The Amateurs

LATER, JENN LACIE WOULD SPEND a lot of time trying to pinpoint the exact moment.

There was a time before, she was sure of that. When she was free and young and, on a good day, maybe even breezy. Looking back was like looking at the cover of a travel brochure for a tropical getaway, some island destination featuring a smiling girl in a sundress and a straw hat, standing calf-deep in azure water. The kind of place she used to peddle but had never been.

And of course, there was the time after.

So it stood to reason that there had to be a moment when the one became the other. When blue skies bruised, the water turned cold, and the undertow took her.

Had it been when they first met Johnny Love, that night in the bar?

Maybe. Though it felt more like when she’d opened the door at four a.m., bleary in a white T-shirt and faded cotton bottoms. She’d known it was Alex before she looked through the peephole. But the tiny glass lens hadn’t let her see his eyes, the mad energy in them. If she hadn’t opened the door, would everything be different?

Sometimes, feeling harder on herself, she decided, no, the moment came after the four of them did things that could never be taken back. Not just when they decided; not even when she felt the pistol, the oily heaviness of it making something below her belly squirm, a strange but not entirely uncomfortable feeling. Like any birth, maybe her new life had come through blood and pain. Only it hadn’t been an infant’s cry that marked the moment. It had been a crack so loud it made her ears hum, a wet, spattering cough, and the man shuddering and staring as his eyes zeroed out.

But late at night, the sheets a sweaty tangle, her mind turning relentless carnival loops, she wondered if all of that was nonsense. Maybe there hadn’t been a moment. Maybe that was just a lie she told herself to get through the day, the way some took Xanax and some drank scotch and some watched hour after numbing hour of sitcoms.

Maybe the problem hadn’t come from outside. Hadn’t been a single decision, a place where they could have gone left instead of right.

Maybe the road the four of them walked never had any forks to begin with.

CHAPTER 1

IAN WAS AWARE OF THE CLICHÉ. That’s what made it OK. It was one thing to be the trader wearing a suit that belied your debt, sitting in the company men’s room at almost eight at night, blasting coke from the hinge of your thumb, and believing you were Gordon Gekko. It was another to see it for the sordid little scene it was. As long as you knew that, you were still running the show.

Screw it, he thought, then bent forward and snorted hard.

It was good stuff, coating the inside of his skull with ice, a moment of brain freeze that released slow and sweet into a glorious warmth. He poured a bump for his other nostril-had to be democratic-and blew that one too. Then he leaned against the toilet tank, the porcelain cool and hard and kind of pleasant through the starched cotton of his oxford.

There we go. There it is.

His toe wanted to tap, but he fought the urge, glanced at his watch instead: 7:58 in the p.m. Almost there. He’d worked here for years, noticed it only subliminally at first. The kind of pattern the human brain catches a bit at a time. Part of him wanted to count the seconds down, but that would have been cheating.

When the air-conditioning shut off at 8:00 exactly, a sudden absence of sound that had measured the whole of his day, he smiled.

Silly, he knew. But if eighty percent of his waking life was going to be spent sitting in a gray corporate office-which, by the way, he didn’t remember voting on, thanks very much-he’d seize his little triumphs where he could. He arrived most days before six, in time to hear the fans turn on, and worked the same day over and over in a blur of predatory action, the headset so much a part of his body that he sometimes forgot to take it off when he stood up from his desk, got jerked back by the cord. Maneuver after maneuver, each the one that might get him out from under, might return him to wunderkind status, the guy who had cracked Hudson-Pollom Biolabs and made a quick half-mil instead of the also-ran everyone was starting to suspect he might be. Lunch at his desk, stolen in bites. A bathroom break midmorning and midafternoon, two quick white blurs to keep his energy kicking. Staying after the phones went quiet to read the blogs, make his plans for tomorrow, and try, in an amiable, distracted way, to figure out how to make up what he’d lost.

And finally, the retreat here, to his porcelain palace, to blow a good-night kiss to work and start the evening properly.

He pinched his nostrils, then rattled the toilet-paper dispenser like he’d been using the john. There was no one in the bathroom, but habits were important for the day he didn’t hear his boss come in. He flushed, stepped out, washed his hands, then checked himself in the mirror. Nose clean, tie straight. Ready for the world.

He smiled, made guns of his fists and shot the mirror, an intentionally cheesy joke meant only for himself-it seemed like most of his jokes were-and then headed for the door.

It was Thursday night, and his friends would be waiting. Alex behind the bar in a bleach-worn shirt, the cuffs spotted with old stains. Jenn sipping a vodka martini, never a cosmo, not since Sex and the City. Mitch rocking his stool on two legs, trying not to get caught looking sidelong at Jenn. The Thursday Night Crew. Thinking of them made him smile again. Funny how their unlikely foursome had remained friends when all the folks he’d grown up with, the ones who signed yearbooks and made pledges of eternity, had all fallen quietly away. Moved to New York or the suburbs, gotten married and had children. That might be sad if he let it.

But why would he? He was young, secretly high, and his friends were waiting.

WHEN MITCH CLIMBED ON THE BUS, there was only one seat open, next to a black guy wearing a puffy Looney Tunes jacket and loose jeans, his leg thrown across the open seat. Mitch walked over, stood looking down at the guy. “Excuse me.”

For a long moment, the man ignored him. Then, drawing the gesture out slow, he swiveled his head to look up at Mitch. His eyes pitched half open, a toothpick stuck to wet lips. Nothing in his expression at all. After a moment of staring, he turned back to the window. He didn’t move his leg.

Asshole, Mitch thought and moved back a couple of rows, stood gripping the hand bar, swaying with the motion of the bus. His heels felt like someone was cranking wood screws into them, and the steady ache in his back that began around noon had stretched up to his shoulders and neck. Occupational hazard of spending all day standing up, smiling on cue as he opened and closed the heavy glass doors of the Continental Hotel.

It’s only a couple of minutes. Not worth making a thing over.

He shifted from the edge of one foot to the edge of the other. The bus was warm, humid with body odor, and he was afraid some of it came from him. Nothing to do about it, just a day’s worth of sun beating down on his jacket and tie, but he wished he could have showered.

After all, tonight was the night. He’d made up his mind that he was going to take the plunge with Jenn. If the right moment came up at least, when the guys weren’t there. And probably best to get in a couple of drinks in to unwind from the day. Be loose. Loose was good. Like, “There’s this new sake lounge we could check out, you know, laugh at the yuppies.” Or was that too casual? He didn’t want her to say it sounded great, why didn’t they invite the others. Maybe more like, “It’d be really nice to get a chance to talk, just us.” Though he didn’t want to put her on the spot.

He ran lines until his stop, but couldn’t find the right one. Maybe he’d wing it.

Rossi’s was one of those identity-crisis places, a bar-slash-restaurant that drew families for dinner but an after-work crowd for drinks. Perched on a stretch of Lincoln that fell between more fashionable areas, the place had become their haunt in the last few years mostly because with Alex there, they could drink cheap. Funny, really; in a city filled with terrific bars, they chose to meet every week at a half-assed restaurant that they’d otherwise never have noticed.

After the heat of the bus, walking into the air-conditioning felt wonderful. Mitch nodded at the hostess, moved past the dining room, with its rich smell of bolognese and carbonara, and into the bar. The postwork crowd was thinning but not gone, men in business casual, women laughing, glasses filled with pink and green and pale yellow, specialty martinis made with syrups and liqueurs. He moved through them, looking toward their customary seats.

Dammit. Other than Alex pulling drinks, he was the first one there. He should have showered.

“THAT PRICK,” Alex was saying as she walked up. “He should be, I don’t know. Drawn and quartered.”

“Who should?” Jenn smiled at him, careful not to hold it too long, then hugged Ian, the blades of his shoulders sharp through his shirt, then Mitch, still in his uniform, the jacket with the hotel logo slung over the back of his chair.

“Tasty,” Alex said, “right on time, as usual.” He smiled back at her, his eyes warm. Normally she wouldn’t have liked the nickname, Tasty-sort-of-rhymes-with-Lacie, but he had a way of saying it that sounded warm instead of dirty. “Hot date?”

“Kickboxing class. Who should be drawn and quartered?”

“That Cayne guy.”

“Who?”

“James Cayne. He was the CEO of Bear Stearns,” Ian said. “It’s a securities firm, the one the Fed just bailed out. They’ve had a lot of trouble lately. The whole subprime mortgage collapse? Started with their hedge funds.”

“Apparently,” Alex said, “while the company was tanking, he was playing in a bridge tournament. Guy’s company is responsible for half of America losing their houses, he’s playing cards.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Ian gave that sharp-edged grin. “There were market forces in play.”

“Hi, Jenn,” Mitch said.

“He should be killed,” Alex said again, pouring a martini from a stainless steel shaker and setting it in front of her. He stabbed three olives with a toothpick shaped like a sword and balanced it across the top. “Line him and that Enron guy, Ken Lay, and the rest of them up against a wall and shoot them.”

“Ken Lay is already dead. Heart attack.”

“OK, well, everybody else from Enron.”

Jenn said, “Bad day?” then laughed when all three of them nodded. “OK. Next round is on me.”

Her mother found it strange, the way her closest friends were guys. She was always asking unsubtle questions about which one Jenn was dating. Hoping it would be Ian, whom she’d never met but had come to believe must be a nice boy, a judgment that had a lot to do with the fact that he worked as a trader.

Jenn had always gotten along fine with women. But her friends, especially as she’d gotten older, they tended to be guys. It wasn’t that she was a tomboy or the perennial little sister or one of those women who talked sex all the time to keep the boys nearby. Somehow, though, as her twenties had slipped into her early thirties, it had gotten harder to have real girlfriends. The married ones retreated into couplehood. The single ones looked over her shoulder every time the door opened, checking the men at the bar, scoping shoes and ring fingers. Wondering if the guy walking in was the one for them, the one who would let them jettison this tedious phase, the single apartment and Christmas with the parents and the fear that they would end up owning cats. Ever hopeful that a cute stranger would spill coffee on them and have just the right line to follow it up. Romantic Comedy Syndrome.

Which was fine, and she wished them luck. They just made for lousy friends, whereas the boys kept things easy. Which was how she ended up here every week, all four of them at the end of the bar. She, Alex, Ian, and Mitch, the Thursday Night Drinking Club. “Which game tonight?”

“Tonight,” Ian said, “is clearly a Ready-Go night.”

“Why?”

“I’m feeling hypothetical.”

“I feel that way all the time,” she said. “OK. In the spirit of the evening: If you had half a million dollars. Ready, go.”

“Only half?” Ian cocked his eyebrow.

“I’d buy a house,” Alex said. “Nothing fancy, just something with a spare bedroom for Cassie. I think she’d stay with me more often if she had a room of her own. In Lincoln Park so she could walk to the shops, the lake.”

“Somebody hasn’t looked at real-estate prices in a while,” Ian said.

“What?”

“A house in Lincoln Park for a half million?”

“No?” Alex looked genuinely wounded, as though the neighborhood pricing was all that was holding him back. “Huh. All right, a condo. Whatever. How about you?”

“I’d quit the firm. Work from home. Day trade. I could turn that into ten million in no time.”

Alex snorted. “You’d be broke in a week.”

Ian smiled that thin smile again. “Jenn?”

She sipped at her martini, pulled off an olive, chewed it slowly. “Travel.”

“Where would you go?” Mitch leaned forward.

“Everywhere. All the places I book trips for other people. Paris. St. Petersburg. The islands. I’d like to spend a while in the islands. A little cabin on the beach, someplace with screens for walls, where you could hear the ocean day and night. Drink coconut drinks. Live in a bathing suit.” It was strange hearing the words come out of her mouth, like this was a long-held fantasy. Truth was, she hadn’t known what she was going to say until she’d started.

“Sounds nice,” Mitch said.

“Sounds boring,” Ian said. “I’d be out of my head in a week.”

“Then you’re not invited. Alex, Mitch, you guys want to come to the islands with me?”

“And leave all this?” Alex laughed and picked up a cloth, started buffing the bar. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and the muscles of his forearms were knotted ropes. “At this rate, in just twenty short years, I’ll be full manager. At which point if one of you wanted to shoot me, I’d thank you for the favor.”

“Why don’t you quit?” Mitch said.

“Why don’t you?”

“I-well, I mean, it’s a job, right?”

Alex nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s a job, all right.” He glanced down the line, where a plump, tanned guy stood with finger crooked, a gaudy ring flashing on one finger. “Speaking of.” He dropped the cloth and started away.

For a moment, silence fell. Then Ian raised his glass said, “Fuck work.”

Laughing, they clinked glasses. Jenn leaned into the bar, feeling good, a little bit of that old energy swirling around, the kind she missed, the sense that the evening could go anywhere, that there were adventures yet to be had. Ian asked the next Ready-Go question: What was something they would never, ever, do? Ready, go-and she settled in, let the night flow.

MITCH WASN’T DRUNK. Tipsy, OK, but not drunk. He’d had a couple of shots with Alex before the others arrived, and three or four beers since, a fair bit for two hours, but it had been a long day.

No, he wasn’t drunk, so that wasn’t why he was pissed off. Or it was only part of it. The real reason was that he’d finally caught his moment, and then the asshole had come over.

It was the guy Alex had gone to see. Mitch didn’t recognize him but guessed he was some sort of a bigwig, because Alex had nodded a lot and then disappeared into the back room and hadn’t returned. Which was perfect, because a few minutes later, Ian excused himself. The guy was famous for long bathroom breaks-they had a running joke that he must be restocking the toilet rolls-and so it had been just him and Jenn.

They had made small talk for a couple of minutes, Mitch still polishing lines in his head. When the conversation dropped off, he’d finished his beer and leaned forward. Now or never.

“So, I was thinking.” He wanted to meet her eyes but couldn’t, stared at his empty beer glass instead. Spun it on the edge. “You know, it might be fun sometime-”

“Hello, beautiful.” The voice that smooth tone of someone used to getting what he wanted. “How come I’ve never seen you in here before?”

Mitch had looked up to find the guy standing between him and Jenn, right between them, giving Mitch his back like he wasn’t even there. A shiny silk shirt and sharp cologne.

Jenn said, “Maybe because you haven’t been here before?” She turned slightly on her chair, legs crossed at the knee and then recrossed at the ankle, a tangle of dark jeans and soft leather boots.

“No, couldn’t be that. Must be I’ve been in the office most of the time,” the guy said. “I own the joint.”

“Yeah?” She said it with a slight challenge, but Mitch couldn’t help but notice that her arms weren’t folded.

“That’s right. This one, a couple others. Keeps me busy. But if I’d known you were out here, I wouldn’t have worked so hard.” The guy held out a hand. “John Loverin. People call me Johnny Love.”

She laughed. “You kidding me?”

“I know,” he said and laughed too, the smug bastard. “What do they call you?”

Don’t say Tasty. Please don’t say Tasty.

“Jenn,” she said. “And this is my friend Mitch.”

“Oh, yeah?” The guy turned at the waist, gave a quick nod, then turned his back again. “Nice to meet you, Jenn.”

Mitch cleared his throat, said, “Listen-”

“Let me get you a drink. On the house.”

“Well-”

“Hey.” The guy nodded to the bartender who was covering Alex. “Get the lady a-what is that, a martini? Get her a Grey Goose martini, would you? And a Glenlivet for me. Double.”

Unbelievable. Mitch leaned back on his stool, tried to catch Jenn’s eye. Ian would be back before long, and then Alex, and then it would be too late. He’d have to wait for next week. But damned if Jenn wasn’t smiling. He thought it was her amused smile, like she was enjoying the show, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Hope I’m not being too forward. I’m a little jet-lagged still.”

“Yeah?”

“Just got back from Cancun,” Johnny said. “Why I’m so tan. I like to go down there every couple of months, relax. You ever been?”

She shook her head, took an olive off the toothpick, a move Mitch always found hypnotic, the way she slid the toothpick into her mouth, lips tightening as she gripped the olive and drew it off. The way her cheekbones flared as she chewed, carefully, like she wanted to squeeze out every drop of flavor.

“I gotta tell you, it’s beautiful. Paradise.”

“Isn’t Cancun pretty much due south of here?”

“About.”

“So how are you jet-lagged?”

He laughed at that. “You got me.” Took a sip of his drink. “Flying can wear you out, though. And the airports, shoes off, belt off, arms out, stand, spin, hula dance. But I got this place down there, right on the beach, private, makes it worth the trouble.”

“You own a house there?”

“Sure do. You should come down sometime. Check it out.”

“Right. How about tomorrow? We could get married in the surf.”

“Hey,” he said, “no need to bust my balls. I’ve got two bedrooms. You could just relax, see if you like it.”

All right. Enough. Mitch leaned forward and put his hand on the guy’s shoulder. He didn’t push, not exactly, but the booze made it maybe harder than he’d meant.

Johnny Love turned, set his drink down. He stared at Mitch. “Something you want?”

“Yeah.” He felt the blood in his forehead, anger plus a little liquid courage, and decided to go with it. “I’d like you to leave us alone.”

“Hey-,” Jenn started.

“It’s OK,” Johnny said over his shoulder, like he was protecting her. He straightened, ran his tongue against the inside of his lip. “You got a problem?”

“I just told you.”

Johnny stared, his eyes flicking up and down. Very slowly, he smiled, then gestured to Mitch’s blazer, the pocket emblazoned with the hotel logo. “Nice outfit.”

“You too.” Asshole.

The man’s eyes narrowed. He stared for a moment, then held up his left hand, flicked his thumb against his pinkie ring. Dice, a five and a two. “You see this? Platinum, ninety-five percent pure. Two and a half in flawless stones.”

“So?”

“These shoes are handmade in London. This shirt cost four hundred dollars.”

“So?”

“So fuck you.” Johnny laughed. “Tell you what. I own a Laundromat over on Halsted. Why don’t you come work for me? Least you wouldn’t have to dress like a monkey.”

“Listen-”

“No, you listen. The lady and I are having a conversation. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

Mitch glared. His hands were shaking with adrenaline, and he could hear his pulse. He slid off the stool, stood as tall as he could.

“What?” The guy smiled, showing bright white teeth. “You going to do something, busboy?”

“Johnny.” Jenn stood, put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is my friend. Come on.”

“Jesus, I don’t need-,” Mitch started.

“Don’t take that tone with her.” The man leaned forward, eyes menacing.

“Everything OK?” Alex had reappeared behind the bar, his eyes panning back and forth, concerned. “This guy is a friend of mine, boss.”

“Mitch didn’t mean anything,” Jenn said, from behind. “You just got off on the wrong foot.”

The wrong foot? What the hell? Why was she talking that way, coming on like he’d been an asshole? Trying to save him? He didn’t need that. He’d been trying to save her from this sleaze.

“Really, Johnny, he’s a good guy,” Alex said. “Good customer, too. Here every Thursday night. We all are.”

