by Marcus Sakey
“Hey,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Running errands.”
“Meet me back home. Let’s grab a few things and go check into a hotel.”
“A hotel? What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It is now.”
He walked three blocks to the Sedgwick station and waited for the Brown Line. Had the platform almost to himself, just a bag lady and a beefy guy who climbed the stairs after him. From the raised platform, he could see the Sears Tower marking the skyline. Maybe they’d go downtown tonight, a four-star, the Peninsula or the Ritz, someplace with fluffy bathrobes and a fancy pool. Splurge a little.
The train clattered up. It was almost five, and the car was packed with rush-hour commuters. He fought his way to the back and leaned against the door separating two cars. As the El rocked and swayed, he thought again of the detective, how intent he had become once Tom mentioned the Shooting Star. This was going to work. Better still, he could tell Anna now. She’d be scared at first, mad at him for concealing it, but she’d be happy with the resolution. With the cops after the drug dealer, and no one after the money, they were clear.
By the time they made Rockwell, the crowd had thinned. A dozen people got off, everyone in their own world, folding newspapers or glancing at watches, hurrying in different directions. The air was cool after the stuffy embrace of the train. He walked the few blocks to their home, listening to the wind toy with the leaves, smelling food and flowers on the night air.
“Excuse me, buddy.” It was the man from the Sedgwick platform, a biggish guy, not fat but hefty, with eight o’clock shadow and dark hair. “I got a question for you.”
“What?” Tom asked.
As he did, his stomach exploded. His knees went wobbly and he doubled over, retching. Struggled desperately to suck air into his lungs, his mind running a mile behind, trying to process that this total stranger had gut-punched him with a fist like a chunk of concrete.
The man said, “Are you right- or left-handed, asshole?”
13
JACK TOOK A HANDFUL of the douchebag’s hair and dragged him up the steps of his building. At the moment the street was clear, but it was just after five, an hour when people walked their dogs and fired up their grills. No point hanging around.
He opened the door to the entryway, then yanked the guy in and flung him at the wall. He didn’t have time to get his arms up, and hit hard. Staggered back, dazed, that sheep look, like if he blinked enough the badness would go away.
“Open the door,” Jack said.
The man coughed, straightened slowly. “Who are-”
Jack slapped him openhanded, whack, right across the cheek. Same thing he’d done to the Star, and with the same reaction. Fear and helplessness crept into Tom Reed’s eyes. Fear and helplessness were good. They were loud emotions, static that interfered with thinking. The stupidest thing this guy could do was to open the door and let himself be taken into a private space, away from prying eyes. What he ought to do was run for the street, yelling his lungs out. But fear and helplessness kept him from thinking properly. “Open the door.”
The guy nodded, reached into his bag, and came out with a ring of keys. He turned and inserted one into the door to the stairs.
“Not that one. The other door.”
“What?”
Jack pulled his chrome.45, let it dangle at the end of his arm. Tom Reed’s eyes widened, and he said, “Look, take my wallet.”
“Open the other door, Tom.”
For a moment, the guy just stood there, finally catching on. Then he stepped sideways and unlocked the door to Will Tuttle’s apartment.
“Inside.”
Jack followed, waited until they were in the living room and the door was closed behind them. Then he drove the butt of the pistol into the guy’s right kidney.
Tom Reed collapsed like every muscle had failed at once. He hit the floor fetal, clutching at his side and his belly and wheezing a thin animal sound. His legs spasmed like a frog’s. Jack turned to snap the dead bolt shut. He stood for a moment, watching the man writhe, and then he said, “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
HE COULDN’T MOVE, couldn’t think. A dark sun burned in his back, spitting lances of flame, gobs of lava that burned and sizzled. Tom fought to breathe, just to breathe, the world wobbly and wet before his eyes. He could see the pattern of the hardwood floor, smell the earthy dirt of a thousand footprints. From somewhere came a crisp metallic snap. The lock being twisted. It was the scariest sound he had ever heard.
“Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
Tom grunted, gasped. The voice was above him. The man from the Sedgwick platform. Big, not fat. With a gun. A guy who knew his name. He tried to force his thoughts into order.
The man said, “We haven’t met, but I feel like I know you, Tom. Amazing, the things you can learn about somebody by going through their mail.” Paper fluttered down. White paper, with something printed on it. “You know what that is? It’s a Visa receipt. The kind they send when you make a remote deposit. It says you paid down fifteen grand in debt last week. Fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents, to be exact.”
Their mail. He’d noticed it was empty the day prior, and Anna had mentioned something about it as well. They’d assumed it was a new carrier, just a typical post office glitch. Now he understood. This man had been stalking them for days.
“What kind of a person can pay fifteen thousand, four hundred twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents at once?” A boot nudged him. Tom pulled away from it. The motion made the world spin, but at least the level of pain seemed to have stabilized. He found he could draw air. He gulped it, trying to clear his head.
“I’ll tell you, it would take a real asshole. We’re talking grade-A stupid here, the kind of person who had everything handed to them their whole life and thought they deserved it. The kind who could find four hundred grand and think he gets to keep it.”
Tom put a hand on floor, tested it. The shift spilled boiling oil down his spine. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, half-expecting to get beat back down. But he couldn’t just lie there.
“You think that’s the way the world works?” The voice nearer, coffee breath in Tom’s face. He blinked until he could focus, see the man bending down, the gun still in his hand. It was a big chrome thing, heavy. “You think four hundred grand lands in your lap and you get to keep it? Do you?”
Tom coughed, straightened his back. Tried to imagine lunging into the man, throwing him against the door, wrestling the gun from his hand. Tried, but couldn’t make himself believe it.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you bedtime stories, for Christ’s sake? You find a chest of gold, you better know there’s a monster guarding it. That’s the way the world works. You want something, you have to take it from someone like me.” He swung the gun up fast, leveled the barrel so that Tom could stare down into the darkness. It looked enormous. His body throbbed and his head ached. The man said, “Do you think you can do that?”
Tom forced his gaze upward, away from the gun. The guy looked Polish, had that wide pork chop face and dark hair. The thought led to another, and he scrambled for it. A name. Jack Witkowski. The man in the suit had asked if Tom knew a Jack Witkowski.
“Well?”
Tom forced himself to look Jack in the eye. Slowly he shook his head.
The man smiled. “Good.” He holstered the pistol, then held out his right hand. Tom took it, clambered to his feet. Nausea swept through him, making his whole body tremble, but he forced himself to stand straight.
“Now,” Jack said, “where’s my money?”
An hour ago, he’d have answered differently. He’d have hedged or tried to lie. Pretended ignorance. Now, though, he was suddenlyand profoundly aware of two simple facts. First, he was in shit deeper than he’d ever imagined. Second, Anna would be h
ome soon. “It’s in the basement.”
“Show me.”
Tom pictured it, concrete ceilings and walls, a solitary window at the far end, the dingy light of a single overhead bulb carving a slow attenuation to shadow. He imagined a body facedown on that dirty floor, a camera panning out on a slow tide of blood flowing from what was left of his head. An image borrowed from a Scorsese film, only it would be his body, his blood. Then he thought, again, of Anna. “This way.”
“You go first. Carefully.”
It took enormous effort, but Tom forced himself to turn his back on the man and the gun. His wounded kidney sang with pain. He took one step and then another, eyes darting. The pattern of the wood grain, the smell of his own sweat, the dings and cuts in the molding, every little thing seemed to hold enormous portent, and yet there were so many of them, the world so very present that he couldn’t possibly sort through it.
The back stairs smelled faintly of trash. He started down, the wood squeaking and groaning with every step. There were cobwebs in the corners, and scraps from where a garbage bag had split a year ago. His mind like it was watching from a distance. He watched himself fumble to turn on the light, dusty yellow like faded lace. Saw himself walk to the back, past the washer and dryer, past the furnace, to the plywood hatch that covered the crawl space. He turned to look back at the man following him.
