Grinning Cracks

by K W Taylor

  “Who are you and how long have you been fucking my wife?”

  “Misunderstanding my ass.” The scene was still playing itself out in Dave’s mind a day later. He wasn’t the one schtupping the perky, tan real estate agent. It was Bernie, of course, who couldn’t walk ten feet without ruining someone’s life. Dave could picture his neighbor selling him out, whimpering to the big, gun-toting husband and sweating through his wrinkled dress shirt. “But I betcha it’s that other guy,” Bernie probably sobbed around the barrel of the Glock. “She was showing him a house, and he looked like an asshole.”

  “Probably drew a goddamn map.” Dave knew he was talking to himself as he waited for the clerk to return, but he didn’t care. A sketchy pawn shop in the bad part of town probably saw a lot weirder on a daily basis.

  The clerk swept through the red velvet curtains separating the back room from the register area.

  “So, whatcha think?” Dave asked him, rubbing at his goatee.

  The clerk set a small velvet box down on the glass-topped counter. “I sold three comps this week for about your askin’ price, but I gotta tell ya, the condition of the setting on the engagement ring is shit.”

  “That was my grandmother’s,” Dave said, his voice rising. “It’s vintage. Didn’t they do settings differently in the twenties?”

  The clerk shrugged. He pushed a button on the cash register, causing a bell to ring and the drawer to slide out.

  “Goddammit, the down payment I need is twice that,” Dave grumped as the man dropped several large bills into his palm.

  “Take it or leave it, boy.”

  “Fine.” He left, immediately entering Edgar Lord’s town car, which was idling by the curb.

  “You get enough?” the older man asked him.

  Dave handed over the money. “Nope,” he replied.

  “I’ll float it,” Mr. Lord said.

  “You sure?”

  “Relax, David. I like you.” The older man’s moustache twitched, and he winked at Dave. “You can pay me back after the patsy goes down.”

  Part II: New Year’s Eve

  “Just look at those beautiful goose eggs.” Bernie held out the check in front of Dave’s face and flicked it with his index finger and thumb. The paper trembled, and the imprint of Bernie’s fingernail left a little crease over the dollar sign. “You ever see so many zeroes after a number in your life, buddy?”

  Dave felt sick, but he managed a weak smile. “That’s some check, man.”

  “You see how fast this shit goes down? You’ll get a percentage of your cut before you even get this apartment packed up.” Bernie wandered around Dave’s kitchen, taking in the moving boxes and rolls of masking tape. “You’ll be able to hire movers, even!”

  “Dare I dream,” Dave said flatly. “You failed to mention the part about this little scheme where I’d have to sell my wife’s wedding rings for the down payment on the loan.” He hoisted his beer bottle but didn’t drink from it. “Hell, you failed to mention the part about this being a fucking mortgage flipping con.” He gave Bernie a worried look. “This is like a federal crime, I think. You do know that, right?”

  Bernie shrugged. “It’s a victimless federal crime, though.”

  “Not actually,” Dave replied.

  “Eh, some fat cats in some bank somewhere’ll lose a little dough when the last guy in line declares bankruptcy. Boo-freaking-hoo.” Bernie picked his own beer off the kitchen island. “You know what we should do tonight? We should see if Leslie’s got a friend for you.” Bernie nodded and then started doing a vaguely obscene little dance.

  “No, we shouldn’t,” Dave sighed. “I can’t believe you’re still seeing her.”

  “Hey, now that the hubby’s already confronted somebody, the heat is off!” Bernie grinned.

  “The man has a gun, Bernie.”

  “Loosen up,” Bernie said, waving Dave off. “You gotta be less obsessed with details, man.”

  Allison straightened the rack of towels, then turned and picked up a discarded kickboard. As she left the natatorium, she straightened a poster hanging crookedly off the bulletin board. She shook her head at it and smiled. Why old ladies would ever sign up for a synchronized swimming class was beyond her, but they did, in droves. It was the most popular class at the rec center every January.

  The poster featured carefully drawn swans circling a smiling, grey-haired granny in a one-piece bathing suit. Just as she was about to turn from the poster and head back to her office, Allison felt a hand drop down on her shoulder.