The man stood straight, his eyes locked on Mitch’s. The moment held for a long time. Then the guy nodded, said, “All right. You both vouch for him, I’ll let him be.” He turned to Alex. “But it’s Mr. Loverin.”

“Sure. Sorry, Mr. Loverin.” Alex spread his hands.

Loverin turned to Jenn. “I apologize about this. You deserve better. Tell you what, why don’t you come back sometime, I’ll treat you to dinner, just you and me. Chef’ll make up something special. What do you say?”

She hesitated, then put on a smile. “That sounds nice.” Mitch knew her well enough to know the smile was fake, but still.

The man nodded, then said to Alex, “Her tab’s on me.” He snorted, then, jerking a thumb contemptuously over his shoulder, said, “His too.” Mitch started to argue, but Alex caught his eye, gave him a warning look, then said, “That’s nice of you, Mr. Loverin. Thanks.”

The man turned and walked away. Mitch watched him go, the guy actually strutting. There was silence for a moment, then Alex said, “What the hell?”

“What?” Mitch shrugged. “He came over, started being an asshole.”

“You were kind of rude,” Jenn said. “He was cheesy, but you started it.”

“I started it?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “What are you talking about?” Mitch shook his head. “I’d like to go get him, tell him to meet me outside.”

“No, man. You don’t do that.” Alex took Mitch’s glass, held it under the tap. “I know he looks silly, but he’s serious.”

“What do you mean, ‘serious’?”

“I mean serious. Like, made-his-money-selling-drugs serious. He used to run crack back in the eighties. In a big way.”

“Really?” Jenn said, a lilt in her voice.

“Really. He doesn’t do it anymore, but he’s still got connections. I been working here a long time, I’ve seen some shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Italian guys coming in carrying briefcases, walking out empty-handed. That kind of shit. He’s not somebody to mess with.”

“How come you never told us about him?”

“I don’t see him much. He owns a couple of places, leaves running them to the managers. He still comes in, but sits in his office, people coming to talk to him. Shady people.”

“Whatever,” Mitch said. “I’m not scared. He’s a punk.” He drained half his fresh beer in one go, the remnants of adrenaline and shame making his hands shake. “I’d still like to take him outside.”

Alex chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. What does that mean?”

“Just that”-Alex shrugged-“I mean, come on, man. You’re not exactly a street fighter.”

“You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

“I don’t mean anything.” Alex exchanged a look with Jenn. “Just relax, OK? Let it go.”

Mitch stared at him, then at Jenn, her eyes locked on her glass. Was this what they thought of him? He wanted to yell, to throw his beer and storm off to find that scumbag ex-drug dealer. Bad enough to have a scene like that in front of Jenn. But then for Alex to basically call him a wimp? His forehead was hot, and he had a sick feeling in his gut, one he hated, the same one that he got every time he held the door for some rich asshole who didn’t even bother to acknowledge he existed.

“Hey,” Ian said, pulling out his seat, eyes bright and smile toothy. “What’d I miss?”

THE NIGHT ENDED much earlier than Ian had in mind. The combination of a handful of drinks and the maintenance trip to the bathroom had him wide-awake, ready to roll. The place was more restaurant than bar, and it shut down at eleven; they’d hung out while Alex finished his closing duties, but the scene with the owner had apparently soured everybody’s mood. Instead of their usual retreat to a back table to bullshit until one or two, Jenn had looked at her watch and suggested they wrap early. Mitch, even quieter than usual as he sat drinking with grim determination, had nodded, and then suddenly they were outside. Alex and Jenn lived in the same direction and split a cab north.

“You’ll make sure he gets home?” Alex said, one hand against the roof of the car.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Mitch ran the words together. Ian ignored him, said, “Sure,” to Alex, then kissed Jenn on the cheek, closed the door, and thumped the trunk. He felt good, lucky. Maybe after he dropped Mitch off, he’d hop in his car, spin down to the game.

“Greasy little cheeseball.” Mitch wobbled across the street.

“Sounds like a character. Sorry I missed him.” He held up an arm for a cab that blew right past. “He really own the place?”

“Whatever.” Mitch rubbed at his forehead. “So he has a lot of money. So what? That mean he gets to treat people that way?”

“I wonder how much he has.” Ian waved again, and this time a cab glided to a stop beside them. They climbed in, and he gave the driver Mitch’s address. “He was a drug dealer, huh?”

“I don’t get it. How does money give you a-a-a permission slip to be a douche bag?”

“Makes sense that he would have restaurants.” Ian ran his tongue over his gums, enjoying the faint numbness. “Cash businesses. The Laundromat, too. He probably bought into them quietly, has people run them, just watches his money grow. You almost have to admire him.”

“Or hate him.”

“Half of admiration is hatred, man.”

“And Alex! What was that? What’d he mean about me not being able to take care of myself?” Mitch straightened. “I can handle myself. Everybody thinks I can’t, but I can. Just like the people at the hotel. The guests. They give a tip, five measly bucks, treat you like they bought you. Like you’re a slave.” He hiccupped. “Yes, massa. I hold the door for you. Or worse, like you’re invisible. Not a doorman, a door mat.”

Ian turned to him. “You ever gamble?”

“What?”

“You know, blackjack, roulette.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You ought to. There’s nothing like winning.” Ian smiled. “Or really, even before that. It’s the moment between when you set your chips on the table and the ball stops, the card drops. It’s a crazy rush. This one time,” he said, “I’m at the boats, playing blackjack, and I get two nines. So I split them. You know what that means? You put down more money and play them like separate hands. So I get the next card, and it’s a nine. So I split again. Next card? A nine. Can you believe it? Split again. It was incredible. I could have gone on all night, the dealer just putting down nines and me putting down chips.”

For a moment, Mitch was quiet. Then he said, “Even the game, the question game.”

“Huh?”

“Your question game. The one Jenn asked, what would you do with half a million dollars.”

“What about it?”

“Nobody asked me. Alex wants a house for his daughter, you want to quit your job, Jenn wants to travel. But nobody asked me.”

“So what would you do with it?”

Mitch opened his mouth, closed it. Held his hands out, then said, “That’s not the point. The point is that nobody asked me. Like I’m invisible.”

“Well, I’m asking now. What would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “I’m tired. And drunk.” He paused. “So what happened?”

“When?”

“With the nines.”

“Oh. Dealer had a three and an eight, drew a ten. Twenty-one.”

“So you lost all of them?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the important thing.” Ian wanted a bump or another drink, could feel the liquidity of his buzz fading-and the problems teeming behind it ready to jump him if he let them. “What’s important is that there was that moment, see, where I could have won them all. And every time he put down a nine, that moment stretched, got bigger. And the payday with it.”

“But you lost.”

“Right, but-”

“So there wasn’t a payday. You just lost four times bigger.”

Ian laughed. “Yeah, well.” He looked out the window, watched the closed shops and open bars, the people on the sidewalks. No place like Chicago in the summer, every window open, laughter and music spilling onto the streets. He liked the feeling of riding past it, a pane of glass between him and the rest of the world, but all of it right there, close enough to touch if he wanted to reach out. He glanced at the cabbie. A lot of them were Middle Eastern, too strict, but this was a black dude, middle-aged, wearing a Kan gol. Hell, what was the worst that would happen? Ian reached into his pocket, took out the amber vial. Without letting himself think too much, he shook a little pile onto the back of his hand and snorted quick, like he had the sniffles. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, and Ian held his gaze until the guy looked away.

Mitch said, “Was that-”

“Yeah.” Ian turned to look at him, gave a shrug and a sideways smile.

“You do a lot of it?”

“Every now and then. You want some?”

Mitch shook his head.

“You sure? Cheer you up.”

“No,” he said, and leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes. “No, it won’t.”

“How about coming gambling with me?”

“Jesus, no. Indiana?”

“Not the riverboats. I know a private game. We can be there in twenty minutes.”

Mitch shook his head. “I’m going home.”

“Come on, man. Don’t be like that,” Ian said.

Silence.

“You know, you can’t win if you don’t bet.”

“Can’t lose, either.”

JENN TURNED ON THE FAUCET, let the water run. It took forever to warm up in Alex’s place. She straightened and looked at herself in the mirror, finger-combed her hair behind her ears. She’d always wanted a pixie cut, something short and sexy, but never quite had the guts.

When the water was hot, she cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed it on her face. Alex only had bar soap, not the facial scrub she liked, but one of the rules of their whatever-this-was was that they wouldn’t leave things at each other’s places. He said that it was because he didn’t want his daughter to notice it when she came over, start asking questions, but she suspected it was more that he wanted to be perfectly clear that they weren’t dating.

She found him in the kitchen, still naked, rummaging in the fridge. He had a great body: gym-built muscles that were iron-hard but not flashy or ridiculous, black tribal tattoos around his biceps, nice legs, just enough chest hair. “Beer?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He came out with a couple of Sierra Nevadas, popped the tops, and passed her one. She leaned against the counter, the Formica cool against her bare skin. He opened the drawer, took out his reserve cigarettes, lit up. “Weird scene tonight.”

She nodded. “That guy’s a trip.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Well, yeah. Didn’t take much to spot that.”

“What really happened?”

She ticked a fingernail against the label, peeling the edge up. “I think he was about to ask me out.”

“Johnny?”

“Mitch.”

He took a long pull of beer. “You know, if he ever does, I don’t want to stand between-”

She shook her head. “I’ve caught him looking, but I don’t think it’s anything serious.” The post-sex glow was fading and leaving in its place a familiar sadness. “Is he dangerous? Your boss?”

“Nah. I mean, he knows people. But he’s kind of a blowhard. One of those guys who used to be scary and isn’t anymore, not unless you provoke him. I just said that stuff to keep Mitch from doing anything stupid.” He shrugged. “I love the guy, but he’s not Holyfield. His idea of a good punch is left chin to right fist, you know?”

Men and their alpha politics. The feeling in her chest grew worse, coupled with a hint of panic that she’d been getting lately. Like she was in the wrong place. “Do you ever feel,” she hesitated, “like you missed something?”

“I miss my daughter.” He took another hit off his cigarette, then threw it in the sink half-smoked. “All the time I’m not with her.”

“That’s sweet, but not what I mean. I’m talking about something abstract. Like”-she took a sip of beer-“it used to be that when I went out on a Saturday night, I’d have this lightness inside, this openness. The night could go anywhere. I could meet somebody incredible, or dance in a fountain, or have a conversation that would blow my mind. Have something really amazing happen, an adventure. Something that mattered. Life felt… imminent. You ever feel that?”

He nodded, said nothing.

“I don’t get that much anymore. Now I just go out, I come home, I go to work and book trips to places I’ve never been, probably won’t ever go. There’s no meaning to any of it. Those days are gone, and nothing that amazing happened, and now I’m out of time. All there is left to do is wait to turn into my mother.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Have you met my mother?”

He laughed. Dropped his empty beer in the trash and opened the fridge for another. “You know, when I was twenty, I had it all figured out. Finish college, go to law school, get a job in the city. Then Trish got pregnant.” He paused. “I wanted her to have an abortion. But she said she couldn’t live with herself. So I did the”-he made air quotes-“right thing. Quit school, married her, started bartending. Told myself I could take classes on the weekends.”

“But you didn’t.”

He shook his head. “But it was OK, because Cassie was born. Best thing I’ve ever done. Only thing, really. The moment I saw her, all red and wrinkly and screaming… I don’t know. That angsty feeling you were talking about, it went away. Just went away.”

“You still see your ex?”

“Trish? Every time I pick Cassie up. She’s remarried, a guy who works in the Loop, does something corporate. He’s OK.”

“What about her?”

“She”-he hesitated-“She doesn’t think much of me these days.”

They fell silent. Jenn could hear the hum of the overhead lights. Alex was staring at his beer bottle. They’d been sleeping together on the sly for more than a year, a secret in a group that supposedly didn’t have any, and yet this was the most intimate conversation they’d had. All the games the four of them played, the way they kept the world at bay with them, it wasn’t just the world that was excluded, she realized. They’d also held themselves in reserve from one another.

All she’d wanted from life was adventure, something that mattered, that was exciting and maybe a little bit dangerous and had rewards to match. And yet here she stood, naked in the kitchen of a guy she knew well and yet not at all. A fuck-buddy. She wasn’t taking risks or reaching for anything. She was just killing time.

“You know what?” Jenn finished her beer. “I think I’m going to go.”

Alex looked up, surprised. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got things to do in the morning. You know.” She dropped her bottle in the trash, went to the bedroom. Stuffed her panties and bra in her purse, pulled on her jeans and shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed to wrestle with her boots. The covers were still tangled from sex, and she had a flash of Alex beneath her, arching upward as she rode him, her knees astride his hips, sweat running between her breasts, her head thrown back. For a moment she hesitated, but that feeling was still there, frustration and faint panic and, yeah, a little bit of self-loathing, too. She finished zipping her boots.

At the door, she went with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun with Cassie tomorrow.”

“Thanks. The four of us still on for breakfast on Saturday?”

“Sure,” she said, “whatever.”

“Hey.” He stood framed in the doorway, still naked. “You OK?”

“I’m fine.” Then she turned and went down the stairs to hail a cab.

CHAPTER 2

THE HEALTH CLUB WAS SWANK, one of those places yuppies paid big money to not use. Not the good doctor, though. Bennett had been watching for a while now, and apart from one very interesting weakness, the doc was about as exciting as oatmeal. Up in the morning, coffee with the wife-through the windows she looked like she’d once been pretty-then the gym. Thirty on the treadmill, thirty in the pool, a massage, a shower, and off he went.

Bennett liked people who kept a routine. Sure as a poker tell, it meant they had some part of their lives where they varied, went a little crazy. Everybody needed something to hold back the press of days. Dieters binged, teetotalers threw down punch at the Christmas party, faithful husbands got blown by flirty sales associates on business trips. Screwing up was wired into the DNA.

And thank God for it. Man had to make a living.

He walked in the front door of the gym, offered his pass to the pretty boy behind the counter, who said, “Your guest membership expires tomorrow. What do you say-ready to make a better you? Should I get the enrollment forms ready?”

“I’ll think about it,” Bennett said, then headed for the pool.

Four lanes, half-Olympic length, under bright fluorescent lighting. A fat woman in a bathing cap did a slow breaststroke, her expression painfully earnest. Beside her, the doc cut through the water with a nice clean crawl, four strokes to a breath, flip-turns at the end of the lane. He wore goggles and a Speedo, and managed three laps to every one of the woman’s. Bennett stood behind the glass and watched, chlorine in his nostrils.

After ten minutes, the doc pulled himself out of the water. He stood on the edge and stretched, then headed for the exit. The lady’s eyes tracked his retreating back, something like hunger in them. Bennett held the door open.

“Thanks,” the doc said.

“No trouble.”

Bennett stood for a few more minutes, watching the woman swim. There was something about her that touched him. She had to know that she was never going to change, that next year, and the year after, she would still be here, still be fat, still be swimming her clumsy breaststroke before showering and going home alone. And yet here she was, water weights on, plugging away. Human drama, right in front of him. Broke the heart.

He walked down the hall to the massage rooms. A hatchet-faced girl with big hands was heading for a closed door.

“Excuse me,” Bennett said.

“Yes?”

“I know this is odd, but I work with the doctor. There’s been an incident at the lab. I need to speak to him right now. It’s urgent.”

She hesitated, then said, “Well, I suppose I-”

“Thanks,” he said, one hand on the door handle. She stood there for a moment, and he said, “Sorry, but as I’m sure you know, our work is sensitive.”

“Umm…”

“I appreciate it.” Then he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

The doc lay on his belly on the massage table, a towel across his ass. Candles glowed from a Zen stone arrangement in the corner, and soft music came from somewhere. Swank.

“Cindi,” the doc said to the floor. “Afraid you’ve got your work cut out for you. My shoulder’s killing me. I think I pulled something.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Bennett said.

The man’s head whipped around, and he planted his hands on the table, came partway up, then hesitated, seeming to realize he was naked under the towel. “What-”

“Easy, Doc.” Bennett strolled around the edge of the table. “Don’t want to aggravate that shoulder.”

“You filling in for Cindi?” His eyes narrow, but no fear in them. The kind of guy who saw the whole world as the help.

“Let’s talk about who you are.”

“Who I am? I’m sorry, I don’t understand-”

“You’re a senior chemist at K &S Laboratories. You guys have a couple of steady contracts supplying medium-sized pharmaceutical companies with organofluorine compounds. Word is you’re likely to be running the place in a couple of years. Some folks might say it’s because you married the boss’s daughter, but I don’t credit that. Best I can tell, you’re a talented scientist.”

The man’s face went through a series of expressions, his eyebrows raising, then lowering, nostrils flaring, mouth falling slightly open. He looked like he’d been trying to tell a joke but at the last second forgot the punch line.

“You also have a bit of a naughty streak, don’t you?” Bennett squatted to lower himself eye to eye.

The guy began to push himself up, saying, “I don’t know who you are or what-”

Bennett broke his nose.

“Unnuhhuh!” The man’s eyes went wide with shock, hands flying to cup his face, propping himself on his elbows.

“Hurts, right? They say that in a fight, you should strike with an open hand, aiming the heel of your palm into your opponent’s nose. Disorienting as hell, the world spins, the pain slows them down. Plus, if you keep your hand at the right angle, a lot of times your fingers will go into their eyes. Why I went with a closed fist that time.”

Blood was flowing between the man’s fingers-another benefit to a good nose punch, it looked dramatic-and the fear was in him now, that arrogant assumption of control gone. He scrambled backward on the table, the towel slipping off to reveal his bare white ass.

“Sit still, Doc.” Bennett stood and took the Smith from behind his back.

The man froze halfway up, flaccid penis dangling, looking for all the world like he was about to take it doggy-style.

“Good boy.” Bennett reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulled out a handful of pages. He tossed the folded stack on the massage table. “Take a look.”

For a moment, the man just stared, that prey gaze they all got when you put the screws to them. Then he reached out with a trembling hand and unfolded the papers. First a gasp, then a low moan that dragged on as he moved from photograph to photograph.

“Walking the wild side, huh? Obviously, black-and-white can’t really demonstrate the full-color glory of the originals. But I think you get the point.”

The man’s hands were shaking and his face had gone pale. “Where did you…?”

“You’re too smart to ask things you already know the answer to. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten your little adventure. So why don’t you use that big brain of yours and come up with a better question? There’s really only one.”

The doctor stared at him, then at the pictures. Slowly he eased himself to a seated position, one hand on his nose, the other covering himself. Helpless to stop his whole world slipping away. Bennett had found that a flair for the dramatic was useful in his line of work. The man wouldn’t have been nearly so cowed sitting behind his desk, wearing a cashmere sweater and tailored slacks. There was a moment of silence, and then, staring at his feet, the man said, “How much do you want?”

