It’s dark, but looks like a back room or a pantry. I can make out metal racks sagging under the weight of shadows. There’s an archway screened by a bedsheet, and beyond it, yellow light. The music is clearer now.
Gripping the bat so hard my hands shake, I step inside and close the door behind me, and just like that, I’m back where I started. The last time I broke in where I wasn’t supposed to be, it cost me five years, my wife, and my daughter. And now here I am again, and just like last time, I’m doing it for Jess, even if she’ll never understand.
The kitchen is on the other side of the curtain. It’s been converted to a lab, every surface covered with burners and flasks and tubing and jars. An efficient little operation: cook meth in the back and sell it out the front. No muss, no fuss. Of course, when the cops get wise to it, everybody inside will face federal time. But what does that matter to Lester? There’ll be nothing connecting him, and there’s always another stupid kid ready to step up for a spin of the wheel.
I can hear voices now. The music swells, and I realize it’s a television. Perfect. If they’re caught up in something, maybe I can sneak right by, find the stash, and get the hell out without anyone the wiser.
Adrenaline sings in my blood as I step through the kitchen towards the stairs.
One night in a past life, Lucy rolled on her side and looked at me. Leno was on mute, and the light flickered across her features. “I think Jess is starting to figure out what you do.”
“She say something?”
My wife shook her head. “Not exactly. But she roots for the bad guys on TV.”
“What, I’m a bad guy?”
Lucy touched my cheek. “No, baby. But you’re not a model citizen either.”
I snorted and rolled over on my back, stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s time I quit.”
“Maybe it is.”
I looked over. “A little fucking judgmental, are we?”
Lucy smiled, that slow sweet thing. She turned to take the locket from the bedside table. Dangled it from her right hand and used her left to open it. Inside were two pieces of tan paper, cut to ovals and glued in place. Us. On the left, her thumbprint; on the right, mine. Whorls and spirals marked in black ink, two one-of-a-kind things brought together. Facing each other.
I waited for her to say something. But after a minute, I realized she had.
I can hear my pulse. Not just feel it-hear it.
The house is a small bungalow, with two bedrooms and a filthy bath opening immediately off the top of the stairs. Which means that before I’ve even reached the second floor, I can see straight into the opposite room, where a man lies on a bed with his hands laced behind his head and a shiny automatic beside him.
I freeze three steps from the top, one foot stopping in midair. I’m a stranger wearing a ski mask and carrying a baseball bat. If he looks over, I’m going to die. A warm fist spins greasy in my belly. I realize I’m holding my breath. I was scared before, but now panic hits, and it’s all I can do not to turn and run. I can be out the back door and heading home in minutes. No one ever needs to know I was here.
Then I see the money.
It’s in a paper grocery bag on the floor, which seems strange until I realize that it’s not like addicts pay in crisp C-notes. There are hundreds of dirty bills piled loose in the bag. More than I need.
The man doesn’t stir. His eyes are closed.
I stare at the money, and then at the man, and then at the gun, and then at the money again, my eyes flicking in a circle as my mind races, but the truth is, I’ve already made up my mind, I’m just working on my nerve.
Gently, very gently, I lift one foot and put it down on the next step. Again. Again.
A board squeaks and I freeze like I’ve been turned to stone. Wait a long moment. Nothing happens.
I step onto the landing. The bat is a comfort, and I grip it tight enough to leave marks. Force myself to breathe, and take another delicate step, and another. The bag will be awkward, and I’ll have to lift it carefully so as not to make a-
The man’s eyes open.
We stare at each other for what’s probably less than a second but seems longer. He looks to be in his twenties. Black hair, soap opera scruff, blue eyes. I’ve seen him before. He’s been in the bar. A vodka tonic man, I recall, absurdly.
And then he’s lunging for the pistol, his right hand flying, moving so fast I can almost see a blur behind it. He must not have been napping, only lounging, he’s too alert, and before I can move he’s got his fingers on the pistol and is starting to bring it up and I don’t think, just step forward and crack the bat into his head like I’m swinging for the fences.
The sound is nothing like hitting a baseball.
Everything stops. I stand and stare at what I’ve done. And for no reason I can understand, I think of that day Jess broke her ankle, the way she said, I’m sorry, Daddy, and how all I wanted was to hold her and keep her safe from every bad thing.
Then I reach down and pick up the bag and tiptoe back down the stairs and through the kitchen and out the back door, a grocery bag full of cash in one hand and a bloody baseball bat in the other.
A whirl of soft white erases me.
The shirt is different. Everything else is the same: the sneer, the cokehead twitchiness, the pistol tucked where I can’t help but see it. Standing across the bar from me, he says, “You have what I want?”
I take a moment to study him. Not a bad-looking kid if you could convince him to take a shower, get a haircut. He’s young, and too cocky. I could yank the bat and sock him in the head, and the way he’s got it tucked under his shirt that gun would do him no good at all.
Instead, I open the cupboard and hand him the duffel bag. There was almost fourteen thousand in the grocery bag. I was up till dawn counting and bundling.
He unzips it, glances inside, and I can see triumph flow through him. I remember what it feels like, that raw and animal joy from taking something you could never earn.
“Smart move, old man.” He straightens. “So here’s how this works. I’m going to walk out of here. You follow me, or I get any hint the cops are following me, and your daughter dies.”
And I laugh. Was I ever that young?
He’s not ready for that, and it throws him. “You think I’m fucking kidding?”
“Come on, kid.” I shake my head. “You got your money. No need to keep pretending you really kidnapped her.”
He goes tense. His eyes dart right to left and back again. “How-”
“Only a person that believes I have money would bother to run an angle on a guy like me. And the only person who’d believe I have money is Jess.” I shrug. “She always believed in the bad guys on television. Why she ended up with you, I guess. You two are together, right?”
The kid nods, looking like he’s trying to do math problems in his head.
“Was this your idea or hers?”
He finally finds his voice. “She was always going on about how her dad was this big criminal, been to prison and everything. So I figured, you know…” He shakes his head. “Wait a second. If you knew from the beginning, why-”
“Do you have a daughter?”
“Naw, man.” He says it almost boastfully, like the idea is ridiculous.
I sip my beer and shake my head. “Then you wouldn’t understand.”
He stares for another few seconds, finally blinks, shrugs. “Whatever.” He backs towards the door, keeping an eye on me, like I might lunge for the bag.
“Hey.”
The kid pauses, nervous.
“Give this back to her, will you?” I hold out my hand. The locket dangles.
His features war with themselves, the sneer faltering. He’s young, doesn’t know how to handle his emotions yet. It’s easy to see that he doesn’t understand why I’m letting him walk out with that money. It just doesn’t compute to him.