Cash Burn

  Jason had an urge to run. But they would be on him before he could make it to the door or get back into the car. When they moved into the garage, the space seemed to close down on him.

  The tall one had to bend his neck to fit under the door opening. The Hispanic stepped ahead.

  A carjacking. It happened all the time in the city. They followed a car until it parked and got to the driver while the key was still in his hand. Home invasions started like this sometimes too.

  He realized he was still standing between the open door of his car and the chassis. The key was in his hand. Nowhere to go. “What do you want?”

  They stared at him. The tall guy in back looked at him as if measuring him for a coffin. It was a crowd between the Mercedes and the BMW, this gap never as small as it was now. He was hemmed in.

  He could hit the panic button on his key. It would sound the car alarm. But car alarms in the city had no impact. All it would do was bring Serena out. And that was the last thing he wanted.

  The Hispanic guy in front spoke up. “You got a brother Flip?”

  Not carjackers. Not home invaders. Jason shifted his feet and he put a hand on the top of the open door. Finally a breath would come.

  “What about it?”

  The guy who had spoken moved closer. Jason could count the pockmarks on his face. “He’s got something belongs to our boss.”

  Jason took a step forward so the door would clear his back. He reached back and slammed it. “Well, I don’t know where he is. My advice is to check the jails around town. That’s where I usually hear from him.”

  “Maybe we should look around inside.” He had so many pockmarks he looked like somebody had taken a hat pin to his face. “Could be you got him visiting and you don’t know it. You been out all night.”

  “Visiting? He doesn’t visit. Tell you what. Why don’t you give me your number? He shows up, you’ll be the first guys I call.”

  “I think he’s getting smart with us.”

  Jason looked past Pock-Face to the tall guy. He hadn’t said a word. The bruises on his face weren’t fresh, but the cast on his arm was bright white. “Did Flip do all that to you?”

  He kept quiet. Maybe his jaw was wired shut.

  Pock-Face said, “What he’s got, we need to get back. You understand? You get it for us, it would be better for him. You let us know. We come and get it from you, and he doesn’t get hurt.”

  Jason smiled. They didn’t know Flip. “Sure. I’ll let you know. Just give me your number.”

  The tall one had something in his hand. Jason craned his neck around to see. It was a blade. He held it against the BMW’s fender. He began to scrape it.

  “Hey!”

  Pock-Face shoved a hand against Jason’s chest.

  The garage rang with the screech of metal scraping metal.

  “Stop. Stop!”

  The tall guy brought the knife away from the fender and spoke for the first time. “Just giving you my number. You want me to write it somewhere else?”

  Pock-Face shoved Jason farther into the garage. “Maybe we write it someplace handier.” He took his own knife out and folded the blade out from the handle. The blade was shiny as a mirror. “Maybe I carve it in your face.”

  Jason held his hands out. “I’ll remember.”

  “I think you’ll forget.” Pock-Face kept coming.

  “No, I’ll remember. I have a good memory. Good with numbers. Really good.”

  The grin on that pocked face mocked his fear. “You sure? ’Cause I could help you remember.” He kept shining the light from the garage door opener off the blade and into Jason’s eyes.

  The tall guy was carving into the fender again, a straight line now as he approached the hood, coming in Jason’s direction.

  “Come on, man,” Jason said.

  The tall guy brought his eyes up. “You shouldn’t worry so much about your car. Hey, maybe we could get your lady to help you remember. She’s been home all night while you been out.”

  Pock-Face kept grinning, reflecting the light into Jason’s eyes. “Yeah, let’s go see the pretty lady. She’ll help you remember. Otherwise you’ll forget.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  The tall guy gashed the paint so deep he made a spark. “Five-five-five,” he said. “You listening?”

  “Yeah. Five-five-five.” It was all Jason could get out. His breath was failing him.

  “Five-two-zero-seven. Say it.”

  Jason squinted against the flash of the light off Pock-Face’s blade. He repeated the digits.

  “I don’t know,” Pock-Face said. “I still think he’s going to forget the numbers. Forget to call. Let’s go see the pretty lady.”

  “No. I’ll remember. Five-five-five, five-two-oh-seven. I got it.”

  “You got it?”

  Jason nodded. “Believe me. I’d like to get rid of him myself. You’d be doing me a favor.” He repeated the number again.

  “You’re not going to try to protect your brother? I still think we should see the pretty lady.”

  “No. I got it. I won’t try to protect him.”

  “’Cause we got to get what belongs to our boss. Understand?”

  Jason was beginning to feel like a bobble-head, he was nodding so much. “I understand. I do. You don’t have to talk to her.”

  “It ain’t talking to her I want.” Pock-Face let his words hang in the garage. To Jason it seemed that they stared at each other for five minutes before the blade folded away against Pock-Face’s leg. He dropped the knife into his hip pocket, held his thumb by his ear and his pinky by his lips, and mouthed the words, “Call me.” He winked and turned away.

  41

  Jason stood with his back to the door leading into his house. The garage he and Serena had cluttered up over the years felt empty without the menace of the thugs looking for Phil.

