Good People

by Marcus Sakey

  “I don’t know. Yes.” He blew a breath. “It’s not too late. We could put it back.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Do you?”

  “Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.” She whispered it, like an incantation. “Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”

  “Me either.”

  ANNA HAD NEVER met a detective before, and hadn’t known what to expect. Thus far she was impressed. Detective Halden had kind eyes and a nice suit. You didn’t see men in suits anymore. Coupled with an easy calm that suggested he’d witnessed most everything life had to throw at a person, it gave him an air of authority. She found herself trusting him, liking him.

  The first cops to arrive had been regular police, two guys in blue uniforms. They’d rung the bell maybe ten minutes after Tom hung up the phone. The sound had kicked her heart into her mouth. As she’d opened the door, she’d imagined that they would see right through her, that they’d pin her and Tom to the floor and snap handcuffs on them. But they turned out to be nice guys. They called her “ma’am,” and after she and Tom showed them Bill Samuelson’s body, the younger one had chatted with them in the kitchen while his partner radioed for a detective.

  Halden swept into the place like a CEO to a boardroom. “Detective Christopher Halden,” he’d said as he shook hands with each of them, passed them a business card with a little clip-art drawing of the skyline in blue. He stood in the kitchen and rocked back on his heels, his eyes moving over the counter, the ruined stove, the scorched wall. “I gather you’ve had quite a night.”

  Tom nodded. “You could say.”

  “You both all right?”

  “A little singed is all.”

  “Want to show me where he is?”

  They followed him down the hall, the two of them stopping outside the doorway as Halden walked in. He didn’t flinch or hesitate, and Anna found herself wondering how long it took before you got there. How many corpses had he seen? What was that like, to have a job where all day you walked in on bodies?

  Halden stood beside the bed, his hands in his pockets and elbows out to the side. Sweeping that same careful look around the room. “Check the locks?”

  “For what?” Anna asked.

  The detective looked over. “I was actually talking to the officers, Ms. Reed.”

  “Right. Sorry.” She could feel sweat in her armpits and on the back of her thighs.

  “No sign of forced entry,” the older cop said. “The locks are all in working order. Windows are open-”

  “We opened them to clear the smoke,” Tom said. “Before we found him.”

  “-but the screens are intact,” the cop continued.

  Halden nodded. He took a pen from his inner pocket, used it to poke through the things on the nightstand. “How well did you know him?”

  Anna looked at Tom, shrugged. “We didn’t, really. He answered our ad about, what, six months ago?”

  “What did he do?”

  “I’m not sure. He kept to himself.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  She shook her head. “He paid two months up front.”

  Halden pulled on a latex glove, squatted in front of the night table. He turned on the lamp, picked up the prescription bottle. “He ever mention an illness?”

  “No. But we never really talked to him.”

  “We’d only see him every now and then,” Tom said. “Mostly smoking on the porch. Is that medicine something?”

  The detective didn’t answer, just took a flashlight from his pocket, clicked it on, and leaned down to sweep it beneath the bed. His gun rode high on his belt, and Anna felt her eyes drawn to it. After a moment, he rose, took Samuelson’s hands, examined them carefully under the beam. “He have any friends or family? Anybody visiting regular?”

  “Not that we ever saw.” Tom rubbed his neck.

  Halden turned off the flashlight, stood up, and walked out of sight, to the bathroom. Anna’s pulse seemed loud, and her hands trembly. Relax. You and Tom are good people. You have nothing to fear. She could hear the sound of the medicine cabinet swinging open, imagined Halden rifling through it, aspirin bottles and toothpaste tubes. After a moment, he walked back out, stopped at the foot of the bed. He ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek, the skin bulging out. Stood for a long moment, then snapped the glove off his hand. “Okay.” He turned to the officers. “Have the photographer shoot the room, then call for a wagon, get Mr. Samuelson to the medical examiner.”

  “Want any techs?”

