The Smack

by RICHARD LANGE

  “Back to the bed,” Diaz said. “Facedown with your arms out.”

  “You gonna kill me?” the girl said.

  “All I want is my money,” Diaz said.

  He waited until the girl had stretched out on the rumpled sheets to grab the cash in the safe. It was nothing, half a ten-thousand-dollar bundle.

  “Where’s the rest?” he said to the girl.

  “That’s all there is,” she replied.

  “Bullshit!” Diaz said. He whirled around the room, opening drawers and emptying suitcases onto the floor, but uncovered no more money. He stood over the girl and pressed the gun to the base of her spine.

  “I’ll put the first round here,” he said. “You’ll suffer.”

  “That’s all the money I know about,” the girl said.

  “There’s more,” Diaz said. “Lots more.”

  “Rowan must have put it somewhere, then.”

  “Where’s Rowan now?”

  “I don’t know. I was sleepin’ when he left.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Whether she was lying or telling the truth, Diaz had to make a decision. He could sit tight until Rowan returned, or he could force the guy to come to him. He looked around the room. It was no place for a showdown. No cover, paper-thin walls, too many witnesses.

  “Put some clothes on,” he said to the girl.

  He kept the gun on her while she pulled on a pair of jeans and slipped her feet into flip-flops. Then, taking a length of rope he’d scrounged up in his dad’s garage from the pocket of his jacket, he had her put her hands together. She didn’t struggle as he wrapped the rope around her wrists.

  “Where’s your coat?” he said. “You got a coat?”

  “On the chair,” she said.

  He picked up the pink hoodie lying there and draped it over her hands.

  “And your phone?”

  “Charging by the sink.”

  He took it and the charger and put them in his pocket.

  “We’re gonna walk out of here like best friends,” he said. “If you play along, you got nothing to worry about. If you make trouble…” He put the gun to the back of her head.

  “I ain’t gonna make trouble,” the girl said.

  Diaz peeked between the curtains before opening the door. He threw his arm around the girl’s neck and guided her down the stairs. His other hand was in the pocket of his jacket, tapping the barrel of the gun against her hip. Once they were out of the motel’s parking lot, he steered her up the sidewalk toward his car. She came along easily, but he could feel her trembling. Good. He wanted her scared.

  A lunatic dressed in rags was swinging a golf club against a light pole again and again, like a man doing a job. The crack, crack, crack of it jabbed at Diaz like a dentist’s probe, every impact making him twitch. Before he could stop himself, he yelled at the guy, “Cut that shit out.”

  “Fuck you!” the guy yelled back and kept right on swinging.

  28

  TINAFEY WOKE UP CRAVING PANCAKES. PETTY WENT OUT TO McDonald’s to get her some. The line for the drive-through stretched down the block, so he parked and walked inside. While waiting to order he flipped through the credit cards in his wallet, trying to recall which ones had enough space to accommodate the cost of a room at the Marriott. He smiled to think that he wouldn’t have to worry about things like this anymore after making deposits into a couple of his accounts.

  Mexican families filled the tables in the dining room. On his way out Petty stepped over two kids playing on the floor and almost tripped on a toy car. It was a damp, cold morning, and the upper floors of the downtown office buildings disappeared into the milky sky that hung low over the city. Petty had to wait for yet another family to pile out of a minivan before he could get into his car. He had just set the pancakes on the passenger seat and slid his coffee into the holder in the center console when his phone rang. It was Tinafey calling.

  “Hey, baby,” he said.

  “Listen up, motherfucker,” a man’s voice growled. “I want my money back, all of it.”

  Petty froze, heart, lungs, brain. He felt like he was folding in on himself.

  “Who’s this?” he said.

  “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” the man said. “I’ve got your girlfriend, and I’ll put a bullet in her head if you don’t do exactly what I tell you. That’s who this is.”

  “Let me talk to her,” Petty said.

  There was a rustle on the other end, then Tinafey said, “He busted in right after you left.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t worry about anything.”

  “That’s what I told her.” It was the guy again. “I said, ‘Your boyfriend isn’t gonna let you die.’ She didn’t look like she believed me, though.”

  Petty closed his eyes and concentrated. “I’m gonna give you the money, no problem, so why don’t you let her go?” he said.

  “You think I’m stupid?” the guy said.

  “No,” Petty said. “I think this is between you and me. Cut the girl loose, and we’ll go get the money together. I’ll meet you wherever you want.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” the guy said. “How it’s gonna go is, you’re gonna get the money yourself and wait for me to call. Understand?”

  “Is this Mando, Tony’s cousin?”

  “It’s whoever you want it to be. Just do what I say.”

  The tire shop across the street had one of those inflatable dancing tube men out front, bright green. Petty watched it flail and tried not to think of Tinafey anxious, Tinafey frightened, Tinafey with a gun on her.

  “I’ll get the money,” he said.

  “There you go,” the guy said.

  “It’ll take me an hour or so.”

  “That’s fine, as long as there’s no funny shit. It’d be no big thing for me to wax this bitch and leave her in a dumpster. No big thing at all.”

  “There won’t be any funny shit.”