“Right neighborhood, wrong address.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t want money.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing that will take much time or effort. Just want you to cook me up a little something.” Bennett pulled another piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. Did it purposefully, wondering which hand the guy would use to take it. After a second, the doctor let go of his nose to grab the paper. Better to let blood run down his face from a broken nose than to expose his cock. Bennett chuckled. “Now, you know what that is?”

The man focused on the page, his eyes growing wide.

“I’ll take that as a yes. You make that for me, you got my word, I’ll delete the originals. They aren’t really my taste anyway. Though if you like, I’ll be happy to send you copies first, give you a little souvenir.”

“I… you know what this is?”

Bennett sighed, then leaned in and flicked the man’s broken nose with his middle finger. The guy yelped, dropped the page.

“You think I’d be asking if I didn’t?”

“I don’t know how to make it.”

“You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And you have one heck of a chemistry set at your disposal. A lab like yours, deals with pharmaceutical companies, you probably have most of what you need in stock, right?”

Looking like it hurt, the man nodded.

“Good. You’ve got three days.”

“Three days, that’s not enough-”

“There you go again.” Bennett tapped the Smith against the table. “Talking without thinking.”

The man swallowed, said nothing.

“Better. Now”-Bennett stood-“I’ve got your cell number. I’ll be in touch. I were you, I’d get to work.” He slid the gun back into his belt, started for the door. “By the way, I think the lovely you were swimming beside might have a crush on you. Just between us, eh, brother?” He winked, then stepped out, leaving the man naked and bleeding.

An excellent performance. Hitting the right tone was key. He strolled down the hall, feeling good. He was almost to the stairs when the masseuse stopped him.

“Everything OK?”

“Right as rain,” he said. “But you know what, hon? I’ve got a feeling the doctor’s going to skip his massage.”

CHAPTER 3

HIS EX-WIFE’S HOUSE was only a forty-minute drive if traffic was good, but it was so far out of his world Alex sometimes felt like he needed a space suit.

It wasn’t the house itself, which was typical suburban: two stories of aluminum siding and painted shutters on a broad green corner bounded by neat sidewalks. Not one of the McMansions with four garages and a swimming pool and enough space for an extended Korean family. And it wasn’t the suburbs that bothered him. He’d grown up in them-in Michigan, not here, but the thing about suburbs was that they were the same everywhere-and so the strip malls and wide-laned roads and chain restaurants were familiar in a nostalgic sort of way.

It was something else. The mothers pushing strollers and chatting. The kids racing on bicycles, legs pumping as they leaned on the handlebars. The quiet, tree-shaded streets. Everything seemed settled here. Proper. The predictable result of a series of calculated decisions.

He thought of Jenn the night before, standing in his kitchen, pale and naked and unself-conscious. Holding her beer bottle by the neck and saying that all she’d wanted was to get swept up in an adventure. Beautiful, with her bright skin and small nipples and the faint marks of his fingers bruising her slender biceps. The kind of woman men could obsess over. And he cared about her, he really did. But as he’d looked at her, nothing in him had stirred the same way it did looking at the broad porch and well-kept lawn of his ex-wife’s house.

Whatever. It was a shiny blue morning, he wasn’t working until six, and he had a date with his favorite ten-year-old. He unfolded himself from his car-the Taurus was solid and cheap, but a little small for six-two-and went up the walk whistling.

The whistle died when Trish met him at the door. She wore jeans and a fitted T-shirt. Her hair was in a ponytail and her face was closed. “You’re late.”

“Traffic.”

She nodded, stepped inside. Turned and yelled over her shoulder. “Cassie!” She looked back at him. “You want some coffee?”

He shook his head and thought he saw relief in her eyes. Alex put his hands in his pockets, ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Glanced at the foyer, the floor spotless, mirrors on the wall, a small end table with keys and a stack of mail. He rocked from one foot to the other.

“Listen, Alex-”

“I know,” he said. “I’m late with my check. We had a screw-up at the bar, everybody’s pay was held. It should be hitting the bank today. I’ll put it in the mail tomorrow.”

“And what about last month?”

“I told you. The IRS, they-”

“You always have an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse,” he said quietly, “if it’s true.”

“Last month wasn’t the first time. More like the tenth.”

“Trish, what do you want from me? I’m working double shifts. I live in a dump. I’m not spending money on hookers and blow. If the lawyer your father paid for hadn’t gotten the child support set so ridiculously high, maybe I could make some progress.”

His ex shook her head. “We were very generous.”

“You’re generous about letting me see her. But I owe you half my paycheck. How am I supposed to live?”

“She’s your daughter. This is a way of showing that you’ll always be there for her.”

“Hey.” His voice rough. “I will always be there for her.”

She looked downward as she spun her new wedding ring. “I know you love her. I do. And she loves you. But it can’t go on like this.” She sighed. “Listen. There’s something-”

Behind him, Cassie rumbled down the steps like an avalanche. “Hi, Daddy!” She came straight into his arms with a hug. He scooped her up and squeezed her tight. Over her shoulder, Trish opened her mouth, closed it, then looked away. Alex was content to let her. Whatever she had been about to say, it hadn’t sounded good.

Cassie was all happy chatter as they drove out of the neighborhood: the Rollerblades his ex-wife’s husband had bought her, a reality show on MTV, how her soccer team was going to the play-offs, and could he make the game?

“I’ll try, sweetie.” He stopped at a red light. “Where do you want to eat?”

They settled on TGI Friday’s, the corner booth. A perky teenager seated them, plunked down plastic tumblers of water. Eighties pop drifted through deep-fried air. While Cassie studied her menu, he studied her, amazed, as always, at her sheer physicality: her tan forearms and bright eyes and the way she twisted a curl of hair as she concentrated. She wore a tank top with lacy straps, and her ears were pierced. That was new, and he didn’t love it.

They ordered, an elaborate salad for her, hold the cheese, dressing on the side, and a cheeseburger for him, rare. “Want a milk shake?”

She shook her head. “I’m on a diet.”

“A diet?”

“Yup.” She seemed proud of it, and he didn’t push, didn’t tell her that she was perfect just the way she was, bright and beautiful and softly rounded with the remnants of baby fat. He just ordered a chocolate malt of his own, and two straws.

The server left, and they looked at each other. “So.”

“So,” she said and smiled.

“How’s tricks, Trix? Tell me everything.”

She giggled and started in, and he leaned back, content to listen. Sometimes she was solemn and asked him questions about his life that seemed like they’d been prompted by a discussion he hadn’t been privy to. But today she was her normal self, bubbly and concerned only with the everyday things that made up a ten-year-old life. Their food came, and he pushed the milk shake forward just enough that she could reach it.

“We’re going to Hilton Head next month.”

“Yeah?”

“Scott is taking us.” She always made a point of referring to Trish’s new husband by his first name, at least around him. Maybe at home she called him Daddy too, but never in front of Alex. “We have a hotel right on the beach. With a pool, too. And there’s dancing at night, Mom says.”

“Sounds like fun.” His burger was bitter and burned.

“Maybe you could come too.”

“I wish I could.”

“I bet Mom and Scott wouldn’t mind.”

He was positive that wasn’t true, and even more positive he couldn’t afford the hotel. “I’ve got to work, kiddo. It’s not summer for me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s never summer for you.”

“Too true.” He put a hand over his heart. “Oh, to be ten again.”

“Grown-ups always say that.”

“We do?”

She nodded. “I think you forget how much it sucks to be a kid.”

“Sometimes it sucks to be an adult, too.” Thinking of Trish looking down, that hesitation, like she was about to say something he really didn’t want to hear.

“You don’t have homework.”

“We don’t have summer vacation, either.”

“But you can drive. And live in the city. You can do anything you want.”

“Not anything.”

“Most anything. I can’t wait to grow up.”

He felt the wince but didn’t show it. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry.”

She stabbed a tomato with her fork, eyed it dubiously, then took a small bite. “So, I was thinking,” she said, chewing. “I got all A’s and B’s last year.”

“Uh-oh.”

“And you always say I’m very mature for my age.”

“Who said that? I said that? I don’t remember saying that.”

“Yes, you did. You say it all the time.” She set her fork down and pulled his milk shake toward her. “So I was thinking that I should be able to have a cell phone.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Actually, an iPhone.”

“Specific.”

“They’re the best. You can play music on them and instant message and I could call you whenever I want.”

“You can call me whenever you want now.”

“Yeah, but if I had one, I could call you when I’m not home.” She drained an inch of the chocolate malt, then looked at him expectantly. “All my friends have them.”

“I don’t know, kiddo.”

“Come on, please? I’ll be really careful with it.”

His stomach felt off, and he put down his burger. The previous night’s conversation with Jenn came into his mind again, how he’d had a whole different plan than being thirty-two and living paycheck to paycheck. “What does your mother say?”

“She said to ask you.”

Bravo, he thought. Thanks, Trish. Much appreciated.

“I think you’re a little young.”

“But, Dad-”

“Sorry, Cass. Ten is too young.” He chewed a cold french fry.

She started to pout, then paused, then took another sip on the milk shake. “Is it because you’re broke?”

“What?”

“Mom said that you barely make enough to afford your fleabag apartment.”

“She said that to you?”

“Well, no.” Cassie shrugged. “I overheard her on the phone.” She looked at him openly, too young to realize the effect of her words, that the last, worst thing she could ever give him was pity.

He stared, wanting to tell her the truth, tell her all the things he’d given up for her already, and all the things he would again. But kids didn’t need to know about child support and rent and gas at four bucks a gallon. Otherwise they stopped being kids. “Your mother was joking.”

“Yeah?” She didn’t sound convinced.

“I’m made of money. You know, fleabag apartments aren’t cheap. You have to pay extra for the fleas.”

“Dad.”

“Plus flea food.”

“Dad.”

“And flea grooming. Fleas are very particular about their grooming.”

She giggled, and the solemn expression fell from her face. It was something.

RING.

Ring.

Ring.

“John Loverin.”

“Johnny Love, Johnny Love. You know who this is?”

“Sure, kid, I know. How the hell are you?”

“Depends on whether you have my money.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I look like a Democrat?”

“Ain’t it the way. Since you bring it up, the price you’re asking. I’m thinking an even two instead.”

“Hmm. Let me consider that. I don’t want to say anything rash.” A pause. “Nope, I had it off the bat: Blow it out your ass.”

“Hey-”

“Hey my ten-inch cock. You know you can turn it around for double what I’m charging. So let’s not play.”

“All right, all right. Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“You have a buyer lined up?”

“Yeah.”

“Not someone you want to disappoint, I’m guessing.”

“Not so much, no. So I can count on you, right, kid?”

“Anybody tell you that whole ‘kid’ thing is kind of annoying?”

“Most people are too smart to take that tone.”

“You find someone else who can get you this, you can tell me to walk. Till then, I take any tone I like. Another thing. Tuesday. It’s not going to be me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It won’t be me comes in to see you. I’m sending someone.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope.”

“Who?”

“Crooch.”

A laugh. “Jesus. Anything to avoid a little dirty work yourself, huh? You must really have that pasty-faced loser twisted around your finger. What did you catch him doing?”

“Everybody sins, Johnny. I’m just there to see it. So we OK? You’re fine with Crooch?”

“Kid, so long as he brought what you’re selling, I’d be fine if it was Big Bird squeezed his feathery butt through my door.”

“Glad to hear it. Let’s keep everything simple. A nice, clean deal.”

“You deliver, I deliver.”

“Fair enough. Have a happy fucking weekend.”

AFTER ALEX DROPPED CASSIE OFF, as he was battling traffic eastward and holding off the mood as best he could, his cell phone rang. He checked the screen. Trish. No way he wanted to talk to her now. Instead he leaned back in the seat and sucked deep on the emotions that had been waiting for him, a cocktail he drank often: two parts rage to one part aching frustration, flavored with a dash of self-pity. Damn her for talking about him that way in front of Cassie. And damn her for her snide attacks about the child support. Sure, over the years he’d missed a couple of payments. But he was doing the best he could.

Still, he couldn’t find it in him to hate her. He knew her too well. She wasn’t cruel; she was just practical in a relentless sort of way. All about the end result. They’d split up in part because she didn’t want to be married to a bartender. She was young, had her looks and her brains, and though Cassie limited the dating options, for a certain type of guy-the kind who had worked harder than he meant to for fifteen years, then looked up and realized his life was empty-a kid was actually a bonus. Insta-family, just add wedding ring and mortgage payments.

Of course, now there wasn’t much room for an ex-husband. Especially one who still tended bar.

The joyless irony of it all was that he had to go to work even now. Right now, in fact. He stewed for the rest of the commute, then swallowed his cocktail like a man and went inside.

At this hour, Rossi’s had that hollowed-out look, like a house where the owners were on vacation. The hostess stand was empty, and servers were rolling napkins in the dining room. He walked past to the bar. His kingdom. Jesus. The thought made him wonder if he remembered how to tie a noose. An early shift bartender was setting out bottles. He nodded at Alex, said, “Johnny wants you.”

“What for?”

“Didn’t say. Just wanted you to come back to his office when you got in.”

“He’s here? At three o’clock?”

“Will wonders never, right?”

Alex nodded, reached around the tap for a glass, filled it with Diet Coke, then went to the back room. He paused to check the kegs-he’d been easing a few better beers into rotation, a couple of taps of Lagunitas and Victory, good American craft beers to add to the usual crap that people drank-then noticed that the back door to the alley was unlocked yet again. The kitchen staff went out back to smoke and never locked it. He threw the bolt, went to the office door, and stepped inside.

Johnny Love sat behind the desk, facing away. He whirled at the sound of the door opening. “What the fuck?”

“Ahh-” Alex hesitated. “You wanted to see me?”

“Don’t you knock?” He straightened in the chair, positioning his body to hide something behind him.

Alex fought the urge to point out that this was more often his office than Johnny’s, that he and the restaurant managers used it day in, day out, instead of the occasional drop-by. Instead, he said, “Sorry, Mr. Loverin. My mistake.”

Johnny turned back around and did something with his hands. Alex couldn’t see what he was doing, but heard a creak, and then a dull metal clank. Johnny was putting something in the safe. Alex waited, rocking from one foot to the other, until his boss swiveled back around and slowly raised one foot and then the other to set them on top of the desk. Said nothing. Marking his territory as clear as if he’d pissed on the desk.

Alex repeated, “You wanted to see me?”

Johnny stared. It was a look that Alex supposed had once been scary, back in the days when the guy was actually a player, carried a gun. He said, “How’d you like to earn a little extra money?”

“Doing what?”

“Simple thing. I’ve got a meeting this Tuesday night, I’d like you to join.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“What do you care?”

“I just mean, what’s this about?” There had been talk that Johnny was buying into another restaurant. If it was true, he might be looking for somebody to manage the place. The step up in salary might make the difference Alex needed.

“What it is, what you need to know, it’s just a little side deal I’ve got going on. A guy I know who likes to pretend he’s tough. I want you to stand around, wear a shirt shows off those muscles.”

“You want me to be a bodyguard?”

“Nothing like that. It’s a, what do you call it, a pageant. You’re there to make things look a certain way. You’re set dressing.” Johnny nodded at that, pleased with the description.

“Set dressing.”

“Yeah. You stand with your arms folded. Don’t say anything. Just look mean.”

“Umm.” Alex hesitated. “I’m not sure-”

“Two hundred bucks. Should only take ten minutes or so.”

Alarm bells started chiming in Alex’s head. A meeting in the back office, him pretending to be muscle? He remembered the things he’d told the others, Italians coming in with briefcases and leaving empty-handed. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about a new restaurant. “You know, Mr. Loverin, that’s not really what I’m about.”

“What do you mean, it’s not what you’re about?”

“I mean, whatever this is-I just-well, I’m really not into that kind of thing.”

Johnny took his feet from the desk, sat up straight. “What kind of thing?” His voice thin and his eyes narrow.

Shit. “That came out wrong. I just mean, if it’s OK with you, I’d as soon stick to my regular job.”

“Your regular job.”

“Yeah.”

“You work for me, right? So your regular job, it’s doing what I tell you, isn’t it?”

All right. First Trish, now this. Enough. “When some drunk gets rough in the bar, I handle it. But this is something else. I’ve been here a while, and I’ve heard some things, and whatever this is, I don’t want any part of it.”

For a long moment, Johnny said nothing. Then he ran his tongue slowly over his lips. “That’s a pretty big speech, kid.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect.”

“A pretty big fucking speech indeed, coming from an assistant fucking manager. You’ve heard some things? Good for fucking you.” He cracked his thumbs. “There’s a recession, you know that? Every day I get people in here looking for work. Plenty of people who could do your job. You ever think of that?”

“Mr. Loverin-”

“You had your say. Now it’s my turn. You do this very simple thing I’m asking or you find yourself another job. But you better not even try to tell people you worked here. Because when they call-and they will-I’ll tell them that I fired you for stealing from the register. I’ll tell them you’re an ungrateful little punk been ripping me off for years.”

“That’s not true.”

“I said it, so it’s true. Get me?”

How the hell had they ended up here? One minute he was coming in to cover a shift, now he was in danger of losing his job? Part of him wanted to stand up and tell Johnny Love to screw himself.

But then he remembered his bank account, maybe two hundred bucks in it. He thought of Trish, and the way she’d started in on him about the child support from the moment he saw her. He could find another job, but Johnny was right; if he tried to go to another bar, the owner would call. Sure, he’d be able to find something eventually, probably something better. But how long would it take? And what would Trish say when he told her he’d been fired?

What would she say to Cassie?

Then Johnny smiled. “Anyway, you’ve got this all wrong. It’s no big deal. Just a show, kid. No need to get your stockings twisted.”

Alex felt another cocktail of emotions coming on. Two parts sickness in his stomach, one part pissed-off, with a twist of what-choice-do-I-have? “Mr. Loverin, I need this job. But-”

“Good. Tuesday. And you know what? Let’s call it three hundred.” He reached for the phone, dialed, rocked the chair back on two legs. “Mort! How the hell are you.” Johnny laughed, then looked up at Alex as if surprised to see him still standing there, and jerked his head toward the door.

CHAPTER 4

HE WASN’T GOING.

Mitch lay on his back, one arm behind his head. The night had been cool enough to leave the bedroom windows open, and the breeze blew the curtains in flips and swirls, morning sunlight blinking as they parted. The room went from dark to bright to dark.

He could imagine the scene this Thursday night. Them asking where he’d been, why he’d missed brunch. Just shrugging, saying something came up. Playing it cool, like Jack Nicholson. Aloof. In control.

Of course, Jenn would be there. Probably wearing a sundress.

He stared at the ceiling. Sundress. Jack Nicholson. Sundress.

Mitch kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed. Maybe he’d be late.

He showered, NPR in the background. The subprime housing crunch, the Dow plummeting, the Bush administration pushing for war with Iran because the two wars they already had were going so well. He shaved carefully, then killed the water and dried himself with the same towel as always, even though there were two hanging in the bathroom. Two because that’s what grown-ups had, just in case someday there were two people showering.

