‘Yeah, I was saving up to buy a yacht with my tips, but that dream died.’
‘The clock is right,’ said Ryan. ‘We should go.’
‘Yeah, yeah, all right. Jesus, you’re like an old woman.’
There was more laughter from the couple behind them, louder this time. Dempsey looked back at them over his shoulder. The laughter was silenced, but it was followed by a soft giggle from the woman as the man said something to her. Dempsey took one of the cigarettes from the pack and stuck it between his lips but didn’t light it.
‘You know them?’ he asked the bartender.
‘No,’ said the bartender. ‘But then I don’t know you either.’
‘You need to be more selective with your clientele.’
‘It’s all natural selection here.’
‘Yeah? Well, you’re about to see Darwinism in action.’
Dempsey was on the guy before Ryan could even react. By the time Ryan reached the table, Dempsey had his forearm jammed under the preppie’s chin, and his knee in the guy’s balls, the whole weight of Dempsey trying to force him through the wall.
‘Did you say something about me?’ said Dempsey. ‘Well, did you?’
Some of his spittle landed on the man’s face, which was rapidly turning a deep red. The guy tried to shake his head, but he could barely move it. A choking noise forced itself from his lips. The woman beside him reached out as if to pull Dempsey’s arm away. He turned his head toward her and said, ‘Don’t.’
‘Please,’ said the woman.
‘Please what?’ said Dempsey.
‘Please leave him alone.’
‘You’re not laughing now, are you, you horse-faced bitch?’ said Dempsey. ‘Answer me. Answer me!’
‘No, I’m not laughing.’
As if to confirm the fact, she began to cry. Carefully, Ryan touched Dempsey on the shoulder.
‘Come on, let it go. We’re done here.’
Slowly, Dempsey released his hold on the man.
‘Go back to fucking Cambridge where you belong,’ he said. ‘If I ever see you again, I’ll rape her and make you watch.’
Dempsey rose and backed away. He was breathing hard. His victim was so shaken that he hadn’t moved. That was the way with the weak ones: If you were on them fast, and shocked them enough, you didn’t need to cause them any real harm.
The bartender watched Dempsey carefully. He hadn’t made any effort to stop what was taking place, but that was because he’d seen it all before, and was prepared to let events take something of their course before intervening. Still, he didn’t look impressed. They wouldn’t be welcome here again, not that they had any plans to return.
Dempsey tossed a twenty on the bar.
‘Toward your yacht,’ he told the bartender.
‘I’ll name it after you,’ said the bartender. ‘Do you spell “Asshole” with one s or two?’
‘You can spell it with one s. That way, we’ll know it’s yours when we set fire to it.’
He picked up his pack of cigarettes and dropped them in his jacket pocket.
‘Come on then,’ he said to Ryan. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
7
The house was unexceptional in every way, just one more anodyne suburban box in a street composed of identical suburban boxes outside Bedford, each with its car in the drive, and the flicker of TV screens in front rooms. There were Halloween decorations in place: tombstones, and scarecrows, and pumpkins that had begun to rot, drawing the last of the night insects. Ryan felt the weight of beer pressing on his bladder. He could have gone to men’s room at the Wanderer if it hadn’t been for Dempsey and his actions. Now here Dempsey was again, cursing the existences of people he didn’t even know, as though the quality of his own life was worth more than the change from a nickel.
‘Look at all this shit on the lawns,’ said Dempsey, as he parked the car. ‘How many of these people really have children of their own, you think?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t think there’s something wrong with lonely old men putting out Halloween crap to attract children?’
‘No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong—’ Ryan began to say, then caught himself before he went any further. It didn’t seem wise to suggest that there was anything okay about using Halloween decorations to attract children, because that raised the specter of why one might be trying to attract them to begin with. He tried again. ‘You’re making it sound bad when it isn’t. It’s not like that. It’s just people getting into the spirit of the season, like at Christmas.’
‘Don’t get me started on Christmas either,’ said Dempsey.
