by Marcus Sakey
“Who?”
“Genghis Khan.”
“Huh?”
“Just listen,” he said. She opened her mouth, then shut it, leaned back against the headboard, and nodded. He told her about his meeting with the man in the suit, about the threats against them both. About his conversation with the detective, his careful dance of exaggeration and obfuscation. Told her about talking real estate with Jack Witkowski while a knife burned in his pocket. She listened quietly, assembling the larger pattern: thieves that preyed on the Star buying drugs. A betrayal and a murder. Everyone scattering, one man left holding all the goods – a man who hid in a quiet rental apartment, the bottom floor of a two-flat in Lincoln Square. A grand epic had been playing out around them. “The guy in the suit, did he say how long we had?”
“No. But not long. He’s probably looking for us now.”
“Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“Definitely.”
“Worse than Jack?”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” She rubbed at her temple. “What do we do?”
“We go to the cops,” he said.
“We’d have to tell them everything.”
“So?”
“Tom, we’d have to give up the money. Not just the cash we have left, but the stuff we’ve already paid too. We’d have to hire a lawyer.” A thought struck her. “God, I don’t even have a job now! How would we pay for it? We’d lose the house.” She shook her head. “There has to be another way.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
She hesitated. Even if everything went perfectly, if they somehow rode out the storm, if the police caught Jack and the drug dealer, if a lawyer kept them out of jail, they would lose their chance for a child. Time and debt would guarantee it. They wouldn’t even be able to adopt. She’d researched the process, knew how stringent it was. People could be disqualified if the adoption agent just got a bad vibe. She imagined the interview: Well, sure, we are nearly bankrupt. True, we stole money from our deceased tenant. Yes, we did have to sell our house to cover our legal defense against felony charges. But we’re good housekeepers. You can overlook the rest, right?
If they went to the police, they risked everything. If they didn’t, they risked their lives. “I can’t believe this. It’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“I mean, it was just a coincidence. A nothing little thing. Our tenant deciding to make a cup of coffee. That’s all. If he hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been a fire. We wouldn’t have found the money. All of this would have been different.”
“But there was, and we did. Now we have to deal with it.”
The most crucial decision in her life could be traced to a cup of instant coffee. It hurt to think about. “We don’t have to call the cops right now, do we?”
He shook his head. “Soon, though. The longer we drag it out, the less friendly they’ll be.”
“What do you think they’ll do?”
“I don’t know. Take the money, obviously. I can’t imagine them locking us up or anything. We’re not exactly murderers.”
“Will they protect us?”
He didn’t answer for a long time. Finally he said, “They’ll do what they can.”
She thought back to the apartment, Tom on his back, Jack kneeling over him, that big gun pointing at her beautiful husband’s face. Remembered how loud the shot had been, how it had left her ears ringing for half an hour. An explosion, flame and fury. She had an image, quickly walled away, of what all that power could do to a human being. To Tom.
They had gotten lucky. Plain and simple. Lucky in the alarm, in the panic code, in the police response time. They hadn’t beaten Jack, not by a long shot. They’d gotten lucky.
And even with that luck, all they’d done was get away. He was still out there. Smart and dangerous and now pissed off. Would the police protect them? Could they? For how long? “Maybe we should leave town. Hit the road.”
“We’d have to come back sooner or later.”
“I guess.” She shook her head. “I’d just like to be farther away from him. From both of them. I’d feel better if we were in Detroit.”
He was sipping at his bourbon when she said that, and made a sound sort of like a laugh that quickly turned to a cough. He shook his head and swallowed hard, eyes watering.
“What?”
Tom beat at his chest, coughed. “What you said.”
“What about it?”
“It’s just” – he stared at her – “you know you’re in bad shape if you’d rather be in Detroit.”
Anna felt a smile burst out of her. Then a laugh. Then peals of it. It was freeing, a deep and cleansing silliness, and they kept at it, one triggering the other, the laughter far outstripping the joke.
When they finally stopped, Tom said, “Well, that’s about as good as I’m likely to feel. Maybe we better…”
She nodded. Took him to the bathroom, ran the water until it was lukewarm, then held his hand under it. He gasped at the contact, but didn’t fight her. She washed her own hands thoroughly, then, gently, washed each of his fingers. As the dried blood came off, she got a look at the damage. The knuckles were scraped and torn, and there was a nasty rip in the meat of his index finger. All of them were red and throbbing, sausage-thick and hot to the touch. His little finger was clearly broken, angled too far to one side.
She dried his hand and arm on a thick towel, then smeared antiseptic cream all over. “This is going to hurt.”
He nodded, sat down on the toilet, his face pale. “Pass that washcloth.” He spun it into a rope, then bit down. Huffed breath through his nose, one, two, three, then looked at her and nodded.
She steeled herself. Better to do it fast and only once. Anna took hold of his little finger and twisted hard. He yelled through clenched teeth and cotton.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” she said, hating hurting him, feeling her own face contract. She bent over his hand. Worked the finger gently to make sure it was in position, terrified she would have to do it again. But it seemed reasonably well aligned. She fixed the splint to it, then taped it tight. “There. That should work.” She began to bandage his other fingers. “I think you’ll be okay. The others aren’t broken. The little one probably isn’t perfectly in line, though. We should get you to a doctor soon.”
