The Amateurs

by Marcus Sakey

  “Ian.” The girl behind the desk managed to make it sound like three syllables, a slow purr. She uncrossed and recrossed million-dollar legs. “Back so soon?”

  “Business this time.” He winked at her. “The big man in?”

  “Let me check.” She picked up a headset, held it to her ear, then pressed a button. “Ian Verdon is here to see Mr. Katz.” After a moment, she said, “No problem.” She cut the connection, then hit Ian with her hundred-watt smile. “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks, D.”

  “Want me to pull some chips for when you come down?”

  “Nah. Not today.” He started for the stairs, readying his pitch. Katz would resist at first. He’d remind Ian of his debt, maybe play the tough guy to save face. But in the end, he’d go for it. Why wouldn’t he? A simple business proposition.

  There was another door with another security camera at the top of the stairs, and again he waited. This time, when it opened, it wasn’t a swimsuit model on the other side, but a neckless black man, wings of muscles straining from shoulders to skull.

  “Terry. How you doing?”

  “My man Ian.” The man smiled, held a hand up, and Ian clasped it, slid the fingers to lock, then pulled away with a snap. “How’s it goin’, dog?”

  “Life is beautiful. You?”

  “Can’t complain, baby. Can’t complain.” Terry gestured him forward.

  The room at the top of the stairs was everything the one below was not. Leather couches flanked a glass coffee table with an open bottle of Gran Duque and a marble ashtray. The air was rich with the smell of good tobacco. Four flat-screens mounted side by side showed horse races and a baseball game. He could curl up and spend the rest of his life here.

  The man in the center of the far couch had thinning hair and a newspaper in his lap, a faded Navy anchor on one thick forearm and watery dark eyes. “Ian.”

  “Mr. Katz. Thank you for seeing me.” Ian set his briefcase down, then sat and crossed his legs. “Any surprises this morning?” He hooked a thumb at the televisions.

  “One or two,” Katz said. “You.”

  His palms went slippery, but he held himself still. Show respect, but not fear. “I’ve fallen behind.”

  “It’s out of hand.”

  “I know. I appreciate your patience.”

  Katz nodded. “How’s the eye?”

  “It’ll heal.”

  “You understand my position.”

  “Of course. You were doing what you had to.”

  “I like you, Ian. You’re a good customer. But you play recklessly. You bet too much, and at the wrong time. Normally, someone gets as deep as you, it would not be just an eye.”

  “That’s what I’m here about.”

  “Good. Good.” Katz picked up his cigar and took a long puff, then blew expert rings. “A man should pay his debts.”

  “I agree.”

  “The case is for me?”

  “What?” Ian looked at it, then back up. “No, I’m sorry. You misunderstood.” Katz’s eyes narrowed, and Ian spoke quickly. “I mean, I will pay you. That’s what I’m here about. But I don’t have the money yet.”

  “No?”

  “Not yet. But I’m going to get it.”

  “When?”

  “Very soon. The day after tomorrow.”

  “How much?”

  “All of it.”

  Katz nodded warily.

  “The thing is, I need a favor first. It’s a small thing. In order to get your money, I need something from you.”

  “You want me to loan you more money for gambling, no? Hoping to win back what you owe?”

  “No. No, sir. I know better than that.”

  “A lot of foolish people think they can.” Katz rolled his cigar between his fingers. “So, then, this favor.”

  “I have a way to get the money. But I need”—Ian paused—“I need weapons.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Guns. Two or three of them. I can return them with the money,” he said, feeling foolish the moment the words were out of his mouth. The blast he’d taken before he arrived was wearing thin, his invulnerability fading. He hurried on, tongue thick in his mouth. “I mean, if you want them. They won’t have been used. Fired, I mean. But I need them to get the money from someone.”

  Katz stared at him, the old Jew’s face expressionless. He never played cards in any game Ian had heard of, but he had a hell of a poker face. Katz leaned forward and set his cigar in the ashtray.

