Marcus Sakey - The Amateurs

Envying teenagers? Now you know you’re scared.

The thought made him smile inside, just for a second, but it helped.

They passed the restaurant. At the corner, they turned left, then left again into a narrow alley behind the building. Ian drove thirty yards to nose the car up to a rusting steel Dumpster, then killed the engine. The music died with it, leaving only the sounds of their breathing.

“Is this really happening?” Ian’s face was pale.

Mitch rubbed at his temples with gloved fingers. Huffed a breath in, one out. Then he straightened, passed a mask and gloves to Ian. “Here.”

“Are we-”

“It’s too late now.” Mitch looked over. “Just keep it together.” He opened the door and stepped out. The alley smelled faintly of rotten milk. The summer air was humid. He rapped on the trunk, waited as Ian fumbled for the release.

The brown paper bag holding the two remaining pistols looked harmless. Mundane. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Latin music played faintly, tinny like it was coming through a cheap radio. He unrolled the top of the bag and took out one of the guns, a black automatic. He started to tuck it behind his belt, then froze. Pulled it back out, staring down at the unfamiliar metal in his hand.

And flipped the safety off.

As Mitch closed the trunk, through the rear window he saw Ian hold his hand to his nose. He wasn’t-goddamn it, he was. He yanked the driver’s-side door open. “Give me that.”

“What? No-”

Mitch snatched the amber vial from his friend’s hands. He wound up and threw it overhand down the length of the alley. It landed with a soft plink.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re a moron, you know that?”

“Jesus, relax.” Ian stared up at him, one eye still swollen half-shut. “I needed to be on my game.”

“You’re stoned out of your gourd already.”

“I’m not. I just had a moment of panic, that’s all.” He stepped out of the car. “Give me my gun.”

“Leave the keys.”

“What?”

“The keys. Leave them in the ignition. Remember?”

“Right.” Ian bent back to insert them, then closed his door. They stared at each other, the ticking of the engine mingling with the distant music and the muffled sound of laughter. Mitch felt like he had stepped behind the world, like the world was a stage set and he’d wandered into the wings.

Does that make it the beginning of something? Or the end?

“Listen to me,” he said, and got in close to Ian’s face. Anger gave him strength, and the strength felt good. He tapped into it again, the new-and-improved Mitch. “You get your shit together right now. We’re depending on you, Ian. All of us.”

The man stared back at him, something flickering in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

This is crazy. What are you doing? Just get back in the car. If you don’t go in, he won’t, and if he doesn’t, nothing happens.

Right, a different voice in his head replied. Nothing happens. Is that what you want?

“Put your mask on,” he said and handed Ian the second pistol.

“ALL RIGHT, KID.” Johnny Love unlocked the door to the office. “Now, like I said, this is going to be child’s play.” He flipped off the overheads, then turned on a green banker’s lamp. Dropping the keys on the desk, he surveyed the room, then adjusted the visitor’s chair to its lowest point and raised his to the highest. “You got a shirt on under that one?”

“What?” Alex touched his white oxford. “Yeah.”

“Good. Take off the button-down. You’re supposed to look like muscle, not a parking attendant.”

His hands tingled and his arms felt heavy, like he’d ripped a serious set at the gym. He started to undo the buttons, then remembered the part he had to play. “Mr. Loverin, listen, you know I-”

“Enough. I told you, this is nothing. You’re a showpiece.” Johnny sat, cracked his knuckles.

A showpiece. We’ll show you something, asshole. Alex undid the rest of the buttons, pulled the shirt off, wadded it up, and tossed it in the drawer of the file cabinet.

“Good. Those tats are good. You look tough.” His back was to Alex as he spun the dials of the safe. “Now, tonight is business. What kind of business, you don’t need to know. Point is, the guy coming in isn’t going to try anything.” The safe swung open. He hauled out a heavy black duffel bag and set it beside the desk.

“So what-I mean, what do I-”

“Jesus, kid, ain’t you ever seen a movie?” Johnny sighed. “He gets here, you open the door. You don’t need to say anything. In fact, don’t. You’re mute. Just look mean. I’ll say, you know, it’s OK, he’s a friend. Then you come around back here and stand behind me. We’ll talk a little bit, do a little business. You stand there and think about something else. When we’re done, I’ll give you a couple of hundreds, you can take that daughter of yours out, buy her something nice.”

“What if he-”

“Just do what I tell you, OK?”

Alex shrugged. “All right.”

“Attaboy.” Johnny put his feet up on the desk. “So, what do you think? The Cubs got it this year?”

THEY MOVED DOWN THE ALLEY side by side. Adrenaline throbbed in Mitch’s blood; fear, yeah, but excitement, too, and something almost like hilarity. This afternoon he’d stood around in a monogrammed jacket saying yessir, thank you, sir, and now here he was about to steal a couple hundred thousand dollars.

The door was metal, scarred with rust and years. A sign below the address read DELIVERIES ONLY. Mitch reached for the handle, palms wet inside the gloves.

It was unlocked, just like Alex had promised. Inside, fluores cents lit the room surgically bright. Steel wire shelves held kegs and hoses, boxes of supplies. There were two doors, one a swinging wood thing that would lead into the bar proper, the other a cheap hollow-core. The latter should be the door to the office.

His shoes were two sizes too big, and the extra socks he wore to compensate made the heat worse. Ian already had his mask on, and Mitch pulled his from his pocket, slid it over his head. The cotton was warm and itchy against his skin. He took a careful step toward the office, then another. He could hear a voice through it, faint, saying, “Bullshit. They aren’t never going to make it happen so long as they play in Wrigley. No incentive, you know? Stadium sells out whether they win or not-”

Johnny Love. What an asshole.

Mitch pulled his gun from behind his back. Holding it made him feel better. Power seemed to flow from it like a totem. He put a hand on the knob.

For a second, he could almost hear Jenn’s voice: He who risks nothing, has nothing, right?

Time to test that theory.

THE DOOR FLEW OPEN HARD, banged against the wall. Even knowing it was coming, it startled Alex, and he spun to see two men in dark clothes and masks, both with guns out and up.

“Don’t either of you fucking move!” Mitch’s voice, but not. He sounded like he did this all the time, his voice firm but not so loud it would bring people from the other room.

“What the-,” Johnny said.

“Shut the fuck up, fat man.” Mitch locked the gun on Johnny.

Ian moved to the other side, closer to Alex. Their eyes met.

Here goes nothing. Alex cocked his hand back, stepped forward, leveling a hook. Ian saw him coming, moved in, right hand flying back and then forward in a blur, the gun butt coming at his face-shit, the gun-

White stars burst behind his eyes. His head jerked sideways, and he felt his brain bounce in his skull. Everything went slippy. Sick agony raced through his body. He staggered, tried to get a hand out to catch himself on the edge of the file cabinet, missed. He felt air against him, and then he hit the floor. Primal instinct pulled him fetal, hands up to his face. Through a haze, he heard Johnny say something, then Mitch again, saying, “I told you not to move.”