Good People

by Marcus Sakey

  But first, errands. She dropped off the dry cleaning, filled the tank with gas. Swung through a hardware store for some cleanser and rags. Then spun east toward Uptown.

  The neighborhood was an in-betweener, an economically depressed zone – trash bags in piles, men lounging against the wall, shops that sold incense and hair extensions – nestled between affluent neighbors. It was an area she didn’t often hit. It wasn’t dangerous exactly, but it didn’t offer much reason to visit, either. But today she found exactly what she was looking for on a Clark Street corner.

  She parked at a meter, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. An empty taxi was two spaces up. A pedestrian waiting on the light to change glanced in her direction, then up at a billboard for a cell phone company. Anna narrowed her eyes, but the man didn’t look over again. Down the block the El rattled overhead, throwing flickering shadows across gray stone.

  She hadn’t been inside a Currency Exchange in a decade. The last time was before Sara lived in town, when she and a boyfriend had come to visit. Neither of them had remembered to deposit their paychecks before running to the airport. Considering that was half their drinking fund for the weekend, it had seemed problematic until Tom had suggested visiting an Exchange.

  This was a different location, but they all seemed pretty much the same. Garish neon, the inside faded linoleum and too-bright fluorescents, a counter fronted with inch-thick Plexiglas. A shuffling line of people looking as though they’d like to be elsewhere. A closed-circuit camera was mounted on the back wall, and it made her nervous. She took sunglasses from her purse and put them on.

  It took about five minutes to make it to the counter, where a bored woman popped her gum, then asked what Anna wanted.

  “I’d like a cashier’s check, please.” She pulled the envelope from her purse. “Made out to Citibank.”

  “How much.” The clerk’s voice so level it hardly seemed a question.

  Anna glanced over her shoulder, then said, “Fifteen thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars, and fifty-seven cents.”

  “Sure thing, lady.” The clerk rolled her eyes, then gestured to the customer behind Anna. “Next.”

  “Wait.” Anna didn’t budge. “Is there a problem?”

  “Only with you being crazy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You serious?” The clerk stared. “You want a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars?”

  “And fifty-seven cents.”

  “How do you plan to pay for that?”

  Anna reached into her purse, took out a bundle and a half of hundreds. Set them down on the counter, then smiled to see the clerk’s jaw drop.

  THE SHOTGUN WAS a Remington Tactical 870 configured with a pistol grip and loaded with three-inch magnum slugs. Marshall liked it. At this range, it would tear a fist-sized hole in the door and eviscerate anyone standing on the other side. Of course, fired inside, it’d leave them both half-deaf for hours too.

  Jack knocked, and they both watched the peephole set in “Bill Samuelson’s” door. Seconds clicked by. There was a faint odor of smoke. Jack knocked again, then rocked from foot to foot. “He’s not here.”

  There was a hint of disappointment in his voice, and that irked Marshall. Professionally speaking, Will not being here was a good thing. It would give them time to search the place, find the money if it was inside. He was more than happy to help take care of Will – man had stolen from him too – but you had to have priorities. He put up the shotty. “How’s the dead bolt?”

  Thirty seconds later, the door swung wide. The living room was spartan, just a lamp, a La-Z-Boy, and a television on a pressed-wood entertainment center. Marshall went first, sweeping the room and then the hall. Behind him, he heard Jack lock the door.

  The apartment radiated that unmistakable feeling of emptiness, but Marshall moved carefully anyway. The bedroom had a cheap box-spring-and-mattress combo, the blankets ruffled like someone had been sleeping on them. The second bedroom had been converted to a weight room, with a crammed ashtray and a bench sporting iron. A hall bathroom had the lights off, toilet in need of cleaning. In the kitchen, the stovetop was scorched and the wall blackened. The source of the smoke, apparently. A back door led to a narrow stairwell. “Looks like he took a powder.”

