The Stakes

by Ben Sanders

  Bobby could’ve made it work.

  Maybe.

  He could’ve moved behind the column for cover and let Keller have it, but even brief hesitation was delaying way too long. The time to do it was when he came in the door, but now the other two were down, it’d be harder to claim a dead Keller as collateral. He’d be on camera, too—hotel security, and about fifty different cell phones. He’d end up on Twitter as the guy who shot the hero cop. And dead Keller was not worth the risk of internet fame, or the birth of a stupid Bobby Deen hashtag.

  So he just put the gun down and got out of there. He didn’t know what was going on, but he made out as if nothing rattled him, touching his hat brim at Keller on the way past, feeling the cop’s gun following as he and Nina walked away.

  She had him by the arm, and he almost said something about taking the subway, but where were they going to go?

  Nina said, “This has worked out well, hasn’t it?”

  He thought she meant getting out alive. But as they stepped out of the shattered lobby doors onto the street, she walked around the rear of the SUV idling at the curb, and Bobby saw through the window as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  A moment later, eastbound along the middle of Canal Street with stopped cars to either side, he said, “You have any idea what’s going on?”

  Nina said, “More or less.” Sounding breezy about it.

  He gave her a few seconds, and then said, “So are you going to let me in on the details?”

  She wasn’t looking at him, and he wondered how carefully she was prepping her reply. She said, “Let’s get lunch first.”

  * * *

  He wasn’t sure about the etiquette—what you’re actually meant to do post-shooting. Whether you take a few moments out, let everyone think about what they could have lost. But there certainly wasn’t any deep reflection or deep breathing. Nina just drove up Sixth Avenue to Times Square, turned in at a parking garage on West Forty-third and pulled up in the drop-off lane.

  She swapped the keys for a ticket, and they went out onto the street into the theater-district crowd, people with I Heart New York bags walking four across, uniformed guys pushing brochures, harried business types trying to dodge the bullshit. Nina led the way with her luggage, over to a place called the Brooklyn Diner, on the corner of Forty-third and Broadway. It was a perfect fit with the hyperlit Times Square vibe, loopy bright-red neon spelling out its name above the Forty-third Street windows.

  The lunch rush was over, and they got a booth straightaway. Bobby sat down and stretched out, and it felt absolutely fucking perfect. Warm and safe surrounds, and being in close range to Her.

  He should have been worried about what was coming next, whether there were others chasing them, and how Keller—Miles Keller of all people—had showed up when he did. Maybe under different circumstances, he’d pause and think about death, how close he came to wearing a bullet. But even the Reaper came second to Nina. She’d been in his head for weeks, and now here she was right in front of him, and that fact deserved his undivided focus.

  She said, “Charles brought me here one time—our first date, actually. I was in a Broadway show of Breakfast at Tiffany’s—you know Cort Theatre? Up on Forty-eighth, I think?”

  He didn’t, but he nodded anyway. She was sitting with one elbow on the backrest and her hand hanging next to her, fingers clicking idly as she talked. He could have watched her all day.

  She said, “I hadn’t actually read any Capote, but I saw the movie, and the script had that same feel, somehow. Charles was in the audience one night, and they brought him backstage after.” She looked away and smiled, going back to the memory, seeing him come over. She said, “He wasn’t in a wheelchair yet, so he sort of ambled up to me in his suit, swaying his drink a bit like he’s Mr. Carefree, you know? And he goes: You were way better than Audrey.” She looked back at Bobby, raised an eyebrow. “You know how Audrey Hepburn was in the film version?”

  He nodded. That had to mean something. The image in his head had been a Nina/Audrey mash-up. Nina at the window with a big hat on, à la Ms. Hepburn.

  Nina said, “Anyway.” She pulled her menu toward her and opened it and then let it fall closed. “We got a cab. I said to him, Don’t think you’re going to impress me with a two-hundred-dollar entrée or something. So we came here.” She shrugged. “That was the start of something, I guess.”

