by Mark Pryor
I killed the engine. “I wasn't planning on taking my gun, don't worry. Don't make this into more than it is, just five minutes of taking someone's car and we're done.”
“And their money,” Tristan grinned.
“Yeah, that is the point,” I agreed.
“Is there a risk of getting stopped by the cops on the way home? Have you checked the route back?”
“Yeah, of course. Plus,” I said, “I have a badge. I've been stopped three times for speeding, and as soon as cops see the badge, they pat the top of the car and wish me a happy day.”
“That's good. Awesome even.” He sat back and furrowed his brow. “One other thing. I don't know the guy at all, but you're sure Gus won't be a problem?”
“A problem how?”
“Do you think he'll change his mind and want to do it?”
“No. And I have no desire to take all that risk to split the money three ways. At some point, it becomes not worth it, and for me, that's splitting it three ways. Even if he wants back in, it's not happening.”
“Cool. What about afterward?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think he'll hear about it and, you know, want a piece of the action?”
“Blackmail?”
“I guess.”
“No. I can absolutely, definitively, tell you he won't do that. And,” I added cheerily, “if he does, then I have my little friend Mr. Colt in there, don't I?”
He shot me that look again, the one that told me he didn't know whether I was serious or kidding. I was pretty sure I was kidding.
“So when are you thinking this happens?” Tristan asked.
“I have the camera in place and I know what his route is. Next week is the end of the month and, according to the trusty Internet, it'll be dark by ten p.m. Which is also when he'll be there for his last collection.”
“Next week?”
“Yep.” I smiled. “Any reason why not?”
I wanted to practice. I couldn't do a run-through of the theft itself. It had too many moving parts and was also a matter of planning, not practice. No, I wanted to test myself so I'd know how it felt to be a criminal. After so many years resisting that very temptation, I needed to break the seal, give up my virginity, phrase it how you will.
Or maybe that's what I told myself so that I could break into the pub and find out who'd screwed me over.
The Monday before the theft, I played it safe and made a trip to the suburbs to buy a black hoodie and a pair of gloves. I thought about getting a balaclava, but I wasn't planning on being seen, and somehow it felt too theatrical, too silly.
The Norman Pub was closed Monday nights, like a lot of clubs in Austin, which left a good number of people strolling the sidewalks, looking for a piece of music to listen to or a drink to buy. And wandering people meant more cover for me.
By 8 p.m., dusk had settled over the city, in that perfect-crime light that makes strangers hard to see but not yet suspicious. I parked two side streets away and ambled casually toward the pub. It was still baking hot, so I held my hoodie in one hand, sweat prickling my forearms. I cut down an alley that ran behind the pizza place and the pub. It was a dead-end alley, no use for anything but drug deals and paid-for hookups, and as long as I got there first, its users would about-face the moment they saw me. The rancid smell of rotting food coming from the three garbage cans was also encouraging, repellent to even the most desperate drug or sex addicts.
I'd been to the pub the night before and left a window to the bathroom unlocked. Not the most sophisticated entry technique, but it was predicated on the assumption that by closing time Marley Jensen would be drunk and make no more than a cursory check of the restrooms. Standing by the window, I pulled the gloves from the pocket of my hoodie, but they were new and stiff, and when I put my hand to the glass and pulled on the lip of the frame, I couldn't get any real purchase. I took the gloves off and levered the tips of my fingers under the edge and pulled once, twice. My assumption had been wrong.
Even unsophisticated plans need a backup, and this one involved a small rock and a fervent hope that it sounded louder to me than anyone else who might be around. I listened for a moment as I pulled my gloves back on, then reached through the broken pane and unlatched the window. All seemed quiet inside and out, so I hoisted myself up and wriggled into one of the grimiest and most graffiti-infested bathrooms in South Austin. Its darkness felt like a sanctuary.
