringtone doing its purr. He spun the pistol’s cylinder as he waited.
Dexter picked up and said, ‘Yeah?’
Perry closed his eyes. ‘Can I talk to her?’
Dexter’s breath on the line, slow and crackly. ‘You’ve got a job to do.’
‘I’m doing it.’
‘No you’re not. You’re sitting on your ass, talking to me on the phone.’
‘I got a plan and I’m doing it.’ Looking at the gun as he said it.
‘Yeah, whoopee fucking-do, I’m only interested in debriefs, Perry. I don’t care about what you say’s gonna happen.’
‘Please. Just let me know she’s OK.’
A long spell of crackle breath. Then Dexter pitched his voice high and said, ‘Yeah, Perry, it’s Marie, I’m fine, just do your fucking job for once.’
Perry didn’t answer, still moving the cylinder back and forth.
Dexter went low again: ‘See, there you go. Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘Bu—’
Dexter hung up.
Perry closed his eyes and sat listening to the tone, hissing shitshitshit through clenched teeth. He clicked the cylinder home, tapped the barrel on his forehead, trying to remember his own cell number. Mouthing the different options.
He dialled.
A long, long dose of ringing, and then some old lady answered. Perry killed it. He tried a different combination, pretty sure this was it.
Two rings, and the Marshall guy said, ‘Perry’s phone.’
Perry rested his head against his fist. ‘Oh, yeah, hey, it’s me. Perry.’
The Marshall guy said, ‘What do you want?’
‘I, uh. Shit.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I need to see you. They’ve, he’s. He’s got my wife.’
‘Who’s got your wife?’
‘Uh. Dexter does.’
The Marshall guy said, ‘Where?’
‘I dunno. He wants me to kill you and he’ll give her back, but I can’t. I can’t do it.’
No answer.
Perry said, ‘Can I meet you?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Uh. At my house.’
‘Let’s go somewhere more public.’
‘Uh. How about the Tol Booth? Out in Bushwick.’
‘Toll booth. Is that your day job?’
Perry said, ‘No, it’s a diner.’ He told him how to find it.
Quiet on the line, like the guy was having a good think about it, and then he said, ‘Half an hour.’
‘OK. Yeah, sure. OK, half an hour.’
The Marshall guy said, ‘Good,’ and then he was gone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Cohen
Heading west on Eighty-sixth through Bay Ridge, he decided he liked the place. It had a comfortable, worn-in feel: the old brick houses lining Fourth Avenue, buildings on the next blocks that looked like they’d been there fifty or a hundred years. He guessed it was Italian heritage: a pizzeria on the corner of Third, Italian meats and grocery a few doors down. But there was a taco joint as well, even a place called Cohen’s. Bay Ridge had the full spread.
Dexter Vine lived on a nice suburban stretch down by the water. There were a few new houses, but it was mainly brick and New England clapboard, everything looking prosperous and squared away.
LaSalle’s description proved apt, and Cohen found Dexter’s place on his first pass, noticing the shell path and the garage off to one side. He drove around the block and then parked across the street, a flat enough angle he could watch the place through his windshield. Nothing untoward happening that he could see; it felt like the kind of area where indiscretion was a rarity.
He took out his cell phone and called home. It went to voice mail.
Cohen, watching the house, said, ‘Sugarplum. Wanted to let you know I’m still alive and kicking. I’m just sitting in my car looking at a house at the moment, undertaking some reconnaissance. That’s a good one for your Scrabble. Also I wondered, if you’re visiting the store, could you pick me up a loaf of white bread, please? Had some this morning with my eggs, and I have to say it was divine. I’ll see you soon.’
He ended the call and got out of the Charger, walked up the street toward Dexter’s, using the far sidewalk. It’d be dark soon. The streetlights were on, the air temperature getting down in the thirties, sharp in his lungs. He crossed the road and watched Dexter’s place from the kerb. He wouldn’t win any prizes for subtlety, but there was no one else around, unless they were staking him out from one of the neighbouring properties. Not that he could see anything. It was a regular suburban atmosphere, curtains blocking out the gloom, dinner scents in the air. Though what’s to say killers weren’t proficient cooks? Could’ve been a hit team in a nearby house, snipers in the front room, someone on kitchen duty, putting the chicken in the oven. That made him smile.