He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Made coffee. Sipped it slowly. The clock read 10:37. If he left now, he’d be right on time. He poured a second cup, picked up a novel.

It was funny. When the four of them had started hanging out, they’d all had other people they thought of as their “real” friends. But time kept passing, and those people got married or moved away or just got lazy in that late-twenties way, never leaving the house, always saying they’d love to get together but never doing it. And so Thursday nights went from optional to mandatory, and before long, they started adding more occasions. Dinners at Ian’s condo in the sky. Cubs games in the summer. And lately, Saturday brunch.

That seemed to be the way with life. The things you were now, today, were the things you really were. Maybe you used to play guitar; maybe in the future you’d take up bowling. But what you did now, the people you saw, the books you read, the dreams that woke you, they were the real you. Not some construct of what you wanted to be or once were.

At 11:02, he stopped pretending to read and went for a cab.

Though named like a convenience store, Kuma’s Corner was a cross between a heavy-metal bar and a café, with tasteful lighting and tattooed waitstaff, eggs Benedict and burgers named after bands. Mitch had timed it right, strolling out on the small patio to find the three of them already there. Jenn flashed white teeth, motioned to the empty chair beside her. No sundress, but a strappy shirt that showed off her shoulders.

He sat, smiled, then saw Ian. “Whoa!” The guy’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, thick flesh ringed in bright purple and dark black. “Jesus,” Mitch said. “What happened to you?”

“He won’t tell us,” Jenn said. “But I think it was a woman.”

“I did tell you. I tripped. I was out late, came home buzzed, caught my foot on the mat.”

“And hit the doorknob with your eyeball?”

“Yeah.” Ian reached for his beer, drained half in a pull. “Nice shot, huh? Doorknob, one; Ian, zero. But I’ve got plans for revenge.” He smiled. “Anyway. You’re missing a hell of a story. Alex is beginning a life of crime.”

“It’s not funny, man.” Alex had dark circles of his own.

“Hold on. Let me order.”

“I did it for you,” Jenn said. “Chilaquiles, right?”

Mitch looked over and smiled, suddenly ten feet tall and lighter than air and very glad he’d come. “Yeah. Thanks.” He held the look a moment, then turned to Alex. “So?”

“His boss is using him as muscle,” Ian said. “He’s gonna get medieval on some tough guys.”

“Would you quit it? This is serious. My boss is-”

“An asshole?”

“Well, yeah. Yesterday he was fiddling with the safe when I walked into his office, and he freaked like I caught him jerking off.” Alex shook his head. “I calm him down, very polite, use his last name and everything. And he says he wants me to come to a meeting. Like, an after-hours kind of meeting. A side deal, he wants me to be his bodyguard.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. And I say no, still very polite. He says I don’t do this, I’m fired, and he’ll tell everybody I’ve been stealing.”

“Hmm.” Mitch could picture it, the skeezy guy condescending and threatening at once, big tough Alex having to stand there and take it. The thought almost made him smile. Payback’s a bitch. Then he saw the look in his friend’s eyes and immediately felt bad for feeling good.

“You got that far before,” Ian said. “So? Are you going to do it?”

“He signs the checks, right? But then-” Alex stopped at the arrival of a ferret-faced blonde balancing plates down the length of a tattooed arm. Ian ordered another beer. After she walked away, Alex said, “But then it got worse.” He pushed his plate forward and leaned on his elbows. “I got to wondering what Johnny was doing in the safe, right? I mean, he was so concerned with it.”

Mitch cut into his breakfast, scooping up corn tortillas and salsa verde and pulled chicken.

“So after he took off, I went back into the office, and I opened the safe.”

“I’m surprised ‘Johnny Love’ gave you the combination,” Jenn said.

“He didn’t. A couple of months ago he was after some information in there, something about a real-estate deal. Manager wasn’t working, didn’t want to come in, so he called and gave me the combo. It’s Johnny’s birthday. He makes a point of showing up every year on his birthday to see who remembers.”

Jenn gave a sharp, high laugh. “This guy gets better and better.”

“Worse and worse.” Alex’s features went dark in a way that reminded Mitch of his fluttering curtains, blinding sunlight to deep gloom. “You know what was there?” He paused, then looked over his shoulder. Pitched his voice low. “Cash. A lot of it. Like, stacks of hundred-dollar bills.”

Mitch stopped chewing. Next to him, Jenn leaned forward the barest amount, more an intake of breath than a calculated motion. For a second, the crowded patio seemed to fall silent, and he could hear the rustling of leaves above them, the sound of traffic on Belmont.

“Nice.” Ian picked up his water glass and held it against his bad eye, the ice cubes tinkling. “You had me going.”

Jenn looked around the table, at Ian, at Alex, at Mitch, at Alex again, back at Ian again. “Is he kidding?”

“Of course he’s kidding.”

“I’m not.” Alex said it simple and quiet and firm. “I wish I were.”

“You’re serious?” Mitch set his fork down.

Alex nodded. “On my mother.”

The silence fell again.

“What did you do?”

“I packed my pockets and snuck out the back. Brunch is on me.” Alex stabbed at his eggs. “What do you think? I locked up, went back to the bar, and quietly shit myself.”

“You didn’t touch it?”

“No.”

“Come on.” Ian set down the water glass. No less puffy, his bad eye was now just slick with condensation. “Not even a little?”

“No.”

“How much was there?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t know,” Alex said around a mouthful. “A lot. Thing is, I got to thinking. What if it’s got something to do with the meeting? I had figured, you know, he was having trouble with his vegetable suppliers, wanted me there so he could look like the old tough Johnny Love. But there had to be a couple hundred grand. What if he’s going back into the drug business? Meeting with Colombians?”

“Or Outfit guys,” Mitch said. “Or undercover cops.”

“Jesus. If he got busted and I was there…”

“You have to find a new job.” Jenn’s voice was sharper than normal.

“Ya think?”

“You’re missing the worst part,” Ian said. “Insult to the injury. The money.”

Alex’s jaw fell open, then he gave a sound that wasn’t much like a laugh. “Three hundred bucks. I’m a bodyguard at a six-figure drug deal, and the cheap bastard is offering me three hundred bucks.” He made the sound again.

“You know what you should do?” Ian held a beat. “Clean out that safe before you quit.”

“Tempting,” Alex said. “But I think even Johnny Love could figure that one out.”

“Well, all you need to do,” Mitch said, “is not quit. Do it on a night you aren’t working, and don’t quit.”

“Right. Right.” Ian nodded, cracked his knuckles. “Keep a straight face.”

“Better yet,” Jenn said, “we should take it.”

“Yes!” Ian gave her gun fingers. “That’s it. In fact, do it on a night you are working. You stand at the bar all night, meanwhile, we’re emptying the safe.”

“We could cut through the roof with a torch,” Jenn said, “and then rappel from a helicopter.”

“Or tunnel in from the building across the street,” Mitch said, getting in the spirit.

“Meanwhile, I distract Johnny,” Jenn said. “I’ll wear one of those Bond-girl dresses from the Connery years. The short, mod ones that the villains’ girlfriends had. I’ve always wanted to.”

“I love it when a plan comes together,” Ian said, and raised his glass. “To screwing Johnny Love.”

“Screwing Johnny Love.” They clinked. Mitch leaned back in his chair, glad he’d come. A flawless blue sky and good friends. A sudden scrap of music began, Brandon Flowers urging smi-ile like you mean it, from the cell phone beside Alex’s napkin. He picked it up, shook his head, then hit a button to silence the notes.

“Work?”

“My ex.”

It seemed like maybe a look passed between Jenn and Alex, but it was just a flickering thing. Mitch dug into his neglected breakfast.

Ian said, “You guys know what the Prisoner’s Dilemma is?”

Alex groaned. “Not again.”

“What?”

“Let me guess. It’s another game.”

“Funny you should say that,” Ian deadpanned. “In fact, yes.”

“You do anything besides play games?”

“So,” Ian said, “two criminals are arrested. The cops know they did it, but they don’t have enough evidence. So they put them in separate cells and offer each a deal. If one rats on the other, he goes free. His partner, though, gets ten years. If they both keep quiet, the cops can only hit them with something minor, say, six months. But if both of them betray the other, bam, the cops can nail both, and they each get five years.”

There was something elegant in the situation. Mitch could see the whole game, almost see the equation behind it. He’d always been decent at math. “They both stay quiet.”

“You’d think, right? But the thing is, they can’t talk to each other. If one trusts the other and is betrayed, he gets twice the sentence he would have if they both ratted.”

“How well do they know each other?” Jenn asked.

“Not the point.”

“Sure it is. If they’re good friends, then they’ll trust that the other guy will do the right thing.”

“Ahh, but that’s a big assumption. I mean, imagine you make that leap, and find out your buddy screwed you? He walks free, you get ten years. That’s such a huge consequence that it becomes less important what you can gain, and more important what you could lose. Which means it’s not about trust.”

“What is it about, then?”

“Iteration. If you play only once, the best thing to do is to betray before you’re betrayed. Even if the other guy is a friend. Because he’s thinking the same thing.”

Jenn shook her head. “Did your mother not hug you or something?”

Ian gave her the finger. “But see, if you’re going to be playing again and again, then you keep the faith. Because six months in prison beats the consequences of mutual betrayal. So over time, the best result is to play square. But only over time.”

“Where do you get this shit?” Alex asked.

“Game theory, baby. So how about tomorrow night?”

“For what?”

“Screwing Johnny Love.”

“Yeah, fine,” Alex said. “I can’t believe I have to find a new job. And you know what? Johnny is enough of a dick, he probably will tell everybody I stole from him.”

“He won’t know it was you.”

“No, I mean from the registers…” Alex paused. Set his glass down, turned with a bemused expression. “Are you serious?”

Ian gave a shrug that was more eyebrows than shoulders. “Why not?”

“Because it’s stealing?”

“So what? You said this guy made his money selling drugs. You know how many people probably died because of that?”

“So?”

“Robbing a drug dealer, that doesn’t seem wrong to me. Plus, there’s no way we would get caught,” Ian said. “I mean, who would ever suspect us? None of us with a record, none of us ever having done anything like this, and you with an alibi. Big payoff for low risk. Betray and win.”

“This isn’t one of your games.”

“Everything is a game. This one is the Prisoner’s Dilemma. If you’re only playing once, your best bet is to screw the other guy. Because you know he will screw you.” He leaned forward. “Look at us. The four of us are all nice people, employed, call our mothers, do the things we’re supposed to, right? But guys like Johnny don’t play that way. He just takes what he wants, and since we’re playing nice, he wins. Same with Ken Lay and James Cayne and all the others, the criminals in the expensive suits. You were the one who said they should be lined up and shot, right?”

“I didn’t mean I’d be pulling the trigger.”

“But why not? This guy is blackmailing you. He’s breaking the rules and he’s winning, and the question is, are you just going to take it? Or are you going to beat him at his own game?”

The mood around the table had changed. There was a strange tension, the joke running further than anyone had intended. Something Mitch had read that morning came into his mind. “You know what Raymond Chandler said?”

“No, Mitch,” Alex humoring him, “what did Raymond Chandler say?”

“He said there’s no clean way to make a hundred million bucks.”

“There you go,” Ian said. “There you go.”

Alex looked around the table, his expression incredulous. “You serious?”

Not really, Mitch thought. It did sound doable, and the money, well, that would change his life. But was he actually serious? Not when it came down to it.

Which is maybe why you stand holding a door for people who don’t know you exist, the voice in his head whispered.

“We’re not robbing my boss.”

Ian shrugged, leaned back. “Your loss.” He put on that smile, his caustic armor.

There didn’t seem to be much to say to follow that, and they picked at their breakfasts. Mitch could almost hear the thoughts, read them like they were printed on everyone’s cheeks. He was a good watcher. People mistook not wanting to be the center of attention for not paying attention. Ian was easy, the narrow hunger on his face, the way he held himself straight. Alex had the tense stillness and wide eyes of a courtroom defendant, and Mitch could see him thinking of his daughter and whatever white-picket house she lived in. Jenn had a furtive glow to her. She looked, frankly, turned on.

The scrape of silverware was loud. Finally, Alex looked at Ian, said, “You are making me wonder, though.”

“Yeah?”

“How’d you get that black eye again?”

CHAPTER 5

IT WAS AMAZING, Bennett thought, how much of the world looked really boring. The office park where K &S Laboratories was located, for example. A series of two-story shoeboxes centered around what had to be the lamest fountain he’d ever seen, water rolling in a piss trickle down an angled slab. How people got up every day and commuted an hour in traffic just to work in a place like this, he’d never understand.

Of course, on the inside, the lab probably looked more exciting. According to the research he’d done, about twenty percent of pharmaceuticals used some form of fluorine, which acted as a stabilizer, improving efficiency by delaying absorption. It was pretty nasty stuff; as a subcontractor developing compounds for drug companies, K &S probably had clean rooms, positive airflow suits, three kinds of safety precautions. Maybe on the inside it looked like something out of a Bruckheimer flick.

Bennett still liked his office better. With one hand on the wheel of the Benz, he dialed his cell. “Doc. You know who this is?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good. You do what I asked?”

“I… I…”

“Easy. Take a breath.” He waited for a beat, then said, “Better?”

The man’s voice came through hollow and miserable. “I made what you wanted.”

“Good. I knew you were a smart guy. Now, you haven’t told anyone about our chat, have you?”

“No.”

“Your wife, the police?”

“No.”

“You’re not lying to me? Because those pictures”-he sucked air through his teeth-“I mean, that kind of thing, you wouldn’t want anyone to see that.”

“I haven’t. I swear.” The voice was quick and panicky.

“Then relax, brother. This will all be over soon. Here’s how it’s going to go.” Bennett gave him an address. “Let’s see you there in twenty minutes.” He hung up before the guy could respond, then slouched in his seat and watched the front door.

Two minutes later, the doctor hurried out, one hand pulling keys from his pocket. The other held a duffel bag in fingers clenched bloodless. Bennett let the doc get in his Town Car and spin out of the lot. Didn’t follow, just waited and watched. No squad cars followed, no unmarkeds roared to life.

When the clock on his dashboard said that ten minutes had passed, he dialed the phone again. “Where you at, Doc?”

“I’m on the way. You said-”

“Changed my mind. Why don’t we meet at your office in”-he pretended he was looking at a watch-“five.”

“But I’m ten minutes-”

“Drive fast.” Bennett hung up.

It took more like seven, but when the Town Car hit the lot, the tires were squealing and the engine was roaring. Again, no sign of anybody following.

Bennett let the doctor park, then slid out of his car and started over. He had that hyperalertness that always came with a deal, the feeling he could see in seven directions at once, breathe jet fuel instead of air. He knocked on the passenger-side window and enjoyed seeing the man jump.

After the guy collected himself enough to unlock the door, Bennett slid in. “Hey, Doc. How was your day?”

The man just looked at him. His nose had gauze packed in the nostrils and tape across the bridge. His fingers gripped and released the steering wheel.

“Rough one, huh?” Bennett smiled. “We’re almost done.”

The man nodded, started to reach for the bag.

“Not so fast. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where?”

“Take a ride. First, though, do me a quick favor.” Bennett jerked his head. “Hike up that shirt, would you?”

“My shirt?”

“Yeah. I hear swimming is good exercise. Want to check out your muscle definition.”

“Listen, I did what you wanted, but this is getting ridiculous.” The man trying to take control back.

Bennett smiled, shrugged. “OK. Well, nice seeing you.” He reached for the door handle.

“No! Wait.” The man grimaced, then untucked his shirt and pulled it up to show his bare skin. “I told you, I didn’t go to the police.”

“Can’t be too careful.” Bennett gestured at the road. “Let’s go.”

It was after seven o’clock, and traffic was just beginning to thin. Bennett directed the doctor one street at a time, having him get on and off the highway, make sudden turns. He watched the mirrors. No one.

God, he loved predictable people.

“OK. You know how to get to O’Hare from here?” Bennett leaned forward, turned on the radio. Scanned the dial-crap, crap, car commercial, crap, the Beatles. He put a foot on the dash, lowered his window, and reclined the seat a notch.

As they neared the airport, the doctor said, “About those pictures. I never did anything like that before. It was… I don’t even know why I did. I was just… curious. Wasn’t thinking. I swear to God, though, I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m begging you.”

“You do what I wanted?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t fool around? Try to make something a little different, figure I won’t be able to tell?”

“No, I swear.”

“Long-term parking.”

“Huh?”

“Head for long-term parking.”

The man nodded. “I love my wife. My daughter. More than anything.”

Bennett cocked an eyebrow.

“I know. I know. It was stupid. I just. It’s a weakness. A compulsion. It’s not my fault, something I would choose.”

“Go up to the top level.”

“If I have to pay for what I did, that’s fine. I just don’t want anyone to know.”

“Park over there, in the empty part.”

The doctor pulled in, killed the engine. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

“I believe you, Doc. And if you did what I wanted, everything will be fine. You’ve got my word. So”-Bennett jerked his thumb toward the backseat-“I’m going to ask one last time. Did you get clever with me? Admit it now, I’ll give you an opportunity to make good. But if it turns out that you messed with me…”

The man was shell-shocked, eyes red and nose swollen. “I made what you asked for.”

“Then your worries are over.”

Even with one window down, the shot was deafening in the closed confines of the car. The bullet took him right in the temple, passed straight through, and shattered the driver’s-side glass, spattering the car door with gore. Bennett didn’t waste time looking around, just wiped the gun off, wrapped the man’s dead hand around it, then dropped both to the seat. The gun bounced and slid to the floorboards. Bennett set three photos in the doctor’s lap, then wiped off the radio dial, took the duffel from the back, and started for the terminal. Kept an easy pace, just a businessman on his way to a flight. He opened his cell phone, dialed.

“Yello?”

“Crooch. It’s me. We’re on. Be ready Tuesday night.”

“Yeah, listen, about this. I don’t know, man. I’m having second thoughts.”

“What’s not to know? It’s simple.”

“If it’s so simple, why don’t you do it?”

“Ahh, Croochy, you’re looking at it the wrong way.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re missing the opportunity. This is a painless way for you to settle up with me. Just run an errand, drop off one bag, pick up another. That’s it. And in return, think of the weight off your shoulders. Do right Tuesday night, come Wednesday morning, your worries are over.”

“And we’ll be square? Clean?”

“Absolutely, brother.” Bennett smiled. “You got my word.”

CHAPTER 6

COMING OFF A DOUBLE, bone freaking tired, the first thing Alex noticed when he came home was that the light on his answering machine was blinking again.

Not much sleep the last couple nights, and that filled with dreams of Cassie handing him stacks of hundred-dollar bills, of strange dark rivers and the sound of waterfalls, of flying that turned to falling. All he wanted was a big vodka, a shower if he could summon the will, and bed, where if he was lucky the pillows might still smell like Jenn.

