CHAPTER 21

SHE WASN’T MUCH USE AT WORK, but she went. Didn’t really see a choice. So while Mitch was in the shower, she’d gone through her closet, looking for an outfit that didn’t take any effort. Settled on a calf-length black skirt and a fitted tee, thrown lipstick on, skipped the mascara, and told Mitch, over the hum of the water, that she had to run.

Last night had been unexpected. She hadn’t planned to spend it with him, not again, not so soon. But after they had found the chemicals, something had snapped in her. She hadn’t wanted to be alone. If she was alone, she might think about what they had done, and she didn’t want that. It wasn’t a rational thought, but then, the last few days hadn’t been rational.

Again their lovemaking had been intense, the two of them moving well together. In the middle of it, when she’d been on her knees on the bed, she’d cocked her head and looked back at him, a patented move that always drove guys crazy. But when their eyes locked, for a second they’d both stopped. It had been a bad moment, as if all the fear and shame had poured into the room like fog. By unspoken accord they’d both started up again, more furiously than ever, knowing what the alternative to action was. Together they had blotted out the world, screwed it away until they collapsed in exhaustion and sleep seemed possible.

And half an hour later, Alex had come to her door.

“Who is that?” Mitch went bolt upright, his eyes darting.

She knew, from the first knock, but couldn’t think of a way to tell him without explaining more than she wanted to. So she’d shaken her head, said she didn’t know. He’d gotten out of bed, pulled on his jeans, and gone to answer.

When he came back a few minutes later, he said, “Alex.”

“What did he want?”

“He didn’t say. I think he was drunk.” His tone giving her an opportunity to add something. But she had just said, “Huh. Hope he’s OK,” and turned over, wrapping the sheets around her. After a moment, Mitch had lain back down, and they’d drifted into the awkward fugue of bodies not used to sleeping next to each other.

Her workday morning was a blur. She answered e-mails and checked airfares and talked on the phone in a daze. Twice her boss asked if she was OK.

Around noon, she finally made a decision. Yes, her life had gone crazy. Yes, the sky was falling. They had killed someone, and the police were looking for them, and they had a gallon of liquid heroin stashed in a stolen Cadillac. But there were two options. She could either curl up under her desk like some useless soap-opera chick. Or she could deal with it.

So she’d headed home, retrieved her share of the money, and gone to the bank. A politely bored assistant manager had walked her through some forms, then led her into a back room. He handed her one key, and then took one from his own ring, and they turned them together to unlock a safe-deposit box the size of a shoe box.

“You can take it over there,” he said, gesturing to a small alcove screened off by a curtain. “When you’re done, put it back and lock it, and you’re good to go.”

She’d thanked him, then waited for him to leave. She set the box on a small desk, opened her bag, and took out the money in its Ziploc. Hiding it felt right, gave her a sense of moving forward. One item checked off a list. That good feeling lasted until midafternoon, when Mitch called to remind her they had to go to Johnny’s bar tonight.

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.