  With a little squeak, she whirled around to see the sad eyes of her ex-husband, bloodshot behind horn-rimmed glasses.

  Dave took a step back and held up his hands. “Whoa, sorry, sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Allison said. She exhaled through her mouth and laughed. “I knew you were coming. I should’ve expected you’d try to give me a heart attack.” She smirked. “That’s your m.o., after all.”

  “Hey, your stepdad’s doctor warned him about his cholesterol years ago,” Dave said. “They can’t prove a causal link between that Halloween prank and his coronary.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Allison crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.” She gestured down the hall and proceeded to head for her office, Dave at her heels. “So what’s up? Can’t give me my moolah this month?”

  “No, I got it.” Dave tapped her on the forearm with the edge of a small rectangle of paper.

  “Early!” Allison remarked, taking the check. She grinned, flashing a mouth full of white teeth and Dave. “Nicely done, Markowitz.”

  “God, don’t start with that.”

  “No, no, it’s totally awesome that you renounced your heritage and Anglicized your name after I’d already taken it and gotten all my credit cards changed.”

  “Allison, for fuck’s sake!” Dave stopped walking and stared at her. “I need to talk to you about something important, here. More important than our petty bullshit, okay?”

  Frowning, Allison drew closer to him. “Hey, I’m sorry,” she said softly. She pressed a palm to his cheek. “You’re really upset, aren’t you?”

  Dave nodded, leaning a little into Allison’s hand. “I’m just being an idiot. Don’t worry about it,” he said. He moved away slightly. “It’s nothing.” He gave a little nervous laugh. “You know me, I freak out about the coffee maker leaking.”

  Before Allison could press further, Dave was already halfway down the hall and out the door. She looked down at the check in her hand. The amount was written for ten thousand dollars more than usual.

  “Babe, this ain’t a great time.” The cop, a middle-aged woman with a rats’ nest of crisply bleached hair, had one hand on her hip, the other on her billy club. Her voice made it clear she was no stranger to cigarettes. “I got a hundred and fifty angry protesters. Somebody’s gotta be on crowd control.”

  Allison suppressed a laugh. “Aunt Midge, it’s the La Leche League,” she pointed out. “It’s hardly a Klan rally. This isn’t going to get violent.”

  Midge smirked, her wide, fish-like lips spreading out serenely across her face. “Yeah, well.” She shrugged. “I’m stuck here, whether something happens or not.”

  “You can listen, though, right?” Allison beamed at her aunt and clasped her hands together. “Please, hear me out? Two minutes.”

  “You and your mother.” Midge chuckled. “Abusing me for my knowledge of the criminal justice system. What do you need, sweetie?” She scowled. “It’s not Dave, is it?”

  Allison looked sheepish.

  Midge shook her head slowly. “Aw, geez, Allison, that boy is bad news, always has been.”

  Allison smirked. “That boy is forty-three.”

  “Zero emotional maturity. Can’t argue with that.” Midge blinked languidly and patted her niece on the shoulder. “Eh, what’re you gonna do.” She shrugged. “We never knew how to pick ‘em in our family.” Midge leaned in closer to Alliso
n. “What’s his trouble?”

  The neon-drenched sign featured a French can-can girl outlined in pink, her leg slowly kicking back and forth into the air to reveal frilly garters. Dave groaned as he slumped through the wood-paneled double doors. The bouncer didn’t even ask for an ID as Dave shoved a crumpled bill into the man’s meaty hand to pay for the cover charge. “You see Mr. Lord tonight?” Dave asked, shouting a little to be heard over the dancers’ soundtrack, grating bubblegum pop with a heavily Auto-Tuned vocalist.

  The bouncer grunted and swung a shiny bald head to one o’clock. Dave gave the bouncer a chins-up half-nod. “Thanks, my man. Good talk.”

  Bernie’s contact was sitting in a purple velvet-lined booth with two men much younger than himself. One was dressed in a conservative yet stylish tan business suit, while the other was in rank hipster gear complete with ironic ‘70s patterned bowling shirt and plaid newsboy cap. Dave cringed as he recognized his own glasses frames on Hipster. He swept the eyewear from his face and shoved them into his inside coat pocket before approaching the booth.