  Jack didn’t answer, just wandered back down the hall. Stepped into the weight room, looked around. He picked up one of the cigarettes, inspected it, the butt smudging his white surgical gloves. “What kind of an asshole smokes while he’s working out?”

  “Will’s kind.” The hunter in him could feel Will here, could see him lifting, pausing between sets to fire a cigarette. The man would have been nervous, jumpy. Feeling a constant pressure behindhis eyes, that sense he was being watched, that someone was getting closer. Marshall let the shotgun dangle, checked the load on the bench. 120. Pussy. “Why didn’t he blow town?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said. “Maybe he figured we’d leave first.”

  Marshall nodded. If Will thought they didn’t have a way to find him, then holing up wasn’t a bad idea. Without the cash, and with CPD working doubles to find them, leaving was a good call. The job had been all over the newspapers and the tabloids both.

  “Damn it,” Jack said, slinging his.45.

  “It’ll take a while to search.” Marshall shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, he’ll drop by, you two can have yourselves a chat.”

  SHE HIT FIVE MORE Currency Exchanges in the next few hours. It seemed safer to spread it out. Then she stopped by the clinic and stunned the receptionist.

  They’d figured it the night before, sitting at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of three-buck-Chuck between them. “It should work,” Tom had said. “If we never deposit the money, never declare it, the government doesn’t know to look for it. Cashier’s checks.”

  As it happened, Anna had found an even better twist. The cashier’s checks were good for the clinic and their medical expenses. But Currency Exchanges would let them pay their credit card bills directly, immediately depositing the money.

  That morning, they’d been almost seventy grand in debt. By noon, they were even.

  The feeling was strange and wonderful. In their wildest hopes, they hadn’t imagined being able to pay that down for years. They’d become resigned to it, this ethereal burden that trailed behind them, and suddenly they were free. It was like dropping ten pounds. She felt a radiance, a glow that made her smile, made her nod her head and tap her fingers as the Mountain Goats sang from the CD player, John Darnielle telling her how he was gonna make it through this year if it killed him.

  Anna parked the Pontiac on their block, slung her purse over her shoulder, and took the hardware bag in her other hand. Leaves rustled in a hundred shades of green above her head, and the air was sweet with the smell of dirt and sunlight. She walked down the street, taking it all in, breathing beauty. She skipped up the steps to their front porch, hummed as she opened the door to the vestibule. She had a feeling she hadn’t had in years, one that used to come naturally, back in the days when a job was just a job, when the future was nothing but options. A simple, wonderful feeling that everything, everything, was going to be okay.

  She pulled the keys from her purse and started for the stairwell door. Then paused. No point hauling the cleaning supplies up to their apartment. May as well just leave them in the bottom unit. Anna stepped to Bill Samuelson’s door and slid the key in the lock.

  Still humming, she stepped into the living room and shut the door behind her. The place smelled like smoke, though not as badly as before. She set down her purse and the bag from the hardware store, then went to the bay window, unlatched it and hoisted it rattling upward. That was better. She started down the hall, intending to do the same in the kitchen, get a little cross-draft going.

  The door to the bedroom was closed. That was odd. She didn’t remember closing it after they left the other day. Maybe they’d left a window open, and the
breeze had slammed the door. Anna turned the handle, pushed the door open.

  The drawers were all pulled out of the dresser, and the closet doors were open. The mattress lay askew on the box spring. Ghostly feathers traced her back. “Tom?” Had he come home early to start clearing out the apartment? She stepped into the bedroom like the floor might crack beneath her weight. “Honey?” Anna took another hesitant step, conscious now of her breathing, of the weight of the purse strap on her shoulder and the pinch of boots against her toes. She could smell something foul, a rotten stink that made her nostrils twitch. It was coming from the bathroom.

