Marcus Sakey - The Amateurs

“We didn’t know what they were. But we figured that if someone was willing to pay that much for them”-she shrugged her shoulders-“we kept them.”

“Where are they?”

Her palms were moist, her armpits soaked. An old line flitted through her head, something to the effect of women didn’t sweat, they dewed. She almost laughed, fought off the hysteria. She looked at Mitch, tried to beam the thoughts over to him, praying that he would somehow telepathically understand.

“Ms. Lacie?”

“They’re in a safe-deposit box. At my bank.” She managed to say it without her voice cracking.

“A safe-deposit box? Why?”

Mitch said, “We didn’t know what they were. And they were worth so much.”

The urge to smile rose like champagne bubbles, but she fought it away.

“I see. Let’s go get them.”

This was the risky part. She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried to think coolly, to let the panic show but not the calculation. “It’s Saturday.”

“So?”

“The bank is closed.”

“Convenient.”

She shrugged helplessly. “Not to us.”

“Funny, though, isn’t it? What I want is somewhere you can’t get it?”

“Hey,” she said, “you picked the time to bring us here. Not me.”

Victor made a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a hmm.

“Listen, cunt.” Johnny came off the wall. “Stop fucking lying and get the man what he wants, and you do it right fucking now. Or so help me-”

“I have the key,” she said.

“What?”

“The key. It’s in my purse. Can I get it?”

Victor made a why-not gesture. Hands shaking, she dug into the change compartment of her bag. The key was a simple brass thing, unmarked, about the size of the one she used to get her mail. She held it up. “See?”

The room was air-conditioned to January temperatures. She stood with the key out in front of her like a magic totem, like it was something that could protect them from harm. It felt flimsy and small.

“Let me have that.”

“No,” she said, her voice coming out raspy.

“No?”

“None of us meant to steal from you. I wish we hadn’t done this at all. It was stupid. But if we give this to you now, how do we know you won’t…”

“All I’m interested in is my product.”

“We’ll give it to you. Monday morning. At the bank.”

“Because you’ll feel safe there.”

“Yes.”

“You understand I could take it from you now.”

“I could scream.”

“And my people could shoot you.” He gave a small smile. “But I’d rather not do it that way.” He rubbed at his chin, and in the pin-drop quiet of the room she could hear the grating of his fingers against stubble. “You really never have done anything like this before, have you? You’re honest-to-Christ amateurs.”

“That’s for sure,” Johnny said.

“Look, Victor”-she leaned forward-“you’re right. We’ve never done anything like this, and we wouldn’t have done it if we knew what would happen. We don’t want to be any trouble. But we can’t get them today. If we could, believe me, we would. But-”

Victor glanced at his heavy gold watch. “OK. It doesn’t really matter if we get it alone or with you, today or Monday morning.”

Fear’s fingers unclenched a notch on her heart.

“What does matter is that you believe every word I say. For example, when I say that if you go to the police or try to leave town or try to in any way play me, it’s not just your own lives in the balance.” He paused. “I don’t enjoy it, but believe me, I can make some very unpleasant things happen.”

“I believe you. I swear to Christ I do.” Part of her wanted to just give in, tell him where the bottles were, but it was too late now. She forced herself to stare back at him, and let the fear into her eyes.

“What about the money?” Ian had been quiet, and his voice came as a surprise.

Victor shrugged. “The money was allocated for the purchase. It’s not my concern.”

“Wait a second,” Johnny Love said. “You’re going to let them take my money?”

“You let them take it. Not me.”

“We can keep it?” Ian’s voice was level, like he was negotiating a corporate deal.

“You’ve got my word.”

“No fucking-”

“Johnny.” Victor’s eyes flashed like razor wire. He turned back to Ian. “Yes. You can keep the money.”

“What about him?”

“I’ll personally guarantee that Mr. Loverin won’t come after you.”

“How do we know we can trust you?”

“I hate repeating myself. I already told you to believe every word I say. So when I guarantee your safety, believe it. But also believe that if you play around, I will have men visit your father with a ball-gag and a belt sander.”

Ian paled. “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“He does. Because what I can do to him will make you do what I say. Understand?”

Silence.

“Look, it’s simple. The four of you are clueless. You found yourself in possession of something that belongs to me. I want it back. If you oblige, there’s no reason for me to hurt you. I mean, what are the four of you going to do?” Victor smiled. “Killing you would be a waste of resources. So yeah, it really is that simple. Give me what I want, and you can not only get on with your lives, you can keep the money. Or don’t, and force me to start doing terrible things to you and yours until you cave and end up doing what I want anyway.”

The silence that fell had weight and texture. Victor held the pause, then brought his palms together like he was praying, and inclined them toward Jenn. “Monday morning?”

She didn’t trust herself to speak, just nodded.

“OK.” He smiled, showing bright, straight teeth. “Have a good weekend.”

WHEN HE’D BEEN A FRESHMAN at the University of Michigan with his whole life ahead of him, Alex had an intense friendship with two girls on his hall. It had started out the way college friendships did: easy. He’d met Tara doing laundry, Stacy in the TV lounge at the end of the hall. Throughout the halcyon days of a Midwestern autumn they’d chatted and laughed and shared bottles of tequila in his cramped dorm room. It hadn’t been a sexual thing. They’d been so young, and free for the first time, and their friendship had revolved around conversation and mutually murdered hours. Back then it had seemed like the whole world was made up of time; hours and hours spent bullshitting in the glow of Christmas lights, playing euchre for cigarettes, sneaking into Scorekeepers with fake IDs. And for a while, it had been great. His first experience with a constructed family.

Around March it started getting weird.

The first thing was Stacy beginning to crush on him a little. It wasn’t a big deal, flattering actually, but he didn’t want to blow their friendship. Of course, after too much to drink one night, he and Tara had ended up in bed instead. They both enjoyed it, but also decided that it wasn’t something they could continue. They agreed not to tell Stacy, but she found out, said she was fine with it. These things happened.

Then money went missing from Tara’s purse. When Tara asked Stacy about it, she got offended, which led to a screaming fight on the Diag. Things got tense on the hall. Someone drew a picture on Tara’s door that showed her doing inappropriate things to a horse. Stacy’s colored laundry ended up bleached. Tara opened Alex’s always-unlocked dorm room door late one night and crawled in with him, and when he refused her-he’d just started seeing Trish-she left in a self-righteous huff that woke the whole hall.

By April it had become a three-front war, and Alex, young and newly in love, opted out. He started spending most nights in Trish’s room, avoiding both girls. Summer came, and then the following year he and Trish moved into an apartment together, and that was that.