  “Well, if it ain’t a soon-to-be-rich man.” A beatific smile made Lord’s moustache twitch. Something about his eyes made Dave think the older man was stoned, not drunk.

  “Uh, hey,” Dave said. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Strange place to meet.”

  “Not at all.” Lord squeezed the shoulders of Hipster. “Why don’t you sweet things go wait for me in the car?” he suggested.

  The boys rolled their eyes at each other. “Whatever,” Business Suit said. “It’s not like this is any fun.” He gestured to the stage, where a full cadre of girls was gyrating arhythmically in nothing but G-strings. They left, Business Suit giving Dave a little smile as he brushed past.

  “Perfect meeting spot,” Lord continued, patting the now-empty seat next to him. “Nobody tends to spill that they saw you here.”

  Dave slid in behind the small, lacquered table. “Are we getting close to payout?” he asked. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “We’re getting very close indeed, son,” Lord confirmed. “Don’s handling the laundering. He’s got a not-terribly-profitable little dot com he uses as a front.”

  Dave covered his eyes with one hand. “Jesus, laundering? Front?” He slumped down in his seat. “If my Great Aunt Eleanor heard me having a conversation with words like that, she’d start quoting The Godfather and have Mom ship me off to military school.”

  One song ended and a new one began. Lord was laughing. “Kid, this ain’t the mob,” he said. “This is small potatoes.”

  “No way to get caught?” Dave asked.

  That same indolent smile again. “Trust me.”

  They discussed the arrangements. There would be an exchange of materials and information within twenty-four hours. And as Dave staggered out of the club, he’d been clapped on the back so many times by the older man that he felt half the wind had been knocked out of him.

  It was only much later that Dave realized Lord hadn’t technically answered his question. No way to get caught? Apparently that wasn’t worth Mr. Lord’s time to address.

  Edgar Lord rolled up to the house the next night on a motorcycle that looked like it came straight from between Dennis Hopper’s thighs circa 1969. The thing was covered in black and dark brown streaks of various petroleum products, and yet somehow Lord’s yards of brown corduroy bore nary a hint of motor oil or even road dust. He looked as weirdly natty as Dave ever saw him as he swung one booted leg over the saddle and ambled up to the front porch.

  “Said a proper goodbye to your homestead, son?”

  Dave sniffed. “Oh, yeah, this place and me, we go way back to not quite a week ago. I’m all torn up.” Dave bounced the McMansion’s keys in the palm of his hand. “All yours now, right?”

  A tremble of whiskers. “Actually, I thought it best if we go straight to the end of the line,” Lord replied. He gave a little half shrug as he plucked the keys out of Dave’s hand. “Had a little chat with a nephew of mine today. We got a big family reunion every January. Buncha potato sack races and domestic beer. You close with your family, Mr. Mark?”

  “Not so much anymore.”

  “Don’t surprise me,” the older man replied. “What with you changin’ your surname and all.” He squinted beady dark eyes at Dave from beneath bushy eyebrows. “A fella don’t do that lightly. Kinda like...well, you folks know about circumcision and whatnot.” He made a scissors motion with two fingers. “Cuttin’ off part of yourself and all. But the name, ain’t that a slap in the face of your pa?”

  Dave suddenly felt very cold. “How did you—”

  “Anyhow, my nephew’s on the force,” Lord said, talking over Dave. “He looks out for me. And he says, not to sound too cliché about it, that the heat is on, boy, and that I’d better get my ducks in a row.”

  “So you’re not buying it?” Dave looked over his shoulder up at the house. The windows were dark.

  “We’re goin’ to the patsy,” Lord confirmed. “The fella who’ll be left holdin’ the bag with all the bad loans while we walk away with the profit and interest, just like was planned all along.” He started to head back to his bike.

  “You ever gonna tell me who that is, the patsy?” Dave asked, his voice coming out squeaky over the roar of the motorcycle’s engine.

  Lord muttered something noncommittal as he started to back down the driveway. As he twisted in the motorcycle’s saddle, Dave saw a flash of gun handle at Lord’s waist.

  “Where’s the town car?” Dave called.