I crouched on the floor and waited for my eyes to adjust. I had a flashlight in my pocket, but I wanted to operate without it as far as possible, as nothing screamed “intruder” quite like a small light bobbing around inside a closed premises.
After a minute, I moved to the bathroom door and peered down the hallway. At the far end was Marley's office. The door to it was closed, but a weak, yellow light bled into the corridor, and it somehow irked me that he'd locked the bathroom window but left his office light on. I wasn't worried about him being there, though; his car hadn't been out front when I drove past, and Monday nights he drank in his buddy's bar on Sixth Street.
I crept down the hallway, my eyes glued to the office door, my ears alert for any sound. The place smelled musty, the stale beer and unwashed carpet odor that all pubs had, a smell that made me a little queasy at the best of times. Which this obviously wasn't.
I reached Marley's office and listened at the door. No sound, so I turned the knob and pushed it open. A banker's lamp spilled light onto the desk, but I saw no other signs of life. Time pressed in, its edges sharpened by the fact that I didn't really know what I was looking for. Maybe an e-mail chain on his computer or perhaps a couple of CDs bearing my name and the name of the lying bastard about to endure a campaign of harassment.
Marley's desk was surprisingly tidy, three stacks of papers, a dozen CDs, and a closed laptop computer. I sat in his chair and sifted through his papers, mostly bills and flyers for upcoming bands. No telling notes bearing my name or listing my songs. Same with the CDs. All looked to be from solo musicians or bands wanting to play at the pub. I recognized a couple of the names, but none seemed like candidates for treachery—either their sound was totally different from mine or they were so new, Marley never would have taken allegations by them seriously. Plus, I imagined my CD would be clipped to the one belonging to the deceitful wanker I was after.
I opened Marley's laptop but stopped moving when I heard a sound from the hallway. I sat perfectly still, wondering if my ears were playing tricks on me. But there it was again, a shuffling sound.
I put my hands on the desk to rise, but froze in position as a burly figure swung through the doorway, his gun pointed at my chest.
“Let me see your hands!” the man snapped.
I held them up, my eyes glued to the little black hole in the end of his gun. Weapon focus, it's called, and it's the reason eyewitnesses tend to be hopeless when their assailant has them at gunpoint. I dragged my eyes away from the barrel and looked at the face of the man, recognizing him a fraction after he recognized me.
“Dominic,” he said. “What the fuck?”
“Nice to see you, too. Do you mind lowering that thing?”
Otto Bland was sweating, far more scared than I was. Wet patches sat under his armpits, and for no apparent reason I wondered where he'd been hiding and what he'd been doing in the dark as I broke in. One thing I was sure of: I didn't want his greasy finger on the trigger. He complied with my request, but hesitantly, as if I might actually be there to do him harm.
“What are you…? Jesus, Dom, I could've shot you.” He stared at me like I was an alien. “Fuck, did you break in here?”
“No comment.”
“You did, man, I heard glass break in the bathroom.” He shook his head in confusion. “Why?”
“Long story, but believe it or not, I'm still one of the good guys.”
“I'm pleased to hear that, I really am.” He holstered his gun and pulled out his cell phone.
“Whoa, what the fuck are yo
u doing?” I stood up, my hands extended, telling him to slow down.
“Dude, I gotta call this in.”
“The police? No, no you don't.”
“Yeah, I do.” He sounded apologetic, but resolute. “I'm sorry man, but you can give your explanation to the cops; if it's all good they'll let you go.”
“Jesus, Otto, I broke a window and crept into the fucking bathroom, they're not going to let me go. This is burglary, which means I spend tonight in jail and, assuming I bond out, I spend tomorrow clearing out my desk.”
“That's harsh, man, and I'm sorry, I really am. But it's either you or me.”
“No, it's not.” You fucking moron. “Look, I came here for a good reason, a legitimate reason, and if we stop talking I'll be out of here in about eight minutes. No one needs to know.”
“Not that simple.”
“Why not?” I masked my frustration. It wouldn't help to get mad at the guy.