  He waited for her to finish the line, tell him that this could be the start of something, too. But she just left it hanging there, unsaid.

  A waiter came over, and Nina ordered a cheeseburger, medium, and water on the side. Bobby asked for the same. The waiter moved away, and Nina put her head on an angle and said, “Do we just have the same taste, or do you not trust me yet?”

  He liked the way her hair stayed neatly on the vertical, even with her head tilted. He shrugged. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re so busy wondering what I’m doing, you didn’t read the menu.”

  She was overthinking it. He didn’t need food. Safe surrounds and Nina right in front of him, he wouldn’t need anything, ever.

  Nina said, “But here’s what I want to know.” She leaned forward, seeming to enjoy herself, like she got a kick out of Q-and-A, and the implications didn’t bother her.

  Bobby waited.

  Nina said, “Are you actually helping me, or is that just a good poker face”—she nodded at him—“and I’m going to end up drugged and on a plane back to L.A.?”

  The way she said it, it was like she didn’t care, or she didn’t think it was actually going to happen.

  Bobby said, “I told you on the phone I’d help you.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, you did. Thing is…” She glanced around, like the diner crowd could encapsulate her reservations. “My husband surrounds himself with pretenders. I don’t know if it’s a conscious move, or just the way things go when you’re in his line of work.”

  Bobby didn’t answer.

  She said, “You know what I mean? It’s like, everyone’s there for some other reason. Half his security guys started out as extras on his projects. They hang around the house with guns thinking it’s just one long audition. You know, do it long enough, they’ll end up as the next Schwarzenegger. Have a great story to tell when they’re interviewed by Ellen DeGeneres: working as security, and someone from the studio thought they looked good with a gun, cast them in a movie. People would love it.”

  The waiter came back with their waters and Nina took a sip. She said, “But whatever. I guess that’s just a long way of asking if you’re committed to helping me.”

  How would she ever tell if he was honest? Although she was probably better than most when it came to reading minds. Bobby said, “I must get some credit for saving you again.”

  Nina said, “Mmm, twice in a row. You had help, though.”

  She had enough gravity and allure, she’d kept Keller out of his mind, but now the killer cop was back center stage.

  Bobby managed not to rush it. He said, “When are you going to tell me about Keller?” Like there was no hurry, like he’d get around to dealing with the man sooner or later.

  Nina had some more water and said, “I have to tell you this first: You didn’t actually save me. And neither did he.”

  He didn’t answer, waited for the big reveal.

  She said, “I set the whole thing up.”

  She paused, waiting for a reaction maybe, but Bobby didn’t answer. It was hard just sitting there, like he didn’t care either way. She studied him a moment and said, “The only thing that went wrong is they weren’t supposed to shoot at you.” She shrugged, one shoulder only. “But it all turned out fine, didn’t it?”

  Any revelation could be made to sound banal. It was just something about her. He looked away and saw their waiter coming back, a plate in each hand. He said, “And presumably Keller wasn’t meant to kill anyone.”

  Nina said, “He wasn’t part of the plan. A nice twist though, there at the end.”


  Bobby waited for their cheeseburgers to touch down and the waiter to move away again. He said, “So what’s going on?”

  She did her one-shoulder shrug as she picked up the burger, like it should all be fairly transparent. “You know Charles’s partner is selling his share of the studio?” She waggled her pinkies to make inverted commas: “Getting out of the ‘movie’ business.”

  Bobby nodded. “The Berkhov guy, right?”

  “Yeah. The Berkhov guy. Long story short: Charles wanted to buy him out. I found someone up here in New York, willing to pay more. So I set it up with Berkhov, came up here to facilitate.”

  “And you thought you needed a shoot-out to go with it?”

  “Well.” She turned the burger this way and that before taking a bite. She said, “I knew Charles would send someone. So I needed to address that. And I’d say he’ll get the message. I don’t think he’ll send anyone else. Repossessing me isn’t exactly a discreet exercise.”

  Bobby said, “Could’ve just done it at the apartment, leave a mess for next time he visits.”