He walked to the machine, almost hit Play, picked up the phone instead. Pressed the Caller ID button, then the back arrow.

Trish.

Alex stomped into the kitchen. Glass, ice, vodka. He took a long sip, felt the muscles in his back unclench. Took another, then refilled the glass, tucked the bottle back next to the frozen pizzas.

Over the past few days, she’d left a couple of messages. He’d checked them just to make sure Cassie hadn’t been hurt, but hadn’t otherwise responded. They’d all been terse little things, and the tone had scared him.

The streetlight outside his front window brought a globe of tree limbs into brilliant relief, the leaves bright green near the light, then fading to brown and gray and finally black as they moved outside the circle. He had this theory that life was kind of like that. A circle of now that could be seen clearly, and then a past and future fading out, growing disconnected. When he thought back to earlier versions of himself, he could remember things, moments, some of them crystal clear. Birthdays in the backyard. Shooting hoops in his driveway, the smell of tangled forsythia bushes that backed the hoop, the warmth of the sun, the clean ease of stretching for a rebound. But it felt so far away that it wasn’t even just like it hadn’t happened to him, it was like it had happened to someone that a friend had told him about. Two degrees removed.

The foursome was a perfect example. He, Jenn, Ian, and Mitch had started as a lark, a random evening that had been a surprising amount of fun. That evening led to another, and another. And after a while, he’d realized that the friends you saw every week were your best friends, and that the people you were in the habit of considering your best friends actually belonged to a past life.

We’re all living in our own globe of light. Seeing just so far and thinking that’s all there is. The vodka shivered through his chest. He took another gulp and pressed Play.

“Alex, it’s me.” A pause. “Are you there? Pick up.” A sigh. “I know you’re dodging my calls…” Her voice was more trickling out than sounding pissed, and that hit him, put him in mind of old conversations, late at night, her head on the pillow next to his. There had been times when they made sense, the two of them.

“OK.” Her voice firmer, her get-things-done tone. “I have something to tell you. I was going to when you picked Cassie up, but she interrupted…” She paused again. “Damn it, Alex, why are you making me do it this way? Can’t we be grown-ups for once?”

Standing in the dark of the apartment he lived in alone, Alex felt something tangle sticky fingers in his stomach. He leaned over the desk, head right above the answering machine, like he could talk to her through it, convince her not to say whatever she was about to.

“If this is the way we have to do it, fine. Scott got offered a job. It’s a big promotion, he’ll be leading his team, and… well. It’s in Phoenix.”

The spectral fingers clenched tighter.

“He’s going to take it. It’s too good an opportunity. We’re still working out the details, but it looks like we’ll be moving there.” She cleared her throat. “That’s not true. It doesn’t look like it. We’re moving, the three of us.”

Alex clenched the edge of the desk so hard the wood bit into his skin.

“I know it’s far, but it’s not like you won’t see Cassie anymore. We’ll figure something out. You can come anytime you want, and maybe part of the summer she can stay with you. Thanksgiving. Something.”

No, he thought and was surprised to realize he’d spoken aloud.

“I know that’s not what you want to hear,” she said, like she’d heard him. “And I’m sorry. But I”-she paused-“I spoke to my father’s lawyer, and he said that because you’ve been having trouble with the child support, we’re in the clear. Not that I want to get legal, but he said that if it came to that, given the money you’ve missed, and because Scott and I are married and providing a home to Cassie…” She stopped. “I hate this. You knew I wanted to talk to you. But you’ve been doing that thing you do, sticking your head in the sand hoping that will keep things from happening. Just like still working at that stupid bar, all these years later.” She hesitated, spoke with a gentler tone. “Anyway. We’ll be heading out in a couple of weeks. They need Scott right away, and he doesn’t want to be away from us. Of course, you can see Cassie before then, a couple of times maybe.” There was a long pause, and she said, “I’m sorry. Call if you want to talk. I’m sorry.”

Then the fumbling sound of her hanging up, and the machine beeped.

Alex stared. The fingers in his gut had tightened into a fist. His hands were shaking. Phoenix. Phoenix! They couldn’t do that. Take his baby girl and move halfway across the country, they couldn’t. Yeah, OK, he’d missed a couple of payments, been late on some others. But he wasn’t a deadbeat. He’d been working his ass off, hadn’t made one forward step in his own life because half of what he made went to Cassie. That lawyer of Trish’s-not hers, her father’s. Alex remembered the lawyer, a bland man with glasses and a shirt so white it shone, working the system so the child support was staggeringly high, telling him he was lucky that Trish still cared, that she was being so generous with custody, that-

He grabbed the answering machine in both hands and yanked, feeling the tension and then the delicious snap of the cords as he hurled it at the wall. It flew like a discus, hard and straight, and cracked a jagged hole in his drywall before falling to the ground, the cover breaking off. He wanted to go over and jump on it, stomp on the thing until it was just parts, until he ground the parts into his carpet. He stood flexing and opening his fists, a man alone in the dark of a lousy apartment.

This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t.

Leaving the vodka glass sweating on his desk, he opened the door and stepped outside.

JENN WAS ON A MOTORCYCLE, not a Harley, but one of those low Japanese numbers, what her brother had called a crotch rocket. Leaning into it, the pulse of the thing thrumming in warm vibrations through her body. Zooming on an open road, so fast the striped line turned solid as she raced toward an indigo horizon. There was a pounding sound, a thumping, maybe something from the bike, but she just leaned harder, went faster, the wind streaking her hair behind. The thumping came again, and she fought it, cranked the throttle harder-

And woke up curled sideways in her bed, a pillow squeezed between her thighs. Blinked at the green light of the clock: 4:11. The pounding came again, a real sound. The door. Someone was at the door.

It was enough to make her sit up straight, the sheet slipping from her shoulders. The hammering came again, loud and insistent. She sat frozen for a moment, an animal reaction, part of her wanting to bolt and scurry.

Relax. She swung her legs off the side of the bed, reached underneath for the Louisville Slugger. The heft of it made her feel better. She padded barefoot out of the bedroom, her thoughts straightening as she moved, and by the time she looked out the peephole, she already knew who it was. Jenn lowered the bat, then unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door halfway.

Alex loomed in the hallway, seeming bigger than normal. The yellow lighting gave his skin a sallow tone, but his eyes were furiously alive, bright and wide and bloodshot. He stared at her. She was suddenly conscious of how she looked, worn cotton pajamas and a baseball bat, hair tangled with sleep.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

She crossed her arms over her breasts. “That’s romantic.”

“Not that.” He took a step forward. “The money.”

“What?”

“Let’s screw Johnny Love.”

She rubbed at her eyes. Thoughts quick with adrenaline moments before now seemed sluggish. “It’s four in the morning.”

“They’re taking Cassie.”

“Who is?”

“My ex and her new husband.”

“Alex-”

“Can I come in? Just to talk.”

She stared at him, thinking of the evening she’d already endured. The blind date that was nice enough but smelled like an aquarium; three hours of talk that got smaller by the minute. She thought of her bed, a cocoon of warm blankets, and the dream of the motorcycle, flying fast over smooth blacktop. Imagined spending the remainder of the night fighting yawns while Alex babbled about another woman.

“Please?”

She sighed, leaned the bat in the corner. “Come on. I’ll make coffee.”

The kitchen lights seemed particularly brilliant with night pressing against the windows. She gestured to a stool, pulled filters from a drawer, poured coffee from the bag in the freezer.

“Trish called tonight. Her new husband got a job in Phoenix. They’re moving there, and taking Cassie.”

“Can they do that?” She held the pot under the faucet.

“Apparently. I’ve missed some child support payments, and I guess that gives them the right.” He paced behind her, stalking the cage of her kitchen. “I miss a couple of bills, and they take my girl from me.”

She set the pot on the base and flicked the machine on. It gurgled and hissed. “You want a drink, something else?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been drinking all night. Since I got the message. Can you believe that? She left it on my answering machine. I’d just got home from working a double”-he made a sound in his throat, blew air through his nostrils-“Anyway, I’ve been trying to figure how to stop her. Thinking all kinds of crazy things.” His motion fast, hands running across his shaven head. “Like going over right now, grabbing Cassie, taking off.”

“Alex, no-”

“I know. I know. But she’s my daughter. All I’ve got. Anyway, I figured a better way. The child support. All I have to do is pay, and they can’t do this. Her husband wants to move, let him, and Trish too. Cassie can move in with me.”

“Does it work that way?”

“What?”

“Can you just pay the late child support and then-”

“Of course. That’s the only thing they’ve got. I pay that, she can’t just move away.”

Jenn gave a noncommittal sort of nod. That didn’t sound right, didn’t make a lot of sense, but she didn’t see any point in saying so. She wasn’t a lawyer, it wasn’t her business, and she didn’t particularly like talking about his wife. Ex.

“So all we have to do is get the money-”

“Alex.” She spoke firmly.

“What?”

“Sit down.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, and moved to perch on the stool. “Sorry. I must sound crazy.”

“Little bit.”

“I’m just… I love that girl, Jenn. I love her more than anything. They can’t take her from me.” His expression so earnest it had sharp edges.

“One step at a time. How much money are we talking?”

“I don’t know. Enough. If they added everything over the years, too much. Her lawyer is slick, probably got it figured to the penny with interest.” He laid his hands on the counter, palms down, fingers spread. “More than I can come up with, even borrowing. Unless.”

“Unless you rob your boss.” She said it as flatly as possible.

“I’ve been thinking ever since Ian suggested it. Because he’s right, you know? Johnny is a bad guy. He’s exactly what’s wrong with the world. He breaks the rules-the ones that are really supposed to matter-and gets away with it. And people like you and me, we end up drinking in his bar. Calling him Mr. Loverin.”

“Think about what you’re saying. You’re talking about robbing a drug dealer.”

“Ex-drug dealer. He’s not a tough guy now. A middleman, maybe, but so what?”

“What if you get caught?”

“We won’t.”

“It’s still stealing.”

“So what?”

“You’re not making any sense, Alex.”

“Come on,” he said, and leaned across the counter. “I know you were thinking about it. I could tell. You were excited.”

She shrugged. “It was a game. Thinking about it was fun.”

“It was more than that. Remember what you said? How you’d been looking for adventure? Well, here’s your chance.” He wore his cowboy smile. That smile was probably the reason she’d first decided to sleep with him. She’d cloaked it in rationality: They were friends, consenting adults, and there was nothing wrong with finding a little pleasure in each other. But truth was, it had been the smile. That and his wrists, which were at once thick and graceful, like a gymnast’s.

The coffeemaker hissed. She took a couple of mugs from the cabinet, poured carefully, surprised to realize that she was a little turned on. Not in a wanting-to-do-it kind of way. Something subtler. She’d read a novel once where a lonely woman took off her panties and drove a convertible too fast through the desert, wearing a sundress and no underwear and chasing the sensation of being alive. It was that kind of feeling.

“Think about it. We do this one thing, a real-life adventure. We all get not rich, but ahead. A chance to do the things we said we wanted to. You could go on that trip, spend a month in the islands. Maybe we’ll go together.”

“Maybe I’ll go alone.”

He smiled again, said, “Everybody wins. I get what I need to keep my daughter. Ian gets his money, Mitch gets his revenge, and you, you get-”

“I look like a windup toy?”

“Huh?”

She blew steam off her coffee, then sipped at it. “You want to rob your boss, rob your boss. Why come here at four in the morning and try to manipulate me?”

“I’m not trying to manipulate-”

“Don’t.” She set the mug down, brushed her hair back behind her ears. “Don’t.”

“All right.” He ran his tongue around the inside of his lip, making the skin bulge. “I need you.”

“We’re not doing this.” She straightened.

“No,” he said. “Not like that. I mean I need you to pull it off. If I try it alone, Johnny’s going to figure it was someone who works for him. But if all four of us do it…”

“Why four?”

“One keeping watch, two to do the robbery, and me on duty, looking perfectly aboveboard. But you’re the key. I know Ian is up for it. I think he’s got some sort of money trouble. That shiner, things he’s said. But Mitch.”

“You think he’ll do it if I do.”

“I know he will.”

“Even if you’re right, and I don’t know that you are, and even if I’d be willing to exploit that, which I’m not, why should I?”

“Because it’s an adventure. Because you don’t want to turn into your mother. Because you’re too hungry for life to pass up something this easy. Because you could help me keep my little girl. Because Johnny Love is a drug-dealing asshole. But that’s all secondary. You want to know the two best reasons?”

“Sure.”

“I figured out the perfect way. A way that no one, no one, will ever guess it was us.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“Because you want to.” He smiled at her, and she felt something in her stomach roll as she realized he wasn’t wrong.

CHAPTER 7

SOMETHING WAS UP.

Mitch couldn’t put his finger on it. On the surface, everything seemed OK. Ian deciding to host an impromptu dinner had been a surprise, but not a startling one. His building was a trip; thirty stories of gray brick and wrought-iron perched at the bend in the river and surrounded by skyscrapers. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city gleamed close and bright, the skeletal frame of the unfinished Trump Tower near enough to chuck a beer bottle at.

When Mitch had arrived, it was Jenn who opened the door, looking dynamite, pale arms glowing through the gauzy black sleeves of her shirt thing. He’d held up a bottle of red the guy at the liquor store had said was decent, then given her a hug, trying not to linger over the smell of her hair.

“Just in time,” she’d said. “Ian’s about to kebab Alex.”

As if in response, a jovial yell echoed down the hall. “Mitch, thank God. Would the two of you get this asshole out of my kitchen?”

Alex wandered out, smiled, shook his hand. “I swear, he’s an old woman. Just needs an apron.”

They poured the wine and moved to the living room, chatting in front of the windows. That was when the feeling first hit. It reminded him of the way his parents had acted in the months before they told Mitch they were getting divorced. A sort of forced cheer. Alex talked more than usual, laughed a little too hard at a joke Mitch had heard at work. Jenn nursed her wine and stared out the window. He was just about to ask what was going on when Ian announced that dinner was ready.

He may have been touchy about his kitchen, but the dude could cook. They started with a warm spinach salad with some sort of cured meat fried crispy, followed by a risotto with gorgonzola and then blackened swordfish. But Mitch noticed that while everyone else attacked the food, Ian mostly pushed his around the plate, restless to the verge of twitching. How much coke was the guy doing? Mitch had tried it once, years ago, liked it OK, but he couldn’t imagine being wired to want the feeling all the time, like drinking ten espressos while socking yourself in the mouth.

Still, the food was great and the wine was flowing, a second bottle empty by the time they finished. Alex pushed his plate back, slapped his stomach. “Damn. I guess all that stainless steel in your kitchen makes a difference.”

“It’s not the hardware. I’m just that good.”

“Modest, too.”

“How’s your eye?” Jenn asked.

“I’m starting to like it.” The swelling hadn’t lessened, and now shades of yellow and sickly green crept around the purple rim of the bruise. “Makes me look tough, don’t you think?”

She snorted. “Boys.”

They fell silent, one of those moments. Alex opened a new bottle and refilled their glasses, holding by the bottom and twisting professionally when he was done.

“I’ve got one,” Ian said.

“One what?”

“Ready-Go question. What would you do with fifty grand?”

“Foul. We did that the other night.”

“That was five hundred. This is different. Go.”

Alex spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’d make up the child support I owe so my ex-wife couldn’t take my daughter from me.”

“Your-what?” Mitch glanced back and forth. “Your ex is trying to take Cassie?”

“Yeah. To Arizona.”

“Can she do that?”

“Sure,” Ian said. “She’s the mother, providing a home, and with missed child support payments…”

“What about you?” Alex’s voice was hard. “What would you do?”

Ian gave one of his cryptic smiles. “Oh, just pay some bills.”

“I bet. The late fees look like a bitch.” Alex tapped his forefinger below his eye.

“I told you, I tripped. Jenn?”

“I’d start by quitting my job. Take some time to figure out what I want to do with my life.”

“What’s wrong with your life?” Mitch felt like he was on a cell phone with bad reception, his questions coming a second too late, the rhythm all wrong. There were undercurrents of meaning that he didn’t understand, agendas he wasn’t privy to.

“How about you, Mitch? What would you do?”

“What is this? What are you talking about?”

Ian cracked his knuckles one at a time. Alex kept his eyes steady, a challenge.

Fifty thousand. Did that mean something? Why would they be talking about-

“Are you kidding me?” His voice came out higher than he meant. “Fifty thousand. You saw a couple hundred in the safe. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That split four ways. You’re talking about robbing the bar.”

Alex shook his head. “Not the bar. Johnny.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You know the difference.”

“You’re joking, right?” He looked from one to the other.

“No,” Jenn said. “No, we’re not.”

“I figured out a way to do it,” Alex said. “It’s safe.”

Mitch had a gentle buzz softening the edges of things, making him a little slower than he’d like. “You’ve been planning this? The three of you?”

“We weren’t keeping it from you. I just talked to Jenn last night. Ian this morning.”

“If you talked to her last night and him this morning, how exactly is that not keeping it from me?”

Alex leaned forward. “Listen, before you react, will you hear me out?”

Mitch stared, flushing from the wine and the old junior-high feeling of being an outsider, of everybody looking and pointing. He leaned back, set his napkin on the plate. Finally, he nodded.

“It was really your idea.”

“My idea?”

“You got me thinking the right way. I talked about quitting and taking the money, and you said it would be better to do it while I was working, so it wasn’t obvious.”

“I was kidding.”

“Still, you were right. But just being there isn’t enough. There has to be absolutely no way it can come back on us. If I’m at the bar, I’m a suspect like everybody else.”

Mitch rocked his chair back. Finally said, “OK. Against my better judgment.”

“We don’t do it any old night I’m working. We do it Tuesday. The night Johnny is doing his deal. The night I’m working as his bodyguard,” Alex said. “In other words, don’t just rob Johnny Love. Rob him while I’m protecting him. And rob me, too.”

“I get it. If we tie you up right next to him-”

“Maybe even hit you,” Ian interjected.

“Then it looks like outside people, thieves, heard about the deal.”

“You’re warm.”

Mitch paused, then got it. “Better. It looks to Johnny like the guys he was dealing with decided to rip him off. And the same in reverse.”

“Those books you read are paying off,” Alex said. “Exactly. The timing is tight, but it’s worth it.”

“Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re not criminals.”

The big man’s smile widened a notch. “Exactly.”

“Huh?”

Ian said, “That’s just it. We’re not criminals. We’re normal people. No one, not the cops, not Johnny, no one would look at us. It’s like if four people robbed a liquor store down the street. Would you start by checking to see if a trader, a travel agent, a doorman, and a bartender were involved?”

“And you know the best thing?” Alex leaned back. “You’ll like this part. Two days later we show up calm as anything, like normal. Just four folks who meet on Thursdays.”