“Marley has cameras. Digital ones. They'd have caught you in the hallway.” His face changed as a thought occurred to him. “And they'll catch me coming in here and finding you. Sorry dude, like I said, it's you or me.”
Cameras were supposed to be my friends. Fuck. My mind went into overdrive. I knew there was a way out of this, it was just a matter of finding it.
“Delete the footage,” I said.
“I can't. The software he has puts a little red mark when something's deleted. How do I explain that?”
“So what happens if we do nothing? Just ignore it. He's not going to scroll through twenty hours of video tape on a hunch you're keeping secrets.”
“He will when he sees the broken window.”
“So explain it. Kids, or vandals.”
“That alley is used by hookers and dopers, everyone knows that. And anyone with half a brain will know the window was busted to break in here, so I'll get fired either for not noticing or for not calling the cops. And like I said the other week, I can't afford to get fired.” He looked at his phone. “I'm really sorry.”
I sat down. One thought loomed in my mind, pressing into my consciousness like a knife: he needed money, I needed out of there. And I had just one thing to bargain with, and given how he was looking at his phone, very little time.
“Wait.” I held up a hand. “Just so we're clear, you're worried about your job and don't give a crap that I broke in. This isn't a morals thing.”
“I don't…” He looked confused. “No, I don't care why you're here. I don't care that you're here. I just need to do my job.”
“Right. Because you need the money.”
“Yeah, of course, I told you that before. Why the fuck else would I be here?”
“Shooting for that bar in Florida, I remember.”
“Right. That bar. Meanwhile, I have no money, I keep losing jobs, and I'm sick and tired of…pretty much everything.”
Perfect. “Then I think we can help each other.”
“What do you mean?” The phone stayed in his hand, more lethal to me than his gun.
“Sit down, I'll explain.”
With that same confused expression on his face, Otto pulled a chair to the desk and sat, leaning forward as he listened. I didn't want him in on the theft; I knew better than anyone that the more people involved in an illegal scheme, the more people there were to squeal. But I wasn't bargaining from a position of strength, and I was confident that the lure of tens of thousands of dollars would be too much for a man like Otto to ignore. I didn't think about what I'd do if he didn't go along with it. I plan well and think quickly on my feet, but I'm not infallible. I suppose that a part of my conceit was the presumption that I could convince him. Luckily, the idiot stayed quiet as I laid out the rough edges of the plan, and his eyes stretched wide when I gave him the numbers.
“Shit, thirty grand each? That much?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Conservative estimate.”
“Why would he carry all that? It doesn't make sense.”
“Habit, mostly. He started doing it when he collected a few hundred, kept doing it when he was collecting thousands, and saw no reason to change a successful business practice. He doesn't see it as a risk—he sees it as a monthly chore and a way to avoid paying taxes.”
“A hundred grand.” He was like a junkie eying a syringe after a long, dry spell.
“You in?”
“Sure. Hell yes, I'm in. What do you need me to do?”
“First things first. We need to get rid of any camera footage of me.”
“He'll know I was playing around with it and fire me.”
“We've already established that, Otto. But we're taking the money this weekend, so I can spot you a couple of hundred until then, okay?”
“No, I'm fine until the weekend.” His shoulders slumped, and he finally tucked away his cell phone. “I guess I'm just sick of being fired.”
This is where I was supposed to feel sorry for him, so I made an effort and pulled the right face. His weakness, though, his pathetic, beaten-down spirit, was good for me because I knew that he'd be malleable and do what I told him. And his natural sense of self-preservation would mean he'd keep his trap shut afterward, head to Florida, and be out of the way entirely. Also, he'd snuck up on me pretty well, and he knew how to hold a gun, two assets that might come in handy along the way.
“The video?” I prompted.
“I can do it on the computer.”
I slid the laptop to him and watched as he switched it on.
“You know the password?” I asked.
