He glanced over his shoulder, and then looked at me. “What’s your favorite color?”
I let out a laugh. “Is this a trick question?”
He stroked his beard. “No.”
I laughed. Not because what he said was funny, but because it was contradictory to what he’d said only a week earlier. His expression changed to one of wonder. I caught my breath and explained. “You said a week or so ago that a person’s favorite color didn’t matter. What they detested mattered.”
He chuckled. “You’re perceptive.”
“If it wasn’t important to you, you wouldn’t have said it.” I raised my glass. “I pay attention.”
He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “What color furniture do you detest?”
“Yellow,” I blurted.
“Is that it?”
“Pretty much.”
His eyebrows raised. “Green?”
“I’m good with green.”
“Lime green?”
“If it was a fun piece of furniture, it’d be cool.”
“Tangerine?”
“Same answer.”
He studied his tea for a moment, and then met my gaze. “Red?”
I was seeing a different side of Baker, and I loved it. Simply talking about furniture with him was more fun than I’d had in a long time. “Look behind you,” I said with a laugh. “I saved the red couch. It’s my favorite piece. At least I didn’t lose it.”
He wiped the condensation off his glass of tea with his thumb until there was a small puddle on the countertop. As he played in it with his fingertip, he looked up. “The tea’s good.”
It seemed he felt out of place, and I wondered why he really stopped by. I doubted it was to discuss furniture colors.
“Why’d you stop by?” I asked. “What were you hoping to accomplish?”
He tilted his head to the side and grinned. “Have you always been so outspoken?”
I nodded eagerly. “Pretty much, yeah.”
He took a drink of tea, set the glass aside, and then swept the puddle away with the back of his hand. “I feel weird.”
“You came by to tell me you feel weird?”
“No. With you standing over there, and me sitting here.” He stood, but didn’t make eye contact with me. “There. That’s better.”
It wasn’t better. Something was bothering him. I didn’t feel that sex was our only common bond, and I hoped he felt the same way. I certainly didn’t want him to give up before we got started.
“Does not boning bother you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Not what?”
“Boning. Fucking. Screwing.” I tapped my hand against the countertop. “Does being here and not having me bent over this island bother you? You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Ohhhkaaay.”
He crossed his arms. “I’m not.”
I took a step back away from the island and looked him over. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”
“I’m uglier than fuck now then, huh?”
He wasn’t. His jeans were cuffed, and he was wearing black boots. When combined with his unwrinkled white tee shirt and his nervous nature, he was cute. He was billboard worthy, and it amazed me that someone hadn’t scooped him up yet.
“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “Uglier’n fuck.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you decide why you came by?”
He mashed his arms tight against his chest. “On Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at, say, seven?”
The complete change of the conversation’s pace caught me off guard, but I recovered quickly. And, I did so with a huge smile. “Seven sounds good. Can we take your motorcycle? I’ve always wanted to ride on one.”
“We’ll take my car.”
I laced my fingers together and batted my eyes playfully. “Can we take the motorcycle?”
“We can’t,” he said stone-faced.
“Oh. Is it broken?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Sore subject?”
“Is what a sore subject?”
“You bike being broken.”
“It’s not broken.”
“Why can’t we take it?”
“There’s not a place for a passenger.”
I’d never heard of such a thing. As far as I knew, all motorcycles had a place for a passenger. I wrinkled my nose. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Sounds like we’re taking the car.”
He smiled and reached for his tea. After finishing it, he carried the glass to the sink. “You going to be here Friday night?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Planning on it, why?”
He turned around. “Just wondering.”
I looked him over. “Are you leaving?”
“I’ve got some business to take care of.”
I wished he could stay, but I didn’t do or say anything to make him aware of my hopes. Instead, I acted indifferent.
“Okay.”
He took a step toward me, paused, and took another. Then, he hugged me. He smelled magnificent. I enjoyed having him hold me, and he must have liked it too, because he held me for some time.
“Amos Lee,” he breathed against my neck. “I’ve always liked that song.”
The Wind, by Amos Lee had been playing from the living room’s speaker as he held me. I was surprised he recognized the artist, but was pleased that he did. Music was one more thing we seemed to have in common.
“It’s part of this playlist,” I said.
He released me and took a step back. After taking every inch of me in, he smiled. “I like your playlist.”
I took a step back and crossed my arms. In dramatic fashion, I dragged my eyes up and down his well-dressed frame. Then, I looked him dead in the eyes. “I like your playlist, too.”
TWENTY-EIGHT - Baker
Cash flopped into the chair across from me and scratched the sides of his head with his fingertips. After making himself look like a young dark-haired version of Albert Einstein, he leaned onto the edge of my desk. “What’d you make of that bullshit in that article?”
He was referencing a newspaper article about the jewelry store robbery in Rainbow. According to the story, an undisclosed amount of jewelry and gemstones were taken in the heist. There was no mention whatsoever of the cash or gold.