  The detective shook his head. “Just the photographer. And bag that scrip.” He smiled at Anna. “You look a little shaken up, Ms. Reed. Why don’t we talk in the other room?”

  They walked down the hall. The air had grown chilly, and she shut the window, the glass rattling in the old frame. “What do you think happened?”

  Halden cocked his head to one side. “Well, no indication that anyone broke in, and no sign of a fight, no wounds on his body or hands. That prescription bottle didn’t have a label. That usually means that it was painkillers bought on the street. My guess is that he had a health problem, wanted something to take the hurt away, and maybe overdid it. But the medical examiner will say for sure.”

  “It’s so strange.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just…” She gestured down the hall. “You know, that he’s dead. That someone is dead in a room down there.”

  The detective nodded. “It doesn’t look like he suffered. Believe me, I’ve seen a lot worse.”

  “What happens now?” Tom leaned on the counter.

  “Well, someone will take him to the morgue. We’ll try to get in touch with his family. You have anything that could help with that? Did he give references for the apartment, or have a cosigner?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “What about his rent? You have canceled checks?”

  “No.”

  “He always paid with cashier’s checks,” Anna said, and then froze. Stupid, stupid girl.

  “Cashier’s checks?” The detective cocked an eyebrow. “Why didn’t he just use a personal check?”

  Because he kept his money in ten-thousand-dollar bundles. Bundles that we stuck in an old gym bag and hid in the basement. Her heart slammed against her ribs, but she made herself shake her head as calmly as possible. “Never asked.” Realizing as she spoke that she was lying to a cop, a disconnected feeling, like she was watching herself from a distance. It felt somehow like she’d taken a step.

  The detective held his gaze for a moment, a question clearly framed in his mind. Then he shrugged, turned away. “I’ve got some paperwork to fill out, and the photographer will need half an hour or so, then we should have the body out of here.” He glanced at the stove. “By the way, you were right not to throw water on the fire, but if it ever happens again, you should use baking soda, not flour.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s explosive.”

  “Really?”

  Halden nodded, then opened his binder and started making notes with his pen. “Yup. You got lucky with the flour.”

  She almost snorted, just barely caught herself. Locked eyes with Tom, saw that he was thinking the same thing, panic laughter tearing them both up inside. Finally, her eyes on her husband’s, savoring the words, the connection, the two of them alone in it the way they used to be, she said, “Detective, you sure are right about that.”

  4

  FROM THE STOOL at the end of the bar, Jack Witkowski could look out the narrow window to the apartment building across the street. The blinds were closed, and the blue light flickering behind them had died almost five minutes before.

  “You boys want another?” The chick tending bar had the look of a girl who’d dyed her hair too many years in a row. Jack shook his head, but Marshall said, “I’m all right, sweetheart, but set him up again.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted one.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

>   “What the Christ does that mean?”

  “You were thinking of Bobby again.” Marshall lifted his whiskey, held it under his nose. “A drink’ll help.”

  “Then you fucking have it.”

  Marshall shook his head, set down the glass, stared out the window.

  “Something you want to say?” Jack knew he was being snappy, taking Bobby’s death out on Marshall just because he was close, but he didn’t care. Three weeks hadn’t done a thing to ease the pain. Worst was that when he thought of Bobby, which was all the damn time, he always came back to that last conversation in the car, when he’d told Bobby everything would be fine, that he was a bad man.

  Only he wasn’t, never had been. He was a lightweight thief taking on a heavyweight job because his big brother asked him to. And now Bobby was dead, killed in a dark alley he shouldn’t have been anywhere near, and Jack was left with the memory of talking him into it.

  The bartendress returned, set a shot of tequila and a Negra Modelo in front of him. Marshall passed her a ten folded between two fingers. She took it, then went back to her paperback at the other end of the bar.

