by Don Donovan
Did Chicho have partners or did he act on his own when he stole our money? Shotgun Man was obviously on his side, but if he got a cut, where was it? Not anywhere I could see.
I scooped the money back into the gym bag and took it into the bedroom, set it on the dresser, removed my holstered weapon, and released a long relaxing exhale, as if a hundred pounds had come off my waist. I massaged the area where the leather had pinched into my skin, and I noticed a tender, red imprint in the mirror. My stomach had settled down, my throat discomfort gone. Reaching up, I pulled the dangling overhead chain that turned on the ceiling fan.
Dorothy slept, snoring softly. Her short brown hair messed up from a night's sleep, her breathing regular, her overbite inconspicuous. Thick bedcovers almost hid the thirty extra pounds she carried, which really didn't matter, as far as I was concerned.
You can bet it mattered a whole lot to her, though. In the ten years we'd been together, she never let a week go by without saying she ought to lose weight. Truth was, the extra weight was spread out somewhat evenly, putting a little give in her luscious flesh. The end result made her look like a real woman, earthy — and carnal.
I always tried to tell her she was well-proportioned. Her height — about five-six — and her slightly larger-than-average bone structure enabled her to carry extra weight without looking like she was obese. Because of the even distribution of her weight, she still had a figure, you know, the kind where her waist was slimmer than her bust and hips. I told her all this repeatedly over the years, but she would only grab a little fat on her stomach or her thigh and point that out as an example of what had to go. "I'm a house," she always said. She never really did much about it, though. That was okay with me.
Slim shafts of early morning light slipped through the drapes and slinked across her face, making her appear more beautiful than she probably was. You could even say more beautiful than I had a right to expect, since I'm not exactly a matinee idol, even overhauled. My face consists of a deep frown etched over close-set eyes — hard and blue — resting over a nose widened from being broken a few times. Below that nose a mustache spread itself above thin lips that could never quite make it all the way to a smile. My dark hair has this cowlick in the front which keeps wanting to hang in my eyes. As it is, it reaches out over my forehead, but that's as long as I'll let it grow.
To this day, I don't know what I have that attracts her, but whatever it is, I'm very thankful I have it because without her, I'd be lost.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and gently stroked her face. I felt the fantasies emerging from deep inside me. Scary, exciting fantasies.
This was exactly what I needed right now, the smooth skin of my woman softening the hand that had just delivered a cruel death to three people.
Her moan brought her to half-awake. More stroking, more moaning. Pretty soon, she pulled me to her in soft embrace. We kissed, a long wet one, and I murmured, "Honey, I'm home."
She chuckled. "Where'd that come from? You sound like an episode of Leave It To Beaver."
"I'm just glad to be back. Back here, with you still in bed. Kissing you." I tightened my hug.
"And I'm so glad you're back in one piece. I worry about you so much. How'd it go?"
She writhed a little more on the bed, arranging herself into comfortable position, still holding me around my shoulders, close to her.
"It didn't go well at all. I'm okay, but Chicho and his friends aren't doing so good."
She groaned. "Oh, shit. What happened?"
"What happened is I'm back."
"But — but, was there trouble? Are you okay?" She pushed my torso away from hers, looking it over, frantically searching for wounds or blood or other signs of trauma.
I kept my voice soft to counter hers, which had risen dramatically. I said, "There was trouble. But I'm telling you, I'm okay. I'm not hurt. Everything's fine now."
She finished checking me out and said, "I suppose … I suppose you had to do it, but I've gotta tell you, lately here, I'm a nervous wreck every time you go out. I sit here alone for the longest time, with my heart in my throat, fearing the worst. I've always felt like that, but it's just been getting a lot worse these last few times, this last year or so, you know?"
I had to admit, that always did bother me, leaving the apartment for a job, Dorothy at home all by herself, fretting every second, not knowing if I would ever come back. Most of the time, she kept her anxieties hidden below the surface, showing her inner toughness, a trait I always liked in her. This morning, though, she let it out only because I mentioned the trouble. I knew she wouldn't like it, but I had to tell her. I don't know why. Probably, I guess, because I always told her.