  Nina smiled. “Don’t you think the hotel was so much better?”

  Bobby didn’t answer.

  She said, “It’s more of a statement, isn’t it? Shooting someone in public. It’ll be all over Facebook, Twitter, TV news will run it. Put it on-screen, it’s like communicating in his terms. He’ll be more responsive to it. And the brand recognition probably helps too—they’ll give it more coverage if they think people know the hotel.” She smiled and looked away, thinking of something else, amusement growing as the theory formed. She said, “He’ll be personally offended out of capitalist solidarity. I’ve tarnished a premium hotel brand.”

  Bobby didn’t answer.

  Nina worked on her burger for a moment and said, “And the nice thing as well, he won’t quite know what’s happening. He’ll suspect I set it up, but maybe he’ll trust what you told him. I presume you said I’m being followed.”

  Bobby didn’t answer. He hadn’t touched his food yet, or his water.

  Nina put her elbow on the backrest again. She said, “So. You’re going to get a phone call soon, and it’ll be Charles, wanting to know what happened.” She took her time getting to the crux of it: sitting there unmoving, looking him in the eye as the diner patrons carried on with their meals, and outside the Times Square TV screens refreshed, and a new range of ultrabright commercials went out to the masses.

  She said, “What are you going to tell him?” Lifting her chin slightly, letting him see that nice line of her throat.

  Bobby said, “How’s Keller part of this?”

  Nina said, “Someone’s got to answer first, and my story’s going to take a while.” She smiled. “So why don’t you have the first turn?”

  Bobby said, “I don’t know what I’m going to tell Charles. All I know at the moment is I’m not taking you back to him.”

  Nina had to mull on that, chewing slowly to an even rhythm, like her thoughts were jaw-powered. She said, “What’s he offered you?”

  Bobby said, “Two-eighty.”

  She chewed some more, and then raised her wrist to cover her mouth. She said, “I can do better than that.”

  “You don’t have to pay me off. I already said I won’t bring you home.”

  She smiled. “Think of this as a guarantee, then. I can help you find Keller.”

  Bobby didn’t answer.

  Nina said, “I’ve got a commission fee for setting up Berkhov’s sale. Plus Keller has money. He’s getting ready to run, so he must have something up his sleeve.” She had a drink and said, “So whether you’re interested or not, I can offer you way more than Charles can.”

  Bobby smiled. “I knew that already.”

  She lifted her eyebrows, seeming to know what he meant. “Is that right?”

  They sat looking at each other, Nina amused, and he realized he didn’t know where to take it next—how to keep a flirty tone without crossing the line too early.

  He ended up just playing it safe and said, “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why do you look so concerned?”

  Bobby put his elbow on the seat back, mirroring her. He said, “Charles is not a nice man.” Talking quiet and pronouncing each word, clear he was understating the matter.

  Nina said, “I can’t disagree with you. But there’s nothing to tell you. He doesn’t chain me up or beat me. I’m not mistreated. I just wanted out.”

  Bobby sat watching her, wanting her to unpack it a little more.

  She said, “I’m thirty-six years old, and I live in Los Angeles. And every day, how many gorgeous twenty-year-olds show up wanting to make it big?”

  He didn’t see where she was going with it yet.

  Nina said, “Charles’s gears turn in a pretty straightforward way. He’s a consumer. When a better car comes along, he gets it. When a better stereo comes along, he gets it.” She shrugged. “When a better wife comes along, he’ll get it.” She smiled. “So I’m just preempting what’s inevitable.”

  Bobby said, “He needs his head checked if he’s getting tired of you.”

  It set his heart thudding as he said it, but Nina just nodded, like he’d told her some bland fact. She said, “Anyway. It’s not like there’s some great backstory to all this that’ll give you the moral high ground if you help me. I’d just had enough.”

  Bobby said, “I think I’ll cope.”

  Her mention of backstory put him in the hotel elevator—Nina asking about his hat. He touched the brim and said, “I was trying to think of a good story for this, but there isn’t one. The main guy on Breaking Bad had one, so I bought one, too.”