  “Good,” the guy said and ended the call.

  Petty dropped his phone. He rocked in his seat, faster and faster, then exploded, hammering the dash with his fist. He was panting when he finally ran out of steam. He felt like he’d been kicked in the chest, like all his ribs had been broken.

  Crazy schemes flitted through his head, but all of them would have put Tinafey in more danger. The job had been jinxed from the start. He’d been making things up as he went along, squeaking by on dumb luck, and now the whole jerry-rigged mess had come tumbling down around his ears.

  He drove to the storage facility in a daze, nearly ran a red light. The girl behind the counter in the lobby let him borrow a cart, and he pushed it into the elevator and rode up to the fourth floor. He was alone in the corridor, and it felt like a tomb. The stillness, the heavy silence. The cart had a sticky wheel and kept wanting to veer left. Petty wrestled it to the locker.

  He took one last look at the money after opening the door. The plan he’d had for it seemed ridiculous now. He’d been fooling himself to think he could take care of Sam. He couldn’t even take care of himself. One by one he lifted out the cash: the bags from the lake, the bags that had been hidden in Tony’s uncle’s garage, the box containing the money from the piñatas. He piled them all onto the cart and slammed the locker shut. The sound echoed in the corridor like a gunshot.

  Downstairs, he hesitated in the lobby. Now that Tinafey’s life depended on the money, he was nervous about wheeling it down the street. He waited until the sidewalk cleared for a block in both directions before pushing the cart out to the Mercedes. He popped the trunk and quickly transferred the cash, not relaxing until it was locked up again.

  Back behind the wheel, he couldn’t think of what to do next. His hand hurt from pounding the dash, and he wondered if he’d busted something. He reached for the coffee in the console. It had gone cold, but he gulped some anyway. He opened the pancakes, smeared syrup on them, and managed t
o get one down. A fire truck came screaming past so close that it rocked the car. He decided it was smarter to keep moving than to sit in one place.

  He drove aimlessly around MacArthur Park, Lafayette Park, Koreatown. West on Wilshire to Vermont, east on 6th to Alvarado. He couldn’t follow the news on the radio, kept losing the thread of the stories, so he hit Scan and cycled through the stations twice before stopping on one playing classical music. It turned out to be Christmas songs, though. Fuck that. He shut off the radio and drank the rest of the coffee.

  Without really meaning to, he ended up in front of the City Center Motel. He cruised past once, eyeing his and Tinafey’s room, then made a U-turn at the next intersection, came back, and pulled into the parking lot. He was fairly certain the guy holding Tinafey was long gone but exercised caution just the same. He kept both hands visible as he slid out of the car and walked slowly to the stairs. At the bottom he paused and called out “Hello?” and got no response. He called again at the door, knocked, and again nothing.

  He inserted the key card into the lock and pushed the door open when the light turned green. The room was empty. This was a disappointment. He’d half hoped to find Tinafey waiting for him. The room looked like it had been thoroughly searched. Empty drawers gaped at him, and Tinafey’s bags had been dumped onto the floor. Petty stepped over piles of clothes and went to the safe. The cash it had held was gone.

  He checked his phone. No call yet. He decided to move the money from the car into the room, thinking it’d be safer. It took him three trips to carry it all up. He slid the box and bags under the bed and rearranged the spread to cover them.

  He turned on the TV and put on a poker tournament, tried to lose himself in the ebb and flow of cards shuffled and dealt, folded and mucked. One thought kept getting in the way—that he should visit Sam before things went any further. With so much dirty money changing hands, a hundred things could go wrong, the worst of which would mean he’d never see her again. His plan to pay her medical bills having turned to shit, the least he could do was say good-bye in case he disappeared forever.

  He needed a shower, but a clean shirt and deodorant would have to do. He made sure the DO NOT DISTURB sign was hanging on the doorknob and checked the lock three times before leaving the room. Downstairs in the office, he paid the Indian guy who managed the motel for another night, not knowing if he’d be back before checkout at noon. The manager offered him a deal if he’d pony up for two more nights in advance, but Petty said no. One way or another, he’d be out of this dump today.

  It was ten thirty when he got to the hospital. The elevator doors opened on Sam’s floor, and Petty was shocked to see her standing there in the corridor.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “Walking,” Sam said. “The doctor wants me on my feet.”

  Sam was accompanied by a tiny Filipina orderly whose main function was to push the IV pole and keep the tube that ran from the bag to Sam’s arm free of kinks.

  “Is this normal after one of these surgeries?” Petty asked the orderly.

  “Sure, very normal,” the orderly said.

  “Take it easy,” Petty said to Sam. “Baby steps.”

  He walked with them as they did another lap around the floor.

  “Has the doctor been by?” he asked Sam.

  “Not yet,” Sam said.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better than before. I’d been having headaches for the last month, like so bad they made me cry.”

  “And you didn’t get a checkup?”

  “I thought it was hangovers.”

  Petty made a sour face, and Sam grinned. “I’m fucking with you,” she said.

  When they got back to the room, Petty checked his phone again while the orderly helped Sam into bed. He’d told the guy he’d need an hour to pick up the money, and that was two hours ago. He wondered if he ought to call Tinafey’s phone and let it be known he was ready to make the exchange instead of waiting to hear something.

