Cash Burn (27 page)

“Well, I know you could do something. With all the authority you have.”

“There’s a lot of things I could do. That wouldn’t be the hard part.”

“Mm. Right.” She brought her lips to his ear and spoke with her lips brushing against it. “It’s getting away with it.”

43

The tires of his BMW met the streets.

Everything was different now. The waking city pulsed around him to a beat out of sync with him, its tempo tired as an aged rocker compared to the melody of the sonata he and Brenda had composed during the night. The ugliness of the streets, the hazy air, trash flitting along the gutters and crushed in tire tracks—all of it was different now.

For a moment he dared to imagine it might be temporary.

If he pursued this path, if it wasn’t just talk, if the seeds of a plan he and Brenda had planted last night took root and they fled together with millions in their pockets, he wouldn’t have to drive these streets much longer. These buildings wouldn’t hem him in; he would no longer be enclosed by these cold edifices rising around him, aloof as the stars up there somewhere you couldn’t see because of the smog from millions of Angelenos. He and Brenda could leave all this ugliness, these buildings, these filthy streets, these striving, frenzied people all a paycheck away from ruin. The two of them would be gone, their only worry the feds on their tails.

Not that the feds were a small worry. But you could cure a lot of problems with enough money.

Part of him still hung back from the details, not wanting to give place to it. This life of his would end. He would be flushing away everything he’d worked for in the past sixteen years.

But where had it gotten him? Soon Vince would either fire him or relegate him to a role so menial he wouldn’t even have the authority to approve an expense report. He’d spend the rest of his career bouncing from bank to bank around town, maybe adding 5 or 10 percent to his salary with every new business card, until his hair was too gray to find anyone willing to put him on the payroll. This chance with Brenda would be gone forever.

As he turned the corner onto his street, the numbers he’d discussed with Brenda flitted through his mind. Twenty million. Maybe thirty. A couple of loan advances would be harder to catch than just one. He could set up offshore accounts over the next couple of weeks to receive the loan proceeds. He thought of the bankers he’d met from London and Japan at bank syndicate meetings. Those contacts could help a lot. And the Israeli lawyer who’d negotiated for a client, and the business manager for an actor who was a client. Guys on the edge of legal. He could sense it when they talked about certain loans and fund movements. But you didn’t ask too many questions. Even though you knew that somewhere past the part you played, something wasn’t quite right.

They could be useful.

He reached up to press the garage-door remote, and the sections rose. Serena had stationed her Mercedes on the left. His lips tightened. He would not engage. Just shower, change clothes, and get out, get to the office, away from her.

He slotted the BMW in and switched off the engine. Stepping out into the garage, he was about to turn to enter the house, but the sound of nearby footsteps caught his attention. Two men were hustling from the sidewalk up the driveway. Big men. One white and tall, bruises shadowing his face and one arm in a cast, the other guy Hispanic, black hair combed back from his forehead, round face set like concrete.

Jason had an urge to run. But they would be on him before he could make it to the door or get back into the car. When they moved into the garage, the space seemed to close down on him.

The tall one had to bend his neck to fit under the door opening. The Hispanic stepped ahead.

A carjacking. It happened all the time in the city. They followed a car until it parked and got to the driver while the key was still in his hand. Home invasions started like this sometimes too.

He realized he was still standing between the open door of his car and the chassis. The key was in his hand. Nowhere to go. “What do you want?”

They stared at him. The tall guy in back looked at him as if measuring him for a coffin. It was a crowd between the Mercedes and the BMW, this gap never as small as it was now. He was hemmed in.

He could hit the panic button on his key. It would sound the car alarm. But car alarms in the city had no impact. All it would do was bring Serena out. And that was the last thing he wanted.

The Hispanic guy in front spoke up. “You got a brother Flip?”

Not carjackers. Not home invaders. Jason shifted his feet and he put a hand on the top of the open door. Finally a breath would come.

“What about it?”

The guy who had spoken moved closer. Jason could count the pockmarks on his face. “He’s got something belongs to our boss.”