  Jack said nothing, just studied the play of red neon on brown glass. The bar smelled of stale cigarettes and burned coffee. Marshall tapped the edge of his whiskey glass, then pushed it away. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it went down the way it did. Bobby was a good kid.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “But the cops are tearing the city apart. Will humped us. Once they found Bobby’s body, you know they started looking at who he ran with. Your name is top of the list. Mine too. I’m sorry he’s gone, but now ain’t the time to be running around weeping over it. He was a nice kid, but he wasn’t a professional, and that got him killed. That’s life.”

  “Listen to me very carefully,” Jack said, then took the tequila properly, no salt, no lime. “If you ever talk this shit again, or disrespect my brother that way, you and I, we’re going to mix it up.” He turned sideways. “You want to talk professional? Try this on.

  The four of us were supposed to leave together. You really think Will would have made a play against all of us?”

  “The bodyguard-”

  “The bodyguard wasn’t supposed to move. That was your job.”

  Marshall shook his head. “Things don’t always work neat, man. That’s part of the business. You know that.” He paused. “Besides, it wasn’t me that sent Bobby out alone with Will.”

  Jack gripped the neck of the beer bottle hard enough he could feel it creak. “Fuck you.”

  Marshall said, “The point is-”

  “I get your fucking point.” He took a swig, the beer tasting foul. Thought about turning and cracking the bottle into Marshall’s skull. But a voice told him that the man was right, that the job came with risks. They just weren’t supposed to land on Bobby.

  He thought of Will Tuttle, that smooth voice and asshole personality, the victory cigarette he tucked behind his ear. The thought filled him with fire. Marshall was right. It wasn’t his fault, or Jack’s, not really. It was Will that pulled the trigger.

  Over the sound system, Mick Jagger sang that ti-ime was on his side, yes it was. Marshall sat silent. Jack sucked on his beer. He stared at the battered bar and tried to pull up his brother’s face, found it harder than it should be. It all seemed fragmented: a glimpse of a laugh here, a smile there. Birthdays and moments in cars. The time he’d convinced Maria Salvatore from down the block to give them both handjobs, when fourteen-year-old Bobby had that split look, half fear, half unbearable eagerness. Mostly, though, what Jack came up with was Bobby holding a borrowed gun and saying he was a bad man.

  Marshall cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was in a lighter tone, aimed at changing the subject. “Something I always wanted to know.”

  “Huh?”

  “How’s two Polacks named Witkowski end up Jack and Bobby?”

  “My mother.” Jack smiled, remembering her out in the tiny backyard, herbs in pots and paint flaking off the garage, humming while she pinned up laundry. “Big fan of the Kennedy brothers. The whole American dream. Come from a poor Polish family, work hard, do good in school, one day you end up like them.” Jack snorted. “Bobby used to say she’d been right – we both grew up to be good-looking criminals.”

  Marshall laughed, then said, “I am sorry, man. And when we find Will, he’s going to be even sorrier.”

  Jack nodded, took a breath. He leaned back to look out the window. “Light’s been off awhile. You ready?”

  “Let’s work.” This time when Marshall set down his whiskey glass, it was dry.

  THE APARTMENT WAS FRONTED by a narrow vestibule with two doors, one leading into the ground-floor unit, one to the upstairs apartments. Jack glanced out at Marshall leaning against a lamppost, an unlit cigarette held between two fingers. His partner’s head shook, just barely, and Jack went to the mailboxes, took out his keys, busied himself fumbling with them until a middle-aged couple walked by, talking and oblivious. When he looked back after thirty seconds, Marshall nodded.

  Jack loved dead bolts. The locks on most doors could be picked in under a minute. But because people had twisted a knob, they felt safe, went to bed believing monsters couldn’t get in. As he swung the door open, Marshall fell in behind. They staggered their footsteps, walking on the edge of the stairs to minimize noise as they climbed to the second floor.

  The kid had a welcome rug that read, “Hi! I’m Mat.” Marshall pointed at it, snorted, then pulled a flattened roll of duct tape from his back pocket and stretched off the first inch. Jack knelt in front of the door, the tension wrench tugging lightly to the side, his pick sliding down the pins. When the cylinder gave that sweet few degrees, he straightened, then twisted the lock the rest of the way open.