“Isn't one. His staff uses it for communicating with and researching bands, that kind of stuff. He has another one for accounting, or so he told me.” He tapped on a few keys. “There's the cameras. Now let me see…” He sucked on his lower lip as I battled my impatience. Finally he spoke. “Right. I deleted footage from the one that would have caught you and shut it down for the next thirty minutes. If he notices, and I'm sure he will, I'll tell him I heard something and was checking, accidentally deleted it.”
“Great, thanks. Wait, let me use that for a minute, will you?”
“Why?”
“Because that's why I came here. Some bastard is screwing with me, using Marley, and I want to know who.”
“Sure.” Otto passed the laptop back to me. He stood but hovered in the small office, so I shot him a look. “I'll wait out here,” he said, “but don't mess anything else up on his computer, okay?”
“I'm not planning on deleting or changing anything. Just looking.”
Otto mumbled something and shuffled out of the office. A moment later, I thought I heard the clink of a bottle neck on a glass, but he might have just been moving an ashtray. The way his life had gone, I wouldn't have blamed him for drinking on the job.
I spent five minutes looking through Marley's e-mails but didn't see anything related to me stealing music, so I switched to the folders on his desktop. The second one I opened was called “No Play List” and a sub-folder inside read “Dominic.” I took a deep breath, double-clicked on the file, and started on the three listed documents. The first was the lyrics from my song, with my name on top. The second contained the lyrics from his song, with his name on top.
The chair squeaked as I sat back and stared. The smell of the pub rose up again, dank and stale, and I felt dirty. I knew the guy, of course. Austin's a busy but incestuous community of musicians, and I'd rightly figured I'd know the guy.
And now that his identity was established, I was left with one simple question: what to do to him.
When the day came, Tristan and I took turns in the late afternoon watching the surveillance computer in one-hour shifts. Lucky we did, because we spotted a potential hazard I'd not seen before: a security guard. He was barely more than a shadow in the corner of the screen, but given his size and where he was working, I wagered he was one of those sloppy cop wannabes who were weeded out at the first round by the police academy and whose only connections to law enforcement were a desire to exercise power and a love
of donuts. Underpaid, disinterested, and trying to stay out of the heat, he or she bumped past the other corner of the computer screen an hour later in a golf cart. In search of, I assumed, a shady tree and a breeze. Certainly not looking for trouble.
The next most exciting thing we saw was a squirrel checking out the camera. Its rodent face loomed on the screen like a giant rat, looking in on us for a few seconds before it lost interest.
At 9 p.m. I left Tristan in front of the computer and carried three blankets to the trunk of my Honda, to use as bedding for the surveillance camera that we needed to retrieve and to cover the two camouflage bags we'd be taking from Señor Silva.
We left at 9:30. We both wore dark cargo pants and black T-shirts. I wore my old Doc Martens, and Tristan clumped to the car in his new sand-colored Timberland work boots.
He seemed calm when we left, but he fidgeted beside me all the way to the trailer park. He began by picking at his seatbelt like it was a guitar string and moved on to twiddling his shirt buttons, clutching the edges of his seat, and finally, as we got within a mile of the park, tying and retying his shoelaces. I wanted to laugh but instead wondered whether I should feign nervousness, too. I didn't bother in the end because my mind was occupied with what we were about to do, and also because he was too antsy to notice my demeanor. He'd gone from calm to anxious in twelve miles, and I didn't like it. I'd worried about holding Gus's hand, and once he'd gone I figured I had a useful partner next to me. I didn't want to hold Tristan's hand, if only because I didn't know where it'd been.
By the time I turned into the trailer park, the sky had darkened, if not to black then at least a long way from the scalding steel-blue it had been all day. A breeze had picked up and leaves, and a few pieces of trash, scuttled in front of the car. I turned left inside the rusted, metal gate poles, bumping slowly along the dirt track. I could see in the distance a few men standing beside their grills, poking at coals with crooked sticks and holding beer cans, either oblivious or studiously ignoring us.