‘You know, you’re a miserable bastard.’
‘And you’re too trusting. It’ll be the death of you.’
Dempsey checked his gun, which prevented him from seeing the look that Ryan sent his way. Had he glimpsed it, he might have reappraised his relationship with the younger man. Instead, it was lost to him. When he surfaced, Ryan’s forehead was furrowed only by the slightest of lines.
‘We’re just supposed to talk to him,’ he said.
‘We are going to talk to him. We just want to make sure we have his full attention when we do. And when did you get so sensitive?’
‘He’s not a tough guy. I’ve met him.’
‘You want to try an experiment? Here’s an experiment. Close your eyes.’
Ryan didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t want to. He didn’t like being around Dempsey with his eyes closed. He was coming to the conclusion that he didn’t like being around Dempsey even with his eyes wide open.
‘Why should I close my eyes?’
‘It’s just a thing. Come on, do it.’
Ryan closed his eyes, and waited. Five seconds went by before Dempsey said, ‘Okay, open them again.’
When Ryan did so, the muzzle of the gun was an inch away from his face, and although a part of him had been expecting something of the kind, the shock was still enough to cause his sphincter to loosen in response, and he had to tense it to bring it under control before he shamed himself.
‘You see?’ said Dempsey. ‘Tough guy or not, that hole commands attention.’
Ryan swallowed. He didn’t speak until he was sure there was enough moisture in his mouth and throat.
‘Are you finished?’ he said.
‘I’m just kidding with you,’ said Dempsey as he lowered the gun. ‘You really are too sensitive.’
Ryan shook his head. He wanted to take deep breaths. He wanted to put his head against the cool window and wait for the waves of dread to stop pulsing through him. He wanted to stop running and hiding. He had started to believe that the fear of what might come was worse than the thing itself.
‘Don’t shake your head at me,’ said Dempsey. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Hey, I’m sorry, all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Come on, don’t be like that.’
‘You almost made me piss myself.’
Dempsey smothered a grin. ‘My bad.’
‘It was all that beer you made me drink.’
‘All that one bottle?’
‘Beer just goes through me. I don’t know what it is about it. Maybe I got an allergy.’
Dempsey stepped from the car, the gun now hidden in the folds of his coat, and Ryan followed. There was nobody around, and no cars moved along the street. Ryan was a little happier being this far from Boston. The last job like this had been in Everett, which had originally been part of Charlestown way back, and even its historical connections to their old stomping ground had made him sweat. If they showed their faces in Charlestown proper, they’d be dead before the nearest lights changed.
They walked up the short drive to the front door, Dempsey taking in the untended lawn and the weeds in the flower beds as they went.
‘That’s a disgrace,’ he said.
‘It’ll be winter soon,’ said Ryan. ‘Weeds will die. Lawn won’t grow. What does it matter
?’
‘It’s an indication of a state of mind. You take care of all of your affairs or you take care of none of them. That’s how he’s in this trouble to begin with.’
‘Because he didn’t mow his lawn?’
‘Yeah, because he didn’t mow his lawn. What is it with you tonight?’ Dempsey rang the doorbell, but his attention was fixed on his partner.
‘There’s a game on. I’d prefer to be watching it.’
‘Yeah, well there’s a game on here too. This is what pays your bills. You need to step up to the plate here. You don’t pay attention, you make mistakes.’
‘He drives a gypsy cab. What’s he gonna do, overcharge us?’
A shadow appeared behind the frosted glass, giving Dempsey just enough time to raise a finger in warning before the door opened a crack and a woman’s face appeared. Ryan could see that she had the security chain in place, but it looked loose to him; that, and the fact she had answered the door after dark, meant that her husband probably wasn’t home yet. Now Dempsey would have something else to complain about, since it was Ryan who had hustled them from the bar to begin with.
‘Mrs. Napier?’ said Dempsey.
The woman nodded. She looked tired and badly worn, just like her clothes, although Ryan thought that she might clean up well. The little that he could see of her body seemed trim.