  The apartment was a Chicago classic, a graystone built on a standard-width lot. Inside the door was a deep living room, furniture barely visible by the light trickling through the curtains. There was a faint depression on the couch where the kid had been watching television without any idea that men sat in the bar across the street watching him. Jack stepped inside, pausing to listen. Dead silence.

  The two of them went down the hallway as silent as shadows. The bedroom was dark. Jack took a second to think of Bobby, felt the anger flow into him, the hate.

  He wrenched the bedroom door open and the two of them were through it, Marshall snapping the flashlight on, darkness surrounding a brilliant circle, tangled sheets, the edge of the headboard,the guy jerking upright, eyes wide, a good-looking kid in his early twenties, raising one hand out of instinct, trying to block the light, and Jack grabbed the hand and twisted it hard, yanking at the same time, the guy shooting out of bed, mouth opening then closing when Jack palm-chopped his neck, and then they had him, grabbing at his shoulders, his skin soft and warm from the blankets, yanking him up and out of the bed and throwing him face-first on the hardwood, Marshall dropping on him from behind, knees to shoulders as he wrapped the duct tape, loop after loop covering his mouth and flattening his hair in awkward patterns.

  Just like that, it was over. Nothing but the whistling of panicked breath through the guy’s nose as he turned his head sideways. Pupils dilated in the light. Blinked at them without recognition. Tried to say something, the words muffled syllables behind the tape. He looked like a little boy, all fear and bare skin, and for a second, Jack wavered.

  Then he thought of his brother, dead in a dingy alley. He nodded to Marshall, who stretched the arm out and locked it in place at the elbow. Jack took a breath, then raised his right foot and stomped down as hard as he could. The heel of his dress shoe slammed into the guy’s fingers. The kid jerked rigid, veins on his neck straining as he screamed against the tape. Jack brought his foot up again. Down again. Howls incoherent and wishbone cracks. With each blow the rigid heel tore skin and muscle, shredded slippery tendons. The boy fought to move, but Marshall held him like a vise. Up again. Down again. Up again. The fingers
twitching like worms after a rainstorm, the flesh popping, white bone fragments jutting at odd angles.

  When it looked like one of them might be about to come off, Jack stopped. Panting, he ran his hands through his hair and dropped to a squat. The guy was still awake, still screaming his lungs out against the tape, eyes wide and bloodshot, ropes of snot streaming from his nose.

  “Hi, Ray,” Jack said. “We’re friends of your uncle Will’s. And we’d really like to know where to find him.”

  5

  HE FLOATED ON THE EDGE OF DREAM, the world blurry, as something rubbed against him. Drifting, body here, consciousness there, sensations rolling through him. Skin against his own in a slow wriggle, neck to ankles. He could smell Anna, the faint homey hint of musk. The night air was pleasant, and he’d kicked the blanket off hours before. The sheet was soft as bathwater.

  Tom mumbled sleep moans, thought about opening his eyes, didn’t. He felt her back against his chest, a gentle dancing touch, warm and complete where she moved, cool and wanting where she pulled away. The press and arc of her bottom. A heat growing inside, familiar and forgotten. He didn’t know what time it was, hadn’t opened his eyes to check, but it seemed late, somewhere in the lonely hours of the night when the world disappeared. She moved again, arched against him, and this time his moan wasn’t from sleep. He felt himself taut in his briefs, rigid against the curve of her.

  Tom opened his eyes.

  Anna’s head was turned to the ceiling, her features faint against the dark, eyes just a glimmer of reflected light. He saw her smile; then she pressed backward again, the cleft of her ass grinding against him.

  He reacted automatically, wrapping an arm around her, cupping her breast in his hand, warm through the thin T-shirt she slept in, the nipple hard against the roughness of his thumb, and heard her gasp, and it was enough to pull his head all the way back to reality. Habit kicked in, a calendar check. If they managed to conceive tonight, a star would lead wise men to their apartment.