Jason took a step forward so the door would clear his back. He reached back and slammed it. “Well, I don’t know where he is. My advice is to check the jails around town. That’s where I usually hear from him.”

“Maybe we should look around inside.” He had so many pockmarks he looked like somebody had taken a hat pin to his face. “Could be you got him visiting and you don’t know it. You been out all night.”

“Visiting? He doesn’t visit. Tell you what. Why don’t you give me your number? He shows up, you’ll be the first guys I call.”

“I think he’s getting smart with us.”

Jason looked past Pock-Face to the tall guy. He hadn’t said a word. The bruises on his face weren’t fresh, but the cast on his arm was bright white. “Did Flip do all that to you?”

He kept quiet. Maybe his jaw was wired shut.

Pock-Face said, “What he’s got, we need to get back. You understand? You get it for us, it would be better for him. You let us know. We come and get it from you, and he doesn’t get hurt.”

Jason smiled. They didn’t know Flip. “Sure. I’ll let you know. Just give me your number.”

The tall one had something in his hand. Jason craned his neck around to see. It was a blade. He held it against the BMW’s fender. He began to scrape it.

“Hey!”

Pock-Face shoved a hand against Jason’s chest.

The garage rang with the screech of metal scraping metal.

“Stop. Stop!”

The tall guy brought the knife away from the fender and spoke for the first time. “Just giving you my number. You want me to write it somewhere else?”

Pock-Face shoved Jason farther into the garage. “Maybe we write it someplace handier.” He took his own knife out and folded the blade out from the handle. The blade was shiny as a mirror. “Maybe I carve it in your face.”

Jason held his hands out. “I’ll remember.”

“I think you’ll forget.” Pock-Face kept coming.

“No, I’ll remember. I have a good memory. Good with numbers. Really good.”

The grin on that pocked face mocked his fear. “You sure? ’Cause I could help you remember.” He kept shining the light from the garage door opener off the blade and into Jason’s eyes.

The tall guy was carving into the fender again, a straight line now as he approached the hood, coming in Pock-Face’s and Jason’s direction.

“Come on, man,” Jason said.

The tall guy brought his eyes up. “You shouldn’t worry so much about your car. Hey, maybe we could get your lady to help you remember. She’s been home all night while you been out.”

Pock-Face kept grinning, reflecting the light into Jason’s eyes. “Yeah, let’s go see the pretty lady. She’ll help you remember. Otherwise you’ll forget.”

“I won’t forget.”

The tall guy gashed the paint so deep he made a spark. “Five-five-five,” he said. “You listening?”

“Yeah. Five-five-five.” It was all Jason could get out. His breath was failing him.

“Five-two-zero-seven. Say it.”

Jason squinted against the flash of the light off Pock-Face’s blade. He repeated the digits.

“I don’t know,” Pock-Face said. “I still think he’s going to forget the numbers. Forget to call. Let’s go see the pretty lady.”

“No. I’ll remember. Five-five-five, five-two-oh-seven. I got it.”

“You got it?”

Jason nodded. “Believe me. I’d like to get rid of him myself. You’d be doing me a favor.” He repeated the number again.

“You’re not going to try to protect your brother? I still think we should see the pretty lady.”

“No. I got it. I won’t try to protect him.”

“’Cause we got to get what belongs to our boss. Understand?”

Jason was beginning to feel like a bobble-head, he was nodding so much. “I understand. I do. You don’t have to talk to her.”

“It ain’t talking to her I want.” Pock-Face let his words hang in the garage. To Jason it seemed that they stared at each other for five minutes before the blade folded away against Pock-Face’s leg. He dropped the knife into his hip pocket, held his thumb by his ear and his pinky by his lips, and mouthed the words, “Call me.” He winked and turned away.

44

Jason stood with his back to the door leading into his house. The garage he and Serena had cluttered up over the years felt empty without the menace of the thugs looking for Phil.

A hand went to his face. They had talked about carving numbers in his skin. And Serena. It occurred to him that they’d been here all night, with Serena home alone. Pock-Face had called her the pretty lady. They’d gotten a look at her.

