CHAPTER 37: SAMPSON
Marcus looked up from the scrap of paper. It was a different scrap from this morning. His eyelids fluttered. “How much did he have?”
“I don’t know.”
Not a total lie. I knew what I gave him yesterday, but he could’ve spent it all. But Marcus said “did.” Meaning how much did Bobby once have and now I have? I stood before Marcus the worst way possible: empty handed. Why? Why didn’t I take from Bobby every dollar I could to avoid this? The dude threw me off my game. But still. I should’ve manned up.
“He’ll have it all by six.”
“How’s he getting it?”
“By selling.”
Marcus laughed.
His teeth are like tiles.
“So you’re telling me he stole my coke, cut it up, sold it, and now I have to wait to get back what was mine to begin with?” He held up the scrap. It was covered in numbers. He let go and it floated to the desk. He swiveled to the painting. The Monet. I stepped to the door.
“How much do I tell you about the business?” he asked.
I let go of the door handle and returned to my place in front of his desk. “Not much.”
“I’m a good boss. Folks fear me and do what I say. I got a lot of good ideas. I can take this thing somewhere. But sometimes, I’m not so good with numbers. I’ll admit it. I fucking hate doing it, but I’ll admit it. Right now, the picture ain’t pretty.”
“But you just bought a new car.”
“Right. Promise me one thing, Sampson.” He cleared his throat. “Promise me you’ll never deal with the dagos.”
“All right.”
“Say it.”
“Okay.”
“Goddamn it, say it,” he asked.
“I’ll never deal with the dagos.”
My God. That was the first time I pitied Marcus. My uncle. So there. I’ve felt everything for him at some point. Even love once or twice. Mostly hate. Sometimes envy. Finally, near the end, pity. But the pity faded. Like the rest. No emotion is real.
Marcus ballooned his body. His coat crackled at the seams. Then he let out a squall of breath. Flecks of spittle sparkled in the air. He turned to me.
“How much does he have? And don’t give me any ‘I don’t know’ bullshit. Make a good goddamn guess.”
I ballparked it at a generous $1500.
“I hate telling you this, but I need that money.”
“Okay.”
“No. Not ‘okay.’ The right answer is, ‘I understand how important this money is, sir, and I will get it for you.’ That’s what you need to say. And tell me, what’s he selling, who’s he selling it to and why do I have to wait till six?”
I put up some weak answers and Marcus knocked them down, then asked more questions. More lies got me more questions. I wanted to take a nap. I gave in.
“No. Something like this? No. And I’ll get my money? No. I’ll get a headache, maybe a talk with the cops. This kid, your pet project, he’s gotten out of hand. Can we agree on that?”
He made me wait upstairs. The bar was empty. I poured a shot of whisky. It stung my nose. I dumped it and took a beer from the fridge. Slammed the beer in three big gulps and a small swallow. I chucked the bottle into the trash can. Thump. My cell rang.
“What do you think should happen?”
I said I didn’t know. Marcus said it for me.
“Not every hair is numbered, you know. Take whatever money they have, leave the bodies. Then make the rounds and pick up however much you can from everyone. I need as much cash as I can get by tonight.”
I descended. Marcus spoke before I opened the door. He shook behind his desk. He could do so little in his office. Beat the table, swivel his chair, stand dramatically, recite monologues to the wall. But then, he did so much from his small, dark confines. Shaped some lives, snuffed out others.
“If you thought I was hard before, maybe I was, but now there’s no fucking way that kid’s gonna live another day. You know how many kidnappings are successful? Kidnappings and bank robberies are two jobs you need never fuck with unless you’re eager to do a stint. The kid’ll get caught and when he does, sooner or later my name’s gonna come up. Or yours. I’ve worked so hard.”
Damn it. He was right. And I got the Bobby situation all wrong. I asked him to step up. He tumbled in a big way. I don’t know him. I don’t owe him. No pity. Fuck you Bobby. Made a mess of everyone’s life. No way I would’ve messed up that bad.
That’s when I accepted Bobby’s fate. He was going to die.