But I wondered if I could tell her about the girl. I hoped I wouldn't have to because I wanted to bury it. Plow it under where I would never, ever have to think about it.
Ever.
"Well, I didn't get killed," I said. "But I did get the money."
"The money?" That familiar, steely twinge slid back into her voice.
"I got it. Well, some of it, anyway."
"Some of it?"
"About a third of the total, maybe less." Her shoulders sagged a teeny bit.
"What happened to the rest?" she asked.
"I don't know."
Her bold brown eyes told me she really wanted an answer, but I didn't have one. I knew she wouldn't rag me about it, though. She wasn't the type. She trusted me to tell her the whole truth, which I never failed to do.
I shrugged and said, "I grabbed what I could. I didn't have time to look around for the rest."
"So how much do we net?"
"Not that much," I said with a sigh. "We hit the bank on their big day of the month, when they're flush with cash, but that data, along with other valuable logistical information, cost ten large up front. Add another three thousand for the weapons."
"Three thousand for weapons?"
I nodded. "They weren't just ordinary guns. These were big, awesome-looking things, intended to throw the fear of God into everyone there. Cut down on any ideas they might have, ideas about resisting."
"You paid for all that?"
"Yeah. I mean, I get it back out of the take, but it doesn't leave much to whack up."
She moved closer to me, putting her hands around the back of my neck, rubbing her big, naked chest against me.
"At least you didn't go through it all for nothing, but I'd rather have you than the money. You know that, right?"
I put an index finger to her lips and sat up. "Right now, Zaz and Shimmy are coming over for their cut. It'll only take a couple of minutes. But then I'm going to try for a few hours' sleep. Will you stay in bed and wait for me?"
A warm, sleepy-cat smile crawled onto her lips. "Mmm, you know I will."
What was I saying about those fantasies?
3
Logan
Saturday, June 25, 2011
7:50 AM
I SET THE GYM BAG ON THE TABLE in the living room while I put a pot of coffee together. Zaz and Shimmy arrived, looking pasty, like they hadn't slept in days. Both in disheveled T-shirts and shorts, while Shimmy, by far the older of the two and the one with hair, hadn't seen a comb this morning. We entered the living room and three steaming cups of dark liquid sat waiting.
"You guys didn't have to get all dressed up for this," I said.
"Shit, man, you got me out of a sound fucking sleep," Zaz said, removing his wire-rimmed glasses to rub his eyes with his fists. "I was having this great fucking dream. Man, there was this smokin' blonde, who —"
"Keep it down. Dorothy's still asleep."
I gestured them toward the couch where they took seats, slouching in early morning indifference, with a taste of the "don't give a shit" attitude. I sat in a chair across from them. The aroma of coffee filled the room. I liked it.
The sun, now fully in place in the morning sky, beat down hard on the only window in the room. Squinting, I got up and closed the thick drapes, darkening ever
ything. I clicked on a floor lamp. One of those bullshit curly light bulbs, it barely lit up the lampshade surrounding it and not much more. For a minute, I thought about lighting the table lamp next to the couch, which still had a real light bulb in it, but I let it go.
The gym bag sat silently on the coffee table, drawing attention. My unholstered .45 stood guard next to it. The coffee was too hot, still hot enough to burn. Our sips were tiny. We set our cups down.
"What's in the bag?" Shimmy asked. His soft voice and darkly handsome face didn't tell much of his story. Didn't reveal anything at all about his impoverished upbringing or the things he learned the hard way on the back streets of Key West. Didn't even hint at how tough and unforgiving he could be when the occasion arose.
With both hands, I picked up the bag, holding it in a tentative grip, as though it contained something delicate, breakable.
Don't touch, boys. It could shatter.
"I took a little drive up the road last night. And I came back with this." I unzipped the bag and dumped the cash on the coffee table. A few of the bills were unbanded and they slid off the table, floating to the floor.
