The Smack

by RICHARD LANGE

“Fuck you. I’ve made you plenty of money.”

  “There’s no such thing as plenty of money, and you’re a perfect example. I don’t ever want to be scrabbling for handouts like you are.”

  Scrabbling for handouts. That’s how the dude saw him. That’s how everybody saw him. Petty felt sick.

  “I told you to watch your tone,” he said.

  “You don’t like it, hit the road,” Avi said.

  “I’m taking today off,” Petty said.

  “You don’t even hear me, do you?”

  “The whole town can hear you. I’m just not listening.”

  “Yeah? Well, hear this: if tomorrow you don’t send me five leads that pan out, you’re done. And what I mean is, each lead better be good for at least five grand.”

  “I don’t have any control over that. You’re the one who does the squeezing.”

  “Tough!” Avi yelled. “Tough! Five fish worth five grand or find another charity.”

  Avi wasn’t going to back down, he wasn’t made that way, so Petty decided to drop the matter for now, before his own head exploded.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “Yeah, you’ve got to go,” Avi said. “You’ve got to go work that fucking phone.”

  The connection went dead. Petty found himself standing at the counter, the girl behind it giving him a strange look.

  “What?” he said to her.

  “Can I help you?” she asked for the third time.

  “Two large coffees,” he said. “And what else do you have? Doughnuts?”

  It was clear to him now: the time had come to make a move. A big move. He’d been working the same old scams for twenty years, and the same old scams weren’t getting him anywhere. And a fuckhead like Avi talking to him that way? Unacceptable. Unacceptable. Two seconds later he was on the phone again, waving the counter girl quiet when she asked about here or to go.

  Tinafey was still asleep when he got back to the room, and it looked like she hadn’t stirred the whole time he’d been gone. Gathering some clothes, he tiptoed into the bathroom to change.

  He stared at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Guys he knew had broken overnight, gone from looking thirty to looking fifty so quickly that you wondered if they were sick. But he was hanging in there. And really, it wasn’t your appearance that mattered most anyhow. He’d heard that people age in two ways, physically and mentally, and mentally he was still firing on all cylinders. Okay, maybe not this morning, with the hangover and all, but most days, bro, you better keep one hand on your wallet and the other on your wife, because he could talk his way into both.

  It struck him that he was giving himself a pep talk, and he turned away from his reflection, ashamed of his insecurity. Pathetic.

  Tinafey rolled over and squinted at him when he walked back into the room. Petty was glad to see that the swelling around her eye, from Bo elbowing her, had gone down.

  “There’s coffee if you want it,” he said. “I can heat it in the microwave.”

  She yawned and scratched her head. Her real hair was cut short, close to the scalp. “What time is it?” she said.

  “Eight,” he said.

  “And you’re up already?”

  “I have a meeting.”

  “When?”

  “In half an hour. I’m picking my car up from the shop on the way. When I get back, we’ll go to breakfast, and I’ll drive you to the other hotel.”

  Tinafey sat up but kept herself covered with the sheet. “Can I take a shower before I go?” she said.

  “Sure,” Petty said.

  “Ain’t you sweet,” Tinafey said. “Go ahead and gimme that coffee. I don’t mind it cold.”

  Petty handed her the cup. “You know what?” he said. “You’re as pretty now as you were last night.”

  “Ha!”

  “Seriously.”

  Tinafey shook her head. She popped the lid off the coffee and took a sip. “You mind openin’ the curtains?”

  Petty walked over and drew them aside, and the room was flooded with pearly light. Outside, a thin veil of clouds scrimmed a bright blue sky, and the sun gleamed off the new snow blanketing the hills.

  “I have to go,” Petty said.

  “Come here,” Tinafey said. She pulled him down and kissed him on the lips. “For luck,” she said.

  “What makes you think I need luck?” Petty said.

  “Everybody needs luck,” Tinafey said.

  Petty couldn’t argue with that.