  “Hey,” Sam said. Her exclamation brought Petty back to the room, back to the moment. She held out her phone. “Someone wants to say hi.”

  Petty took the phone and looked at the screen, at a photo of Sherman lying on his back in a pile of wrapping paper.

  “Jessica says he misses me,” Sam said.

  “You’ll be home soon,” Petty said.

  He handed the phone back, and Sam scrolled in search of other photos of Sherman. She showed him a few more, and he did his best to appear interested. The cat drinking from a faucet, the cat staring out a window. Sam suddenly remembered something. “I need you to do me a favor,” she said, and asked Petty to pass her her bag. She pulled a black Sharpie out of it.

  “Draw an eye on my bandage,” she said.

  “A what?” Petty said.

  “An eye. A third eye. Like the third-eye chakra.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Petty said.

  Sam showed him a picture on her phone, a painting of a bald guy with a glowing eye in the middle of his forehead. “It’s a Hindu thing,” she said.

  “You better get someone else,” Petty said. “I can’t draw for shit.”

  “It’s easy,” Sam said. “An eye. You can do it.”

  Petty reluctantly did as she’d requested, inking a very basic eye onto the dressing covering her head.

  “That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” he said when he finished.

  Sam used her phone’s camera to check his work. “Awesome,” she said. She lifted her arm so that her tattoo, VERITAS, was also in the shot and took a selfie.

  “The nurses are gonna freak,” Petty said.

  “They’ll think I can read their minds,” Sam said.

  Carrie entered the room carrying a white paper bag and a Starbucks cup.

  “Read whose mind?” she said.

  Sam turned to face her. “Repeat after me,” she said in a deep, portentous voice. “I envision and create beauty and goodness in everything I do.”

  “That’s creepy,” Carrie said, noticing the eye. “Why do you want to be creepy?”

  Sam laughed and took another photo of herself.

  “I brought doughnuts,” Carrie said. She set the bag on the bedside table. “You can have one, too,” she said to Petty.

  “I’m on my way out,” Petty said.

  “Take it with you.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Petty stepped to the bed to say good-bye to Sam. He’d prepared a short speech, something she’d maybe remember if this turned out to be the last time they saw each other, but now, with Carrie there, he lost his nerve.

  “See you later,” he said.

  “Okay,” Sam said.

  “Call me if you hear anything.”

  “I will.”

  Petty touched Sam’s shoulder, made sure she was paying attention. “I’m so proud of how you’re handling this,” he said, barely getting it out.

  “What’s wrong?” Sam said.

  “Nothing,” Petty said. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

  He turned and left the room without saying good-bye to Carrie. Everything was going to be fine, he told himself. He’d meet the guy, give him the money, get Tinafey back, and return to the hospital and good news about the tumor. Everything was going to be fine.

  “Rowan!”

  Carrie had followed him out and was trailing after him as he hurried to the elevator. He stopped and waited for her to catch up.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “I’m fine,” he replied.

  “No, you’re not,” she said. “I was married to you for almost ten years. I can tell when you’re lying.”

  They’d been a good team in the beginning, the two of them against the world. Petty had liked that feeling, had enjoyed having a partner, but his contentment made him careless. He’d let his guard down, and to this day he was still ashamed to say that he never saw her betrayal coming, that it knocked the wind out of him and took him to his knees. He’
d never forgive her for that, but he also couldn’t help recalling the good times, both of them so young there for a minute, so happy, so one.

  “I’m up against something,” he said.

  “What?” Carrie said.

  “Let’s just say I bit off more than I could chew.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  They moved aside to let a gurney pass. The old man strapped to it grimaced at the ceiling, showing yellow horse teeth.

  “Almost there, boss,” the orderly pushing him along said.

  Carrie grimaced, too, then said to Petty, “You’ll work it out.”

  “Sure,” Petty said. “But if I don’t, promise me you’ll see Sam through this.”

  “Stop being dramatic.”

  “I mean it. You have to stay with her as long as she needs you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

  “And don’t bad-mouth me too much. I’m already on thin ice.”

  “Please,” Carrie said. “I’m the one she’s barely tolerating.”

  “So work your magic,” Petty said. “You used to be able to convince anybody of anything.”

  “I know,” Carrie said. “But something changed. Now I have a hard time even convincing myself.”

  Petty believed this was the first true thing that had come out of her mouth since she’d shown up in L.A.

  “You make me nervous, talking like that,” he said. “Next thing you know, you’ll get religion.”

  “Fuck that,” Carrie said.

  “There. That’s the Carrie I remember.”

  “Lil’ Evil, right?” Carrie said. Lil’ Evil was a nickname Petty had given her back in Jersey, something he got from a gang tag he saw on a wall.

  “Lil’ Motherfuckin’ Evil,” he said.

  He pushed the call button for the elevator.

  “I hope everything works out for you,” Carrie said.

  “Me, too,” Petty said.

  “And if it doesn’t, it’s been nice knowing you.”

  “Tell Hug to fuck off for me.”

  “I will.”