Adrian McKinty - Fifty Grand

“Jesus, if I never hear that line again…”

“This is pertinent.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Your loss. I am a fucking font of knowledge,” he says with a laugh.

“Come on, I don’t have time for this.”

Paco fakes a hurt look, nods, reverses the Range Rover out of the spot, and heads it up the mountain.

“How did you figure it was Youkilis?” he asks.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“The way you looked at him. It was the way you looked at those men in New Mexico.”

“I had him from the get-go. My brother, Ricky, ran the garages and found that only two cars had been brought in that weekend. An old lady called Mrs. Cooper whose story checks out and Jack Tyrone’s Bentley.”

“Tyrone.”

“Yeah, except that Jack was in L.A.”

“So you think Youkilis was driving Tyrone’s car?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

Paco looks at me doubtfully, knitting the eyebrows of his kid’s face. “You’ve covered all the angles?”

“All the ones I need to cover.”

“Why was your father hiding under a Mexican passport?”

“I don’t know. He was paranoid. I guess he thought the DGI was going to kill him, which is just crazy-a million Cubans have defected and the DGI is going to go after him?”

But then those doubts again. The gun. Karen’s escape plan.

I hesitate and continue almost to myself, “Shit, Paco, maybe he wasn’t so paranoid, maybe they did come after him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

We stop at a traffic light. Paco repeats his question. The light goes green, snapping me out of it.

“Oh, I was just rambling, I don’t mean anything. The important thing is I’ve got what I need to go on.”

Paco nods again. “Well,” he says finally, “if you’re happy with what you’ve got then I’m happy.”

“It doesn’t matter two fucks whether you’re happy or not, Francisco,” I say with irritation. Stupid kid. I should never have told him anything, should never have brought him in.

We hit Pearl Street.

Everything’s closed, but the big plate-glass windows are still illuminated. I read off the names for the last time. Versace. Donna Karan. Armani. Ralph Lauren. Hermès. Harry Winston. De Beers. Starbucks. Peet’s Coffee and Tea. Another Starbucks. The mystery bookstore. The hand-woven yoga mat shop. The Tibetan shop. The organic food store. Power Yoga. Mystic Yoga. Dance Yoga. Namaste Yoga. The BMW dealership, the Mercedes dealership.

Not a cop anywhere. None necessary. No crime. Briggs runs a tight ship.

We drive through the last stoplight and finally get on the road to Malibu Mountain.

Paco slows at Jack Tyrone’s house and stops outside the ranch-style house next door. The lights are off. Youkilis is asleep.

“You’re sure about this?” Paco asks, his voice descending half an octave, an attempt to sound more mature. A punk kid, yes, and yet there’s something about him that isn’t young. “You know about the alarm systems and guard dogs and that kind of thing?” he says in a flat voice that has no hint of condescension about it, but still, it’s annoying. He’s second-guessing me. Hinting again that this is a man’s job.

“I’ve been in the house three times. I’ve scouted the alarms. I know where they are. I’ve got the fucking code. I know what I’m doing,” I say firmly.

“You think you know,” he says in an undertone.

“Thank you for driving me, but I want you to go now, Paco. I’ve prepped as best as I can. If it fucks up it’s my fault and I don’t want you or anyone else involved.”

“I don’t mind,” he says.

“Yeah, but I do.”

I unclick the seatbelt and grab the backpack. I put my hand on his leg. “Paco, when I get out of the car, I want you to drive back to the motel and go to bed. I don’t want you driving up and down this road haunting me. I want you out of the picture. I need this, Paco, I need you to promise me that you’ll do that.”

He shakes his head in the dark. “If that’s what you want…”

“It is what I want. This belongs to me.”

He hesitates. “Will you at least tell me your plan?” he asks reasonably.

“No. I don’t want you following me.”

Paco sighs, rubs his chin. “You don’t want any help from me at all?”

“It’s not like that. You would be a terrific help. But this is about me. Me and Ricky and Mom. That’s why I’m here. To get some of the answers, to get some part of the truth.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”

“Try.”

“Tell me when you’re going to be back.”

“I, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll be back before noon.”

“And if you’re not?”

“It means I’m in jail or dead.”

“Mother of God,” he mutters.

“If they do arrest me or kill me, they might come to the motel asking questions.”

“Don’t worry about me, María. Worry about yourself.”

“I do. I don’t want you dragged down in the wreckage of my sinking ship.”

“Jesus, look at you. You’re shaking,” he says, taking my hand.

“I’m all right.”

“Do you need a better coat?”

“No, this thing is really thick, there’s a layer of fleece and a layer of something else.”

“Let me come with you. You don’t know what you’re doing. I was with the guapo army in the jungle when I was eleven.”

“This isn’t like that. This requires finesse.”

He bites his lip and we sit there holding hands like children.

“I’m going to go,” I say, my voice barely above a croak.

He leans across the seat and kisses me. “You’ll need these,” he says, and gives me his Mexican cigarettes.

“Hey, and for sugar, this.”

An orange.

I get out of the Range Rover, shoulder my heavy backpack, and close the door. He turns on the engine and drives back down the mountain.

I wait until the Range Rover’s lights are gone before I pull on the ski mask.

I look at my hands. He was right. They are shaking.

And now I feel utterly alone.

Scared.

Maybe I could do it tomorrow.

No. Tomorrow I have to leave for Mexico and I have to be in Havana the day after that, otherwise Hector and Ricky and Mom will all get taken.

“Ok,” I whisper to myself.

I walk to the rusting metal box next to Youkilis’s gate.

I key in the code.

The gate swings open.

I step inside and stand there.

After half a minute the gate closes behind me.

I might as well go on. It’s like launching a raft into the Gulf Stream: once the current takes you there’s no going back.

Snow is still falling. Lighter now. Little diamonds on my jacket and padded black sweater.

I scope the place. No lights. No sound.

I walk over the gravel drive to the path.

Clouds drifting across the half-moon. The night holding her breath.

I fumble in my pocket and touch the key.

I look over the wall at Jack’s house. The house is dead but he might still be awake watching the tube in the master bedroom.

I wonder how his party went at the Cruises.

How will you take it if I have to kill your buddy?

I walk down the zinc-colored footpath, making footprints in the snow.

If it all goes to shit those footprints will be useful to the cops.

I reach the front door and take the maid’s key out of my pocket.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

I put the key in the lock, turn it, and push. The door opens.

I now have thirty seconds to put the correct code into the alarm box. I walk in, flip open the box, and key in 9999-the default. The red light flashes green.

Big breath.

I close the front door.

I take the backpack from my shoulders, unzip it, and remove the flashlight and the gun. Reshoulder it, walk upstairs. Nineteen steps on the curve. Second door on the left. This is the time for surprises. A houseguest. A new dog. A whore from Denver. An old girlfriend who’s driven up from Vail. Jack, feeling lonely, staying over.