Looking at Jack snatched away that comfortable distance. Put him back in his body. Tom stared at the broad shoulders and ready posture, the pistol out and steady. Jack looked like a man at ease, a man who did this for a living. Tom said, “My wife and I, we’re trying to have a-”
“Don’t.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s my money?”
Tom swallowed, acid ringing in his nostrils and the back of his throat. “In there.” Pointing to the crawl space. “In a duffel bag.”
“Get it.”
He took a breath. Maybe once he gave up the money, this would all be over. Jack Witkowski would take what was his and leave them alone. They could go back to their old life, to bills and work hassles and making dinner and watching reruns, all the silly moments that took up a day, took up a life. Every precious thing they had thought they wanted to get clear of.
Tom stepped forward, gripped the edges of the plywood panel, lifted it up and off, then set it against the wall. A musty smell rose from the darkness. He squatted and reached in. His hand fumbled for the strap of the bag. Nothing. He started patting around in the crawl space, hand clanging against the metal of pipes, triggering spills of dust. He leaned in to the shoulder, felt in both directions, thinking maybe they had just tucked it farther than he remembered. Nothing.
Tom ducked down to peer into the dim space. As his eyes adjusted, he saw chalky piles of dust, abandoned spiderwebs, the faint, slick darkness of the pipes. But no duffel bag. It simply wasn’t there. He stared, trying to understand.
The burglary, he thought. But then, no – after the cops had left, the first thing he and Anna had done was come down to the basement to check on the money.
Everything stood still. Tom crouched on the ground with his head in the crawl space like a child hiding. Some part of him praying that by not seeing the threat behind him, he would make it somehow go away.
Then Jack said, “Lay down and stretch your arm out.”
JACK WATCHED the man stiffen. Idiot civilian. Most guys, a solid kidney blow taught every needed lesson. But not this stupid son of a bitch. He still felt entitled.
The click of the hammer cocking back was loud in the confined space.
“No, wait, please!” Tom Reed spun on his knees, hands in front of his face. He looked desperate, had that animal panic, all darting eyes. “It was here. I swear, it was here.”
“Lay down,” Jack said, “and stretch out your arm.”
“We got robbed,” Tom blurted. “Earlier this week. They didn’t find the money then, but they must have come back. They must have realized they’d forgotten the basement. We didn’t notice because they didn’t go into either of the units, but they must have come here and-”
“Tom.” Jack spoke slowly. “Who do you think broke into your house?” He shook his head. “You want to do it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Now lay the fuck down.”
For a long moment, the man just stared at him, the blood draining out of his face, a thousand horrors flowing in to replace it. Nothing was scarier than the monster you conjured in your own head. He started to argue, but Jack moved the pistol from his face to his stomach. “Now.”
Slowly Tom Reed lay down on the dirty floor. He unfolded his knees from beneath him, then eased himself back onto his elbows. Held the position for a second, then rocked onto his back. He extended his arm. His eyes were on the ceiling, but seemed like they saw through it.
Jack eased the hammer down on the 1911, but kept it on Tom Reed’s stomach. He put the ball of his size-twelves on the guy’s arm, just past the elbow. Leaned in hard. The guy’s lips were moving without sound, something rhythmic and steady, a prayer, maybe, or a promise. The old tightness came back, exhilaration and fear and a surge of power, of living on the thin edge of life, where the world was made minute by minute. He let the moment stretch, let the man’s fear thicken and curdle.
Finally he said, “Tom, where’s my money?”
The guy twisted his head sideways. His skin looked clammy. His eyes were all pupil. He said, “I swear to God. It was in there.”
Jack shook his head. Leveled the pistol just in case. Then he lifted his right foot, the heel of the dress shoe angled down.
DON’T BE AFRAID, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, oh God, what’s he doing, why is he, his leg, why is he, oh God, is he, he can’t, oh God, don’t be afraid, don’tbeafraid, dontbeafraid,dontbea –
The man slammed his foot down, and Tom’s world exploded. “We put it in the crawl space, we put it in the crawl space, I swear to Christ, we put it right there!” Screaming the words to fight the agony.
