Marcus Sakey

Good People

Copyright © 2008 by Marcus Sakey

APRIL 24, 2006

1

THE SMILE WAS FAMOUS. Jack Witkowski wasn’t particularly a fan, but he’d seen those teeth plenty of times. They shone in the huddle of supermarket checkout lines, gleamed on the cover of a hundred magazines. After a while it was natural to think of the smile as separate from the man, and watching him stop on the club steps to throw it at a gawking chick with a camera phone only reinforced the idea. One minute the guy was just a guy – good-looking and well dressed, sure, but just a guy, and even a little on the short side – then that spotlight smile hit, raw wattage that announced you were in the presence of a Star.

Jack gazed through the windshield, forefinger tapping absently against his shoulder-slung.45. Nines might be the gun du jour, but you couldn’t beat a.45 for stopping power. “One more time.”

Bobby said, “ Marshall lets us in. We take the service steps up. Put on the masks. Be careful not to use names. Will and Marshall tie them. I get the money. We go back out the way we came, head for the Chrysler. If anything goes wrong, we split, meet up later.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

Jack squinted at that, wondered again if involving his younger brother had been a good idea. “That’s right,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Remember, go in hard. These are spoiled kids. Get your pistol right in their face, yell at them. Anybody gives shit, crack them with the gun, and don’t hold back. It’ll just make everybody else step quicker. In and out in five.”

Bobby nodded. “What about that one?” The man he gestured to was taller than the Star and his entourage, built thick through the shoulders and neck. He carried a black briefcase in his left hand and kept his right open against his stomach, fingers just inside the jacket.

“That’s the bodyguard,” Will Tuttle said from the back, his tone smooth as a jazz radio announcer. He’d once said he’d done some voice-over work back when he was in L.A., that he’d been the voice of a dancing soap bubble in a commercial for toilet cleanser. Easy work; two grand for a morning spent repeating We scrub so you don’t have to. “Don’t worry your pretty head, son. Let the real bad guys handle him.”

“Fuck you.”

Will chuckled. “What’s the matter,” he said, drawing Carltons from his suit jacket and tapping the soft pack to pop a cigarette loose. “I hurt your wittle feelings?”

“Enough.” Jack stared in the rearview mirror. “Don’t light that thing.”

Will tucked the cigarette behind his ear. “Victory smoke.”

Across the street, one of his entourage patted the Star on the shoulder, hooked a thumb in a let’s go gesture. The Star nodded, threw one last smile-and-wave, then stepped through the doors. His friends followed, one of them pausing long enough to pluck a stunning brunette from the line, the girl grinning over her shoulder at her squealing friends. Movie people. Shit. The bodyguard went last, stopping at the top of the steps to scan the street. Jack stared back, just another Chicago yokel awed by American Royalty. After a moment, the man went inside, the door swinging shut to muffle thumping beats.

“Go ahead,” Jack said, and Bobby put the stolen Ford into drive, sliding past the line of boys in shiny shirts and girls with spray-tan shoulders. They fell in behind a taxi to the end of the block, turned right, then left, and pulled into an unattended pay lot they’d scoped earlier. Bobby twisted the key to kill the engine, but cranked it the wrong way at first, the engine grinding.

“Jesus Christ,” Will said. “What’re you, fourteen?”

“I said enough.” Jack pulled up the sleeve of his suit, glanced at his watch. They sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the engine, the sound of revelry through the windows. River North, clubland, lah-dee-fucking-dah.

“He look short to you?” Bobby not needing to say the name.

“They all are,” Will said. “Tom Cruise is five-seven. Al Pacino, too.”

“Pacino? Bullshit.”

“Emilio Estevez. Robert Downey Jr.”

“I like that guy,” Bobby said. “He’s a great actor.”

“Don’t change his height.”

Jack let them talk, taking steady breaths, waiting for the rush to hit.

“Funny,” Bobby said, “it’s like the pope is visiting. All week I been hearing where he was spotted. Saw an article in the Red Eye on his favorite restaurants. He’s just here to work, right? Film a movie. But where he eats is news. Kind’ve feel sorry for him.”

“Yeah,” Will said, “poor famous millionaire, neck-deep in pussy makes the skanks you date look like schnauzers.”

“Will,” Jack said, “go stand on the corner, scope for cops, would you?”

“What the hell? Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Will sighed. “Whatever.” He popped the door, the street noise suddenly louder. “Amateur,” he muttered as he got out.

“Screw you.” Bobby said it quietly.

They sat, Jack letting the tension dissipate. He cracked gloved knuckles. After a minute, he said, “You okay?”

Bobby looked over, face pale and eyes all pupil. “I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can. Easiest thing in the world.”

“Jack-”

“You can.” He smiled. “Look, I know where you are. First time I stuck somebody up, I had the shakes like you wouldn’t believe. Almost dropped my gun.”

“Serious? You?”

“Sure. Part of the job. Why do you think Will’s being such a dick? Everybody gets the shakes.”

“ Marshall too?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.” He smiled, reached out to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “This is heavier than what you’re used to, I get that. But try and concentrate on the score. In fifteen minutes, you’ll be a whole lot richer.”

“But-”

“If I thought we could do this with three, I would. I need you, bro.”

Bobby nodded, took a deep breath, let it out slow. He rolled his head side to side, then said, “Okay.”

Jack felt that old flush of warmth. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see. The Brothers Witkowski, rolling hard. Just follow my lead, it’ll be over before you know it.” He punched Bobby’s bicep. “Besides, you’re a bad man.”

“Right,” Bobby said. He took another breath, then drew a chrome-over-black Smith and racked it. “I’m a bad, bad man.”

They got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. The evening air was alive with the noise of a dozen clubs, the honk of taxis, and the laughter of girls. Rich cocoa tickled Jack’s nose from the Blommer Chocolate Company a mile away.

“You ladies ready?” Will rocked his weight from one foot to another.

“Let’s roll.”

They started east, pace easy. Just businessmen, conventioneers maybe, on a weekend away from the wife. Out to check the scene, have a couple of cocktails, try to bang girls their daughters’ age before catching a morning flight back to boredom. Jack put himself between the other two, kept his eyes alert. They jaywalked across Erie, then cut down the alley. Broken glass crunched under Jack’s heels.

As they fell into shadow, he drew his pistol and unsnapped the safety.

INSIDE THE CLUB, Marshall Richards waited till the bartendress in the belly shirt looked away. Then he took the thick-bottomed rocks glass and poured the whiskey on the floor. He smacked the glass down with a wince just as she turned back. She shouted, “Another?”

“Sure.” He put an elbow on the edge, then made a show of slipping and catching himself. Marshall smiled at her, mouthed Oops over the pounding music. She shook her head as she refilled him, raising her arm to stretch a rope of amber between bottle and glass, a neat trick. Then she snagged a twenty from the stack of cash he’d laid out and turned away.