  Slowly, she peered around the corner. The vanity lights were on, hot white spilling across the room. Below, the cabinets gaped, revealing the lonely leftovers of a life: air freshener, plunger, half-burned candle. The medicine chest doors hung wide, their mirrored faces throwing fragments of the room. Bottles had been knocked over, and the toothpaste and toothbrush lay on the floor. The room looked like someone had gone through it in a hurry.

  The smell was worse here. It took her a moment to realize why, and then she noticed the toilet. Ughh. Why would Tom walk away like that, forget to flush-

  Suddenly it hit her all at once. The disarray, the closed bedroom door, the toilet, Jesus, the disgusting toilet, left filthy by someone. Someone not Tom. The muscles in her neck tightened, and she threw one hand up to cover her mouth. Whirled around, realizing her back was exposed, sure someone was behind her.

  The bedroom was empty.

  She had to get out. Fast. But what if whoever had done this was still inside? Her temples throbbed, and her armpits went moist. Did she dare risk running for the front door? She’d come in humming, called Tom’s name, done everything but telegraph exactly where she was. He could be creeping down the hallway now, a skinny man with long dirty fingers, a knife in one hand, the other on the zipper of ragged pants, stroking slowly-

  Get a grip, get a grip, goddamnit, get a grip!

  The best thing to do was get out, get out fast. Front door or back? The front, the way she’d come. Chances were if the burglar was still here, he was heading away from her, for the back door. Okay. Simple, then. Pull out your keys. Good. Grip them so you can punch with them, stupid as that seems. Good. Now just turn and walk out the way you came. Don’t panic, don’t run and risk falling, just walk out of here right now.

  I said, just turn and walk out of here-

  Anna Reed lunged for the door, threw herself into the hallway, and sprinted for the front, her heart slamming till she thought her ribs might crack.

  JACK STARED THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD at the woman they’d seen earlier. She’d just thrown open the door to Will Tuttle’s place, then the front door to the vestibule, and was tear-assing down the block like the bogeyman was behind her.

  “I guess she realized we’d been there,” Marshall said dryly. “What do you think she was doing in his apartment?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said.

  “You think she’s in on it?”

  He spread his hands, said nothing.

  “Lucky thing you saw her coming.” Marshall pulled the briefcase onto his lap. “If she’d just walked in on us…”

  Jack started the car, glanced over his shoulder, and then pulled the Civic onto the street. The Reed woman would be dialing the police. Best to be moving. Marshall popped the latches on the briefcase and lifted the lid. Rows of neatly ordered bundles and prescription bottles fit together like a puzzle. “What do you want to do with this shit?”

  “You know anybody who can move it?”

  Marshall sucked air through his teeth. “Maybe Mikey Cook?”

  “Trust him?”

  “I wouldn’t let him fuck my sister or anything, but he’s good people.”

  Jack nodded. “Fine. We can unload it when we’re finished.”

  They rode in silence for a momen; then Marshall said, “Will’s going to be spooked now.”

  “Yeah.” Jack signaled, then turned south. “We’ll have to keep a close watch, make sure he doesn’t bolt.” He kept his face and voice calm, but behind them his mind surged and raged. You better be spooked, Will. I’m coming. I’m coming for you and for my money, and nothing is going to stand in my way.

  Nothing.

  7

  THERE WAS A POLICE CAR in front of his house.

  Tom had been away from his office when Anna called. It was one of those mornings, the kind where by nine-thirty he knew he’d be lunching at his desk, and by eleven o’clock he realized he wouldn’t be eating lunch at all. The kind where he wished he’d stuck to his dream of writing books, instead of getting a corporate job doing technical writing. The Vice President in Charge of Fucking Up People’s Day had had a change of heart on a program Tom’s team had been set to roll out next week. Typical bullshit, just ego cloaked in platitudes about “forward-thinking design” and “going another way,” but it tanked ten weeks’ worth of work. After a meeting like that, seeing the red voice-mail light burning didn’t brighten things up.