He tried the door to the house. Locked. They never locked it. This was the only door they kept unlocked. They had the big garage door to keep people out.

The key was still under the mat. It rattled to the slot but missed the grooves, jamming. He yanked it out, tried again and got it lined up, unlocked it, and burst inside.

“Serena!”

No answer. She wasn’t in the kitchen. The dining room was empty. Jason ran from room to room, calling her name. Heard no response.

He charged up the stairs. First to their bedroom. Their bed was made.

The bathroom. He heard the pulse and splash of the shower and burst in.

Serena yelped. Behind the shower glass her arm went to her breasts. She called his name reproachfully.

One hand on the knob, he stood in the doorway, unable to catch his breath, his heart hammering. He sank to the floor.

Serena turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. She came to him, long hair pressed to her scalp and dripping. Drops of water clung to her bare shoulders as she knelt.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

Jason shook his head. His hands went to his face. Serena’s hands took his, lowered them.

“Jason.” She angled her head, trying to get into his line of sight.

He met her eyes. Around the brown pupils, the whites were lined with red, and the skin around her eyes was swollen. He recognized the look from other times she’d been crying. “They didn’t . . . ? Those guys didn’t . . . ?”

“What guys?”

“Two guys. In the garage. They didn’t come inside?”

“No.” She looked toward the door as if he might have led them in. “What did they want?”

He wanted to wrap his arms around her. Wanted to feel her warmth against him. Put all the cheating behind them.

But it was too late.

He pushed up off the floor.

Serena rose with him. Water pooled on the slate at her feet. “Jason? What did they want?”

“They wanted to scare me. I guess it worked.” He turned away and dropped onto the bed. “They had knives. One of them keyed up the Bimmer pretty good.”

She brought a trail of wet footprints onto the carpet. “I’m calling the police.”

“Wait.”

The receiver was in her hand, halfway to her damp ear. “
Wait?
Knives, Jason? And you want me to wait?”

“Just give me a minute.” He was seated on his bed in his home. He knew that. He was in his bedroom with his wife. She stood within reach. He could touch her if he extended his hand, could feel the terry cloth that clung to her skin or the dampness on her shins. But the reality of where he stood and the things around him wouldn’t help him escape the feeling that he stood on a precipice. One step, two, and a chain of events as incontrovertible as gravity would take him.

Here stood Serena, surrounded by the house they’d built together. They’d intended to live out their lives here. The shade of paint on the walls, the color of the carpet, the patterns on the furniture, the sinks and shower heads in the bathrooms—it was all assembled at their expense and direction. But her cheating was like a demolition ball. The place mocked him every time he entered. And her denials were an insult.

He brought his eyes to her face. Why had she come back? What did she hope to gain by insisting on her innocence despite proof? She’d grown tired of her lover. That must be it. He’d made her a bad cup of coffee or left dirty dishes in the sink or said something that revealed he wasn’t worthy of her. So she’d come back to Jason. Old, reliable Jason, who would always stand by waiting for her like a groom at an altar expecting the bride’s entrance.

“Give me the phone.” He held his hand out.

Her drying brow made an inquisitive turn, and then he saw expectation on her face, expectation that he would do the right thing. Like he always did the right thing. Follow the rules. The police and the law, the chain of authority, the consequences the punks from the garage should face. It was what she wanted him to do. She slipped the cordless phone into his palm.

He tossed it onto the bed next to him.

Her head jutted forward. “Really? You’re going to let them get away with this?”

He stood away from the bed and went to the closet. Serena kept talking about what he was supposed to do. He unbuttoned his cuffs and collar and drew the shirt over his head without unbuttoning the rest of the buttons. It went on the floor. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants, ignoring Serena’s goading him to debate. Her voice was a cattle prod. She wanted him in her pen or led to slaughter. It didn’t matter to her as long as he was under her control.

He walked to the shower, staying ahead of her voice. She wouldn’t stop, not until he gave in.

The shower valve was in his hand before he’d had enough. He turned. “I’m not calling the police, Serena. I’m going to take a shower and go to work.”