  A hand went to his face. They had talked about carving numbers in his skin. And Serena. It occurred to him that they’d been here all night, with Serena home alone. Pock-Face had called her the pretty lady. They’d gotten a look at her.

  They might have done more than get a look.

  He tried the door to the house. Locked. They never locked it. This was the only door they kept unlocked. They had the big garage door to keep people out.

  The key was still under the mat. It rattled to the slot but missed the grooves, jamming. He yanked it out, tried again and got it lined up, unlocked it, and burst inside.

  “Serena!”

  No answer. She wasn’t in the kitchen. The dining room was empty. Jason ran from room to room, calling her name. Heard no response.

  He charged up the stairs. First to their bedroom. Their bed was made.

  The bathroom. He heard the pulse and splash of the shower and burst in.

  Serena yelped. Behind the shower glass her arm went to her breasts. She called his name reproachfully.

  One hand on the knob, he stood in the doorway, unable to catch his breath, his heart hammering. He sank to the floor.

  Serena turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. She came to him, long hair pressed to her scalp and dripping. Drops of water clung to her bare shoulders as she knelt.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Jason shook his head. His hands went to his face. Serena’s hands took his, lowered them.

  “Jason.” She angled her head, trying to get into his line of sight.

  He met her eyes. Around the brown pupils, the whites were lined with red, and the skin around her eyes was swollen. He recognized the look from other times she’d been crying. “They didn’t . . . ? Those guys didn’t . . . ?”

  “What guys?”

  “Two guys. In the garage. They didn’t come inside?”

  “No.” She looked toward the door as if he might have led them in. “What did they want?”

  He wanted to wrap his arms around her. Wanted to feel her warmth against him. Put all the cheating behind them.

  But it was
too late.

  He pushed up off the floor.

  Serena rose with him. Water pooled on the slate at her feet. “Jason? What did they want?”

  “They wanted to scare me. I guess it worked.” He turned away and dropped onto the bed. “They had knives. One of them keyed up the Bimmer pretty good.”

  She brought a trail of wet footprints onto the carpet. “I’m calling the police.”

  “Wait.”

  The receiver was in her hand, halfway to her damp ear. “Wait? Knives, Jason? And you want me to wait?”

  “Just give me a minute.” He was seated on his bed in his home. He knew that. He was in his bedroom with his wife. She stood within reach. He could touch her if he extended his hand, could feel the terry cloth that clung to her skin or the dampness on her shins. But the reality of where he stood and the things around him wouldn’t help him escape the feeling that he stood on a precipice. One step, two, and a chain of events as incontrovertible as gravity would take him.

  Here stood Serena, surrounded by the house they’d built together. They’d intended to live out their lives here. The shade of paint on the walls, the color of the carpet, the patterns on the furniture, the sinks and shower heads in the bathrooms—it was all assembled at their expense and direction. But her cheating was like a wrecking ball. The place mocked him every time he entered. And her denials were an insult.

  He brought his eyes to her face. Why had she come back? What did she hope to gain by insisting on her innocence despite proof? She’d grown tired of her lover. That must be it. He’d made her a bad cup of coffee or left dirty dishes in the sink or said something that revealed he wasn’t worthy of her. So she’d come back to Jason. Old, reliable Jason, who would always stand by waiting for her like a groom at an altar expecting the bride’s entrance.

  “Give me the phone.” He held his hand out.

  Her drying brow made an inquisitive turn, and then he saw expectation on her face, expectation that he would do the right thing. Like he always did the right thing. Follow the rules. The police and the law, the chain of authority, the consequences the punks from the garage should face. It was what she wanted him to do. She slipped the cordless phone into his palm.

  He tossed it onto the bed next to him.

  Her head jutted forward. “Really? You’re going to let them get away with this?”

  He stood away from the bed and went to the closet. Serena kept talking about what he was supposed to do. He unbuttoned his cuffs and collar and drew the shirt over his head without unbuttoning the rest of it. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants, ignoring Serena’s goading him to debate. Her voice was a cattle prod. She wanted him in her pen or led to slaughter. It didn’t matter to her as long as he was under her control.

  He walked to the shower, staying ahead of her voice. She wouldn’t stop, not until he gave in.

  The shower valve was in his hand before he’d had enough. He turned. “I’m not calling the police, Serena. I’m going to take a shower and go to work.”

  Her lips clenched. She folded her arms over the towel.

  “Then I’ll call them myself.”

  “No. They’re after Phil.”

  A shake of the head, those brown eyes squinting. “So?”

  “So I’m going to hand him over.”

  42

  In a dark room, curtains shutting out sunlight to almost make it night inside, Flip lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wanting more blackness. Even the thickest motel curtains couldn’t keep the light away entirely.

  It was all darkness now inside, and he wanted it outside him too. Eternal night. The sun was a hated thing, like a spotlight circling a prison to pin him to a wall and freeze his escape. It was a tool for the cops. Other people could have the warmth of it on their faces, burning its cancers into their skin. He wanted none of it. He never wanted to see the sun again.

  He rolled onto his side, directing his face away from the window and the sunlight that tried to squeeze through the gaps like an airborne plague. Sleep away the day. That’s what he would do. Never again take the risk of exposure to that flame in the sky.