It was just a short
walk, though, to Dexter’s front door. And why not? He’d come this far. Might as well try to lay eyes on the man, ask him if he’d been masterminding kidnappings down in Santa Fe. Never know, maybe he’d be invited in. He stood there a few seconds, contemplating it, more lights coming on in windows up and down the street.
He blew into his cupped hands, and then walked up the path, feet crunching on the shells. There was no camera at the entry, no obvious signs of security. He nudged his coat back so his star was on show, and pushed the doorbell. Chimes played inside, gentle and melodic. He’d been expecting a big brass knocker, something bold and unsophisticated.
The chimes faded out, and he heard a dull rhythm that might’ve been footsteps, but no one came to the door. He waited a minute and tried the button again, gave it another thirty seconds and then walked back to the car.
He ran the heater and sat watching the house for another couple minutes, half-expecting the man to come out to the kerb with his hands on his hips. Probably more of a summer activity.
He took out his phone and called Sean Avery.
Avery said, ‘You having any luck?’
‘Yeah, maybe. I think I found Dexter Vine’s place, though he’s not answering his door.’
‘What, you went and knocked?’
Cohen said, ‘Mmm, just now. Good way to get to the bottom of things, talk with a man on his front step. He didn’t come out though.’
‘How’d you find it?’
Cohen told him about his talk with Jonny LaSalle.
Avery said, ‘Maybe he was just talking shit.’
‘Maybe. Someone he knows lives here, though. He didn’t just tell me such-and-such a number, he said it’s a place with a garage and a shell path through the shrubs. Sure enough.’
Avery said, ‘You close your eyes, picture yourself saying that on the witness stand.’
‘I’ll use fancier language, tell them an informant furnished me with a description that proved accurate.’
‘So where is it? What number, I mean?’
Cohen told him.
Avery said, ‘Did you check it out before you showed up?’
Cohen said, ‘No. But I figured whatever intel there is, I’m going to show up anyway. So why waste my time?’
Avery didn’t answer.
Cohen said, ‘LaSalle backed up Henry Lee’s story, said Dexter owes seven figures to some Chinese gang, and he’s got until midnight to clear the debt.’
‘What Chinese gang?’
‘I don’t know. I only care about this Dexter guy.’
Avery said, ‘We don’t have a “Vine” in the system, but we have a “Dexter Vincelli”. He’s done time, but he’s on the known associates’ list of some mafia guys out of Bay Ridge.’
Cohen clicked his tongue. ‘Didn’t know they had their own mafia. All looks so civilised when you drive through.’
Avery said, ‘What happens at midnight if he doesn’t pay?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m sitting here.’
Avery said, ‘You want some help?’
‘I don’t know. But then again, I’m not sure what’s meant to be happening.’
Avery waited for something more decisive and then said, ‘You want me to come down or not?’
Cohen said, ‘Yeah, all right. You better keep your distance, though. We don’t want to give them the willies.’
Marie
He’d put her in the downstairs guest bathroom. It was probably only ten feet square. There was a shower stall glassed in against the corner by the door, with a toilet adjacent and a vanity opposite. No window, just a small vent above the shower stall. A single, recessed light in the centre of the ceiling, shining too whitely. He’d left the strip of tape across her mouth, but now her wrists were taped behind her, ankles bound as well.
She’d tried the door, of course, but it wouldn’t open. It had a handle rather than a knob, and he must have jammed something beneath it on the other side. Nothing in the vanity drawers. He’d made it clear that attempts to escape could well prove fatal, but she wasn’t just going to sit here waiting for Perry. That could be a life sentence in itself.
So the question was, at what point should she try something? In terms of risk and reward, the reward didn’t change. All she wanted was to be out of here. But she figured the risk must increase with duration, because she wasn’t getting any stronger, and there’d been no guarantee of food and water. So she should try something right now. Every moment of inaction made for slimmer chances.
Or maybe he’d become complacent, and she was better off waiting. At some point, the graph had to have a peak. Or a trough, if you looked at it in terms of hazards. The trick was to make sure that all her strength and bravery would spike at the same time. Life-and-death choreography. But waiting for Perry was not a sound strategy.
Comfort was an issue, too. Standing had its limits, and lying on her side would just kill the feeling in her arm. So she was sitting on the toilet, leaning against the wall, when she heard the doorbell.
It was formal and churchlike, fading away gently. It felt like encouragement to act, a soft come-hither, cautiously inviting. No guarantee there was someone friendly at the door, but at the same time she might not have another window.