  Then he heard the message, and it got worse. Anna was panicky, breathless. All he could make out was something about someone in their house, and to come home right away. He’d stood with the phone in one hand, his lips clenched, staring out at the city street far below, boxy yellow cabs and ant people. Part of him was thinking about how this was going to complicate things here, and wondering what the hell she was doing at home in the middle of the day anyway. The other part was already racing for the street, hailing a cab, offering the driver forty on a twenty-dollar ride if only he’d go fast.

  He went with the latter, spent the ride praying that nothing was wrong. But there was a police car in front of his house. Tom threw two bills at the driver and leapt out of the car. He ran straight through the rows of tulips his neighbor had planted, and took the steps to their porch two at a time. “Anna?” He started to unlock the door to their apartment, then noticed that the one to the bottom unit was a few inches open. He pushed it wide, looked in. “Hello? Anna?”

  “Tom?” The voice came from down the hall, followed by loud footsteps, and then she was there, throwing her arms around him, her grip tight, her hair in his face, and something in his chest loosened, a fist he hadn’t realized was clutching his heart.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, just…” She sniffed. “Someone was here. In this apartment. I was so scared-”

  “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” He held her, stroked her hair. “You’re okay. Just tell me what happened.”

  She stepped back, took a deep breath. “I decided to call in. Ran some errands, took care of our bills” – giving him a meaningful look – “you know, like we’d talked about.”

  They had talked about it, though he hadn’t intended for her to miss yet another day of work to do it. Not like Currency Exchanges weren’t open twenty-four hours. But that wasn’t important. He nodded.

  “When I came home, I was dropping stuff off in here. I went in the bedroom, and the drawers were open, the closets, there were things on the floor.” She locked eyes with him. “Tom, they went through everything.”

  The fist moved from his chest to his gut, his stomach going wobbly. “Are you saying-”

  “They were looking for something. Whoever they were.”

  He realized his mouth was open, and closed it. “It was probably just someone robbing the place.” He saw her uncertainty, kept talking. “Looking for jewelry, money, that kind of thing.”

  “They didn’t take the TV, the-”

  “They didn’t take it yet. You probably startled them.”

  She started to protest, then stopped as footsteps came down the hall. A cop, tall and barrel-chested in his bulletproof vest. “Are you the husband?”

  “Yes. Tom Reed.” He put his hand out.

  “Al Abramson.” The cop shook hands, then rested his right on the butt of his gun and turned to Anna. “Ma’am, we’ve checked the whole place, including your apartment and the basement. There’s n
obody here.”

  She sighed. “Thank God.”

  “Any idea who would have done this?”

  “No,” she said. “Tom?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well,” Abramson said, “the way they went through everything, I’d guess it was junkies. They hit the medicine cabinet too. Pretty common. Get strung out, need a fix, they’ll try anything. I wouldn’t worry about them coming back.”

  “What about the…” Anna hesitated, then pointed toward the bathroom.

  Abramson shook his head. “These guys are animals. At least they used the toilet. I’ve seen places they did it right on the living room carpet.” His radio chirped, and he said, “Excuse me a moment,” then stepped down the hall and answered it.

  “Did what?” Tom cocked his head at Anna.

  “Uh,” she said. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Just shaken up.”

  He hugged her again, wrapped his arms around her, the smell of her filling his nostrils. “Anna, maybe we should tell them-”

  “No.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “No.” She pulled away. “That’s our child. I’m not giving it up, not without a reason.”

  He was saved from replying by Abramson’s return. “Sorry about that, folks. I didn’t realize, I guess you had an incident here the other night?”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “Our tenant died. This was his apartment.”

  The cop nodded, not overly interested. “Well, that was my dispatcher, wanting to let me know a detective was on the way. Guy named Halden?”

  “We met him that night. But he’s a homicide detective, right? Why is he coming?”

  Abramson shrugged. “Have to ask him. Meanwhile, you want to take a look around, see if anything in particular is missing? I need to know for the report.”