Marcus Sakey - The Amateurs

“Darling.” The woman who slid her arm beneath his had a face that looked thirty and eyes that looked twice that. “You know it’s not polite to talk politics at a party.” She nodded at Victor, said, “Especially when you don’t know everyone’s point of view.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Victor said. “I find it very informative.” These are the elite? No wonder this country is such a mess. He smiled, said, “Given your position on Iran, and your clear knowledge of the region, you must have very strong feelings about Betin gan Makdous?”

“Umm, well, yes,” the man said, straightening. He coughed, glanced at the small audience staring at him. “Of course, I’m not an expert, but again, I think the situation defines itself. The only way democracy is going to survive is if we give it a safe haven. Liberals go on about schools and roads and hospitals, but if you give the people freedom, they can take care of the rest themselves. If that means showing the barbarians the pointy end of an M-16, well, so be it.”

“You feel that’s the proper way to deal with makdous?”

“Absolutely,” he said, and started to take a drink before noticing his glass was empty. “Show them who’s boss.”

“Really.” Victor shrugged. “Personally, I like to just wrap makdous in pita and eat it. But if you want to shoot your pickled eggplant first, go nuts.”

A woman tittered. The man’s face hardened, but before he could respond, Victor felt his cell phone vibrate. He glanced at the display, saw the number. “I’m sorry,” he said, “rude of me, but I need to take this call. Some of my clients are on the other side of the world.”

“Financial markets?” the man said between clenched teeth.

“More like import-export. Excuse me.” Victor gave a bright, blank smile, then turned away. Opened his cell, said, “Hold on.”

The party was in a magnificent Gold Coast penthouse, the east wall scored with windows framing Navy Pier and the cake-frosting traces of Lake Michigan. A string quartet played in the corner, and Mexicans in uniform wandered the crowd, passing trays. Across the room, French doors opened onto a small balcony, but even through the black-tie-bleached-blonde fund-raiser crowd, Victor could see that it was packed with smokers. A disgusting habit that somehow always got the best real estate.

He noticed a closed door on the far side of the room, strolled over, and stepped inside. The bedroom beyond was dark. He shut and locked the door, then walked over to the window and raised the blinds. A dozen stories below, cars raced up and down Lake Shore Drive, silent behind double-paned glass. He raised the phone. “Go ahead.”

“I think there’s a problem.” A pause, then, “Someone was killed in the alley behind Rossi’s. You know the restaurant I mean?”

“Of course. So?”

“He was killed by men who had just finished robbing the place.”

Victor closed his eyes. Goddamn it. He hated dealing with amateurs. Only pimps and porn stars would willingly adopt the nickname “Johnny Love,” and the man didn’t have the equipment to be a porn star. The business they’d done in the past had been strictly small-scale and very carefully regimented.

So why did you agree to meet with him? Why tell him to make this deal?

Why, for the love of Christ, advance him a portion of the purchase price?

The answer was simple. The deal had seemed worth the risk. Thing about risk was, it was only worthwhile when you won. “Interesting that it happened tonight.”

“That’s why I called.”

He took a deep breath, stared out into the night. Watched reflected light dance across the surface of the glass. Someone laughed in the other room, a loud donkey bray. These people. Some of them were useful, and all of them were rich, and he’d made some even richer in ventures they were careful not to know too much about. But that didn’t mean he had to like them. “What do the cops know?”

“Nothing yet. They’re focusing on the body. Our man in the department says the corpse’s name is David Crooch. Freelance tough guy. Did a bit for stealing cars, a couple of assault charges.”

“What about our friend the restaurateur?”

“No word.”

“No word?”

“No. His lawyer met him at the station, had him out in twenty minutes, and he disappeared.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can throw his fat ass in a chair.” Victor rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “And do something for me. Throw hard.”

MITCH WOKE IN THE DARK. Not the usual fuzzy-headed drifting, but wide-awake, just boom: eyes open, mind in gear.

In Jenn’s bed.

It had all been real, then. Warmth spilled through his chest, a sense of possibility. The room was coming into focus, and as he lay on his side with his arm tucked beneath the pillow, he could see the outline of her body through the thin sheet. The memories tumbled happy and disconnected. The softness of her lips. Her hungry sigh as he kissed down her body. The ropy tightening of the muscles in her thigh as he tasted her. The soft, quick moans that echoed from her throat as she came. Standing up, taking her in his arms. Dizzy and happy. The two of them stumbling to the bedroom, giggling at the sheer wildness of it, the improbability, the sense of being in another world. How the giggling turned to full-on laughter as they fumbled with a condom package, until he finally took the edge between his teeth and ripped it.

The perfect connection of sliding into her, eyes locked and inches apart.

Oh God, she’d said. Is this real? Are we doing this?

It’s real.

Are you sure?

Do you want me to stop?

No. No.

And finally, best of all, the melted softness of her body as she fell asleep against him, the cocoa butter smell of her hair, the miraculous sense that against all odds, he’d gotten what he wanted. In the dark of her bedroom, he smiled. It felt like a luxury, smiling just for himself. Smiling for pure joy.

Of course, if that was real, then the rest was, too.

His smile wilted. For a moment he was back in the alley, the smell of garbage and exhaust, the tinny radio playing Spanish love songs. The man staring up at him.

Mitch pulled the sheet off. Slid his legs out and sat on the edge of the bed. Silver light filtering through the blinds painted his pale thighs. He rubbed at his eyes, skin sticky with sleep.

What did you do ?

The thought came fast and hard as a shiver. Panic soaked him, cold then hot, a flush that started in his chest. The man on the ground, helpless, teeth ground together in pain.

When he’d been young, Mitch had a BB rifle, spent months plinking away at bottles. One blue day a friend-God, what was his name, blond hair and bright teeth, one of those who would grow up to be a football star-it had been his turn with the rifle, only instead of the Coke can, he’d pointed it at a squirrel, a mangy thing watching them from a branch, and before Mitch could speak, there had been the soft pop of air. The squirrel had fallen. The two of them had stared at each other, horrified not only at what they had done, but at the swiftness of the consequence. The way the world reacted. There had been a moment of silence, total silence, and then they ran to stand over the poor thing. It had squirmed and writhed, tiny legs skittering uselessly, and Mitch had felt this same hot-cold sensation, even though he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger. The desperate desire to take it back, to rewind-

Stop.

He closed his eyes, straightened his back. Took a long, slow breath in through his nose, held it. Released.

Use your brain.

He forced himself to look at things logically. It wasn’t a cute, fluffy squirrel that had been shot, a helpless creature that meant no harm. It was a drug dealer, an armed killer. One who had seen them, who could-would-wreck their lives. End them. His life, and Jenn’s, and the others’, too. There hadn’t really been a choice.