  It had nearly a week since he’d heard from Diane. She hadn’t gotten in touch with him like she promised when she gave him the hundred. She wouldn’t return his calls. He’d gone to her building four times, crouched in the bushes across the street watching, like some pervert. He hated himself for doing it, for the desperation of it.

  He pulled the pillows around his head.

  There had to be a way. A way to get her respect. To get her back.

  “Mister?” A woman’s voice.

  Flip bolted up. The pillows fell from his head.

  “I make up your room?” The silhouette of a square woman was framed in the brilliant sunlight beaming in through the open doorway.

  “No. Go away.” He shielded his eyes and waved with his other hand.

  “You want fresh towels?”

  The sunlight battered his eyes. “No. Get out.” He was on his feet, moving toward the door.

  She shied away. “I come back later?”

  “No. Do not disturb. See?” He took the sign hanging from the doorknob and hung it on the outside. “Do not disturb.”

  She stepped out into the day, and Flip slammed the door and brought the little bar around over the knob on the door that worked better than the chains they used to have in these places.

  What had he been thinking about? Diane. Of course. Diane. What else would he be thinking about? He’d been thinking about her ever since he first saw her when she visited him toward the end of his time in the Stark Youth Correctional Facility. The way she moved and the look in her eyes brought him along, trailing him after her like a puppy on a leash.

  Well, maybe Mr. B’s papers would finally get him off that leash. Get him a little respect from Diane. Mr. B would pay to get that list back. He’d pay big, or he would really pay if he didn’t.

  Flip crossed to the closet and slipped the papers out of his bag. The light from the closet was too bright, so he angled the door closed against it. He read them again, the names and phone numbers and the notes beside them that described enough that even the dumbest cop would get the drift of what Mr. B was up to.

  He looked over the list. The penmanship was precise, tiny, every letter a capital. Blue ink and black, even some in red. Flip wondered if the colors had any meaning or if Mr. B would just pick up whatever pen was closest when he had to jot something down. He could picture Mr. B at his desk, reaching for a pen, maybe yelling at Garrett or Ronny if he couldn’t find one.

  One of the names on the list looked familiar. Flip stared at it. Then it came to him. A local politician. Next to some women’s names.

  The notes next to the names told Flip about preferences that had nothing to do with politics.

  Other names on the list seemed familiar too. More politicians, maybe. Whoever they were, judging by the notes they were all johns.

  Somewhere here was the name of the girl, the daughter of the big guy who’d come for Mr. B’s head. He’d called her a strung-out, dead junkie.

  This list had to be worth a lot to Mr. B. Even if he had a copy somewhere.

  Flip reached for the phone. The base was bolted to the bedside table. As if somebody went around stealing old desktop telephones. He called information and got the number of the Ragtop Club, and after seven rings, a man answered.

  “I want to talk to Mr. B.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Tell him Frank.”

  While the guy yelled for Ronny to see if Mr. B wanted to talk to Frank, Flip looked over the list some more. It was five pages long. The sheets were unlined, the names and numbers and notes running in uneven rows across the pages.

  The other phone rustled. “Hi, Flip.”

  He tried not to let surprise slip into his voice. “Smart boy. How’d you figure that one out?”

  “Flip Dunn. Or Philip. Brother named Jason. I got it all right here. Old man lives in In
glewood, name of Henry. You want me to read his address for you?”

  “I know his address.”

  “I want that list, Flipper.”

  “It’s Flip. I ain’t a dolphin.”

  “You bring me that list. I want it right now, understand, Flipper? Now.”

  This was no good. He didn’t want Mr. B going to his dad’s house, Doberman or not. “It’s Flip.”

  “Okay, Flipper, here’s how it’s going to work. We already been to see your brother and his wife. But if that list isn’t in my hands today, a couple of my guys go have a talk with your dad tonight. Then they go back to your brother’s house after. Get it?”

  Diane would know what to say. Flip had nothing to tell him.

  “You thinking it over, Flipper?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking.”

  “Okay, here’s an idea. You keep sitting there at Dino’s Motel. My guys’ll be right over, pick up that list. And my money. You can give me my money back too.”

  Flip had seen phones that read out the caller’s ID. He should have bought a throw-away cell phone. Gone to a payphone. Something. He closed his eyes.

  He was going to have to go out into the sunlight.

  43

  Max never barked. But the sniffing noise on the other side of the door told Jason his father was gone. That dog stayed glued to the old man’s side whenever he was home.

  Jason pounded on the door again. He still had a key to this lock somewhere, tucked in the back of a drawer at his house. He should have looked for it before he left. He knew there was a possibility the old man wouldn’t be home when the phone had gone unanswered, but sometimes he ignored the ringing. There was no answering machine in the house, so all Jason could do was let it ring and ring.

  It occurred to Jason that his dad could be lying on the floor in there, victim of a heart attack or stroke or something else. Or maybe Max had let the two guys with the knives get to the old man. Could be Dad had said something stupid to them. He never kept his mouth shut, and he always thought he was tougher than the other guy.