  “You suit it better than he did.” Saying it flat, but narrowing one eye a little, giving the line something extra.

  He smiled and speared his burger near the edge and sliced off a chunk, the filling exposed in neat layers, like something geological. He said, “How do I get to Keller?”

  Nina said, “Through the girl in the gas mask. Remember her? We saw her in the corridor, heading into Keller’s room.”

  He should have just gone with it, but he couldn’t help himself: “He’s staying on your floor?”

  “Well. More like I’m staying on his. He checked in first. I think he had money in the room and sent the girl to get it.”

  “How do you know he’s got money?”

  She started to say something and then dropped it, came in on a different angle. She said, “That’s why he played hero in the lobby when the shooting started. He didn’t want his courier being murdered.” She shrugged. “But it’s not rocket science. Clip Keller, and you get sweet revenge, and whatever cash he’s got with him. Find the girl, and he won’t be far away.”

  “And how do we find the girl?”

  Nina shrugged, and then smiled at him. “We’ve got her car. So why don’t we start there?”

  * * *

  She settled the check with clean twenties and they went outside again into the Times Square hustle, Nina walking ahead and looking back across her shoulder to speak to him. She said, “You’re going to have to tell him something eventually.”

  Meaning Charles Stone. And he’d have to be convincing, too. Charles didn’t want to lose his trophy wife. He’d take it out on Bobby’s mother, or take her hostage until Nina was back in his possession. Wheelchair or not, he was still a threat.

  Bobby said, “I’ll tell him I’ve almost got you.”

  She said, “And what are you going to do when he finds out we left together?”

  “That’ll take him a while.”

  “Yeah, but he’ll know eventually. He knows everything eventually.”

  He didn’t answer, but he was banking on “eventually” being a long time—long enough for Bobby to lock in a happy ending that couldn’t be undone.

  They went along Forty-third and into the parking structure. Nina gave the attendant her ticket and paid the fee with more creaseless twenties. Her timing was always so good, even with the litt
le things—no delay searching in a bag for the stub or the money, no pocket patting like a regular mortal. Bobby wondered if this was a symptom of something—fixation going up a level—the fact that he was wowed by every detail.

  They waited by the booth while the guy collected the car, Nina looking like a moody promo shot for some band: shoulder to the wall and one leg crossed and tiptoe, gray concrete underfoot and rows of cold cars down the neon-lit rows.

  There were two guys on duty, but the second man was just sitting in the booth, feet up on the desk and nodding to pop on FM radio. He had his eyes closed and mouth ajar, as if the song conveyed otherworldly data, catered to his ear. A photo on the wall behind him showed a Times Square subway sign.

  Nina said, “You know what I never figured out? How come it’s twenty-five years in prison if you assault a cabdriver, but it’s only seven if you hit a subway employee? You ever noticed that? It’s like they don’t care about the undergrounders.”

  The SUV had been over in a far corner, and now it was inbound at high speed and high revs, the attendant hunched with his chin to the wheel, keeping the gas on through the final corner and stopping with a howl. Bobby figured there’d always be that need to beat your best time, set a new record for the back corner to the pickup lane. There was a line of cars waiting to pull out onto the street, and each vehicle when its turn came took off with a catapult start, busy Manhattan people with places to be.

  He said, “Maybe this is Keller’s ride. It’s banged up enough.”

  And it was full of shit as well: boxes in the trunk, paper and fast food containers in the backseat, stuffing coming out of the upholstery.

  Nina walked around the rear of the car and had the guy’s tip waiting in two fingers when he got out. He took it wordlessly and headed for a Ferrari that was nosing in off Forty-third with a growl. She said to Bobby, “No, I don’t think so…” She stepped back from the open driver’s door and took it all in. “This isn’t his style. The mess, I mean.” She looked at Bobby and said, “I can see him in something classic—like an old Gran Torino maybe. Kind of beat-up, but still running okay.”