“They report the information they’re given.”
He straightened his posture and gave me a confused look. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“When a drug dealer gets busted,” I explained. “The cops display everything that’s seized on a bunch of folding tables. They have a news conference and show the guns, cars, cash and who knows what else. They’ll make it sound better than reality. Last night at just after midnight, a Mister Hector Agriaza was apprehended in his home. Ten million in cash, five million in blow, and a three-million-dollar car collection were seized. You can look at the fruits of their seizure on display. With a deal like this, they simply report what Pat told them was taken.”
“So, you think Pat failed to mention the gold and cash?”
“I know he failed to mention it. He couldn’t claim it, because he doesn’t report it on his taxes. If he reported it, the IRS would say, wait a fucking minute, asshole. You had how much money in cash and gold? You sure as fuck didn’t report it as income.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” He glanced over each shoulder and then leaned toward me. “So, when are you thinking you’ll have a total?”
“As soon as you turds get done with all that jewelry.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m ready to say fuck it and toss that shit. Just be done with it. It’s not easy getting all that shit torn apart.”
“It’s worth way too much to toss.”
The four-hundred-ounce gold bars we’d taken had a spot value of over six million dollars. It took the six of us an entire day to sort, categorize, and count the cash, which amounted to over two million. The jewelry was be
ing broken down, separating the gemstones from the gold. The gold would then be melted, making identification of the jewelry impossible.
The gemstones, including diamonds, would be tossed into the ocean. Certified gemstones, contrary to what was depicted in movies, could be traced as easily as a fingerprint.
After the club took its cut of forty percent, each man would be awarded roughly eight hundred thousand dollars. No one would get a cent, however, until the take from the job was totaled, right down to the penny.
He clapped his hands. “I’m wanting to get to that million mark.”
“You’re there,” I said. “And then some.”
“No. I mean in reality. Right now, it’s in theory, or whatever.”
“Has the club ever fucked you out of anything?”
He coughed out a laugh and pushed himself up from his seated position. He folded his arms over his chest and gave me a shitty look. “Yeah.”
I stood and gave him an equally shitty look. “When?”
“The fifty-three thousand dollars you took from me when I accidentally shot at that bitch you’re keeping an eye on.”
I shook my head. “You fucked yourself on that one, Cash.”
“Just like everyone else on this deal, Bake. I’m excited.”
“We’re all excited,” I said. “Don’t worry. It’ll be pretty soon.”
I wasn’t excited. Not at all. Although I’d always found a sense of satisfaction with dispersing the cash to the MC’s members, my recent visit to Andy’s home had me viewing things differently. Seeing her sparsely furnished apartment made it clear that the victims of our robberies went far beyond the reach of the federally insured institutions we victimized.
“What’s the deal with the music?” he asked.
My thoughts had drifted far away from our conversation. I raked my fingers through my hair and looked around the room. “What do you mean?”
He flashed a side-eyed look at the ceiling and then shook his head. “Same fucking song keeps playing. Over and over. Normally it ain’t doing dumb shit like that.”
“Must be something wrong with it,” I said dismissively.
“It was a cool tune the first couple of times it played.” He turned toward the door. “Kinda sick of it now.”
I wasn’t sick of it at all. I went to the window and placed my hands against the cold stone of the ledge. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
“Who sings it?” he asked from across the room.
I peered down at Andy’s bike and grinned. “I don’t know.”
Then, as Cash pulled the door closed behind him, I allowed the sound of Amos Lee’s music to carry me away.
TWENTY-NINE - Andy
A knock at my door startled me, but not in the way a normal knock did. Holly beat on the door like she was seeking refuge from a mass murderer. Baker knocked in a unique manner: knock, knock…knock, every time.
This knock was different.
I tip-toed to the door and peered through the peephole. The guy from the phone commercials with the black horn-rimmed glasses stood on the other side, clutching a clipboard. Intrigued, I pulled the door open.
“Can you hear me now?” I asked.
He squinted. “Excuse me?”
“Can you hear me now?”
His face washed over with confusion. I must have been the first person to notice the resemblance. Either that, or he was tired of the jokes.
“You remind me of the phone guy,” I said. “The can you hear me now guy.”
He glanced at his clipboard. “Andy Winslow?”
I noticed there were two other guys standing behind him, both of which were grinning. After making note that they were all three wearing the same khaki pants outfits, I looked at the former Verizon rep. “Yes, I am. How can I help you?”
“Well.” He lowered his clipboard. “Michael’s and Jerome’s have partnered together in a Christmas Season Giveaway. They’ve picked two winners from credit card receipts of purchases prior to last Monday. You’re winner number two.”
I’d never won anything in my life. “Michael’s?” I asked excitedly. “Like Michael’s the craft store?”
