Tempted by Trouble

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  She faced me and growled, “You should be dead, Dmytryk.”

  I reached inside my pocket and took out the gun she had given me, the same gun that had been used back at the Village Green.

  She snapped, “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  I firmed my voice and snapped, “Just put the damn knife down.”

  We faced each other for a short part of eternity. The anger in her face changed, her bottom lip trembled, and her anger moved aside and allowed her sorrow a front seat among her litany of emotions.

  Her words changed from fury to a frantic plea. “Shoot me, Dmytryk. In my heart, shoot me. Get this pain out of my chest and if you can’t get the pain out, kill me and make it go away.”

  “Geesh, Jackie.”

  “Shoot me. Please, just shoot me. Get me out of this miserable world.”

  Her hair draped her face, came loose and covered her psychosis, fell across the makeup that failed to mask her troubled skin, and she gnarled her lips, bared her teeth, and gave me a rabid stare that was as grotesque as it was powerful. She snapped again, said words that made her sound no better than a feral, dirty-mouthed hooker, cursed and told me to shoot her like she was a dog, like they had shot Sammy.

  “Think about your kid, Jackie.”

  Those simple words widened her eyes and pulled her away from whatever evil place she was visiting. She looked down at her hand, stared at the knife she held, then closed her eyes. The knife slipped from her fingers and landed on the tattered linoleum in the kitchen.

  I put the gun back inside my pocket. It had never been pointed at her.

  After that, I backed away from her.

  Food decorated the walls and run-down shag carpet, the dinners I had made over the last days thrown a pot at a time, then whatever she had spilled on the counter being slung a handful at a time, food that ran down the walls and made it look like the room was melting or like an abstract exhibit that should be at a museum in London or Germany. I kept my distance and looked at Jackie, her hair flying about her face as she released her angst. She stood before me, fuming in grief, bewildered, fraught, tormented by bad times, bad marriages, lawsuits, economic madness, and the death of a lover she needed.

  Outside, the din from Koreatown piped into the room as red and yellow neon lights flashed across insanity.

  Jackie leaned against the kitchen wall, winded, her chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. She evaluated the mess she’d made, then picked up the bottle of vodka, one of the few things that she hadn’t thrown. She found a paper cup and filled it, then drank it like it was Kool-Aid.

  She whispered, “I didn’t mean it. I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “You meant it. And I should leave before another tragedy happens inside this room.”

  “Not right now.”

  “I’d hate for another one of us to end up dead. And I’d hate for that person to be me.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “Then take it easy on the vodka.”

  She asked, “Mind giving me that gun?”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “If you’re contemplating a reunion with Sammy, think about your kid. And if you still feel compelled to act like a loon, let me know and give me a twenty-minute head start before you pull the trigger.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, then I reached in my coat and handed her the weapon.

  She held the gun and stared at me, her eyes dark, red, and swollen.

  She said, “You should’ve had a gun, Dmytryk. Then you could’ve saved Sammy.”

  “We can’t turn back the clock.”

  “You could’ve saved them both if you’d had a gun.”

  I said, “The way you’re holding that gun, Jackie, it’s making me a little uneasy.”

  She put the gun down on the counter and turned around, bumped into the kitchen counter, almost lost her balance, then stepped over the mess she had made like she was negotiating a minefield. She sashayed away, threw her hips side to side, and headed to the window, stood there drinking and shaking her head like she was struggling to not let her thoughts drive her crazy, releasing the occasional chuckle of disbelief, the neon lights making her appear and disappear, like the problems inside my head.

  She whispered, “Sammy’s dead. Sammy really is dead. I can smell him in this room, smell him on my skin, can feel him inside my body, and he’s dead. I have the scent of a dead man on my body.”

  “We need to worry about Rick.”

  “Turn that television off. I can’t handle seeing Sammy pop up on the news again.”

  “We need to get updates on Rick.”

  “I don’t care about Rick. Something went wrong inside and I bet it was Rick’s fault.”

  “If Rick isn’t dead, if they hold his family over him and get him to talk, we’re screwed.”

  “Rick would never talk. Look, Sammy’s dead and I have to stay focused. You’re right. I have to think about my child. That’s what this is all about. I’m not robbing banks for kicks. I’m on a mission. Every dime counts. Every dime. This job was just a small job. And this small job was going to lead to a bigger job. Then me and Sammy . . . Sammy . . . Sammy’s dead.”

  I let the conversation end on her words.

  She whispered, “Turn the television off, Dmytryk.”

  I ignored her.

  Jackie adjusted her skirt and moved her out-of-control hair away from her face, tried to summon some sophistication but failed miserably. I went back to monitoring the television. She finished her drink, went into the kitchen and picked up the gun, then came toward me, made me back away.

  Jackie shot the television three times. She killed the newscasters as they smiled.

  The television died as every other noise in Koreatown magnified and covered her insanity.

  Then Jackie went back to the kitchen and made herself another tall glass of vodka.

