Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

Danny handed him the quarters. “The number’s 847-866-0300. That’s his mobile. He always answers it.”

He nodded, reaching for the phone. Danny caught his wrist.

“Wear your gloves.”

He snorted. “Your asshole must be puckered so tight you need a shoehorn to take a shit.”

“Just put on the gloves.”

Evan shrugged, took them from his pocket and pulled them on. “Happy?” Picked up the receiver and slotted the change, his energy up. Not as strong, as pure, as when they broke into the house, but still, that edge of power surging through him. He pitied the regular citizens that went their whole drab little lives without ever feeling this way.

“Richard O’Donnell.” A nasal voice, more than a little arrogant. Evan gave him a moment of silence, let the guy repeat his name, then said, “We have your son.”

The man stuttered, asking, “What?” and “Who is this?” Evan cut him off.

“We have Tommy.” Shooting a wink at Danny. “When I hang up, you can go home and see for yourself. But now you’re going to want to listen quietly. You got me?”

There was only silence on the line.

“Good boy, Dick. Here’s the story. To save your son’s life, all you have to do is everything I say.” He paused, savoring the thrill of it, the fear in boss man’s breathing. “If you call the cops or do anything to make us nervous, Tommy dies.” He kept his eyes on Danny, predicting he’d wince. He did.

“How do I know he’s all right?”

“No, Dick. We’re not going to do that. I’m not going to send you a photo with him holding a newspaper. I’m not going to play a tape of his voice, I’m not going to threaten to cut off his fingers. I’ll just kill him and disappear. Understand?”

The arrogance vanished. “How much do you want?”

Evan stared at Danny, the guy keyed up, fingers clenched, eyes betraying his discomfort.

Just wait, Danny-boy. If you liked that, you’re going to love this one .

A sheet of icy wind whipped through the parking lot, stirring dead leaves to dance. “A million in cash.”

The look on Danny’s face was everything he could have hoped for. He went white, then red; reached for the phone, stopped himself, and finally stood frozen with anger in his eyes. Evan smiled at him. “You hear me, Dick?”

“I… I don’t have that much.”

“Then your boy dies. Nice talking to you.” He winked at Danny again, loving this, able to twist the knife in both of them at once, the adrenaline kicking hard now. He could see Danny wanting to make it better, but just as helpless as the boss man.

Watching it felt good.

“Wait!” Richard’s voice, a yell.

“If you don’t have the money, this is a waste of my time.”

“I can get it. I mean I will get it.” He stuttered like a little kid trying to weasel his way out of a fight.

“I thought so. We’ll call you again in a couple of days. Wait by the phone. And Dick? Remember that you’re dealing with serious people. Doubt it for a minute and you’ll spend the rest of your life wishing you hadn’t.”

Evan hung up the phone, pleased with himself. A nice note to end on. The guy was probably pissing himself right now, all the things he’d thought mattered to him stripped away. “Not bad, eh? I could do this for a living.”

“You stupid fuck.” Danny’s voice was strangled, his fists white-knuckled.

“What?” He smiled casually.

“We said half a million.”

“You said it, not me. Anyway, you should be thanking me – I just doubled our take.” My take .

Danny glowered at him, looking for all the world like somebody’s dad. “Half a million he could pull from his bank account,” he lectured. “Cash in an IRA, sell some stock. But a million, it makes it more likely he goes to the cops-”

“Blah, blah, blah. Look, the guy was quick enough to say he could get it when he knew what was at stake. Besides, now he knows he’s dealing with pros.”

“Evan-”

“You want to call him back?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Danny still edgy, like he was thinking of making a play for it. Part of Evan would have welcomed that, but he knew the time wasn’t right. He eased back on his stare, put a smile in his eyes. “Relax. The hard part’s over.”

No need to push Danny too far yet. He was still useful. If Danny disappeared, bossman might panic. Better to stay cool, finish the job, and get paid.

Then he and Danny could settle any final debts.

“Cheer up, partner. It’s all downhill from here.” He almost chuckled saying it.

Danny shook his head. “Sure,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

Evan watched Danny climb into his truck and shut the door. He could see the man checking him out in the rearview. Evan smiled and threw a two-fingered salute, the way Dad used to. Funny how the little things stuck. Danny ignored him, started the truck. Put it in drive, signaled, and gently pulled out. It made Evan sick. Even furious, the guy didn’t have the cojones to squeal out of a parking lot.

Evan walked into the gas station and asked for Winstons. Soft pack. The Pakistani at the counter pulled them down without a second glance. Didn’t even notice he’d been in forty minutes earlier, or if he did notice, didn’t say anything about it. Evan imagined taking the gun off the Mustang’s passenger seat, coming back in here, and having the guy empty the register. But instead he paid, snagged a pack of matches, and stepped outside.

He lit a cigarette as he walked to the car. The weather seemed to be getting gloomier, twilight falling though it was only five o’clock. Dark clouds reflected the city glow in shades of gray and green. As he climbed in the car, he had an idea. It took some digging around, but he found a pen under the passenger seat. He leaned against the dash to write, 847-866-0300. Dick .

He smiled and tucked the matchbook in his pocket.

The hamburgers at Top-Notch had been getting smaller over the years – no way that was half a pound of meat – but they were still good, juicy and dripping cheese, and when the waitress spotted the radios Sean Nolan and Anthony Matthews always left on the table, she’d write “Police” on the ticket so the counterman rang it up half price. Which wasn’t much consolation when Matthews’s cell phone rang thirty seconds after their meal arrived. Nolan watched him roll his eyes and wipe the grease off his fingers before he answered.

“Hey. Lunch. Nolan. The Top-Notch. Yeah.” A pause. “Where?” He began patting his pockets, and Sean pulled the pen from his own and slid it across the table. Matthews nodded as he wrote on the napkin. “Okay. We’ll be there shortly.” He laughed. “No chance. See you in a bit.” He closed the phone and picked up his burger.

“What’s up?”

“That was Willie. They just pulled a floater out of the river.”

“Where?”

“You know where the Stevenson and Archer cross?”

“Yeah.” Nolan chewed thoughtfully. “A smokehound who went for a swim?” People could generally be counted on to die in stupid ways, but drugs always made it worse. He’d once handled a job where a nineteen-year-old BD, Black Disciple, had been found torched. At first he’d liked the rival Gangster Disciples for it. But the medical examiner said no, there weren’t any indications of a struggle, and no premortem injury besides the fire. Turned out the genius had fallen asleep lighting his crack pipe, caught the mattress on fire, and was just too high to notice. Another criminal mastermind.

Detective Matthews shook his head. “Not this time.”

“How do you know?”