He expected another call. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Fifty,” the man demanded. “Fifty by the end of the week. We’ll say Saturday night.”
Sam took a pen in hand and started doodling on a legal pad. “Fifty what?”
“Your brain going? Fifty thousand. In cash. And that’s just for starters.”
The pen flew across the room, striking the wall and gouging the paneling. “You’re crazy,” he hissed, intent on keeping his voice low. “And what the hell do you mean, just for starters?”
“Just what I said. Just for starters. Hey, you want to talk crazy here, listen to this — you got two options. Pay me or don’t. And you don’t, that’s fine, ’cause I can still have some fun. I went by your house today. Fine woman you married. You should tell her not to sunbathe out in the back yard — too many guys can spot her. Unless you don’t care. Then you wouldn’t mind me sharing some of that wealth — after all, I didn’t go to the wedding. She looks like a fine piece.”
Sam could not think of a thing to say. His throat felt like it had been stuffed with wool.
“Or if that don’t do the trick, well, there’s other things. I also did some reading in the library today. You’ve done okay for yourself. Nice business, home, belong to the right clubs. How’d you like me to go to your country club some weekend, introduce myself to your bankers and friends? I’m sure you could get me in. Or I could pop in on some of your best customers. How does that sound?”
“I could call the cops,” he finally said.
“You could, but would you? Would you want my picture on the front page of your local rag? My smiling face, your name dragged into it? And people around town saying, wow, if this guy’s like that, then what must Sam really be like. Not to mention, I get up there again, guaranteed I’ll get out. And the second time I won’t be so polite as to call first. I’ll just come barreling in.”
Sam closed his eyes and slowly re-opened them. The room, with its paneling and community awards neatly framed on the far wall, seemed slightly out of focus, like he had only been there for a few seconds. He blinked his eyes and reached into the desk drawer, pulling out another pen.
“Fifty thousand,” he said, his voice flat. “You know, I don’t have that kind of cash just lying around. It’ll take some work, I have to go to my bankers—”
“Tough,” the man interrupted. “I really feel sorry for you, man, really sorry. I feel so sorry chat if you’re not in your office by noon on Saturday, with the cash, I’ll go visit your missus, find out if you got money problems or something. I’m sure she’d enjoy it.”
When he was done Sam thought, Well, let’s throw another pen at the goddam wall, but he tried to keep his cool. He looked down at his neat handwriting, the numerals in black ink on the yellow paper. Fifty thousand dollars. Unbelievable. He underlined the number with his pen, and underlined it again, and again, until he was slashing at the paper with the pen, making deep, black gashes on the pad.
He stood silently for a moment in the room after the body had been taken away. In a way he supposed he was searching for one final scent of her, but all that was there was the strong odor of disinfectant. With his mother gone from where she had been so many months, the hospital bed seemed to have shrunk. Sam stood there for some minutes, hands clasped behind him, eyes stinging with salty tears. Out beyond the doorway nurses and doctors bustled about and the intercom squawked messages, but he kept his eyes on the bed. Dad had been dead for almost five years and now he was alone. He had outlived his parents, something that had scared him at five or six when he had huddled under his blankets, listening to a thunderstorm outside pound and rage. The thought had scared him when he was little.
It was still scaring him now.
He looked for Derek in the hallway, in the men’s room, and at the nurses’ station. He finally found him in the waiting room, at the far end of the ward. Derek was slouched in a chair, dirty jean-clad legs stretched out on the scuffed blue tile, reading an automotive magazine. On the table before him dozens of magazines were flung about, their covers torn and greasy. Derek looked up and tossed his magazine back into the pile.
“God, I’m glad that’s over with,” he said, zipping up his jacket. “Months and months, damn, you never knew when it was going to happen.”
Sam bit his lip. “Hell of a consoling thought.”
“Hey, c’mon, we knew for a long time what was going to happen. It was just a matter of time.” Derek stood up, brushing back his hair with one hand. “Something there, hunh, what Mom said just before she went?”
Sam shoved his hands into his ski jacket’s pockets. “I can see why. Obviously, you won’t be able to look out after me.”
“Yeah, I can see. So when do I start?”
The light in the room seemed stronger, hurting his eyes. “Start what?”
“When do I start working for your company? Man, I really need a job something bad, let me tell you. My motorcycle’s about two weeks away from being repossessed.”
In the ski jacket’s pockets were bits of lint. He started rolling them into little balls.
“There’s no way on God’s earth you’re working for me, Derek. None. You may be my brother and Mom might have said for me to look out for you, but there’s no job. I can’t hire you to guard somebody else’s property.”
Derek’s eyes were small and tight. “Some way of looking out for your brother.”
“Only thing you and I have in common is our last name. I work for a living, and I manage to do it without a record.” Derek rocked back and forth a bit on his heels. “Maybe you’re right. Hey, if I’m lucky, the old lady left me some insurance money. If my bike goes—”
Sam closed his eyes and swung out at Derek, and in a confused number of seconds he was on the floor, on his back, with his head in the grip of Derek’s arms. Derek grunted and moved his arms, and the bolt of pain made Sam whimper.
“So good, so high and mighty,” Derek said in a fierce whisper. “Younger brother thinks he’s so goody-goody but you’re not, are you? Deep down, we’re both alike. You see something, you take it. You don’t like somebody, you punch ’em out. Only difference is, I do it and you just think it, don’t you? That makes you any better? ’Cause someday you’ll slip, little one, some day you’ll slip. And we’ll both be in the gutter together.”
At the office on Saturday he looked down at the open attaché case on his desk. Nestled in it was the money, tightly bound in paper wrappers. It had not been a good week. He and Terry had been sniping at each other for days — actually, he had done most of the sniping. Complaining about dinner, about the way she drove, her clothing bills, until last night she had said, “When you decide to rejoin the human race, then I’ll rejoin you,” and with that she had taken two blankets and had gone to sleep on the couch.
The banks had given him a hard time, too, raising their collective eyebrows, sighing and wondering where the money was going. And yesterday — Friday — his secretary Marcie had given her two weeks’ notice. He stared down at the money, rubbing his temples with both hands. And damn, his head hurt. It felt as if the skin around his skull was shrinking tighter and tighter, like a plastic wrap over a salad bowl. This shouldn’t be happening to me, he thought. I’m a good person. Honest I am. I work hard, pay my taxes, take care of my wife and son, and this should not be happening.
He picked up the phone before the second ring.
“You set?” the voice asked.
“I got the money.”
“Good. Remember the sand pit we used to play at? Be there at ten tonight. Alone. And remember what I said: you got two options. Pay or don’t pay. It’s your choice.”