  8

  Legs crossed, Jackie sat in a plaid chair and maintained conversation with Mr. Smirnoff. I turned on my laptop and searched for the same news that Jackie had destroyed, but what I found wasn’t real-time. All I had was the app on my phone, so I let anxiety lead me around the cramped apartment while I monitored police bands. An hour later Jackie’s cellular rang and she staggered inside the bedroom and took the call. I stopped pacing long enough to spy out the window at the row of dingy apartments on the street. Jackie came back and extended her personal phone.

  Her eyes told me who was on the other end of her cellular. I knew it was her savior. My hand went up in a motion that told her to hold on. I turned off my laptop before I took her phone. I wanted her savior to wait for me the way others waited on him. Jackie ran her fingers through her hair and walked away, sashayed to refill her glass, her four-inch heels taking her tipsy sway across the claustrophobic room.

  I said, “Eddie Coyle. The man from Rome.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the blue-collar executive with no vowels in his ugly name.”

  Despite the fear and tension in the air, I played along and said, “I have two vowels.”

  “Either way, long time no talk to.”

  “Long time,” I said in agreement. “Where are you?”

  “Vancouver, but I’m loading up.”

  “Working a job?”

  “More like vacation. We’re preparing to fly back toward Rome.”

  “I heard the weather was pretty bad in that part of the world.”

  He asked, “What in the world happened out there in L.A.?”

  Teeth clenched, I relived the nightmare, described the horror, and told Eddie Coyle about the morning, about the moments when Rick and Sammy had exited Wells Fargo.

  Eddie Coyle said, “No way you could’ve saved Rick or Sammy?”

  “No way. It was unexpected.”

  “We have to expect the unexpected.”

  “They came out shooting. Sammy was already hit.”

  “They
were down when you pulled away?”

  “Sammy’s head was open and the bullet that went through Rick’s chest, it shattered the car window. His chest was opened up. Sammy was dead.”

  “Sounds like it was really bad.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “The bullet that hit Rick, I have that bullet in my pocket right now.”

  “Glad you made it out. I’m sure Rick or Sammy would’ve done the same if the roles had been reversed. We don’t leave anyone behind unless we have to, and I’m sure you had to, because you did.”

  “You said the driver never leaves the car.”

  “The driver never leaves his passengers either. But if Sammy’s brains had been blown out and Rick had taken one like you say, you had no other options, I’m sure.”

  I didn’t know how to take his last statement, so I held the phone and bottled my temper.

  “Jackie said you handled some woman today, Dmytryk.”

  First I touched my busted lip, then I touched my tender face.

  I whispered, “No witnesses.”

  “A witness is a guaranteed ride to jail.”

  “Guaranteed, Eddie Coyle. Guaranteed.”

  “She said that you did it and walked away like it was nothing.”

  I let his words hang.

  Eddie Coyle said, “I know it’s a bad time, but, well, if you’re interested, of course at the risk of coming across as being insensitive, I have another job coming up fast, real fast, and I really need another man.”

  “Where?”

  “Georgia. That’s why I was calling Jackie. She just told me about Sammy and Rick. I send my condolences and prayers, but despite that situation I need a crew, people I know and trust.”

  “What’s the take?”

  “One hundred thousand. That’s low end. Guaranteed. Five-way split.”

  “One hundred thousand.”

  “You’ll get twenty. It’s not much, but it’s better than peanut butter on crackers.”

  I paused for a moment and looked down at my well-shined Johnston & Murphy shoes. There was a point in my life when one hundred grand would have been laughable. Now twenty thousand was the life preserver that would keep me from going under, maybe keep me afloat until the next ship came my way and saved me from drowning or drifting at sea.

  I said, “At the risk of sounding insensitive, I need the money.”

  “If you make it to exit seven in the next four days, we’ll take it from there.”

  He’d said if. Not when. A sinking feeling consumed my body.

  We ended the call. Eddie Coyle was in a hurry. He was a man who was always in a hurry.

  A savior never had time to rest.

  I tossed the cellular to Jackie. Despite being toasted, she caught with her left hand.

  Jackie whispered, “Dmytryk, you said you needed three grand?”

  “Four. I need to get my hands on four thousand as soon as possible.”

  “Gambling debt or you plan on spending the night with a couple of hookers?”

  “None of your business. I just need it.”

  Jackie stood and paced the room, her turn to walk the worn carpet.

  I went to my duffel bag and opened it up. Off to the side were applications for grad school. There were job applications as well, only the latter seemed like a waste of good trees in a bad economy. Most companies did online submissions, but a few still used paper.

  She paused a moment. “I’m really surprised that Eddie Coyle invited you in on his job.”

  I closed my duffel and faced her, my expression terse. “You think I can’t handle it?”

  “Did I say something to upset you?”

  “Don’t question me and what I’m capable of.”

  “That’s not what I was doing, but maybe somebody should.”

  “If anyone can’t handle it, it’s you. You lost it before. You were ready to face off with LAPD with a .22. You held a knife and wished me dead. You went Elvis Presley and killed the television, and now it feels as if I’m being questioned here. I’ve worked with Eddie Coyle. What he is and how he is are nothing new.”