  Lord cut the motor. “Blood’s a helluva thing, David. Even on chrome, takes a lotta the old elbow grease to polish that fucker.” He touched his index finger to his forehead near the browline in a kind of slow, lazy salute, and then he was gone in a cloud of smoke and gravel.

  Dave lumbered back to his own car, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. There were six voice mails from Allison, he knew, and he also suspected that soon enough, he’d hear from a very desperate, angry Bernie.

  The gun went back and forth, sometimes pointing at Dave’s head, sometimes pointing at Bernie’s. A strong stench of urine hung in the air. Dave was crouched down into a very uncomfortable squat on the parquet floor. “Motherfucker, how long have you known?” Bernie demanded. Right now, the gun wasn’t pointed at anyone’s head; Bernie was using it to gesture a little too wildly for Dave’s comfort. The sweaty fingers of Bernie’s right hand were tugging at the neckline of Dave’s tee shirt.

  “Please, please, I didn’t know!” Not for sure, he added to himself.

  “You knew yesterday! You met with him! Leslie saw you guys!” Bernie was crying, and not the single, manly tear coursing from the corner of an eye kind of crying but honest-to-God, red-faced bawling. “What the hell, bro?” He sobbed. “You were my bro, goddammit!” He straightened up from leaning over Dave’s prone form but still held onto his shirt.

  “You were the one who introduced me to that psycho!” Dave pointed out. “You wanted us to be rich! You said it wouldn’t hurt anybody!”

  “I was half right,” Bernie said. “It didn’t hurt you, did it?” Bernie sucked in a final, choked breath. “I need bagpipes,” he said, suddenly sounding a trifle stoic. His grip on Dave’s shirt eased up.

  “The hell? Bagpipes?”

  “They have to play ‘Amazing Grace.’” Bernie let go of Dave completely now. “Will you make sure they do that, buddy?”

  Before Dave could answer, the gun was back at Bernie’s own temple, and then in an instant, his brains were scattered against the kitchen cabinets.

  Midge adjusted her headphones and did her best to stretch her legs inside the claustrophobic confines of the van. “Stakeouts always look so fun in the movies,” she remarked.

  A.J. turned up the gain on the receiver. “I never thought so,” he said. “I always thought they just had those scenes so they’d have an excuse for the buddy cops to, like, bond and shit.” He turned to Midge. “I hate bonding and shit.
”

  She swatted his shoulder with her notepad. “Yeah, well, you are a little shit, so don’t worry. We won’t be bonding.”

  A.J. smirked. “So you know this idiot?”

  Midge rolled her eyes. “He’s family. Sort of. Former.” She shrugged. “Ah, hell, I dunno. My niece is probably gonna take the idiot back, if he doesn’t go to prison over all this.”

  “They really should have reassigned the case,” her partner said. “I mean, it’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Believe me, it’s not,” Midge said. “I couldn’t care less if this turkey walks or not.” She waved her notepad at A.J. “Besides, we don’t really care about an accidental criminal here. We care about the big guy. Right?”

  “Edgar Lord,” A.J. read from the screen of his Blackberry. “Eh, he’s almost too big, Tate. I think we oughta let the feds handle organized stuff.”

  Midge gave A.J. a sidelong glance. “You? Avoiding glory? What the heck, Dansonne?”

  A.J. shrugged. “I just think we’re not really the ones to handle—”

  “Why is your little gadget there gettin’ all wet?” Midge interrupted.

  A.J. frowned at her. “Huh?”

  Midge reached over and carefully plucked the Blackberry out of A.J.’s hand. She held it out, taking pains to grasp it by the screen and not the sides. “What the hell is all that along the side, hmm? Is it raining in here, or are you suffering from a sudden case of sweaty palms?”

  A.J. suddenly grinned. “I’m surprised, Tate. Good job.”

  “You’re the fucking leak, aren’t you?”

  Swift motion. A crack, smoke, and then Midge was bleeding from her chest.

  The Blackberry screen cracked as it clattered to the center console.

  Across town, in a small neighborhood branch of the city Savings and Loan, the manager was just getting a phone call. A.J. had to plug his right ear with a finger as he pressed Midge’s cell closer to his left ear. “I might have to call you back. This phone is for shit,” A.J. barked.