She crouched and lowered herself to the floor on her knees, rolled over awkwardly to a sitting position. It was an effort staying upright, with her hands so close behind her. She couldn’t stretch for balance. She turned one-eighty so her back was to the door, and then thrust with her bound feet, sliding across the cold tiles on her ass. When she reached the door she spun around again, a neat half-turn, and kicked the panel with both feet just below the handle.
The timber thudded and held. The doorbell sounded a second time, plaintive, telling her to try harder. She kicked again, and then again and again, frenzied now, screaming at the tape.
When the door flung open, she thought she’d finally broken it, but then Dexter was in the room, grabbing her by the throat, lifting her, shoving her against the wall. Her head bounced off the plaster, stars falling through her vision.
He leaned close with his teeth bared, bits of food in the gaps, a demon face snarling, and she thought he was going to bite her.‘If you make a noise, you’re done.’
Ludo
She wanted another goddamned omelet. Didn’t matter she’d had one yesterday and the day before that, she had it in her head she needed eggs. He guessed there were worse ways your brain could lose its grip, but as far as meals went his patience was running out. He hated the smell of it the most, steamy egg odour all through the kitchen, a burnt undercurrent from the bits that stuck to the pan. He’d reached the point where every aspect turned his stomach: the smell, the texture, the way she liked it kind of undercooked and sloppy through the centre, like eggcoloured vomit. He toyed with the idea of maybe giving her a steak, insisting it was something else.
The phone rang.
‘Ludo, can you pick that up? I can’t reach. Ludo?’
He took off his apron and laid it on the table. ‘Yeah, I got it.’
‘And turn the stove low while you’re not there, or we’ll burn down.’
‘Yeah, it’s fine, I got it.’
He picked it up in the living room and stood looking out the window, no Lexus there right now.
Perry said, ‘Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Doing what?’
Ludo said, ‘Making an omelet. My mother likes an early dinner.’
‘I thought you’d be out looking.’
Ludo said, ‘Priorities. She don’t get her meal, shit hits the fan.’
Perry said, ‘He called me just now. I’m gonna meet him.’
‘Who?’
‘The Marshall guy. Look, Dexter’s got Marie, he’s going to hang on to her until I’ve done Marshall.’
Ludo said, ‘That’s a pickle, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, are you going to help me?’ Determined and not panicky: out of character for Perry.
&
nbsp; Ludo said, ‘Where are you meeting him?’
‘Tol’s place. The diner.’
‘When?’
‘Thirty minutes. I’m leaving now. Look, please just be there.’
This was more Perry-like: a last-minute Mickey Mouse plan. Ludo said, ‘Where?’
‘I dunno, wherever. Close enough you can shoot him if you see him.’
The dial tone in his ear. Maybe Perry was growing some balls.
He hung up the phone, and before he took his hand away he realised why Tol’s diner made a shitty meeting place: if they’d ID’d his body, there’d be cops around.
He said, ‘Shit,’ and hit star sixty-nine, his mother shouting from upstairs that the omelet must be ready to turn by now. He closed his eyes, saying, ‘Perry, you dipshit,’ as he listened to the ringing. No answer.
He swore and hung up again, and called Dexter. He picked up sounding harried.
‘Yeah, what?’
‘Perry’s got a lead on our man. He’s meeting him in thirty minutes.’
‘Right, so what are you doing still at home?’
Ludo clucked his tongue, let the man know he wouldn’t be pushed, and said, ‘Keeping you abreast of the matter.’
‘Great, well keep abreast of this: I got a fucking cop ringing my doorbell, and that’s probably the least of my worries.’
Meaning his debt with the Chinese, old Dex worried they were due to collect.
Ludo said, ‘Well, keep your gun in your pocket and your finger on the trigger, and we’ll see what we can do.’ Sound advice, but letting the man know he wasn’t in the business of miracles.
He hung up before he got something vicious in his ear, walked back through to the kitchen, and turned off the stove, burnt-egg smell trying to make him hurl. He used the spatula and scraped the mess out of the pan, tried to arrange it on the plate so it didn’t look like a big lump of dog sick.
‘You better not’ve left that on too long, I like it runny.’
‘Yeah, I cooked it perfect.’
She was sitting up in bed ready for it, tray in her lap, some cooking show on the TV, the smiley dipshit beating an egg, of all things. He set it down for her and handed her the cutlery.