He spat out the cloth, let out a deep breath. “Promise me something.” His voice throaty.
“Anything.”
“No more lies. Okay? Never again.”
She looked up at him, this man she’d known forever. “And no more trying to protect me. We get through this together.”
His smile broke slow and sweet as a spring sunrise. “Partners in crime.”
“Partners in crime.” She leaned across his bandaged hand to kiss him, his rough lips and gentle tongue. Not a passionate kiss, not meant to lead to the bedroom. Just truer than words.
THE BOURBON WAS A FUZZY GLOW THROUGH HIM, sanding the edges off the pain and loosening his body. Tom lay on top of the bed, his left hand up on a pillow, his right enfolding Anna. Out the window, the Ferris wheel turned and turned and turned.
Tomorrow would be bad. But right now, this second, it seemed a million miles away. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was the liquor. But for now, mercifully, he felt warm and sheltered, a boat that had made it to safe harbor.
On the desk, his cell phone rang.
“Let it go,” Anna whispered into his armpit.
“Can’t,” he said. Sat up slowly, untwining his arm from around her shoulder. Looked at the display, didn’t recognize the number. “It’s probably Halden. If we’re going to turn ourselves in tomorrow, I should talk to him now.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“Not if I can help it.” He stood, cracked his neck. “I’d rather do it in person. Besides, I want tonight. Things won’t be calm again for a long time.”
She smiled at him. “I love
you.”
“Back at you.” He opened the phone and said, “Tom Reed.”
“Hi, Tom. How’s the W?” Jack Witkowski’s voice was clear and cold. “They have those little bottles of booze in the room?”
15
HE NEARLY DROPPED THE PHONE. “How did you-”
“How did I find you?” Jack snorted. “This is what I do. You really think I wouldn’t find you, douchebag?”
Tom’s knees felt weak, and he sat on the edge of the table. Locked eyes with Anna, who had registered the tone of his voice and sat up alarmed.
“So, you haven’t answered my question. The W. Nice place?”
“Yeah.” He struggled for his cool. “Great view.”
“I bet. What’s it run, three hunny a night?”
Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was shock or booze or exhaustion, but Tom just didn’t feel like being cowed. “So what? On your money, we can stay here three years.”
There was a pause, and then a short laugh. “I keep writing you off as a pussy, and you keep proving me wrong. That move with the knife was pretty good. Didn’t work, but it was gutsy. And your wife too. Setting off the panic code anybody could do, but stalling, talking about the money in the heating vent? Pretty clever.”
“Guess so.”
“And now you’re feeling safe in a luxury hotel room. Big windows, that romantic view you mentioned. Maybe got a couple of drinks under your belt. Am I right? You have a few?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s a guy like you drink?”
“Bourbon.”
“Soda, rocks?”
“Neat.”
“Huh. If I’d’ve known that, I’d’ve handled things differently at your house. Wouldn’t have left you alone.”
“I guess that wasn’t in our mail. That’s how you got my cell number too, right?”
“Sure.” Jack paused. “By the way, what’s the matter with your dick? There was a letter from a fertility clinic. You and Anna need a little help? I’d be happy to spot you some baby juice.”
“Fuck you, you fucking psycho.” The words came hard and fast, accompanied by a rush of blood to his face. After all they’d been through, he was surprised that Jack still had the power to violate them, to spread poison on something precious.
“Fuck me?” Jack laughed. “Maybe that’s the problem. Not going to be any babies, you run around trying to cornhole middle-aged Polacks. That it, Tom? You queer?”
He stood, went to the window. Looked out at the Drive, headlights running in one direction, taillights in the other. The past here, the future there, and just a moment, a flickering blur, really, that marked the present. “We told the police everything.”
“Now, I give you credit for balls. But it’s your wife with the brains. I know you didn’t tell the cops.”
Tom had a sinking feeling, said nothing.
“That’s right, tough guy. I was watching. I got balls too. I sat on your block and watched those two uniforms stroll in, then stroll back out maybe five minutes later. You didn’t tell them shit. You’re not going to, either. Because they’ll make you give up the score. And if you do, I’ll kill you and Anna both.”
“Even if we haven’t got the money.”
“Quite a predicament, huh?” Jack’s voice was merry. “You figured it was pennies from heaven, turns out you got bad men on your tail. Life’s a bitch.”
Tom opened his mouth, closed it. In the dark window he could see the reflection of the room, Anna ghostly behind him. Finally he said, “Why did you call? Just to say that?”
“I called to tell you it’s your lucky day. I’ve got a way out for you.”
“How?”
“Just give me my money, Tom. That’s all.”
“How do I know you-”
“Won’t kill you? We’ll do it in public, like on TV. See, I figure, you can’t go to the cops without getting yourself in trouble, and besides, you don’t really know anything that could hurt me. So just bring what’s mine and get on with your lives.”
Tom stood silent.