He looked at the two men, and then at me. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I was picked as the winner?”
“One of two, yes.”
“Oh. Wow.”
I felt like inviting them in to celebrate, but knew it wasn’t a good idea. While the two boyish looking men behind him rocked back and forth on the balls of their feet, I asked the inevitable.
“What did I win?”
“Your choice.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of credit cards. “Either twenty-five hundred dollars in gift certificates from Michael’s, or a truckload of furniture from Jerome’s.”
I felt faint. “Furniture?” I asked, my voice cracking from the emotion. “Like, home furnishings?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How big of a truckload?”
“A big truck, ma’am.”
I pushed my door open and gestured inside. “Look in there.”
He glanced over my shoulder and chuckled. “Moving out?”
“Pretty sad, huh?”
He chuckled. “So sad.”
“I know, right?” I couldn’t believe my luck. It would be so cool to go into Michael’s on a shopping spree, buy I needed furniture worse than I needed anything. “I’ll uhhm.” I swallowed hard. “I’ll take the furniture.”
“If you’d like to follow us down, you can have a look in the truck.”
I glanced at the other two men, and then at him. “You’re for real?”
He turned around. The back of his little brown jacket had a Jerome’s patch sewn to it. It looked pretty legit.
“If you guys try anything, there’s security cameras outside. They’ll have you arrested before you get on the freeway.”
“We’re just delivering furniture, ma’am.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go look.”
While they rode the elevator, I took the stairs two at a time, all the way to the first floor. Out of breath, and excited beyond comprehension, I shoved the front door open.
The three men were standing on the sidewalk. Along the curb, for nearly the entire length of the building, a Jerome’s truck was parked.
My eyes went wide. “That’s a big truck,” I exclaimed.
“Want to have a look?” he asked.
I rushed to the back of the truck and waited to see what type of seasonal offerings Jerome’s had in store for me.
Verizon man unlatched the door and shoved it upward.
Oh. My God.
I covered my mouth and tried not to scream. There was a dining table, end tables, a bedroom set, mattresses, several couches and chairs that were covered in plastic, and countless other furnishings.
I lowered my hands. “Holy crap.”
“Well?”
“I’d uhhm.” As much as I wanted furniture, I really needed a bed. I was sleeping on an old twin bed that was in my guest bedroom. It was cheap, hard, and impossible to sleep on. If the day ever came that Baker slept over, he wouldn’t even be able to fit in it.
“I’d like to have the bed, please.”
“Is that all?”
“Can I have more?”
He waved his arm toward the open truck. “Maybe you didn’t understand. This is all yours. Whatever you don’t take, we’ll delivering to the Goodwill.”
“Oh wow. Okay. Well. If I actually won it, you just as well deliver it up there.”
Two hours later, I followed the men downstairs and gave each of them a tip. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of strapped for cash right now, but I hope this helps,” I said, handing each of them a twenty-dollar bill.
Verizon folded it and put it in the pocket of his little brown pants. “Thank you.”
I waved as they drove away, and then turned toward the building. Above me, a glow from the second story of Baker’s building caught my attention. It struck me as odd, because that parti
cular floor had always been dark.
In the window, Baker silhouette darkened the otherwise bright windows.
I waved.
His shadow waved in return.
Giddy to jump on my new bed, I waved one more time, and then rushed up the stairs to my newly furnished apartment.
When I opened the door and looked inside, my heart filled with gratitude. It was the first day since the bank had been robbed that I felt like my life was in order.
It was going to be twenty-four hours before Baker picked me up for our date. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he found out I won the Christmas Season Giveaway.
THIRTY - Baker
I hadn’t been on a date since I was nineteen. A blowjob attempt from a girl who had more teeth than a Mako Shark made that night disastrous enough that I had yet to go on another.
Dinner and a movie was far too cliché for me. So, I took a risk.
A big risk.
I brought Andy to my home.
She glanced around the table. “I can’t believe you took the time to make all this stuff.”
“I had a little assistance,” I admitted.
“But still.” She leaned over the platter of coxinhas and inhaled a breath through her nose. She looked at me and smiled. “To think you took the time to research everything.”
I didn’t do any research. After my decision to have Andy over for dinner, Goose volunteered to prepare a traditional Brazilian meal. He’d no more than pulled his bike out of the parking garage when Andy and I returned.
“It’s kind of a backward date,” I said, sliding the large dish of Moqueca de Camarão in her direction as I spoke.
She ladled it into her bowl. “What do you mean?”
“Start at home and go out afterward. Don’t most of them start out away, and end up in the guy’s home?”
She pushed the dish across the table. “I don’t know. I haven’t got a lot of traditional dating experience.”
“Me neither.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
I looked up from filling my bowl with the seafood stew. “I’ve been on one.”
“One?”
“One.”
“Oh. Wow. Why only one?”
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