That woke them up. Their eyes widened, and Shimmy made a momentary move toward the money, but pulled back.
"Man, what the —?" he said. "H-How'd you get it?"
"It's not important. Only one thing matters. I brought it back."
"Is this all of it?" Shimmy asked. "It looks a little light."
"It's light, all right. Very light. But that's all that was there," I said. "I didn't really have the opportunity to locate the rest of it."
Zaz fingered his close, short goatee, then ran a hand across his buzz-cut scalp. "Let's count it," he said.
We sorted out the denominations. Zaz took the fives and tens, Shimmy the twenties, and I took the fifties and hundreds. A short time later, with the aid of my cell phone calculator, the total came to ninety-seven thousand, six hundred five dollars.
"This is it?" Zaz asked, with a quizzical look on his face. "Including Chicho's cut?" He twisted his wiry frame back into comfortable sitting position, his bespectacled eyes looking to me for an explanation.
One came. "He won't be needing it."
Zaz, who carried a calculator around in his brain, instantly proclaimed, "Divided by three, then, that's just a little north of thirty-two grand apiece."
"Correction," I said. "I take out thirteen for my initial expenses." I ran the numbers on my cell phone. "That leaves … "
"Eighty-four, six-oh-five," Zaz said. "Twenty-eight dimes each."
My response: "Not quite. More like twenty-one plus. Eighty-four divided by four. According to our original deal. One-fourth share for everyone. I'll round it up to twenty-two for each of you, and I'll take care of Mambo's end. But now, I get the rest of Chicho's share."
Shimmy jumped in. "Wait a second here. Our original deal included Chicho. A four-way split of the whole take. Way it looks now, we're down to three."
I brought the steaming coffee to my lips, eyeing Shimmy closely. It was still hot, still burned my tongue. I put it back on the table.
I said, "And there wouldn't be any split at all if I hadn't gone up there and put my life on the line to get it. For that matter, I didn't even have to tell you I went up there. I could've just kept the whole thing."
Despite the fact he was a twenty-four-year-old white kid addicted to rap music, Zaz owned some pretty good common sense. He'd been to college and could quickly get a grip on the things that count.
"Yo, twenty-two's good enough for me," he said. "Like you say, it woulda been nothing if you hadn't done the heavy lifting. Plus, you fronted the seed money and you're taking care of Mambo." His voice remained calm, reasonable. He looked over at Shimmy. "Come on, Shim. Take it."
Shimmy fidgeted, bit down hard on his lower lip. "I don't like it. We all took the same risk."
Zaz said, still with an even voice, "And Logan took an even bigger risk by driving up to Miami to get our money back from that lowlife cocksucker who stole it from us. Like he said, he could've kept it all, but he's doing the right thing here."
"I woulda gone with him. He didn't even tell us he was going." Shimmy's agitation showed itself. "Besides, I signed on for an equal cut." For the briefest moment, his dark eyes flicked toward the .45 resting on the table, ink-black in the dimness of the room.
Don't try it, Shimmy. Toss that thought.
He looked back at me, seeing that I had caught his momentary attention to the gun.
"When you're not running your poker game, Shimmy, you're a helluva wheelman," I told him. "You been doing this kind of thing off and on for a long time. What are you now, forty-five? Fifty? You didn't come all this way by making foolish mistakes. Don't start now."
Shimmy tensed his jaw, pulling his lips tight against his teeth. Zaz eased away from him a few inches down the couch. My body shifted into high alert, nerve ends tickling the underside of my skin, making me itchy. I held my breath, but not so anyone could see.
No one moved. For the briefest time, the thoughts entered my mind again. The ones I'd tried to keep at bay.
Guns and money. One gets you the other. Whenever I strap on this gun, I have to be ready to use it. That's part of the deal, right? That young girl found out the hard way. I hate what happened last night — I fucking hate it, but what could I do?
Everything remained still, silent. The sun tried hard to squeeze through the drapes, but the room remained in shadow. The aroma of fresh coffee hung thick in the air. Steam still rose from the cups. My eyes never left Shimmy.