  He took a cab to the garage that was putting a new alternator in his Mercedes, a silver 2010 E550. He’d bought the car brand new from a Russian “broker” for half sticker price, paid cash and hadn’t asked any questions. There was now a dent in the passenger-side door and a small tear in the leather of the backseat, but the car had run fine until it died the other day. The repair cost him a grand, so he was down to four thousand in cash and a few thousand left on his credit cards.

  The Starbucks on 5th looked like every other Starbucks in the world. That’s why people liked them, Petty figured. No surprises. A couple of smokers braved the cold to sit on the patio out front, while inside the usual contingent of laptoppers pecked away at whatever it was they were always pecking away at. Don had staked out a table in the corner. A newspaper was spread out before him, and he squinted at it through a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He wore another Tommy Bahama shirt and the same awful down jacket and sneakers.

  “There he is,” he said when Petty walked in, betraying his excitement by standing and extending his hand. Petty shook it, and the two men sat across from each other.

  “Beautiful morning, huh?” Don said.

  “Better than yesterday,” Petty said.

  “You want coffee?”

  “I’m good.”

  Petty gestured at the newspaper. “What’s happening in the world?”

  “This?” Don said “This is just the local rag. I only read it for the crime roundup. Last week a real genius got caught in a chimney trying to rob a house. You read a paper?”

  “Nah,” Petty said. “I don’t have time.”

  “Me, I have to have my coffee in the morning, and I have to have my newspaper,” Don said. “That’s what made you a grownup when I was a kid.”

  Petty cocked an ear to the speaker in the ceiling. Someone was singing “Jingle Bell Rock.” The day after Thanksgiving, and the bullying had already begun. Christmas is coming, dumbshits. Spend, spend, spend.

  “So you didn’t sleep too well last night,” Don said.

  “What are you talking about?” Petty replied sharply. How did the old man know anything about last night?

  “You called so early, I figure you must have had that two million on your mind,” Don said.

  Petty relaxed. “I admit I’ve been thinking about it,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “But I’m gonna need a lot more information before I consider going any farther.”

  “Truthfully,” Don said, “I’ve told you everything I’m willing to without a deal in place.”

  “It’s not enough,” Petty said. “I need more.”

  Don took off his glasses and narrowed his eyes. “Like what?” he said.

  “Like where are we talking about?” Petty said. “Is the money in New York? In Chicago? In fucking—where was it, North Carolina?”

  “L.A.,” Don said. “It’s in L.A.”

  Where Sam was living now. Huh. Petty pushed this thought out of his head, didn’t need it influencing him.

  “And what else do you have?” he said to Don. “What specifics?”

  “I’ve got the name of the guy holding the money and where he’s living.”

  “Which you got from a junkie you met in prison.”

  “Which I bought from a junkie I met in prison.”

  “What’d you pay him?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “A hundred dollars? Fifty? A couple packs of Top Ramen?”

 
; Don stuck his glasses in his shirt pocket and folded his newspaper. “What’s it matter?” he said.

  “It matters because you need to know what a thing is worth,” Petty said.

  “It’s worth ten grand up front and ten percent of the take,” Don said.

  “What?”

  “That’s my cut. Ten grand and ten percent.”

  “There’s no way I’m giving you ten grand up front. If I had ten grand, I wouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  “That’s the price.”

  “It’s not gonna happen, so come up with something else.”

  Don paused and picked at the lip of his paper cup. “Make me an offer,” he said.

  Petty wanted to smile. When someone said, “Make me an offer,” you’d won. But his next move needed to be a bold one to ensure this. He took out his wallet and slid two dollar bills from it. “You know what a symbol is?” he asked Don.

  “Of course,” Don said. “Something that stands for something else.”

  “So this,” Petty said, holding up the bills, “is symbolic payment to you for your information regarding the money. Two dollars against two hundred thousand.” He set the money on the table.

  Don snorted his disgust. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to,” he said.

  “You asked me to make an offer, and that’s what I’m doing,” Petty said. “This”—he tapped the ones—“is all I’m willing to lay out in advance for what is, basically, a piece of prison-yard gossip. At the same time, I’m prepared to invest my own time and money going to L.A. to see if there’s anything to your junkie’s story. If I find the guy whose name you’re gonna give me and the safe and the money and all that, and if I can figure out a way to get my hands on it, this”—he tapped the bills again—“is your guarantee of ten percent.”