‘We’re looking for your husband,’ said Dempsey.
‘He’s at work,’ she said.
Ryan watched her trying to gauge the situation. It was after eight, there were two strangers at the door, and they now knew that the man of the house wasn’t around. She had two choices: number one, to claim that there was someone else there with her, or—
She went for number two.
‘I’m expecting him back soon, though. I can give him a message, if you like.’
‘We’d prefer to wait and give it to him ourselves, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Dempsey.
Mrs. Napier’s mouth opened and closed. Ryan could see her getting worried. Maybe she knew about her husband’s work on the side, or perhaps she’d just guessed when the cash began to flow more freely. He wondered if she was the kind to ask questions. If she was, then her husband wasn’t the kind to answer them. He’d always struck Ryan as sullen and taciturn, and his wife didn’t have the face of a woman who was being smothered in spousal affection. Whatever she knew or suspected, it was enough to connect their arrival on her doorstep with any doubts she might have about the state of her husband’s affairs. Ryan liked to think that he could blend in with a crowd and look like a regular guy, but Dempsey carried the smell of the streets with him. At best, they could expect her to call and warn him. At best.
‘Well, I’m not sure when he’ll be home.’
‘Soon,’ said Dempsey. ‘You told us he’d be back soon.’
‘That changes. I never know. He drives a cab. If he’s having a good night, then sometimes he stays out late.’
‘It’s quiet all over tonight,’ said Dempsey. ‘I don’t figure this for a late one.’
‘Obviously you’re free to wait in your car,’ said Mrs. Napier. ‘It’s cold. I’m going to close the door now.’
She tried to follow through, but Dempsey’s foot was in the gap. Ryan watched the pallor seep into her face.
‘Please take your foot away,’ she said.
‘We’d like to wait inside,’ said Dempsey. ‘Like you say, it’s cold out.’
‘If you don’t remove your foot, I’ll call the police.’
‘That settles it, then,’ said Dempsey. His hand shot through the gap and grabbed Mrs. Napier by the hair, pulling her face toward him until it was sandwiched by the door and the frame. He let her see the gun.
‘Take the chain off.’
‘Please—’
Now he pressed the muzzle hard against her forehead. ‘I won’t ask again.’
‘I can’t take it off without closing the door.’
‘You don’t have to close it all the way.’
‘I have to close it a little.’
‘That’s okay. Give me your left hand.’
She hesitated. Dempsey pressed the gun harder against skull. She yelped in pain.
‘Easy,’ said Ryan instinctively, and Dempsey bared his teeth at him in warning.
‘Give me your hand,’ he repeated.
She did as she was told. Her wrist was very thin, and as brittle as the skeleton of a bird. Dempsey turned her hand so that her fingers were flat against the frame of the door. He handed the gun to Ryan, then slipped a knife from his pocket. He flicked the sharp blade and pressed it hard beneath the top knuckles of Mrs. Napier’s fingers. Seconds later, blood began to flow.
‘If you screw around, I’ll cut off the tips of your fingers,’ said Dempsey. ‘Close the door against your hand and lose the chain.’
Slowly, she closed the door. They heard her fumbling with the chain.
‘It still won’t open,’ she said. She had started to sob.
‘Try harder.’
She pushed against the door, trying to close the gap a little more. The pressure on her fingers made the blood flow faster.
‘It hurts,’ she said.
‘And you can make it stop,’ said Dempsey. He was getting anxious. The street had been empty until now, but Ryan could see the figure of a man approaching from the east, walking his dog before bedtime.
The chain came free. The door opened.
They stepped inside.
‘Nice. Your husband buy this?’
Dempsey was standing by a flat-screen TV, the kind that was so large you had to pivot your head to take in the whole picture. It looked as if it had only recently come out of its packaging. Beneath it was a Blu-ray player, a cable box, and an amplifier for the home theater system. It was a neat set-up, spoiled only by the clothes drying on a rack by the radiator behind the TV.