Shimmy pushes hard enough, I might have to blast him. He's my good friend, for Chrissakes, and I'm ready to kill him. All this to get the money. This money. Mine. Mine and Dorothy's.
It was all worth it, wasn't it? Won't this money give us what we want? A little breathing room? A shot at a decent life?
How many more times can I do this?
Shimmy's every muscle remained immobile, taut. Only his head moved as he slowly turned his veiled stare toward mine, like a big predatory animal peering from the hidden sanctuary of the brush.
After a few seconds, he said, "Okay. Twenty-two grand it is."
4
Logan
Saturday, June 25, 2011
8:20 AM
AS SOON AS SHIMMY AND ZAZ LEFT, I took the coffee cups out to the kitchen and placed them by the sink. Back in the living room, I looked at my end of the take nestled next to my gun.
There it is, big guy. That's what you wanted. What it's all about, right?
Well, isn't it? Come on! Twenty-two fucking big ones and a dead teenaged girl who is right now staring up at Chicho's ceiling while a cop with a camera is photographing her bloody corpse from all angles, and other cops in latex gloves are picking her over, hoping to find some kind of forensic evidence, hairs or some shit.
Before I turned off the floor lamp, I picked up a stack of bills and riffled them near my ear. The soft, rapid leafing of the currency whispered to me. Words of love.
Another quiet riffle of the cash. Back into the bedroom, gun on the nightstand, money in the drawer. Peel the clothes off, pile into bed.
Dorothy, awake and waiting, opening her arms. Kissing me, kissing, kissing.
Oh, yes.
Kissing, kissing …
Much as I wanted to do this for the rest of the day, I squirmed.
I said, "Wait, baby. I want to say something."
"You go ahead," she said. "I want to do something." More kissing. She reached between my legs, searching for an erotic salute. She got one, of course, but I gently guided her hand away.
"No, I'm serious." I sat up, and she froze.
"What — what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. In fact, right now, it all feels so right." I ran a hand through her velvety brown hair. "I made a decision on the trip back down here tonight. Well, actually, I just really made it final a few minutes ago. I'm quitting."
She jerked herself upright, exposing generous breasts
dangling over the width of her stomach like ripe fruit on a thick tree. "Quitting? You mean —?"
"Quitting. No more jobs." I figured I couldn't make my point any more clearly.
A big grin settled onto her face and she raised her arms in the air. "Well, hallelujah! The young man has seen the light!"
The sarcasm was her way of covering up her ambivalence. On a certain level, Dorothy really did want me to go straight. She wanted to know I was earning a regular paycheck and sitting home with her every night watching TV or some such shit.
On a different level, though, she liked the things she could buy with the fruits of my criminal labor — the lifestyle, all the rest of it. We didn't live large, but we each had a nice SUV, she wore a Lady Datejust Rolex — okay, I didn't really buy it, it was swag — and we've got this nifty little apartment right on the edge of Old Town.
She knew but she didn't know — or didn't want to know — all the exact details of what I did. She knew I worked outside the law and often went a long time between paydays, but I never troubled her with the specifics. Not much point to it, you know? She was happy in her current state when it came to knowing what I did, which was like being in that gray half-light between sound asleep and fully alert.
Dorothy was sort of like a Key West version of Carmela Soprano from the TV, who was your typical New Jersey gangster wife. Carmela loved the big house Tony gave her — and the Porsche and the diamonds and all the rest of it — but didn't really care to know where it came from, even though on some level, she knew, just like Dorothy knew. And like Dorothy, Carmela could push it way back into the shadows of her mind. And that made her okay with it.
But unlike Dorothy, Carmela couldn't bring herself to openly admit that every penny — every single fucking penny — of what Tony brought home stemmed from hard criminal activity. Not that I'm Tony Soprano, mind you. Far from it. I'm not any kind of big-shot kingpin, into gangland rackets or drug dealing or murder or any of that kind of shit. I'm more of a working stiff. You know, like on a much smaller scale.