  Don sank back into his chair. He gave Petty a wry smile. “That’s a new one on me,” he said.

  “It’s not a hustle, Don. I’m serious.”

  “You’re gonna go down there, scope things out, get the money, and give me my cut?”

  “That’s the deal,” Petty said. He knew his word was enough for Don. They were both honest men when honesty was required.

  Don drummed his fingertips, then picked up the money and stuck it in his pocket. Another song was playing now—“Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

  “This junkie,” Petty said. “Is he gonna run his mouth to anyone else?”

  “Not likely,” Don said. “A week after they let me out, he got stabbed over a dope deal.”

  “Good,” Petty said. It came out harsher than he meant it to, but maybe now was the time to be a little harsh.

  Don sipped his coffee. “Did I ever tell you about the first con I ever ran?” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” Petty said.

  “I learned it from an old-time grifter. He called it the Smack. This Mexican I palled around with, Rudy Rodeo, and I used to pull it in the bars in El Paso and Juárez after I got back from Vietnam. How it went was, I’d strike up a conversation with some good ol’ boy on a bender, some hick from the sticks, and get him talking about his army days or baseball or what a big shot he was back in Mayberry. ‘Let me buy you a beer,’ I’d say. ‘Let me buy you one,’ he’d say. We’d smoke a joint, blow some coke, and pretty soon we were the best of friends.

  “Right about then Rudy’d show up, acting like a drunk spic. He’d muscle his way into the conversation, being as obnoxious as possible, flashing a roll and saying he’d sold a car and was gonna spend all the money he made off it fucking white women. He’d go on and on about them swallowing and taking it up the ass and loving Mexican cock until that good ol’ boy was seeing red.

  “That’s when I’d suggest a game of coin matching. Nothing heavy, all in fun. We’d each put a quarter on the bar faceup or facedown and cover it with our hands. On the count of three, we’d reveal the coins. The player with the odd coin won, meaning if two of us had heads, for example, the guy who had tails took all three quarters. If all the quarters were set the same, the round was a push.

  “This’d go on for a while, everyone winning some and losing some, then Rudy’d go to the pisser. While he was gone, I’d say to the good ol’ boy, ‘Let’s teach this taco bender a lesson. You set your quarter to heads every time, I’ll set mine to tails, and that way one of us’ll always win. We’ll split the take down the middle after the Mex leaves.’

  “The game’d start up again when Rudy came back. After he lost four or five times in a row, he’d get frustrated. He’d say if we were real men, we should play for real money. How about five dollars a pop? The good ol’ boy and I would hem and haw, but of course we eventually agreed. Rudy would lose a few more rounds and get really irate. ‘Fuck this fucking kid stuff,’ he’d say and drop his whole roll on the bar. One last round, he’d say, all or nothing, with him matching whatever bets we put up.

  “I always had five hundred dollars that I’d say my rich uncle had just sent me for my birthday, and the good ol’ boy, expecting to win, would go into his boot for his bank or run out to cash a check. We’d all lay down our bets—the most ever was a thousand bucks each—and show our coins. Of course either the good ol’ boy or I would win, and Rudy would put on a real show, spitting and cussing and swearing the devil was on our side before finally stomping out of the bar.

  “Then came the blowoff. I’d tell the good ol’ boy we were getting funny looks from the other customers and get him to pass me his winnings. I’d put his money together with mine in an envelope, which I’d lick and seal right there in front of him. The deal was we’d go somewhere private to chop it up. ‘And you can hold the money until we get there,’ I’d say. As I was handing him the envelope, though, I’d spot a cop and shove it in my own pocket. After a minute or so I’d say, ‘Wow, I was wrong. That dude isn’t a cop,’ and I’d give the good ol’ boy another envelope, this one filled with newspaper. ‘Wait here while I take a piss,’ I’d say, and I’d slip out the back door with all the money and Rudy’d be waiting to drive me away.”