  “Sammy, Rick, and me were supposed to go alone. You weren’t invited.”

  “I am now. So, if the job and the payout was a secret, I’m on the crew now.”

  “Relax. It’s not that we were keeping the job a secret from you. It’s just that, well, sometimes it’s better to not speak about everything we do.”

  “I think Rick was about to tell me. He said he’d wanted to talk to me about something. Maybe he was backing out, going home to his family, and plugging me in on the job.”

  She nodded, then asked, “You said that you need four grand?”

  “Why? You plan on robbing a few liquor stores tonight?”

  “Can you relax for a moment? Loosen your collar and listen to what I’m about to offer.”

  I nodded. The alcohol had her humming, bouncing her leg, and smiling to herself.

  She said, “Maybe I could float you that baby bankroll until the next job is done.”

  “You have access to that kind of money?”

  “Say the word and I’ll make a call and make it happen. Provided you agree to the interest.”

  There was always a catch. I took a breath and asked, “How much interest?”

  “I usually take forty or fifty percent, but I can do thirty this one time.”

  “You’re the bank.”

  “Yeah. I’m the bank.”

  “Thirty percent is outrageous. You’re another predatory lender.”

  “Look, I have a kid and I’m trying to increase my funds tenfold so I can fix my situation. Every dime helps. This job has left me with nothing but a headache, heartache, and a bad taste in my mouth. So, I’ll go out on a limb with my money and take a chance and loan you part of my nest egg, but only if it is lucrative for me and my kid in the short run.”

  “It’s been a long day. Both of us are on edge. Let me sleep on it.”

  “No, I need to know now. You have five minutes. Then the bank is closed.”

  She went to the kitchen and poured a little more vodka. This time she opened the refrigerator and found a carton of orange juice, used it to cut the liquor. She sipped, then said, “Five minutes are up. Do you want to borrow four thousand or not?”

  “Don’t want to, but have to.” My voice was harsh and just above a whisper, yet it filled the room. “Lower the interest rate and maybe we can make a deal. You have a kid, but I have to take care of a few things too. We all have lives, Jackie. I empathize with your child-custody issues, but your problems are not the center of my universe.”

  “Thirty percent. Take it or leave it. Tomorrow, if you ask, it will be back at my usual rates.”

  “I wasn’t trying to offend you, just wanted you to know that I have my own issues as well.”

  “Thirty percent. That’s all we have to talk about right now. Thirty percent.”

  I accepted her predatory interest rate and asked her how soon she could get me the money.

  “In a few. Let me wash down your insults and insensitivity and calm my nerves.”

  I walked away from her and stood in the window, my arms folded.

  She said, “Riddle me this, Batman.”

  “What?”

  “You wear a wedding ring, but there isn’t a wife around. No text messages, no sneaking off to call and check in. Sammy told me that you and the wife aren’t together, that she left while you were doing a job.”

  I nodded and left it at that.

  When my feet began to throb and the heaviness from life took hold of me, I sat down on the sofa and initiated the app that connected to the police monitors. I hoped Jackie would go into the bedroom, but she came over and sat down on the sofa. I struggled to get comfortable on one end and she relaxed on the far end, pulled her feet up under her body, took a very feminine position, and faced me. It was awkward being there with her. Over the last six months, it had always been four of us hiding out. And she had always ended up drinking and resting
in Sammy’s lap after a job was done.

  She finished her vodka, then poured another tall glass of the same and sat next to me. This time she positioned herself on the worn pillow next to mine. Her skirt rode high and she undid another button on her blouse. She sipped her drink and rested her left hand on my leg. When I looked in her light brown eyes, she didn’t move her hand away from my thigh. Her smile widened. She winked and rubbed my leg.

  She asked, “When was the last time you were with a woman?”

  “Let’s not go down that road, Jackie.”

  “Maybe we could help each other out.”

  I moved her hand away. “Let’s go get that four grand, Jackie.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not Sammy.”

  She gave me an unembarrassed smile. “Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Then you’re going to make that call and we’re going to go get the four thousand.”

  She took her cellular, staggered into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

  My duffel bag rested at the end of the sofa. I grabbed my toiletries and hurried inside the bathroom. I threw a ragged towel down in the tub and stood on top of that while I showered, then I wrapped a towel I had brought with me around my body. I borrowed a lime-green plastic bowl from the kitchen, one of the few things that hadn’t been destroyed during Jackie’s rage, then filled it with hot water and added shaving powder, stirred it until I had made a decent amount of foamy shaving cream. I always shaved after a job. Always showered and shaved. It was my ritual. I didn’t need to break that now. While the lather was hot I used my shaving brush and swirled the wet tips of the brush, used the same motions my father had taught me, then I painted my face, again emulating the strokes he had used. I used a straightedge razor and shaved the way men had shaved for hundreds of years. I’d used Noxzema Lather Shave Cream, and this was a powdered version of the same, had the same scents, a mixture of coconut, eucalyptus, clove, and peppermint oils. When I was done I rinsed my face, inspected my injuries, packed up my shaving tools, and went back into the living room.