Marcus Sakey - The Amateurs

Ready or not, the Thursday Night Club had to ride again.

WHEN HIS CELL PHONE RANG, Bennett was sprawled on his back across the bed with his head hanging off the edge, the world upside down. His hands were laced over his chest. His phone pinged quietly, a sound like a depth charge. He glanced at the caller ID, then answered the call. “Johnny Love, Johnny Love.”

“Yeah, hi, Benn-”

“Don’t say my name.”

“Why?”

“This is a cellular phone.”

“But you said my-”

“So I had a chat with our mutual friend yesterday.”

“Yeah, I…” The man sounded winded. Nervous, maybe. “I heard about that. I don’t know what he told you, but, kid, you gotta understand, I didn’t give you up.”

“Why, Johnny, I never said you did.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“But now that you mention it, you fat fuck, I think I might tear your spleen out.”

“No, hey, wait-”

“Just kidding. He told me he asked you pretty hard.”

“Well, you know, I hope you know that I would never sell you out. I told him you were involved, that’s all.”

“You didn’t mention anything about me running a burn on you both?”

“Well.” A pause. “I mean, what do you want me to say? He was going to throw me off a ten-story building.”

“The more I get to know this guy, the more I like him. So what’s on your mind, Johnny?”

“You know I been putting a lot of money out on the street. Letting people know I got robbed, that I’ll pay for a lead on the fuck ers that did it. Vic-our friend told me I get anything, I’m supposed to give it to you.”

“So what’ve you got?”

“A Jew bookie. Well, more than. Runs a private casino, some girls. Guy name of Katz.”

“Heard of him.”

“Apparently some dude, some yuppie dude, owed him about thirty. Katz was gonna whack him, the dude said that he had a mark he and his friends were going to rob, he needed a couple more days. Anyway, short story shorter, the yuppie came in yesterday with thirty large. Cash money.”

Bennett sat up straight. The blood rushed from his head, and he closed his eyes to fight the world’s wobble. “Katz have a name for you?”

“Yeah. You got a pen? Guy’s name is Ian Verdon, that’s V-E-R-D-O-N. No address, but-”

“I can find him.”

“Right. So should I meet up with you?”

“No. Don’t do a thing. Don’t tell anyone his name, don’t send guys looking, don’t tell anyone about him, don’t do a goddamn thing. Get me?”

“Yeah, sure, kid. Whatever you say.” He paused. “You just tell the big man that I’m doing my part, OK?”

“Sure. By the way, Johnny, when this is over, I think I might shoot you.”

“What?”

“Just kidding.”

MITCH HAD A QUEER déjà vu feeling as he folded his jacket over one arm and climbed on the bus. No, not even that, exactly; déjà vu was more ephemeral, a sort of untraceable feeling that you had done something before, stood in the same spot, seen the same beam of sun. This was different.

It was more like a video game. That was it. Like this was just a level called “The Ride to Johnny’s,” and he’d played through it before. It had that same patent unreality, the way the bus growled and shook, the packed crowd, body odor and averted glances, glazed eyes and headphones. One week ago today he’d hopped on this same bus up from the Loop. Only in that round of play, things hadn’t turned out how he’d liked. He’d been ignored, ridiculed, left hanging by his friends. He’d gone home drunk and alone to dream about a woman who seemed destined never to notice him.

Then, somewhere between then and now, he’d hit the Reset button. Decided to reload the level and play through again. To do it differently.

And would you believe it? The same bored-looking black kid in the same Looney Tunes jacket, his leg aggressively thrown into the empty seat beside him while standing passengers crammed the aisle.

Mitch smiled to himself, fought through the crowd to stand next to the guy. “Excuse me,” he said, the same as last time, and the same as last time, the guy took a look and then turned away, ignoring him. Figuring him for just another scared white man.

Not anymore. Mitch didn’t say anything else. He just leaned down, gripped the guy’s shoe, and pushed it off the seat.

The man sat up fast, his eyes narrowing. Mitch stared back, no smile, no apology. Just a level gaze. His heart was going a bit-not like the guy would do much on a crowded bus, but still-but he didn’t blink. Just stared.

And after a moment the kid sneered, said, “ A’ight,” and turned back to the window. Mitch slid into the open seat.

The rest of the ride, he replayed that moment, how simple it had been. How simple it was all turning out to be. You just decided what you wanted, and you acted like it belonged to you. Why the fuck hadn’t he learned that years ago? Although, it occurred to him, the cooler move would have been to, after brushing the guy’s foot off the seat, turn to someone in the aisle, a woman, and offer it to her. Like, Jack Reacher, at your service. That would have been suave.

Rossi’s looked the same, and he had a claustrophobic moment as he remembered the last time he’d seen it, in the car with Ian, the guy playing weird music and drumming his fingers against the wheel, that manic intensity under skies saddening to dusk. He forced the thought away, replaced it with a memory of Jenn giving him a hug, wearing her Bond-girl dress. The dress he’d later slid off her long, sweet body. That was the world he lived in now.

Yeah? So why was Alex showing up at her place in the middle of the night?

Shut it down.

Thursday night, and the place was busy. The usual suspects, junior-corporate-whatevers, holding martini glasses and pints and longneck bottles, loosening ties and laughing too loud and leaning in to touch one another’s arms. He slid through them to the end of the bar, and was surprised to see everybody already there, Ian slumped on his elbows, Jenn chewing on her plastic toothpick. Alex was in conversation with another bartender, and Mitch nodded in his direction, got nothing in response.

“Happy Thursday,” he said. He stepped toward Jenn, but she pinned him with her eyes, gave the tiniest shake of her head. Fine, OK. He settled for squeezing her shoulder, the skin humming under his fingertips. Ian turned his head without moving his shoulders. Though his suit was as impeccable as always, the man himself looked like he’d been wadded up and slept in. “Hey.”

Mitch glanced back and forth, said, “Somebody die?”

Jenn snorted at that, a quick little sound that he wasn’t sure was amusement, and Ian said, “Funny.”

“Next round’s on me.” Mitch raised his hand, gestured to Alex, but the guy still didn’t seem to see him. “So.” He smiled. “Victory, huh?”

Ian nodded, not looking at him. Jenn said, “Victory?”

“Sure. That was the plan, wasn’t it? That when things were done, we’d celebrate?” He didn’t want to talk too openly, but figured he could risk that much in the noise of the bar. After all, this was the cherry on top, ripping Johnny off and then drinking on his dime. Even if things hadn’t gone quite as planned, it was still a good feeling.

But the others didn’t seem to see it that way. He looked around for another chair, but the place was full, and so he rocked from foot to aching foot, trying to think of something to say, wishing he had a drink. Finally, Alex came over, drying his hands on a rag. He had fresh butterfly bandages on his face and a dark bruise. “Mitch.”

“Alex.” There was a long moment, then Mitch said, “Can I get a beer and a shot?”

Alex reached for a martini shaker. “I heard from Chip over there,” pointing with an elbow, “that Johnny has been going crazy about the robbery.”