Jack lifted his foot again, and Tom sucked in a deep breath.
He yanked against the shoe holding him in place, saw the finger tighten on the trigger of the gun, forced himself to stop.
The second time he noticed the sound, just as bad as the pain, a meaty horror with a slick-sick backslide as his knuckles ground concrete. A crack, like breaking a twig, and his little finger was twisted all the way over. He looked at it and felt something heave in him, fought not to vomit, the pain, the pain, the burning shrieking jagged-glass ragged-edged pain.
“Where is it?”
“We put it in the crawl space!”
The third stomp caught the edge of his wedding ring, the stainless steel band they’d picked out at a jeweler’s off Michigan Avenue, caught it and deflected most of the force, but it was enough, enough, more than enough. Tom stared and fought against the black spots in his vision, thinking of his ring, his ring, his wife, his sweet ring and wife, Jesus, Anna, she would be home soon.
“I swear to fucking Christ,” screaming, bellowing, eyes bugging, “we found the money in his kitchen, in the flour and the sugar and we put it in a duffel bag and took it down here, just my wife and me, and we haven’t fucking moved it, I swear, I fucking swear. I don’t know where it is, no matter how much you hurt me, I fucking do not know, because we put it in the crawl space.”
The man raised his foot again. Narrowed his eyes and paused. He was looking down, and Tom put it all in his eyes how he’d never been more sincere in his life, never. To make Jack believe. To keep that foot from coming down again. Heartbeats lasted decades; just the cool of the concrete, and the smell of blood and dust and bleach, and the inferno that was his hand.
Then Jack lowered his foot. Slowly. He took his other off Tom’s arm, and dropped to a squat. Held the gun loose and casual, and Tom considered going for it, but the mere thought of moving his fingers made him almost vomit. Jack stared, hard features hollowed by the overhead light, eyes more suggestions than anatomy. Finally he said, “Huh,” and stood up, step
ped back. He ran a hand through his hair.
Free to move, Tom rolled over on his side, cradled his left hand in his right, holding it gently, like a limb that had fallen asleep, only instead of pins and needles, it was spikes and sawblades. His fingers were bloody and torn, savaged by the concrete. The little one was clearly broken. There was a wicked gash in the index finger. They were red and swollen as sausages.
They’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Fingers heal. You put them on ice, you bind them, you go to the hospital. But first you have to get out of this.
Slowly, trying to use only his stomach muscles, Tom sat up. He was dizzy, and his head ached hollowly. “I swear,” he said. “I swear, we put the money down here. I don’t have any idea where it is.”
Jack nodded slowly. “You know what? I believe you. You don’t know where it is.” He squatted down beside Tom. “But you know what else? I bet Anna does.”
Before Tom could process what that meant, Jack’s gun hand lashed out, and everything went away.
THROBBING.
His hand hurt furiously, in steady pulses tied to his heart. His head too. As he grasped at the straws of consciousness, his first thought was that he hadn’t had a hangover this bad in a long time. Had he fallen asleep on the-
It all came back. Tom’s eyes snapped open. He sat up sharply, but a slap of pain thrust him back. Slow. Take it slow. He was in a chair. A La-Z-Boy. Will’s apartment, their downstairs unit. He was sitting with his hand propped up on the arm. Alone. Where was Jack?
And on the heels of that, where, oh God, where was Anna?
The fantasy played itself out in a fraction of a breath, a flickering horror show: Anna’s arm extended, her mouth wide, head thrown back, Jack raising that foot. Another: Jack throwing her to the ground, unbuckling his pants, his wife screaming for help, while Tom lay unconscious in the chair…
He sat up again. The pain came in a white wave, and he made himself ride it, eyes closed, teeth clenched. The pain didn’t matter. If she was here, he had to help her, had to get to her. Even if she wasn’t, she would be soon.