Despite himself, Mitch laughed. “Only the drinks are on Johnny.”

“For a long time.”

They fell silent. An almost physical tension hung over the table. From the speakers, a voice serenaded that nothing mattered when they were dancing, whether in Paris or in Lansing. Lights flickered on in a room in the opposite building. “How would we-how do we-”

“Simple. You and Ian come in the back. I’ll make sure it’s unlocked. The kitchen staff leaves it that way all the time anyway. You wear masks, come in hard and fast, guns out-”

“Guns?”

“And cow us both. Ian, you’re right-it would look better if you hit me. I’ll make a move to stop you, one of you club me. Tie us up, take the money, head out the back. Jenn will be waiting in the car. Poof.”

“And you?”

“Eventually someone will come and untie us. Johnny will be pissed, but he won’t call the cops. He won’t want them digging around. And since there’s nothing to connect us, it doesn’t really matter how he goes about getting his revenge.”

“And life just goes on.”

“Easy as breathing.” Alex sipped his wine. “See any flaws?”

“Not offhand.”

“Me either.” Alex said. “It’s not the kind of thing any of us would normally do, but that’s part of what’s so brilliant about it.”

“And you’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

“So what, you want me to say right now, sure, let’s rob your boss?”

“I know it’s scary. But the meeting is the day after tomorrow, and we go then or not at all. And I can’t do it alone. So, yeah, right now, all of us. In or out.” Alex paused, then said, “Ian?”

“In.”

“Jenn?”

She smiled slightly, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “Me too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she said. “He who risks nothing has nothing, right?”

“How about it, Mitch?” Alex spoke gently. “Want to screw Johnny Love?”

He looked around the table, at Ian’s fingers piano-tapping on the table, Jenn with the corner of her lip drawn in, Alex waiting. Then he said, quietly, “No.”

Alex seemed surprised. Smug fucker. No wonder there had been a weirdness to the air all night. They’d all been waiting to run through the formality of roping in good old Mitch. “No,” he said again. “This is stupid.”

“Why?”

“Because… because, man. What do you mean, why? This isn’t one of our games.”

“Treat it like one.”

He shook his head. “I’m not doing it, and I’m not going to sit here and let you try and convince me.” He said the words without thinking, and they fell heavy. There was a moment of silence, and then really only one thing to do. He stood slowly, pushing his chair back as the others watched. The music kept playing, the carefree notes weirdly incongruous to the situation.

Alex said, “OK. I understand.”

“Good.”

“Can you do us one favor?”

“What?”

“Just keep quiet about it, OK?”

“You’re doing it anyway?”

The three of them looked at one another, and one by one, nodded. That feeling of being an outsider bit deeper. All along he’d thought they were a team. Now the others were going ahead without him. The thought was almost enough to make him sit back down, but his pride burned. “Fine.”

Alex looked at Jenn. “We’re going to need you inside.”

She nodded. “What about the car?”

“We’ll leave it out back, doors unlocked, keys in. Whoever gets in first drives. It’s riskier, and we won’t have a lookout, but that’s the way it is.”

Mitch stared, unbelieving. They were so calm, so matter-of-fact. The plan sounded good, but what plan didn’t? To actually do it, go in waving guns? Not only that, but for Jenn to be right in the thick of it…

They’re playing you, said a voice in his head. Alex is, at least. He’s counting on your feelings for her.

So what? asked another voice. She’ll still be there.

He opened his mouth, realized he had nothing to say. Just stood, palms sweating, watching his friends walk away from him.

“We’ll need masks,” Jenn said. “And gloves.”

“Yeah.” Alex paused, looked up at him. “Look, Mitch, don’t take it the wrong way, but maybe it would be better if you didn’t hear this.”

It was all messed up. Somehow the whole world had turned upside down.

And suppose they pulled it off? Would the four of them ever go back to being what they had been? He’d have drawn a line, stepped away. He could see it, a slow-motion tease of the future. For a while they would still get together on Thursday nights. But the brunches, the dinners, the hanging out, one occasion at a time they would “forget” to invite him. He’d never be able to get with Jenn, tell her how he felt, not after this. Once again Alex would look like the hero, tall and muscular and decisive.

He thought back to that pudgy asshole laughing at him. Holding up his ring, talking about how much his shirt cost. One more person certain he could put Mitch in his place.

“It’s OK.” Jenn gave him a shallow smile. “Really.”

He stared at her. Had a weird feeling he’d only gotten once or twice in his life, the sense that he was facing a clear fork in the road. Go left, go right, either way, never stand here again. Either enroll in community college or else take the job his uncle had lined up for him as a doorman; good money in tips, just something to do for a little while. Watch ten years pass in a blink.

“We’ll need clothes,” he said. “Not our own. We should get them at a thrift store, so they’re used. And shoes too.”

“Mitch?” Alex raised an eyebrow.

“Different sizes than we wear. Double up socks, or jam our feet into them. Also used. That way they’ll have different wear patterns.”

“Wear patterns?”

“The marks on the bottom. If we leave footprints, they won’t match our shoes either in size or marking.”

Jenn was staring at him, something happening to her smile. Depth and warmth filling in what had been a façade. Depth and warmth and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of admiration.

He pulled out his chair and sat back down.

“You sure about this?” Alex spoke quietly. “If you’re in, you’re in. No backing out.”

“Fuck you.” Saying it, he felt cool, strong. He stared the bigger man down. Alex leaned back, raised his hands.

“OK,” Ian said. “What else?” He had the same sparkle in his eyes as when he’d talked about playing blackjack, splitting nines all night.

“A lot of little details,” Alex said. “And one big one. We need guns.”

“No other way?” Jenn asked. “What about knives?”

“No. The point is to scare him silly and act fast. He’s not going to be scared of a couple of guys with steak knives. Not for the kind of money we’re talking.” He paused. “What about those replicas that shoot pellets? They look real. There’s even a law they need to have a big orange tip because cops were shooting kids. We could buy a couple, paint the front part…” Alex trailed off.

“What about a gun fair? They still have those in the South, don’t they?” Jenn looked around. “We could take a road trip.”

The discussion was so ludicrous that Mitch almost laughed. All that tough talk, all for nothing. Some criminals they were. Now that they came to the hard facts, it was obvious that they couldn’t handle it. He relaxed, knowing the whole thing was about to be scrapped.

Then Ian spoke quietly.

“I can take care of the guns.”

CHAPTER 8

YEAH BABY YEAH. It was on.

Ian had that magic tingle, the edge-of-life feeling, when for a second he could almost see past the world and into the machinery that ran it: the man behind the curtain, the gears that powered the watch, the silicone that made the model. Perfect how things had worked out. Just when life was getting a little too serious, wham, out of nowhere, this impossible opportunity. With a simple night’s work, he’d be even. More than.

“Here is fine,” he said to the cabbie and passed a twenty forward.

“Here” was a Milwaukee Avenue corner too far south to be fashionable, a bleak stretch of shops with Spanish signs in the window offering financing no matter the credit. Tucked between a Popeye’s Chicken and a payday loan place was a depressingly well lit bar. Half a dozen patrons sat in silence, ogling the back wall, where six-packs and fifths were available for purchase at liquor store prices. None of them even turned when Ian stepped in.

He glanced at the bartender, nodded, then walked through the back door and into a narrow vestibule. A security camera pointed from the corner, and he gave a two-fingered salute. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a buzz sounded from the steel-reinforced door in front of him, and he opened it and stepped through.

The room on the other side was done up with a simple elegance designed to seem luxurious and yet not so comfortable it invited lingering. No seating, a humidor but no ashtray, a side bar with glasses but no ice.

“Ian.” The girl behind the desk managed to make it sound like three syllables, a slow purr. She uncrossed and recrossed million-dollar legs. “Back so soon?”

“Business this time.” He winked at her. “The big man in?”

“Let me check.” She picked up a headset, held it to her ear, then pressed a button. “Ian Verdon is here to see Mr. Katz.” After a moment, she said, “No problem.” She cut the connection, then hit Ian with her hundred-watt smile. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, D.”

“Want me to pull some chips for when you come down?”

“Nah. Not today.” He started for the stairs, readying his pitch. Katz would resist at first. He’d remind Ian of his debt, maybe play the tough guy to save face. But in the end, he’d go for it. Why wouldn’t he? A simple business proposition.

There was another door with another security camera at the top of the stairs, and again he waited. This time, when it opened, it wasn’t a swimsuit model on the other side, but a neckless black man, wings of muscles straining from shoulders to skull.

“Terry. How you doing?”

“My man Ian.” The man smiled, held a hand up, and Ian clasped it, slid the fingers to lock, then pulled away with a snap. “How’s it goin’, dog?”

“Life is beautiful. You?”

“Can’t complain, baby. Can’t complain.” Terry gestured him forward.

The room at the top of the stairs was everything the one below was not. Leather couches flanked a glass coffee table with an open bottle of Gran Duque and a marble ashtray. The air was rich with the smell of good tobacco. Four flat-screens mounted side by side showed horse races and a baseball game. He could curl up and spend the rest of his life here.

The man in the center of the far couch had thinning hair and a newspaper in his lap, a faded Navy anchor on one thick forearm and watery dark eyes. “Ian.”

“Mr. Katz. Thank you for seeing me.” Ian set his briefcase down, then sat and crossed his legs. “Any surprises this morning?” He hooked a thumb at the televisions.

“One or two,” Katz said. “You.”

His palms went slippery, but he held himself still. Show respect, but not fear. “I’ve fallen behind.”

“It’s out of hand.”

“I know. I appreciate your patience.”

Katz nodded. “How’s the eye?”

“It’ll heal.”

“You understand my position.”

“Of course. You were doing what you had to.”

“I like you, Ian. You’re a good customer. But you play recklessly. You bet too much, and at the wrong time. Normally, someone gets as deep as you, it would not be just an eye.”

“That’s what I’m here about.”

“Good. Good.” Katz picked up his cigar and took a long puff, then blew expert rings. “A man should pay his debts.”

“I agree.”

“The case is for me?”

“What?” Ian looked at it, then back up. “No, I’m sorry. You misunderstood.” Katz’s eyes narrowed, and Ian spoke quickly. “I mean, I will pay you. That’s what I’m here about. But I don’t have the money yet.”

“No?”

“Not yet. But I’m going to get it.”

“When?”

“Very soon. The day after tomorrow.”

“How much?”

“All of it.”

Katz nodded warily.

“The thing is, I need a favor first. It’s a small thing. In order to get your money, I need something from you.”

“You want me to loan you more money for gambling, no? Hoping to win back what you owe?”

“No. No, sir. I know better than that.”

“A lot of foolish people think they can.” Katz rolled his cigar between his fingers. “So, then, this favor.”

“I have a way to get the money. But I need”-Ian paused-“I need weapons.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Guns. Two or three of them. I can return them with the money,” he said, feeling foolish the moment the words were out of his mouth. The blast he’d taken before he arrived was wearing thin, his invulnerability fading. He hurried on, tongue thick in his mouth. “I mean, if you want them. They won’t have been used. Fired, I mean. But I need them to get the money from someone.”

Katz stared at him, the old Jew’s face expressionless. He never played cards in any game Ian had heard of, but he had a hell of a poker face. Katz leaned forward and set his cigar in the ashtray.

Suddenly, Ian felt something behind him, a force like a moving brick wall. An arm shot around his neck, and he just had time to say, “Terry, Jesus-,” before he was yanked upward, the muscles tightening around his neck, his air cut off as he was dragged backward halfway off the couch. His hands flew to the bodyguard’s unwavering arm. His legs kicked as he fought for breath, eyes bugging.

Katz rose from the other couch. Normally a study in slowness, now the man moved in a blur. His hands went to Ian’s shirt, fingers sliding inside the fabric. He yanked open the oxford, buttons flying to bounce on the glass table.

Ian tried to speak, couldn’t get a word out, not a breath. Spots shimmered in the corners of his eyes. Katz moved to Ian’s belt, fingers deftly undoing it, then tearing the catch of his pants and zipper. His trousers slid down his legs. Katz took hold of his underwear and jerked it down. Without any squeamishness or hesitation, he reached out to cup Ian’s testicles, his fingers dry and cool as he lifted them, felt behind.

After a moment, he stepped back. “Who sent you?”

The arm around his neck loosened a notch, and Ian gasped, sucking air into his lungs. He coughed, the shudders razors in his throat. “Wh-what?”

“Who sent you? Not the police. Who?”

“No one! No one sent me. I swear to God.” His body was shaking. His hands fought for purchase against the slab of granite encircling his neck. “What is this? Terry, let me go, what are you-”

“You come to me asking for guns. Why?”

“I need them to get your money. That’s all, that’s the only reason.”

Katz stared at him. He turned, picked up his cigar, sucked in, the cherry glowing bright red. When he replied, his words were smoke. “You think I’m a fool.”

“No! Jesus, no.” Ian felt a flushing warmth in his belly, realized he was about to piss himself, barely shut it down. What had happened, how was he in this position, hanging half-naked from the arm of a bodyguard? “I just need the guns to get what I owe you.”

“How?”

“There’s a guy I know. He has a lot of money, cash, in a safe.” He knew he shouldn’t say anything about the job, but the look on the old man’s face… “I’m going to get it from him.”

“You’re going to rob him.”

“Yes.”

“You.” Katz snorted. “A degenerate, a drug addict in a suit. Who will be frightened of you?”

“It’s… I won’t be alone. My friends and I, we have a plan. I’ll get your money, all of it. I swear.”

Katz stepped forward. “These friends. Do they have the money you need?”

Ian stared. For a second, he almost lied, anything to get free, get out of here. But where would that lead? “No.”

“But they’ll help you.”

“Yes.”

“You know how much you owe?” Katz put one finger to his temple, tapped it. “More than thirty thousand dollars. You know what I do to people who owe that kind of money and cannot pay?”

“Yes.”

Katz laughed. “No. You think you do, but you don’t.” He stepped forward. Put his right hand close to Ian’s chest. The heat from the cigar a hairsbreadth away felt nice for a fraction of a second, then quickly began to burn. He wanted to struggle, but any motion might push his bare flesh against that glowing ember. He felt tears in his eyes.

“Mr. Katz, sir, I will pay you every cent I owe. I swear I will. I swear.” He locked his eyes forward, the heat against his chest a living thing, so close, like it wanted to burrow into him.

“You have good friends,” Katz said, “to help you this way.” He moved his hand, the cigar tracing a burning line down Ian’s belly. “Especially since you’re not such a good friend. You know why? Because your friends, now they are part of your debt. You are not the only one who owes now.”

“No, I…”

“Shh.” Katz slid his hand down farther. The glowing ember of the cigar was a half-inch from his balls. Ian whimpered and squirmed.

“You know what happens now?”

“Please. Please. No.”

Katz smiled. “No?”

“Please.”

“If I give you what you ask, what then?”

“I’ll get the money. I’ll bring it straight here. I swear to God.”

“You’ll run.”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, your friends…”

“I understand.”

“And if you get caught with these guns?”

“I will never say your name. No matter what.”

The man put his left hand against Ian’s cheek. Slapped it softly twice, like a favorite uncle. “Good. That’s good.” Then his right hand shot forward. The searing tip of the cigar bit into a testicle.

The pain was shocking, unbearable in its suddenness. A terrible smell of scorched hair rose. Ian screamed and jerked, helpless as the ember burned deeper.

Then the cigar was gone, and Katz turned away. “He is OK now, I think.”

The arm around his neck vanished, and Ian collapsed onto the couch. His hands went immediately to his crotch. He stared downward. The burn was the size of a quarter, the skin peeled and furious with ash and blood. He wanted to break down and cry, to call for his mother, to just vanish.

“Terrence. Three pistols for our friend. Make sure they’re clean.”

Ian gasped for breath, his hands shaking. “Mr. Katz, I swear-”

“Enough swearing. We understand each other now. Right?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good.” The man ground the cigar in the ashtray. “My money. All of it. By Wednesday. Or”-he shrugged-“for you and your friends.” Katz bent, picked up Ian’s briefcase. He popped the latches, then Terry set something metal inside. Katz shut the case and held it out.

With trembling hands, Ian reached for the handle. He rose slowly. His pants were pooled at his feet, and he bent to haul them upward. The motion sent fireworks of pain up his spine.

“Now. Go.”

Ian left.

The stairs were a blur, nothing but a hint of color. He held his pants closed with one hand, the case in the other. At the base of the stairs, the woman behind the desk said something that he didn’t hear. He pushed past her to the vestibule and the bar. No one glanced up as he half staggered, half ran out the door into bright summer sunlight.

On the sidewalk, he looked in all directions, wild-eyed. A Hispanic couple stared.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Get control!

He set down the case. The catch to his pants was broken, but his belt was still in the loops. He fastened it with fumbling hands. Pulled his shirt closed and tucked it in raggedly. Ian took a step, then the world went spinny. He grasped at the metal rim of a trash can and leaned over, acid in his throat, his mouth a desert. He fought for breath, struggling to keep from vomiting, shirt torn open, pain twisting through his belly.

No one seemed to notice.

CHAPTER 9

THERE WAS ENOUGH SPACE between the oncoming traffic and the double-parked cab to drive an eighteen-wheeler, but the jerk in the Lexus laid on his horn anyway, creeping past at two miles per. Why was it, Jenn wondered, that the people with the nic est cars were the worst drivers? Was it that they fetishized them and were afraid of any little ding? Or were they people who didn’t feel all that safe to begin with, and figured an expensive car protected them somehow?

Whatever. She hadn’t owned a car in years, and liked it fine.

She crossed mid-block, heading east. In high school, she and her friends used to come here, Clark and Belmont, to visit the head shops and thrift stores, play at being punks in the Alley. Back then Mohawks didn’t draw a second glance, and most everyone had a biker jacket. Now it was expensive boutiques, the old army surplus rebuilt into a multistory chrome thing that belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. Nice enough, but she missed the grimy feel the area used to have. Not truly dangerous, but fit for a little wild-side walking.

Speaking of…

The thought ambushed her again. Ever since Alex had showed up at her door, full of arguments and plans, every so often the reality of what they were doing would yank the world out from under her. She’d be going through her day, talking on the phone, helping a couple plan their honeymoon, sunlight through the front windows, everything normal, and then-wham!-all of a sudden she’d remember that tomorrow night she was going to be wearing a mask and holding a gun.

And each time it happened, a delicious shiver ran up her spine.

It was scary, sure. But in that good way. Sometimes she didn’t want a guy to be gentle, to touch her softly and whisper in her ear. Sometimes she wanted him to shove her face-first on the mattress and slide into her hard, to have one hand yanking her hips back and the other twisted in her hair, to do it rough and fierce and primal, without all the gloss. To drive the bed across the floor and knock the books off the shelves. Maybe not the most feminist desire, but there it was.