  Suddenly, Ian felt something behind him, a force like a moving brick wall. An arm shot around his neck, and he just had time to say, “Terry, Jesus—,” before he was yanked upward, the muscles tightening around his neck, his air cut off as he was dragged backward halfway off the couch. His hands flew to the bodyguard’s unwavering arm. His legs kicked as he fought for breath, eyes bugging.

  Katz rose from the other couch. Normally a study in slowness, now the man moved in a blur. His hands went to Ian’s shirt, fingers sliding inside the fabric. He yanked open the oxford, buttons flying to bounce on the glass table.

  Ian tried to speak, couldn’t get a word out, not a breath. Spots shimmered in the corners of his eyes. Katz moved to Ian’s belt, fingers deftly undoing it, then tearing the catch of his pants and zipper. His trousers slid down his legs. Katz took hold of his underwear and jerked it down. Without any squeamishness or hesitation, he reached out to cup Ian’s testicles, his fingers dry and cool as he lifted them, felt behind.

  After a moment, he stepped back. “Who sent you?”

  The arm around his neck loosened a notch, and Ian gasped, sucking air into his lungs. He coughed, the shudders razors in his throat. “Wh-what?”

  “Who sent you? Not the police. Who?”

  “No one! No one sent me. I swear to God.” His body was shaking. His hands fought for purchase against the slab of granite encircling his neck. “What is this? Terry, let me go, what are you—”

  “You come to me asking for guns. Why?”

  “I need them to get your money. That’s all, that’s the only reason.”

  Katz stared at him. He turned, picked up his cigar, sucked in, the cherry glowing bright red. When he replied, his words were smoke. “You think I’m a fool.”

  “No! Jesus, no.” Ian felt a flushing warmth in his belly, realized he was about to piss himself, barely shut it down. What had happened, how was he in this position, hanging half-naked from the arm of a bodyguard? “I just need the guns to get what I owe you.”

  “How?”

  “There’s a guy I know. He has a lot of money, cash, in a safe.” He knew he shouldn’t say anything about the job, but the look on the old man’s face . . . “I’m going to get it from him.”

  “You’re going to rob him.”

  “Yes.”

  “You.” Katz snorted. “A degenerate, a drug addict in a suit. Who will be frightened of you?”

  “It’s . . . I won’t be alone. My friends and I, we have a plan. I’ll get your money, all of it. I swear.”

  Katz stepped forward. “These friends. Do they have the money you need?”

  Ian stared. For a second, he almost lied, anything to get free, get out of here. But where would that lead? “No.”

  “But they’ll help you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how much you owe?” Katz put one finger to his temple, tapped it. “More than thirty thousand dollars. You know what I do to people who owe that kind of money and cannot pay?”

  “Yes.”

  Katz laughed. “No. You think you do, but you don’t.” He stepped forward. Put his right hand close to Ian’s chest. The heat from the cigar a hairsbreadth away felt nice for a fraction of a second, then quickly began to burn. He wanted to struggle, but any motion might push his bare flesh against that glowing ember. He felt tears in his eyes.

  “Mr. Katz, sir, I will pay you every cent I owe. I swear I will. I swear.” He locked his eyes forward, the heat against his chest a living thing,
so close, like it wanted to burrow into him.

  “You have good friends,” Katz said, “to help you this way.” He moved his hand, the cigar tracing a burning line down Ian’s belly. “Especially since you’re not such a good friend. You know why? Because your friends, now they are part of your debt. You are not the only one who owes now.”

  “No, I . . .”

  “Shh.” Katz slid his hand down farther. The glowing ember of the cigar was a half-inch from his balls. Ian whimpered and squirmed.

  “You know what happens now?”

  “Please. Please. No.”

  Katz smiled. “No?”

  “Please.”

  “If I give you what you ask, what then?”

  “I’ll get the money. I’ll bring it straight here. I swear to God.”

  “You’ll run.”

  “I won’t.”

  “If you do, your friends . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “And if you get caught with these guns?”

  “I will never say your name. No matter what.”