  Don slapped the table and laughed out loud when he finished the story.

  “Can you believe I was ever that crazy?” he said. “I’m telling you, the rush we got, even if the score was just fifty bucks, man! And, in our minds, those lames needed to be taken off. We were teaching them a lesson.”

  “You can’t cheat an honest man,” Petty said.

  “Oh, fuck that,” Don said. “I can cheat anybody.”

  A woman came in with a parrot on her shoulder. Don asked the woman the bird’s name and stood to pet it. The bird squawked, and Don pulled back in mock terror. Petty checked his watch. A schedule for the next couple of days was coming together in his head. He had a plan of his own now, a direction, a destination. It felt good.

  “So,” he said to Don. “The name? The address?”

  5

  THE CLOUDS HAD CLEARED BY THE TIME PETTY GOT BACK TO the Sands, and the sky arched overhead like a flawless blue dome, at the apex of which hung the weak winter sun, doing its best to burn away the previous night’s snow. Petty didn’t even bother to zip his coat for the walk across the parking lot. He dodged all the puddles rippling in the breeze, little mirrors that showed the cars, the casino, even a passing flock of birds.

  Tinafey, freshly showered and in full makeup, was sitting on the edge of the bed watching QVC when he came in. She wore her blond wig, a pair of skintight jeans, and a sleeveless Rihanna concert T-shirt. The room smelled of soap and perfume and, again, pungent weed.

  “Welcome, Barb from Kentucky,” the saleswoman on TV crowed.

  Tinafey stood to greet Petty. He noticed that her bags were already packed.

  “Time for breakfast,” he said.

  “Scrambled eggs,” she said. “Burnt bacon, biscuits, and gravy.”

  “You are from Memphis,” he said.

  Watching her put on her high heels turned him on all over again. In fact, every move she made got his blood going. He had to reach down
and adjust his hard-on so it didn’t show. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that fired up by a woman.

  They went down to the diner and took a booth that looked out onto the parking lot. Their waitress, a sixty-year-old dressed as a carhop, chewed her gum in time to the Buddy Holly song playing on the sound system.

  “And what about you, handsome?” she said to Petty after taking Tinafey’s order. He usually went light on breakfast—coffee and toast—but today he was ravenous. He asked for the Wolfman Jack, a coronary on a plate: pancakes, eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, and hash browns.

  He caught Tinafey smiling at a little girl in a high chair pulled up to a booth near the entrance, a little black girl with her hair in braids. The girl’s mother spooned oatmeal into her mouth while her father made gobble-gobble noises to encourage her to eat.

  “She’s cute,” Petty said.

  “Sure is,” Tinafey said. She reached across the table and tickled the back of Petty’s hand with a long red fingernail. “You got kids?”

  “A daughter,” Petty said. “She just turned twenty-one.”

  “You guys close?”

  Nah, I managed to fuck that up, too, was the first answer that came to mind, but “Not really” is what Petty ended up saying. “I haven’t talked to her in years. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “Well, you’re the daddy, so you got to make the first move to fix that,” Tinafey said.

  “Is that right?”

  “Of course it is. Children don’t bear the blame for anything. They didn’t ask to be born.”

  “What about you?” Petty said.

  “Me what?” Tinafey said.

  “Do you have kids?”

  “I can’t,” Tinafey said. “Something with my ovaries. But it’s just as well. I don’t think I’d have the patience.” She sorted through the condiment bottles corralled at the end of the table. “They must have Tabasco,” she said. “Everybody’s got Tabasco.”

  Petty turned his coffee cup around so he could get at the handle. The last time he saw Sam she was fourteen. She’d been living with his mother for five years at that point. Their weekly phone calls had degenerated into him asking questions and her mumbling one-word answers, so he detoured through Tampa on his way to Miami and paid her a surprise visit. He did all the talking over burgers and cherry slushes at Sonic while she picked at her flip-flops and made faces into the mirror of a hot-pink compact. Every year since Carrie had run off, the two of them had taken a summer trip together, and that year he was looking at Cancún. What did she think of that? he asked her.