Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

“A civilian job.” His face a mask, Evan held the cigarette to his lips, took a long pull. “In construction.”

“Think about it. You know plenty to get started, and the pay is good.”

Evan shook his head, chuckling to himself. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m making as much money as we ever did – more – and nobody can look at me sideways. This is a chance to start clean. It’s a good offer.” Danny waited, but silence was the only reply. “The best I can do.”

Silence. Evan wasn’t biting. That was okay – Danny hadn’t really expected him to, not immediately. But maybe he’d consider it, spot the opportunity to escape the shadow of prison. And if not… well, Danny didn’t want to be sitting across the table from him if not. He stood up. “Think about it. Let me know if you’re interested.”

Evan crushed his cigarette.

“And thanks for the beer.” Despite the pounding of his heart, Danny made himself walk slow and steady, and didn’t look back as he shouldered open the door and stepped into the afternoon.

“Smug, down-talking fucker.” Evan spat the words.

“Who is, baby?” Debbie Lackey – she hated “Deb” and “Deborah,” always “Debbie,” like Debbie Harry – struck her best pout, flipping blond hair back over one shoulder.

Evan looked annoyed as he glanced over, like he was surprised to see her there. “The guy we’re waiting for.” He turned back to stare out the driver’s side window of the Mustang.

She wished he’d let her put on some music. They’d been sitting here half an hour, and he hadn’t wanted to talk the whole time. She surveyed the street again, hoping for something to take her attention. It was pretty, lots of trees with bright October leaves, rows of graystone apartments fronted by expensive cars. The people who walked their dogs carried little plastic bags to pick up the poop. “Your friend lives in a nice neighborhood.”

He nodded, still not looking at her.

“Lots of money. Remember I worked for the maid service? We did a lot of these places.”

“Stole a lot of watches and earrings.”

“Fuck you, Mr. Armed Robbery.”

He snorted.

“How long are we going to sit here?”

“Until we’re done,” he said. “Not like you have anywhere to be, right? You quit your job.” He reached for his cigarettes, tapped the bottom, and pulled one out with his teeth, like a tough guy in the movies. Despite herself, it gave her a thrill.

“What were you doing again?”

“Massage therapy. I took a night course at the community center ’cause anything was better than waiting tables. I thought I’d work in one of those nice places, you know, with the candles and that Asian music and everything smelling good? But it turns out they all want experience. So I ended up at this joint on Twenty-fifth to work my way up. Only,” she laughed, remembering, “these guys, I’d start on their backs, but when they rolled over, they’d be sporting wood. And that wasn’t what I had planned to work my way up, you know?”

He laughed with his head thrown back, the way he used to. Nice to see. He’d become so much quieter than she remembered. Back in the early nineties, they’d had some good times. Tear-assing down Lakeshore with the radio up loud and his hand in her panties, the speedometer hitting 109 as he hit her spot. Or the time they cleaned out her liquor cabinet, starting with bourbon and tequila, and then when the good stuff ran out, moving to the party leftovers; coconut rum, vermouth, and finally shots of crème de menthe as the sunrise poured pink across the linoleum kitchen floor. Hell, some great times. She didn’t mind starting them up again.

Down the block, a glass door shook, shivering the reflection of flaming trees, and then swung open. “Morning, partner,” Evan said, stabbing out his cigarette without taking his eyes from the apartment. The same man they’d trailed the other day stepped out. Nice-looking guy in khakis and an open-collared oxford, turning to smile at the brunette that followed him out.

“What’s her name?” Debbie looked over, but Evan ignored her. “She’s pretty.”

The woman leaned in to kiss the guy, rising up on her toes. She had her hands around his neck, and his rested on the small of her back. It looked like a good kiss, not the usual peck you saw couples giving.

“For people that’ve been fucking for years,” Evan mused, “they sure get a kick out of each other.”

She thought of them in the zoo, the way they had lounged on a bench, the guy with his head in the woman’s lap. Evan had stayed in the car, told her to follow them, to get as close as she could. But though she’d sat on the opposite bench, she hadn’t learned much. They talked too soft, speaking just for the other. A world of two. “I guess they’re family.”

“Huh?” Evan turned to look at her.

“Family. In love.” She realized her voice sounded wistful, and quickly threw up her distant expression, the one she used on the guys at the bar.

You can look , it said, but that’s all you get . Evan, though, was staring at her like she’d said something deep. It was the first time he’d really looked at her all morning. Her cheeks went warm, and she felt stupid to have let her guard down, exposed herself that way. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just – nothing.”

The guy had opened the door of a silver truck and tossed his bag on the passenger seat. He got in, and the woman stepped back with her hips cocked in a pose Debbie recognized from movie magazines. As the truck pulled away, the woman turned with a grin and walked back toward the apartment. Evan didn’t start the Mustang, just watched the truck roll down the street.

“Aren’t we going to follow him?”

Evan shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, smiling at her, that thin smile that looked a little dangerous, the one that made her a little dizzy, “I just thought of a way to get rich and even at the same time.”

Overhead, the El rattled along the circular tracks that gave the Loop its name. A grim rain darkened the faces of crumbling parking decks as Danny stepped out of the Harold Washington Library. Green-tarnished gargoyles loomed eight stories above him, eerie personifications of the confusion he felt. Of the many thoughts jostling for his attention, one overwhelmed the others.

Coming here had been a stupid idea.

What on earth had motivated him to leave work early, drive downtown, pay the rapacious parking fees, and spend three hours researching prison? What would you call that? Shame? Guilt? Idiocy?

People always talked about the value of firsthand knowledge, and they were right. No book could convey the lonely terror of waking in an eight-foot cell, the way living so intimately with fear marked you. No amount of sunshine and fresh air ever truly wiped away the stain on your soul. Almost ten years since his last fall, but some mornings he still mistook the buzzing alarm clock for cell count, and he still spent midnight moments reconstructing himself after a dream casually obliterated his life. No doubt about it, firsthand knowledge was a bitch.

But there was a special awfulness to secondhand knowledge, too. Sharing a table with a bum dozing on a pillow of unopened books, Danny had read scholarly prose that set his demons howling. The information from the Bureau of Justice alone was staggering. America imprisoned more people than any other nation – even Russia, for chrissake – with close to two million inmates. Many states spent more money on jails than schools. Amnesty International had actually condemned the American prison system.