The thrift shop was hipster heaven, complete with retro furniture, silly gifts-who actually wanted a Jesus action figure?-and punked-out counter staff, each posing harder than the last. She checked her purse with a girl sporting a twice-pierced lip, got a laminated picture of Chuck Norris in return, and moved to the racks of clothes.

After the dinner party, Alex had asked if she wanted to come up, and she’d almost said yes. The whole adventure had her charged, and while he was a good lover to begin with, under the circumstances, it would have been something else entirely. But in the end, she’d mumbled an excuse about needing sleep. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him; she did, on one or two levels. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. It was like she’d been sleepwalking the last years. Now that she’d been slapped awake, she didn’t intend to let that feeling go.

Jenn picked through the racks, looking for simple, dark clothing, unremarkable, settling on faded jeans and a couple of work shirts, the stitching worn. The shoe selection was limited, but it was easier buying footwear that purposefully wasn’t supposed to fit.

Mitch had surprised her that night, coming up with good ideas, practical points they hadn’t thought of. Not only that, but he’d pushed back against Alex, told him to fuck off. She wasn’t one of those women turned on by chest beating, but it was good to see him stand up for himself.

Of course, he’s doing this for you.

Not true, she argued with herself. Well, maybe a little bit true, but it wasn’t like she had asked him to, had batted her eyes or put on a simpering voice. She’d even told him it was all right if he didn’t want to go along, and she’d meant it.

Still.

Well, OK, so what? Certainly was a contrast to what she’d grown accustomed to, the emotional distance so many men cultivated. Alex was a good guy, but he’d gone out of his way to make sure they stayed a secret. It was kind of nice to have someone not just wanting her, but also doing something for her. Risking himself. Another feminist paradox-the last thing she was after was a man who didn’t respect her strength, but what woman didn’t secretly relish knowing a guy would stand up if called on?

Enough. First things first. Once they were done with Johnny Love, once life had settled into a new version of normal, there would be plenty of time to think about Alex and Mitch. Or not. Meanwhile, she had to find a place that sold ski masks in the middle of summer.

The tingle hit again. She smiled.

THE YMCA SPEAKERS were playing dance crap, but Alex had headphones on the Hold Steady singing how some nights the painkillers made the pain even worse. He leaned back on the bench, hands behind to catch the bar. He pressed it firm and smooth off the cradle and started his third set, the grip rough against his hands, timing each move to his breath, down slow, up smooth, no wavering or wobbling. The first ten were easy, the second ten a strain. He thought of the phone call from Trish, of her new husband moving to Arizona. And what was he supposed to do? Hang out here in a shitty apartment? Move to the desert, trailing after his ex-wife and her new husband like a puppy? Give up his daughter?

No. Lift. Goddamn. Lower. Way. Lift.

Working out calmed him, burned off the stress. He was in the mood to hit it hard, tear all his muscles and wake up with that good, deep ache, but tomorrow night was too important to be slow or hurting. He limited himself to another half hour, then showered and walked home through summer streets.

“Alex.”

The voice came from the darkness behind him, and he spun, the gym bag slipping from his shoulder. Squinted. “Mitch?”

The man stepped away from the tree he’d been leaning against. “We need to talk.”

“Jesus, you scared me.” He bent for the bag. “Come on up.”

“No.” There was something unfamiliar in his tone. “I’m not staying. You and me, we have to clear something up. I know what you’ve been doing.”

“Huh?”

“With Jenn.”

Shit. He thought they’d been careful, had kept it from everyone. Not that it mattered, exactly, but it had just seemed simpler to not make an issue of it. Jenn might fool herself, but he could see the size of the torch Mitch carried. The kid went all fifth-grade anytime she blinked.

Still, why bring it up now? Unless… double shit. If Mitch knew about him and Jenn, he might back out of tomorrow night. If he did, the others might too. The whole thing could fall apart. “Listen-”

“No, you listen. I know you think you’re the big man, our fearless leader, but that’s bullshit. And I’m tired of you treating me like I don’t exist.”

“What are you-”

“Using her to get me involved. You knew that I wouldn’t let her go in there with just Ian to protect her, and you used that.”

“Mitch-”

“Admit it.”

Alex sighed. “Yeah.”

“That ends now. All of it. Trying to tell me what’s what, that there’s no changing my mind, that everything runs the way you want. Johnny Love may be your boss, but you aren’t mine, or hers.” Mitch stepped closer, his face hollowed out by the streetlight above. “You think you’re such hot shit? You’re a bartender, Alex. A bartender who can’t pay child support.”

Confusion was turning to anger. “Watch it.”

“Or what? You’ll kick my ass? This isn’t middle school. I’m smarter than you. And you need me tomorrow, and afterward.”

“Look, ease up. I didn’t mean any harm. I just needed your help, man.”

“Yeah, well, I’m tired of being ignored, man. Tired of you thinking you’re better than all of us. I’m going tomorrow night. But I’m not doing it for you, and I’m not doing it because you manipulated me. I’m doing it for me. And yeah, because I’m worried about Jenn. Something you ought to be as well.”

“I am.”

“Bullshit. You’re only thinking of yourself.”

“I’m doing this for my daughter.”

“She’s not my daughter.”

Alex took a deep breath. He had the strongest urge to tell Mitch where to cram the tough-guy act. But he couldn’t risk it. Everything depended on tomorrow night. “Is that it?”

“One more thing. You ever try to play me like that again, you ever lie to me, and we’re through. At very least.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that if you want to be my friend, start acting like one. Or I’ll start acting like we’re not.” With that, Mitch turned and walked away, a quick, nervous step.

Alex watched him go. Part of him wanted to run after the guy, apologize, remind him that they were buddies, that he was sorry if he’d been a dick. Another part wanted to tell Mitch about the noises Jenn made just before she came, the way she mashed her eyes shut and made soft, quick moans that barely left her throat. See how the guy liked that.

Get through this first. Then we’ll see what’s left to say.

Alex shouldered his bag, turned, and walked up the steps to his empty apartment.

THE CONDO WAS COLD, the AC cranked all the way. Ian sat on the couch in just a pair of briefs, a bag of frozen peas between his legs. The flat-screen was on HBO, some monster movie, a screaming heroine running down a long dark hallway. With the volume muted, it seemed almost existentially horrifying, the way her lips opened soundlessly as she stumbled and fell before getting up to stagger forward again.

Ian leaned forward, picked up the mirror, held it to his nose, sucked in a long rail of white, and then another in the same nostril. His left had started bleeding earlier, and he had a Kleenex twisted into it, the end hanging out like a tail. He wiped the bitter coke residue on gums gone numb, then set the mirror on the coffee table. Beside it, three pistols lay in a neat line, the metal gleaming dull.

Outside the windows, the city burned.

CHAPTER 10

“JESUS. You look amazing.”

Jenn smiled, gave a little curtsy, one thin arm holding the edge of her skirt. “Like a Bond girl?”

“Like all of them,” Mitch said. “Rolled into one.” The words came unplanned, and he had a sudden fear that they were the wrong ones. But her smile widened.

“Let’s get to it,” Alex said from behind her. “I have to be at work soon.”

Mitch followed them into the living room. Ian’s condo was spotless as ever, something out of a magazine, except for the table in the center of the room, where masks and gloves were piled alongside a brown paper bag.

“Mitch,” Ian said. He wore baggy black jeans, a bowling shirt, and brown work boots. “Thanks for suggesting the outfits. I look like an idiot.”

“You do not,” Jenn said. “You should wear real-people clothes more often.”

“Suits are real-people clothes.” Ian gestured at the table. “Yours are there. You can change in the bedroom.”

“Hold on,” Alex said. “Let’s see the rest of it.”

Ian walked to the table, picked up the bag, and held it out. For a moment, everyone stood still. Then Jenn stepped forward, reached in, and pulled out a chrome revolver. She looked hypnotized, the gun in her palm, fingers not quite wrapping around the grip.

“It’s heavy,” she said.

Mitch stared at her. The dress she wore was designed at the intersection of elegance and sensuality, something he imagined a two-thousand-dollar-a-night call girl might wear, strappy to show off bare shoulders and cut to mid-thigh. With the gun in her hand and the intense look on her face, she was the single sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

“It’s loaded,” Ian said. “So be careful.”

“Where did you get them?”

“A guy I know.” Ian looked away.

“What kind of guy?”

“Does it matter?”

“OK,” Alex said. “Jenn bought gloves and masks for all three of you. We went over everything the other night. No need to do it again, right?”

“Actually, I was thinking,” Ian said. “The timing. Why don’t we just go into the office and be waiting when Johnny comes in?”

“No,” Mitch and Alex said in unison. They looked at each other, a little smile playing on Alex’s lips. He nodded a go-ahead gesture.

“No. Johnny might go into the office alone. You and I have to come in when he and Alex are both there. That’s the whole point. Plus, if we’re waiting, the safe will be locked.”

“So? We know the combo.”

“But how would we? It will get Johnny wondering. We can’t afford that.”

Jenn said, “How do we know that Johnny won’t wait for these guys, whoever they are, to come in the front door of the restaurant, and then all of you head back together?”

Alex shook his head. “Not his style. Remember, he wants to be the big man. He’ll wait back there. A king on his throne, granting an audience.”

“You sure?”

“Trust me.”

“If you’re wrong-”

“If Alex is wrong, we won’t do it,” Mitch said. “The point is that there isn’t much risk. None of us are going to be stupid about it. Right?”

Ian’s eyes darted back and forth. “Wait a second. We have to do this.”

“Why?”

Ian wiped at his nose with one shaking hand. “Well. Yeah, you’re right.”

Shit. Of course. Mitch stared at him, said, “You OK?”

“What? Sure. I’m just, you know, excited.”

“Look, we do this right, it’s simple,” Alex said. “No danger to anybody.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“What?”

“Well, you’re not the one robbing the place, are you?”

“I’m in this just as much as you.”

“Sure. We’re carrying pistols, you’re filling pitchers.”

“Fuck you, man.” Alex stared hard and level. Mitch made himself stare back. It felt good.

“Guys,” Jenn said. “Stop. We’re in this together.”

Alex turned. Mitch blew a breath. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I better go.” The bartender bent, pulled his jacket from the arm of a chair. “I’ll see you soon.” He walked to the door, pulled it open, then stopped, turned back. “Good luck.”

Mitch started to say something sharp, then caught himself. Why was he coming on so hard? They were friends, the best he had. It was just the stress of the thing. “You too, buddy.”

Alex smiled, nodded, then stepped out. The door swung closed behind him. For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Jenn closed her fingers around the grip of the pistol, extended her arm, and sighted down the barrel at the city.

“Bang,” she whispered.

THE RENTAL WAS A FOUR-DOOR CHEVY that smelled new. It was also a bright metallic orange. “Subtle,” Mitch said.

Ian shrugged. “What they had.”

“I like it,” Jenn said. She opened the passenger door and slid in, tucking her skirt beneath her legs. Ian started the car and pulled out of his parking garage, fingers tapping a manic beat on the steering wheel. Nerves, she supposed. She knew she had them. Last night, laying in bed, she’d been socked with a tidal wave of fear. Miles from the pleasant shivers she’d been riding, this was pure, animal panic. She’d grabbed at the phone on the bedside table, started to punch numbers, to call the others and cancel.

It took all her will to hang up the phone, get out of bed, and walk into the bathroom to splash water on her face. And when she did, the woman in the mirror looked unfamiliar. She had the same cheeks, the same eyes and lips, but there was something different. She looked tired. Beat down. Someone who had never seized the chances life offered.

That won’t be me. I won’t let it.

So she’d forced herself back to bed and spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling. And in the morning, the face in the mirror was just a face. But the nervousness remained.

In silence, they drove north, battling the after-work migration from the Loop to the neighborhoods. With traffic, it took almost half an hour to make it to the restaurant. Ian pulled to a stop and put on the blinkers. He was piano wire and static electricity.

Jenn sat with her purse in her lap. Her heart pounded fast and hard. She felt awake, slapped by life.

“It’s not too late,” Mitch said from the back. For a moment, she wanted to collapse, to thank him. To climb gingerly back down the steps of the high dive and tell herself it didn’t matter.

Instead, she reached for the door handle. Stepped out, heels clicking on the concrete. Mitch got out as well. His expression was complicated, concern and fear and something else. “I’ll be OK,” she said.

“Anything happens, anything at all… just be careful, OK?”

His concern touched her. He and Ian had the riskiest part of the plan, and yet here he was, worried about her. She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. He smelled like aftershave. She felt his arms tense, and then his hands slid around her back, fingers warm on her skin. For a moment they held it, then she moved back, not sure if she was embarrassed or not. “For luck.”

He nodded, said nothing.

You’re a Bond girl. You’re a heartbreaker with a pistol in your purse. She forced a smile, then turned and walked toward the door.

IAN HAD TRIED TO HOLD OFF. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew he was doing too much of the stuff. But about twenty minutes before the others came over, he gave in and chopped up four lines. Just a little pick-me-up to sharpen his edge.When this was done, he’d ease off. Maybe quit entirely.

“When do you think they’ll get here?” Mitch sounded nervous.

“Probably after dark?”

“They’re meeting inside. What does it matter if it’s dark?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that when criminals do things?” Ian leaned forward, clicked on the stereo, then spun through his iPod. “You in the mood for anything?”

“Am I in the mood for anything?”

“Music.”

Mitch stared at him, shook his head. “Jesus.”

Neutral Milk Hotel it was, then. A little bit discordant with a lotta genius running through. Ian didn’t have the first idea what the singer was talking about, but he liked it anyway, liked the way it wove against his thoughts.

“How much did you do?”

“Huh?”

“How much cocaine, Ian?”

“You want some?”

“No.”

“Then mind your own business.” He tapped his fingers against the wheel, sang along, “The only girl I ever loved, was born with roses in her eyes, but then they buried her alive…” The light turned green, and he went right. They were swinging in wide blocks, circling the place every couple of minutes. “Anyway, relax, would you? This is going to be easy.”

“Easy. Sure.”

“I’ll bet you ten grand it goes fine.”

“I don’t have ten grand.”

Ian smiled. “You don’t have it yet.”

ALEX THREW HIMSELF INTO WORK. Most bars, Tuesday night was quiet, but the restaurant did enough business that they got plenty of overflow, yuppie happy hour, Internet daters who started with a drink before deciding if the other was cute enough to buy dinner. He filled the ice bins and wiped the back bar, replaced a couple of bottles that were running low.

“Hey, stranger.” Jenn flowed into a chair. She looked better than good.

“You want a drink?”

“I probably shouldn’t.”

“One won’t kill you.” He reached for a shaker, poured vodka, splashed vermouth.

She looked around, then leaned on her hand. Whispered, “Is he here?”

“Talk normal. Yeah, he’s in the back.”

“He say anything?”

“He fired a cook, then said that it was getting harder and harder to find good wetbacks.”

“What a peach.”

Alex shook her drink hard. Too many people thought you were just supposed to mix it, but the whole point of a martini was to shake till the ice cracked into tiny slivers. After a minute, he poured it into a glass, skewered a couple of olives, set them on top. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said, and smiled. She reached into her purse, pulled out a cell phone. “So I programmed the message for the boys in advance. One line. It took, like, five minutes. Is it just me, or is texting the stupidest form of human communication ever invented?”

“I think that’s MySpace.” He poured himself a shot of vodka, clinked glasses with her, tapped his against the bar, and then threw it back. A group of twentysomethings in shiny shirts came in, talking loudly, and he went to serve them. As he poured their drinks and made their change, he could barely hear the noise of the bar over the contrary thoughts jumbling in his mind, skidding and colliding like cars out of control.

He wanted to call the night off. He wanted the night to go forward, but for it to be over. He wanted to be twenty again, he and Trish and Cassie still together, a family, the future open and bright. He wanted to pull Jenn off the stool and take her in the back and yank the straps of that dress off her shoulders. He wanted a cigarette.

None of that matters. Only Cassie matters. This is just one more thing you have to do for her.

“Goddamn. There is such a thing as angels.” The voice pulled him from his trance. Johnny Love looked Mafia chic in an orange shirt with a paisley silk tie, his hair slicked back. He leaned on the bar next to Jenn like he owned the world.

“Johnny,” she said and smiled. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too, sweetheart. Here for that dinner?”

“Not tonight. I just came to see Alex, have a drink.”

“You know, you’re breaking my heart.”

“You look like a big boy.” She brushed her hair behind her shoulder. “You can take it.”

Johnny laughed, gestured to her glass. “You’re empty.”

“That’s OK-”

“Nonsense. Can’t let a woman like you go thirsty.” He turned to Alex. “Make her another, huh? Grey Goose, on me. Then let’s go back to my office.”

The muscles of Alex’s shoulders locked tight, and something soft traced the inside of his thighs. He fought the urge to look at Jenn. “Sure.”

Johnny said, “Forgive me, gorgeous, I got work to do. But stick around. Maybe we can have a drink together later.”

Alex picked up the shaker, his fingers numb on the metal. He didn’t hear the rest of what Johnny said to Jenn, didn’t hear her responses. He focused on the cocktails. Hers was easy, but his-one part shit-scared, two parts resolved, a twist of a prayer, knock it hard and bang it back-that one was tough.

He set the martini down, then followed Johnny to the back room. At the door, he risked a glance over his shoulder. Their eyes locked as she reached for the cell phone.

Point of no return.

HE KNEW IT WAS PROBABLY NOTHING, but Mitch couldn’t help but think of the way Jenn had kissed him. They hugged all the time, and she threw in a cheek kiss often enough. Just a friendly gesture. But this time, something had felt different. When he’d put his arms around her, he hadn’t been hugging her like a friend. And she hadn’t seemed to mind. Had, in fact, seemed to lean into it a little bit.

And that wasn’t all. Ever since that night at Ian’s, when he’d spoken up, took control, he’d felt strange in a good sort of way. Like something inside him was breaking loose. Standing up to Alex, the thing with Jenn, it was part of the same process. All of it tied to this thing they were doing, this crazy chance. Four normal people who had never won deciding to storm the casino. Could life really be that simple?

The phone in his pocket vibrated and he jumped like he’d been stung. He pulled it out and keyed the button to read the text.

time to go good luck boys

The philosophical mood vanished like smoke. Jesus Christ. They were really doing this. He stared at the screen, blinking.

“What?” Ian looked over with wide eyes. “What is it?”

Mitch could hear his pulse rage in his ears, feel his face begin to flush. This was going to go wrong. He knew it, felt it.

“Are we going?”

It had been a game until this second, but playtime was over. His lungs felt like they had a leak.

“Mitch?”

“Yes,” he said. “We’re going.”

Ian spun the car in a U-turn. A guy in a pickup heading the opposite way laid on his horn. Ian gave him the finger.

“Easy.”

“I’m easy.”

Mitch took a deep breath, then another. Get it together. She’s depending on you. They all are.