Mrs. Napier nodded. She was still pale, and shaking with shock. Ryan had found a clean cloth in the kitchen and had given it to her so that she could bind her wounded hand. The blade hadn’t required much pressure on it to break the skin, and there was a lot of blood soaking through the material.
‘New? It looks new.’
Mrs. Napier found her voice. ‘It’s pretty new.’
‘Driving a cab must be more lucrative than I thought,’ said Dempsey. ‘If I’d known just how much money could be made on it, I’d be driving one myself. How about it: You think we should go into the cab business?’
Ryan didn’t reply. He thought Mrs. Napier might be about to vomit. The first floor of the house was an open plan, with only a decorative arch separating the kitchen from the living area. Ryan moved toward the sink.
‘Where are you going?’
‘She’s in shock. I’m going to get some water for her.’
Dempsey looked at Mrs. Napier.
‘Are you in shock?’
She didn’t reply for a moment, then said, ‘I don’t know. I feel nauseous.’
‘Shock it is, then,’ said Dempsey.
There were cups on the draining board. Ryan filled one with water and brought it back to Mrs. Napier. She took the cup, but didn’t say thank you. Ryan wasn’t exactly waiting for her to do so, but still, it would have been polite.
‘Why are you shocked, though?’ asked Dempsey. ‘Are you shocked because you’re hurt? Are you shocked because we’re here? Or are you shocked because your cab driver husband seems to be able to afford Donald Trump’s own home theater?’
Mrs. Napier sipped her water and kept her eyes down.
‘What’s your name?’ said Dempsey.
‘Helen.’
‘So, Helen, your husband been buying anything else that we should know about? You had a new dress lately? Maybe you’re eating out in nicer places? You can tell us. We’d like to know.’
‘Just the TV.’
‘Just the TV?’ Dempsey laughed. He moved to the bookshelves, which were sparsely populated with books – a couple of paperback novels, a book on
home finance, and a set of encyclopedias so old that they probably still contained pictures of airplanes with propellers – but had a whole shelf devoted to new Blu-ray discs, most of them still in their plastic wrapping. He checked out the titles, running his fingers along the spines, then stepped into the kitchen, examining the white goods, opening drawers. When he was done, he told Ryan to keep an eye on the woman while he went upstairs. Soon they heard closet doors slamming, and the tinkling of glass as something small and delicate broke. Helen Napier tried to get up, but Ryan put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her back into the chair.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No you’re not.’
She was trying not to cry, and she succeeded. The sight reminded Ryan uncomfortably of the woman back at the Wanderer. It didn’t make him feel good about himself.
When Dempsey came back downstairs, he had a shoebox in his hand. He squatted before Mrs. Napier and showed her the contents. The bills were neatly stacked and bound: twenties only. Ryan guessed there were probably two or three grand in the box.
‘You don’t trust the banks?’ said Dempsey.
‘I don’t know what that is,’ said Mrs. Napier, and Ryan believed her.
‘It’s money, that’s what it is.’
‘I didn’t know it was up there.’
‘Husband keeping secrets from you? That’s bad. Once the lies start, it’s the death of a marriage.’ He leaned in so that his face was close to Mrs. Napier’s. ‘You want to know how it got there? I’ll tell you. Your husband doesn’t just drop passengers at their destinations. He picks up and drops off packages too. He’s a regular courier service for protection money, cocaine, marijuana, maybe a little heroin. He’s not a dealer, but he works for the dealer. Our problem is that your husband now maybe fancies himself as a little bit of a dealer after all, an independent operator. Just a little bit.’ Dempsey placed a thumb and forefinger close together. ‘Teeny-tiny. With that in mind, he’s been skimming from the product: enough to earn himself some extra cash, and irritate the people who were paying for the full weight, not most of the weight, because if they’d wanted cornstarch and talcum powder they’d have gone to Walmart. So that means we have to talk to him and find out how much he’s taken, and how much he’s made, and reach an agreement about restitution. See?’