  The man put his left hand against Ian’s cheek. Slapped it softly twice, like a favorite uncle. “Good. That’s good.” Then his right hand shot forward. The searing tip of the cigar bit into a testicle.

  The pain was shocking, unbearable in its suddenness. A terrible smell of scorched hair rose. Ian screamed and jerked, helpless as the ember burned deeper.

  Then the cigar was gone, and Katz turned away. “He is OK now, I think.”

  The arm around his neck vanished, and Ian collapsed onto the couch. His hands went immediately to his crotch. He stared downward. The burn was the size of a quarter, the skin peeled and furious with ash and blood. He wanted to break down and cry, to call for his mother, to just vanish.

  “Terrence. Three pistols for our friend. Make sure they’re clean.”

  Ian gasped for breath, his hands shaking. “Mr. Katz, I swear—”

  “Enough swearing. We understand each other now. Right?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Good.” The man ground the cigar in the ashtray. “My money. All of it. By Wednesday. Or”—he shrugged—“for you and your friends.” Katz bent, picked up Ian’s briefcase. He popped the latches, then Terry set something metal inside. Katz shut the case and held it out.

  With trembling hands, Ian reached for the handle. He rose slowly. His pants were pooled at his feet, and he bent to haul them upward. The motion sent fireworks of pain up his spine.

  “Now. Go.”

  Ian left.

  The stairs were a blur, nothing but a hint of color. He held his pants closed with one hand, the case in the other. At the base of the stairs, the woman behind the desk said something that he didn’t hear. He pushed past her to the vestibule and the bar. No one glanced up as he half staggered, half ran out the door into bright summer sunlight.

  On the sidewalk, he looked in all directions, wild-eyed. A Hispanic couple stared.

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Get control!

  He set down the case. The catch to his pants was broken, but his belt was still in the loops. He fastened it with fumbling hands. Pulled his shirt closed and tucked it in raggedly. Ian took a step, then the world went spinny. He grasped at the metal rim of a trash can and leaned over, acid in his throat, his mouth a desert. He fought for breath, struggling to keep from vomiting, shirt torn open, pain twisting through his belly.

  No one seemed to notice.

  CHAPTER 9

  THERE WAS ENOUGH SPACE between the oncoming traffic and the double-parked cab to drive an eighteen-wheeler, but the jerk in the Lexus laid on his horn anyway, creeping past at two miles per. Why was it, Jenn wondered, that the people with the nic est cars were the worst drivers? Was it that they fetishized them and were afraid of any little ding? Or were they people who didn’t feel all that safe to begin with, and figured an expensive car protected them somehow?

  Whatever. She hadn’t owned a car in years, and liked it fine.

  She crossed mid-block, heading east. In high school, she and her friends used to come here, Clark and Belmont, to visit the head shops and thrift stores, play at being punks in the Alley. Back then Mohawks didn’t draw a second glance, and most everyone had a biker jacket. Now it was expensive boutiques, the old army surplus rebuilt into a multistory chrome thing that belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. Nice enough, but she missed the grimy feel the area used to have. Not truly dangerous, but fit for a little wild-side walking.

  Speaking of . . .

  The thought ambushed her again. Ever since Alex had showed up at her door, full of arguments and plans, every so often the reality of what they were doing would yank the world out from under her. She’d be going through her day, talking on the phone, helping a couple plan their honeymoon, sunlight through the front windows, everything normal, and then—wham!—all of a sudden she’d remember that tomorrow night she was going to be wearing a mask and holding a gun.

  And each time it happened, a delicious shiver ran up her spine.

  It was scary, sure. But in that good way. Sometimes she didn’t want a guy to be gentle, to touch her softly and whisper in her ear. Sometimes she wanted him to shove her face-first on the mattress and slide into her hard, to have one hand yanking her hips back and the other twisted in her hair, to do it rough and fierce and primal, without all the gloss. To drive the bed across the floor and knock the books off the shelves. Maybe not the most feminist desire, but there it was.