“I’m not going away. You won’t go to sleep and find me gone in the morning. That money cost me a lot. So we can do this civilized, or I can show up again when you don’t expect it. But if I do… well, I won’t stop with your hand. Or hers.”
Tom’s fingers throbbed, hot against the tight tape.
“Which’ll it be? Gonna bring me my money?”
“Yes,” Tom said.
“Good boy. You know where Century Mall is?”
“Clark and Diversey.”
“Be there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And, Tom?” Jack’s voice hardened. “Don’t fuck around. I’m smarter than you, I’m meaner than you, and this is what I do. You get me?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “I do.”
THE STEAKHOUSE WAS HUMID, packed with men who wore cuff links and spoke in acronyms. Halden ordered a Bud, thought better of it, asked for a shot of Beam as well.
“Long day, hon?” The bartendress wore a shirt designed to push her breasts up and out in a pale spill.
“Long enough.” After meeting Tom Reed at the coffee shop, Halden had hustled back to the station, feeling that tingle of excitement. If the drug dealer was everything Reed said, he could be the key to the whole case. He’d gone straight to the lieutenant’s office, found Johnson with his feet on the desk, paging through a file folder. “Boss.”
The guy raised one finger, but didn’t look up from his pages. Just kept reading, his lips moving. Finally he closed the file. “Chris.”
They’d made detective the same year, but Johnson cared more about politics than policing, and had put his effort into sucking up to the Irish Mafia, the system of favoritism that ran from Mayor Daley on down. He’d even learned to play the bagpipes so he could join the honor guard. It had worked, obviously, but it always made Halden a little sick, the thought that if it would earn him rank, Johnson would probably put on a kilt and Riverdance.
Before Halden could get a word out, the man said, “We’ve got a body in a Dumpster at Sheridan and Buena. I need you to go out there.”
“I can’t. I’m on something else.”
“What?”
“Will Tuttle.”
“I thought he was an overdose.”
“Yeah, triggered a heart condition. But there’s more. His land-lord, guy named Tom Reed-”
“You still calling it accidental death?”
“Yeah.”
“Then that’s all I need to know. Don’t be digging in closed cases. Grab your gear and head for Sheridan. Victor’s primary, you back him up.” Johnson turned back to the folder in dismissal.
Frustration made Halden speak without thinking. “It’s about the Shooting Star.”
Johnson’s eyes snapped back up. He straightened, then leaned forward. “What? Have you got something?”
And in that instant, the whole scenario played out in Halden’s mind. A chance to close the Shooting Star? Forget it. The brass would get involved. The politicos would start angling for their close-up. They’d cut him out of it with a handshake and a pat on the head. He’d be a line item in the report. Meanwhile Johnson, or someone like him, would climb the ranks.
The same shit that had happened his whole career. Without letting himself think too hard about what he was doing, he said, “No. No, nothing like that.”
The lieutenant squinted. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Halden coughed. “I just, you know, wanted to check in. See if there’d been any progress. Since I handled Tuttle.”
Johnson stared for a moment, then shook his head. “If it comes to anything, I’ll let you know.” He leaned back. “Head out to Sheridan.”
“Sure thing,” Halden said. But he hadn’t. Hell, he hadn’t even called to ask Victor to cover for him. Instead he’d picked up the phone and dialed his old partner, Lawrence Tully, and invited him out for dinner.
The bartendress set up his whis
key and Halden knocked it down, then nodded for another.
Tully was twenty minutes late, but entered big, cracking jokes with the hostess, clapping Halden on the shoulder. Tully was a bear of a man, red-faced and balding; his chins had chins. “Chris Halden, you skinny prick. What does Marie see in you?”
“Jesus, Larry. Running your own company agrees with you, huh?”
“You betcha.” The man turned sideways and slapped his belly. “I almost pity you for picking up the check.”
The hostess led them to a table, dropped leather-bound menus. A guy in a vest plinked at a piano in the back corner. The air was buttery and dim. Halden ordered another round, Bud and Beam times two, and they each got a steak – Tully’s a porterhouse with melted Gorgonzola, for Christ’s sake – a baked potato, and a Caesar. Over the meal they caught up, bullshitting about their days riding a beat. It wasn’t until Tully took the last bite, set his napkin on his plate, and leaned back with a satisfied sigh that Halden got down to it, asked what he’d found out about the Reeds.
“They got a rich uncle recently died?”
“What do you mean?”
Tully sipped his beer, said, “You were right, they came into money.”
Halden felt his pulse quicken, fought to keep a straight face. “Tell me.”
“I called a friend of mine at Citibank. They just paid down a Visa to the tune of something like fifteen grand.”
Fifteen grand. He remembered the innocent faces they’d both pulled when he’d come back to their house the second time, how they acted offended at the mere suggestion that they might steal something. People. Shit. “And there’s no question about it? I mean, your source is solid?”
“Fuck you, Chris.”
“Tully-”
The big man leaned forward. “I’m in the information business. That’s what I do. I work for Michigan Avenue law firms. I work for the State’s Attorney. Hell, Homeland Security too, not that that makes me unique, money they throw around these days. You call up a favor, now you ask if I know my business?”