He was ready to back out. He was going to say to Carlos, Sorry, man, I don’t like it, and go back to Brooklyn, but he knew he’d be letting Carlos, his brother, down, and was there really a reason to? Maybe he was just overthinking it, making it more complicated than it really was. Maybe it was like Carlos said, an easy twenty- five K. He’d go along with it, see how it went. If it didn’t feel right at the house, he could bail then.
They went past Austin Street under the Long Island Rail Road tracks and through the big gates into Forest Hills Gardens. Johnny had only been to this neighborhood once or twice, driving by, and he’d forgotten how fancy all the houses were. They were like mini mansions, with front lawns and backyards and driveways, and they had to go for, what, three, four million dollars, maybe even more nowadays. It reminded him of the houses in Rockaway in Brooklyn. One summer, when Johnny was eleven or twelve years old, he stole a bicycle, and every day he biked all the way to the beach. He’d pass all the fancy houses out there, watch all the families- the dads playing catch with their kids in the street, or the kids playing on their front yards and shooting hoops in their backyards. He’d wonder what it would feel like to be one of those kids, just for one day, to have everything instead of nothing.
As they walked, they didn’t talk at all. This had been Johnny’s rule- no talking. They went about three blocks, made a left, and there was the house. Jesus, it was one of the nicest ones on the block- three stories, brick, front lawn. When Johnny was a kid he would’ve killed to live in a place like this. He hoped the people appreciated what they had, that it wasn’t just all normal to them and they didn’t give a shit.
Johnny and Carlos looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then nodded to each other and walked up the driveway to the backyard. One thing struck Johnny as wrong, and he’d kick himself about it later: A shiny black Mercedes was in the driveway. There was a garage in the back, so if the people were away, out of town, wouldn’t they put the car in the garage? Or why not drive it to the airport and leave it there? Johnny was going to say something to Carlos, even suggest they go back to their car, but then he thought maybe there was nothing so strange about it at all. Lot of rich people have two or even three cars. Maybe the other cars were in the garage and the people had left the Merc in the driveway. Maybe they’d taken a limo to the airport. There were a lot of reasons why the Merc could be there.
At the end of the driveway, it was dark, just like Carlos had said it would be. They opened their backpacks and put on their ski masks and gloves and took out their flashlights. Then they went around to the back door. Carlos turned on his flashlight and opened the back door with the keys. So far so good, but now they had to disarm the alarm. Carlos went right to the keypad and punched in the numbers, but the red light was still blinking. Fuck, in maybe a minute or less the alarm would start blaring, and they’d have to run as fast as they could back to the car and get the hell out of Forest Hills.
“Come on,” Johnny stage- whispered. He was holding the door open, ready to take off.
“Wait,” Carlos said, and he started punching the numbers in again.
Jesus, Johnny knew he should’ve made Carlos write the code down, but he swore he had it memorized. Carlos typed in several numbers, then hesitated, as if thinking, using all his concentration, then punched in the last two.
The red light turned green.
Carlos smiled widely, and Johnny wondered, Had the guy been fucking with me all along? It was the type of prank Carlos would’ve pulled at St. John’s, trying to scare the shit out of somebody and getting a big kick out of it.
But they were in the house, that was the important thing. Now they had to get what they needed and get the hell out.
Shining their flashlights ahead of them, they went through the kitchen- it was huge, with brand new- looking stainless steel appliances- and into some kind of big pantry. Then they went into the living room- man, these people were loaded; they had a plasma TV on the wall, looked like a sixty- incher-and entered the dining room, where Carlos started coughing. He bent over for a few seconds, like he was trying to prevent a full- blown coughing fit. Then he straightened up and said in a loud whisper that was almost like his normal speaking voice, “Gotta stop smoking, man.”
“Shhhh,” Johnny said, shining his flashlight at his own face to show Carlos how serious he was.
Carlos smiled, and Johnny wondered if the cough was just for show, too, to get a reaction.
Carlos’s attitude was starting to piss Johnny off. He’d been cool on the way to the house, but now that they were inside he was acting like this was all a big game or something.
They continued to the foyer, to the staircase. The plan was Carlos would go up and get the jewelry and whatever cash there was, and Johnny would be the lookout. Johnny knew he was putting a lot of trust in Carlos. Carlos could come down and say he couldn’t find the jewelry, and meanwhile pocket all of it, but Johnny didn’t want to believe Carlos would ever do that to him. They were brothers for life, and they’d never rip each other off. They had a bond that nothing could break.
Or did they?
Carlos started upstairs. The stairs were creaking, more than Johnny liked, and then they heard the noise. Johnny knew Carlos had heard it, too, because he suddenly stood still and cut off his flashlight. Johnny did the same and immediately stuck his hand in his pocket and gripped his piece.
Johnny tried to convince himself that it was just the wind, the house settling, but he knew exactly what he’d heard: footsteps. Somebody was up there.
Carlos wasn’t packing. Johnny had wanted him to, but Carlos had said,“Why do I need a piece when there’s gonna be nobody in the house to shoot?”
Johnny was aiming his gun toward the top of the staircase. His eyes hadn’t adjusted yet, and he could barely see. If he saw someone, anything, and had a clear shot, he was going to take it.
The only light in the room was coming from the streetlights outside and maybe some dim light from a night- light or something upstairs. Now Johnny could see the front door, the windows, and the outline of the staircase. He couldn’t see anything upstairs yet, but he was just starting to see Carlos, standing there, about halfway up the stairs.
Then Carlos started heading up again.
Johnny wanted to scream, What the fuck’re you doing? The guy wasn’t carry ing, and somebody was up there. He had to know somebody was up there.
Then Johnny heard movement, maybe the floor creaking. Shit.
Carlos said, “Please don’t shoot me,” and then the shots came. Two first, then a bunch all at once. Jesus, the shooter was opening up on Carlos, the fuck was going on? Johnny saw Carlos fall back a little, trying to steady himself by grabbing the railing, but then he lost his balance and fell to the bottom of the stairwell.
The whole thing had happened so fast, maybe like three seconds total, that Johnny didn’t have any time to think about what to do. He was about to fire at the staircase- he saw somebody there now, looked like a guy in a T-shirt and boxers- but did he really want to get into a shootout?
He took a couple of steps toward the door then heard, “Get the hell outta here or I’ll shoot!”
It sounded like some rich, middle- aged white guy trying to be tough. Johnny would’ve bet any amount the guy was full of shit; he’d probably spent his whole round and was standing there shitting bricks with nothing but a handful of metal. If Johnny had taken a few seconds to think it over, he would’ve blown the guy away, but his instincts told him to get the hell out before this thing went from bad to worse.