  The thrift shop was hipster heaven, complete with retro furniture, silly gifts—who actually wanted a Jesus action figure?—and punked-out counter staff, each posing harder than the last. She checked her purse with a girl sporting a twice-pierced lip, got a laminated picture of Chuck Norris in return, and moved to the racks of clothes.

  After the dinner party, Alex had asked if she wanted to come up, and she’d almost said yes. The whole adventure had her charged, and while he was a good lover to begin with, under the circumstances, it would have been something else entirely. But in the end, she’d mumbled an excuse about needing sleep. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him; she did, on one or two levels. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. It was like she’d been sleepwalking the last years. Now that she’d been slapped awake, she didn’t intend to let that feeling go.

  Jenn picked through the racks, looking for simple, dark clothing, unremarkable, settling on faded jeans and a couple of work shirts, the stitching worn. The shoe selection was limited, but it was easier buying footwear that purposefully wasn’t supposed to fit.

  Mitch had surprised her that night, coming up with good ideas, practical points they hadn’t thought of. Not only that, but he’d pushed back against Alex, told him to fuck off. She wasn’t one of those women turned on by chest beating, but it was good to see him stand up for himself.

  Of course, he’s doing this for you.

  Not true, she argued with herself. Well, maybe a little bit true, but it wasn’t like she had asked him to, had batted her eyes or put on a simpering voice. She’d even told him it was all right if he didn’t want to go along, and she’d meant it.

  Still.

  Well, OK, so what? Certainly was a contrast to what she’d grown accustomed to, the emotional distance so many men cultivated. Alex was a good guy, but he’d gone out of his way to make sure they stayed a secret. It was kind of nice to have someone not just wanting her, but also doing something for her. Risking himself. Another feminist paradox—the last thing she was after was a man who didn’t respect her strength, but what woman didn’t secretly relish knowing a guy would stand up if called on?

  Enough. First things first. Once they were done with Johnny Love, once life had settled into a new version of normal, there would be plenty of time to think about Alex and Mitch. Or not. Meanwhile, she had to find a place that sold ski masks in the middle of summer.

  The tingle hit again. She smiled.

  THE YMCA SPEAKERS were playing dance crap, but Alex had headphones on the Hold Steady singing
how some nights the painkillers made the pain even worse. He leaned back on the bench, hands behind to catch the bar. He pressed it firm and smooth off the cradle and started his third set, the grip rough against his hands, timing each move to his breath, down slow, up smooth, no wavering or wobbling. The first ten were easy, the second ten a strain. He thought of the phone call from Trish, of her new husband moving to Arizona. And what was he supposed to do? Hang out here in a shitty apartment? Move to the desert, trailing after his ex-wife and her new husband like a puppy? Give up his daughter?

  No. Lift. Goddamn. Lower. Way. Lift.

  Working out calmed him, burned off the stress. He was in the mood to hit it hard, tear all his muscles and wake up with that good, deep ache, but tomorrow night was too important to be slow or hurting. He limited himself to another half hour, then showered and walked home through summer streets.

  “Alex.”

  The voice came from the darkness behind him, and he spun, the gym bag slipping from his shoulder. Squinted. “Mitch?”

  The man stepped away from the tree he’d been leaning against. “We need to talk.”

  “Jesus, you scared me.” He bent for the bag. “Come on up.”

  “No.” There was something unfamiliar in his tone. “I’m not staying. You and me, we have to clear something up. I know what you’ve been doing.”

  “Huh?”

  “With Jenn.”

  Shit. He thought they’d been careful, had kept it from everyone. Not that it mattered, exactly, but it had just seemed simpler to not make an issue of it. Jenn might fool herself, but he could see the size of the torch Mitch carried. The kid went all fifth-grade anytime she blinked.

  Still, why bring it up now? Unless . . . double shit. If Mitch knew about him and Jenn, he might back out of tomorrow night. If he did, the others might too. The whole thing could fall apart. “Listen—”

  “No, you listen. I know you think you’re the big man, our fearless leader, but that’s bullshit. And I’m tired of you treating me like I don’t exist.”