He opened the glove box, took out a pair of driving gloves. His fingers were sticky, and he had to fight to get them on. He set the mask in his lap, the black cotton staring up at him like a Hallow een ghoul. Outside the windows, twilight was giving way to purple dusk, about as dark as the city ever really got. A group of teenagers hung on a corner, chatting and laughing, and for a stabbing second he envied them.

Envying teenagers? Now you know you’re scared.

The thought made him smile inside, just for a second, but it helped.

They passed the restaurant. At the corner, they turned left, then left again into a narrow alley behind the building. Ian drove thirty yards to nose the car up to a rusting steel Dumpster, then killed the engine. The music died with it, leaving only the sounds of their breathing.

“Is this really happening?” Ian’s face was pale.

Mitch rubbed at his temples with gloved fingers. Huffed a breath in, one out. Then he straightened, passed a mask and gloves to Ian. “Here.”

“Are we-”

“It’s too late now.” Mitch looked over. “Just keep it together.” He opened the door and stepped out. The alley smelled faintly of rotten milk. The summer air was humid. He rapped on the trunk, waited as Ian fumbled for the release.

The brown paper bag holding the two remaining pistols looked harmless. Mundane. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Latin music played faintly, tinny like it was coming through a cheap radio. He unrolled the top of the bag and took out one of the guns, a black automatic. He started to tuck it behind his belt, then froze. Pulled it back out, staring down at the unfamiliar metal in his hand.

And flipped the safety off.

As Mitch closed the trunk, through the rear window he saw Ian hold his hand to his nose. He wasn’t-goddamn it, he was. He yanked the driver’s-side door open. “Give me that.”

“What? No-”

Mitch snatched the amber vial from his friend’s hands. He wound up and threw it overhand down the length of the alley. It landed with a soft plink.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re a moron, you know that?”

“Jesus, relax.” Ian stared up at him, one eye still swollen half-shut. “I needed to be on my game.”

“You’re stoned out of your gourd already.”

“I’m not. I just had a moment of panic, that’s all.” He stepped out of the car. “Give me my gun.”

“Leave the keys.”

“What?”

“The keys. Leave them in the ignition. Remember?”

“Right.” Ian bent back to insert them, then closed his door. They stared at each other, the ticking of the engine mingling with the distant music and the muffled sound of laughter. Mitch felt like he had stepped behind the world, like the world was a stage set and he’d wandered into the wings.

Does that make it the beginning of something? Or the end?

“Listen to me,” he said, and got in close to Ian’s face. Anger gave him strength, and the strength felt good. He tapped into it again, the new-and-improved Mitch. “You get your shit together right now. We’re depending on you, Ian. All of us.”

The man stared back at him, something flickering in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

This is crazy. What are you doing? Just get back in the car. If you don’t go in, he won’t, and if he doesn’t, nothing happens.

Right, a different voice in his head replied. Nothing happens. Is that what you want?

“Put your mask on,” he said and handed Ian the second pistol.

“ALL RIGHT, KID.” Johnny Love unlocked the door to the office. “Now, like I said, this is going to be child’s play.” He flipped off the overheads, then turned on a green banker’s lamp. Dropping the keys on the desk, he surveyed the room, then adjusted the visitor’s chair to its lowest point and raised his to the highest. “You got a shirt on under that one?”

“What?” Alex touched his white oxford. “Yeah.”

“Good. Take off the button-down. You’re supposed to look like muscle, not a parking attendant.”

His hands tingled and his arms felt heavy, like he’d ripped a serious set at the gym. He started to undo the buttons, then remembered the part he had to play. “Mr. Loverin, listen, you know I-”

“Enough. I told you, this is nothing. You’re a showpiece.” Johnny sat, cracked his knuckles.

A showpiece. We’ll show you something, asshole. Alex undid the rest of the buttons, pulled the shirt off, wadded it up, and tossed it in the drawer of the file cabinet.

“Good. Those tats are good. You look tough.” His back was to Alex as he spun the dials of the safe. “Now, tonight is business. What kind of business, you don’t need to know. Point is, the guy coming in isn’t going to try anything.” The safe swung open. He hauled out a heavy black duffel bag and set it beside the desk.

“So what-I mean, what do I-”

“Jesus, kid, ain’t you ever seen a movie?” Johnny sighed. “He gets here, you open the door. You don’t need to say anything. In fact, don’t. You’re mute. Just look mean. I’ll say, you know, it’s OK, he’s a friend. Then you come around back here and stand behind me. We’ll talk a little bit, do a little business. You stand there and think about something else. When we’re done, I’ll give you a couple of hundreds, you can take that daughter of yours out, buy her something nice.”

“What if he-”

“Just do what I tell you, OK?”

Alex shrugged. “All right.”

“Attaboy.” Johnny put his feet up on the desk. “So, what do you think? The Cubs got it this year?”

CHAPTER 11

THEY MOVED DOWN THE ALLEY side by side. Adrenaline throbbed in Mitch’s blood; fear, yeah, but excitement, too, and something almost like hilarity. This afternoon he’d stood around in a monogrammed jacket saying yessir, thank you, sir, and now here he was about to steal a couple hundred thousand dollars.

The door was metal, scarred with rust and years. A sign below the address read DELIVERIES ONLY. Mitch reached for the handle, palms wet inside the gloves.

It was unlocked, just like Alex had promised. Inside, fluores cents lit the room surgically bright. Steel wire shelves held kegs and hoses, boxes of supplies. There were two doors, one a swinging wood thing that would lead into the bar proper, the other a cheap hollow-core. The latter should be the door to the office.

His shoes were two sizes too big, and the extra socks he wore to compensate made the heat worse. Ian already had his mask on, and Mitch pulled his from his pocket, slid it over his head. The cotton was warm and itchy against his skin. He took a careful step toward the office, then another. He could hear a voice through it, faint, saying, “Bullshit. They aren’t never going to make it happen so long as they play in Wrigley. No incentive, you know? Stadium sells out whether they win or not-”

Johnny Love. What an asshole.

Mitch pulled his gun from behind his back. Holding it made him feel better. Power seemed to flow from it like a totem. He put a hand on the knob.

For a second, he could almost hear Jenn’s voice: He who risks nothing, has nothing, right?

Time to test that theory.

THE DOOR FLEW OPEN HARD, banged against the wall. Even knowing it was coming, it startled Alex, and he spun to see two men in dark clothes and masks, both with guns out and up.

“Don’t either of you fucking move!” Mitch’s voice, but not. He sounded like he did this all the time, his voice firm but not so loud it would bring people from the other room.

“What the-,” Johnny said.

“Shut the fuck up, fat man.” Mitch locked the gun on Johnny.

Ian moved to the other side, closer to Alex. Their eyes met.

Here goes nothing. Alex cocked his hand back, stepped forward, leveling a hook. Ian saw him coming, moved in, right hand flying back and then forward in a blur, the gun butt coming at his face-shit, the gun-

White stars burst behind his eyes. His head jerked sideways, and he felt his brain bounce in his skull. Everything went slippy. Sick agony raced through his body. He staggered, tried to get a hand out to catch himself on the edge of the file cabinet, missed. He felt air against him, and then he hit the floor. Primal instinct pulled him fetal, hands up to his face. Through a haze, he heard Johnny say something, then Mitch again, saying, “I told you not to move.”

JENN WALKED DOWN THE BLOCK, blood singing in her veins. It was happening, it was really happening. She tried to picture it, Mitch and Ian in ski masks, Johnny on the floor, all that money. It was hard to force herself to walk slow and natural, even put a little sway in her hips. There were people on the street, and it was important not to do anything that might seem strange.

She rounded the corner, then glanced at her watch: 9:41. If the boys had gone in as soon as they got the text message, and assuming there wasn’t any problem-which there wouldn’t be, couldn’t be-they’d be back out in a few minutes. All she had to do was get the car started and be waiting for them. Her purse felt heavy, the weight of the pistol in it, and knowing it was there heightened the thrill.

The rental car was parked in shadows, and she couldn’t see inside. It was possible that they had lost their nerve, that they were waiting for her. And if they were? Would she tell them to go inside? Or would she do as Mitch had, and try to let them off the hook?

She didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. Ten feet from the car she could see that it was empty. She walked to the driver’s side, her body alive and raw.

Something crunched behind her. She looked over her shoulder. A car was pulling into the alley.

Her thoughts scattered like marbles. There was a split second when she could have ducked out of sight, but then the headlights were on her, dazzling. Her mouth went dry and she had a childish urge to turn and sprint. The car was big, and rattled as it pulled in behind the rental.

Shit. Behind the rental. They were blocked in.

Be cool. You have to be cool. Who was it? The cops? An employee? The guys Johnny was meeting with?

It didn’t matter. Moment of decision-get in the rental and ignore whoever it was, or make a stand? What would she do if she had nothing to hide?

She turned and stepped forward, one hand shielding her eyes, the other up in a half-greeting. The car was a beat-up whale of a Cadillac. The door opened, a figure stepping out, leaving the engine running and the headlights in her eyes. A man, medium build. Alone. She swallowed, said, “Hey, you’re parking me in.”

The figure stepped to one side, and she got a better look at him. A pasty guy, thin, with black hair gelled into a pompadour. He wore an expensive-looking motorcycle jacket and had a hand tucked in his back pocket. He stared at her for a moment, eyes trailing up and down her body. A new fear joined the ones she already had, that fear no woman ever got too far from, especially alone in a dark alley, wearing a dress.

“What are you doing back here?”

His tone scared her a little, but she forced herself to cock her head, said, “Excuse me?”

“Dressed pretty nice to be hanging out by the Dumpster.”

The humidity in the air seemed to be clinging to her. Something about the guy reminded her of biting into metal.

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend,” she said.

“Your boyfriend.” The man shuffled forward, glanced in the rental car. “He work here?”

“Yes.” She stepped back, nothing too obvious, but not wanting him closer. Who was this guy? Not a cop. He could honestly be looking for a place to park. But he’d left the Cadillac running. Besides, wouldn’t a normal person just have apologized, moved his car?

Unless he was hitting on her. A ridiculous possibility in a dark alley, but you never knew with guys.

“What’s his name?”

“Whose?”

“Your boyfriend.”

She thought about saying Alex, or Johnny, or making one up. But then she remembered what she would do under normal circumstances. “None of your business.” She put a hand on one hip. “Look, how about you move you car so I can get out?”

“I thought you were waiting for your boyfriend.”

“I mean, maybe you could park somewhere else?”

“I got a better idea,” he said, and stepped forward.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE,” Mitch said, and leveled the gun right at Johnny’s head. His heart was slamming against his ribs. Alex was on the ground, moaning, blood between his fingers. How hard had Ian clocked him?

There wasn’t time to worry about it. “Put your hands on the desk. Do it now.”

Johnny stared at him. “Do you know what you’re doing, kid?”

Very consciously, Mitch slid a thumb up and cocked the hammer back. Johnny’s eyes went wide, and for a moment, Mitch had a terrible urge to pull the trigger, to feel the thing kick against his hand. “Now.”

Slowly, Johnny raised his hands and put them on the pressed-wood desk. “All we have is the money from today. Take it and get out of here.”

“Tape him.”

Ian didn’t move, just stood over Alex, staring down.

“Hey! Tape him.”

“What? Right.” Ian slid the gun into his waistband, pulled a flattened half roll of duct tape from his back pocket.

“You move, you make any trouble for my friend, and I’ll shoot you right now. You get me?”

“You’re making a mistake, kid. You know who I am?”

“Yeah. You’re the guy getting fucked.” He was every bad guy in every movie ever made, and it felt great. He stepped sideways to keep a clear shot as Ian moved around the desk.

“Put your hands together.” Ian pulled an edge of tape up, then began wrapping it around Johnny’s wrists.

“Make it tight.” Mitch waited till Ian had four or five loops around Johnny’s hands, then let his eyes dart around the office. A small space, maybe eight by ten, with a cheap desk, a couple of chairs, some filing cabinets. A swimsuit calendar on the wall, a Budweiser mirror. There was a big black duffel bag beside the desk.

“Kid, you’re about to be in shit you have no idea how deep. Walk out of here now and we’ll just forget this happened.”

“When you’re done with his hands, get his mouth.”

Ian nodded, wrapped the tape another half dozen times, then ripped it. “Sit back and shut up.”

Think, think, think. You cannot afford to miss anything. The safe was on the wall, closed. The money had better be in that bag, or else it was going to get complicated. He’d check in a minute. Alex moaned, said, “My eye, you fuck!” Mitch ignored him, stepped forward, yanked the phone cord out of the wall. Johnny was glaring as Ian wrapped loops of tape around his head. He wasn’t a threat anymore. Mitch uncocked the gun, carefully, then slid it behind his back. He took the tape from his own pocket, kneeled by Alex.

“Put your hands out.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Put your hands out.” He tugged at them, wishing he could ask Alex if he was OK, whisper some comfort, knowing he couldn’t do any such thing. Alex resisted at first, then gave in. His face was a mess, a gash pouring blood into his eye. Mitch winced, then forced himself to tape Alex up, hands and feet, then tore a six-inch strip and covered his mouth, hating himself for it, not seeing any choice.

When he rose, he saw that Ian had Johnny secured. So far so good. He strode over to the side of the desk, picked up the bag. It was heavy. He unzipped it, stared inside.

So this was what winning looked like.

Johnny started bucking, making noise against the tape. Mitch grabbed him by the shoulders, shoved him out of the chair. He landed heavy, the chair skittering away to hit the back wall.

“First, we’re not here for today’s take. Second, don’t disrespect the Cubs.” Mitch leaned over him. The guy glared at him from the ground.

Remember last week, asshole? When you told me how much your shirt cost? He smiled, then pulled his leg back and kicked Johnny in the gut, hard. Air blew out his nostrils, and his face went red.

It felt great.

“I GOT A BETTER IDEA,” the man in the leather jacket said as he stepped forward. “How about you tell me what you’re really doing here?”

Jenn’s pulse ran frantic. This wasn’t just some random creep. Not under these circumstances, not with that hair, that car. And especially not the way he was acting. There was only one explanation that made sense. This was the drug dealer Johnny was buying from.

Which changed everything. Their plan had been based on the idea that Mitch and Ian would be able to get in and out quickly enough that the dealer wouldn’t have arrived. That’s why she’d sat inside to let them know the exact moment Johnny went to the office. Add to that the fact that they hadn’t guessed he would come to the back, and it had seemed an acceptable risk.

Less acceptable now, though. “What do you mean?”

“Are you with Johnny?” He took a step forward, and she retreated. She bumped the edge of the Dumpster, the metal cool and greasy against her bare arm. Shit.

She could dash for the mouth of the alley. But heels were hardly running shoes. Besides, she’d be abandoning the guys. Getting away wasn’t enough. Somehow she had to get him out of here.

How, though? She had the gun in her purse, but he was so close…

“Come on. What’s going on?” His breath was faintly sour.

And then it came to her. A way to make any man move, random creep or hardened drug dealer.

“If you don’t leave right now,” she said, “I’ll scream rape.”

He stiffened. “Why would you do that?”

She took a deep inhale, opened her mouth. Stared him straight in the eye, watched him calculate how long and loud she could scream, how many people might be around to hear it. It was dark but not late, and Lincoln had plenty of traffic, plus the apartments nearby…

“OK.” He put his hands up. “OK.” He took a step backward. “Easy.”

“Keep going.” She moved away from the Dumpster, the purse in her hands.

“There’s no need to get crazy.”

“Just move your car and leave me alone.”

He grimaced, and glanced over his shoulder. Checked his watch. “Let me make a phone call.”

“Now.”

The man sighed. “You win.” He took another step back.

He had just pulled out his keys when the back door to the restaurant swung open.

IAN WAS FIGHTING THE URGE to bounce on his toes, to howl at the moon. They’d done it, they’d really done it. Johnny Love was on the floor, taped and gasping from Mitch’s kick. The duffel bag was on the desk, more than enough in it, even split four ways, to cover what he owed Katz. He was back on top. “We good?”

“Yeah.” Mitch stepped back from Johnny, looked around the office. Took keys from the desk, then hoisted the duffel bag to his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Ian led the way back out of the office, the gun still in his hand. He liked it. Maybe when this was all over, he’d get one of his own. It felt good.

The back room was just as they’d left it, too bright and packed with crap. Mitch closed the door to the office, then stopped to fiddle with the key ring. He tried a handful until one turned.

“That’s cold, man.”

“Just being thorough,” Mitch said. “Nice work.”

“You too.” They stood in masks, grinning at each other like kids.

“All right. Let’s get out of here.” Ian pushed open the back door and stepped out.

Into the glare of headlights. What the-

“Fuck!” A man’s voice.

Everything slowed into crystalline cocaine clarity. Ian saw Mitch freeze behind him, one hand still on the door, the bag over his shoulder. The orange rental car parked twenty feet away. Beside it, two figures, one of them Jenn, her hands going to her mouth. The other a guy, in silhouette. He was moving, keys falling from his hand as it swept behind his back, holy shit, coming back with a gun. Ian stared, his mouth open, as the man slid into a target shooter’s pose, feet apart.

Then the thought hit. You have a gun too.

He started to raise his pistol.

“Don’t.” The man’s voice was high, unsteady. “You,” he said over his shoulder. “Lady. Don’t move.”

You can do this. This guy has three targets. He’s nervous. He’s not ready. You are.

“You two! Drop your guns!” The man in the leather jacket swung jerkily from person to person.

All you have to do is wait for him to turn again.

“Oh God,” Jenn said.

It was coming down fast, but he was faster, he could feel it. Just like playing cards, there came a moment when someone’s bluff looked so good that you wanted to fold. The mark of a real player was the strength to see past that fear.

The man said to Jenn, “Move over by them.”

His attention on her.

Mitch yelled, “Ian, don’t-”

He let his body take over, lowering to a crouch as he brought his pistol up. The man swung back to him. Ian stared down the barrel, finger moving for the trigger.

JESUS BUT HIS HEAD HURT.

Alex’s temples pounded and throbbed. His vision was blurry, one eye closed, sweat and blood on his face. Through his good eye he saw Mitch’s and Ian’s feet walk past, saw the door close. There was the sound of keys.

Why had Ian hit him that hard? All they needed was to show Johnny that he was clean, not lose an eye in the process.

Relax. You’re in pain, not thinking straight. The worst that happened is maybe he cracked a bone in your cheek. You’re probably fine. He forced his breathing to slow.

Near him, Johnny wriggled, trying to worm his way to a sitting position. Alex thought he ought to do the same, but even the idea of moving was enough to send fresh agony sheeting through him.

It’s over. At least it’s over. Other than the hit to your head, everything went fine. The pain will fade. What you did here will change your life. Cassie won’t move. You’ll have enough money to figure out what you want to do. Quit bartending, maybe go back to school.

It’s over.

Then, muffled by the walls, he heard yelling, and a gunshot.