Cash Burn (28 page)

Her lips clenched. She folded her arms over the towel. “Then I’ll call them myself.”

“No. They’re after Phil.”

A shake of the head, those brown eyes squinting. “So?”

“So I’m going to hand him over.”

45

In a dark room, curtains shutting out sunlight to almost make it night inside, Flip lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wanting more blackness. Even the thickest motel curtains couldn’t keep the light away entirely.

It was all darkness now inside, and he wanted it outside him too. Eternal night. The sun was a hated thing, like a spotlight circling a prison to pin him to a wall and freeze his escape. It was a tool for the cops. Other people could have the warmth of it on their faces, burning its cancers into their skin. He wanted none of it. He never wanted to see the sun again.

Flip rolled onto his side, directing his face away from the window and the sunlight that tried to squeeze through the gaps like an airborne plague. Sleep away the day. That’s what he would do. Never again take the risk of exposure to that flame in the sky.

Candles. She’d lit candles for someone else. They’d filled the air with the smell of fruit and candy. The image of the table came to him, silverware aligned on carefully folded napkins, plates shining in the candlelight, goblets waiting for the wine to be poured. And she’d dressed with another man in mind, put on that long, silky robe that begged hands to touch it.

He pulled the pillows around his head. He couldn’t shake the images of her and what she’d prepared in expectation of someone else.

He’d knocked her to the floor. He pressed the pillows tighter around his head, wished he could squeeze the image out forever. But there it was, Diane sprawled on the floor, that robe riding up over her bare thigh, anger flashing across her face for an instant before she was back on her feet. And not a word of protest. As if she got knocked down every day.

Was that how it was for her? Did her old man treat her that way? Did her big sister? Or did she get used to being knocked around after she left home, when her scams took her across country, waitressing in Philly, desire for revenge and a big score driving every move she made, every human contact. Was it her childhood she was so driven to avenge? He had never asked. Flip had never met anyone so absorbed with retribution—even when he was in the joint, where guys nursed their grudges like there was no other reason to live.

“Mister?” A woman’s voice.

Flip bolted up. The pillows fell from his head.

“I make up your room?” The silhouette of a square woman was framed in the brilliant sunlight beaming in through the open doorway.

“No. Go away.” He shielded his eyes and waved with his other hand.

“You want fresh towels?”

The sunlight battered his eyes. “No. Get out.” He was on his feet, moving toward the door.

She shied away. “I come back later?”

“No. Do not disturb. See?” He took the sign hanging from the doorknob and hung it on the outside. “Do not disturb.”

She stepped out into the day, and Flip slammed the door and brought the little bar around over the knob on the door that worked better than the chains they used to have in these places.

What had he been thinking about? Diane. Of course. Diane. What else would he be thinking about? He’d been thinking about her ever since he first saw her when she visited him toward the end of his time in the Stark Youth Correctional Facility. The way she moved and the look in her eyes brought him along, trailing him after her like a puppy on a leash.

Well, he wouldn’t be her puppy anymore. He had a little something going for himself now. Sure, maybe he’d be there when she was ready to come crawling back to him. But he had these papers of Mr. B’s now. And Mr. B would pay to get them back. He’d pay big, or he would really pay if he didn’t.

Flip crossed to the closet and slipped the papers out of his bag. The light from the closet was too bright, so he angled the door closed against it. He read them again, the names and phone numbers and the notes beside them that described enough that even the dumbest cop would get the drift of what Mr. B was up to.

He looked over the list. The penmanship was precise, tiny, every letter a capital. Blue ink and black, even some in red. Flip wondered if the colors had any meaning or if Mr. B would just pick up whatever pen was closest when he had to jot something down. He could picture Mr. B at his desk, reaching for a pen, maybe yelling at Garrett or Ronny if he couldn’t find one. None of the names on the list meant anything to him. Somewhere here was the name of the girl, the daughter of the big guy who’d come for Mr. B’s head. He’d called her a strung-out, dead junkie.

This list had to be worth a lot to Mr. B. Even if he had a copy somewhere.

Flip reached for the phone. The base was bolted to the bedside table. As if somebody went around stealing old desktop telephones. He called information and got the number of the Ragtop Club, and after seven rings, a man answered.

“I want to talk to Mr. B.”

“Who’s this?”

“Tell him Frank.”

While the guy yelled for Ronny to see if Mr. B wanted to talk to Frank, Flip looked over the list some more. It was five pages long. The sheets were unlined, the names and numbers and notes running in uneven rows across the pages.

The other phone rustled. “Hi, Flip.”

He tried not to let surprise slip into his voice. “Smart boy. How’d you figure that one out?”

“Flip Dunn. Or Philip. Brother named Jason. I got it all right here. Old man lives in Inglewood, name of Henry. You want me to read his address for you?”

“I know his address.”

“I want that list, Flipper.”

“It’s Flip. I ain’t a dolphin.”

“You bring me that list. I want it right now, understand, Flipper? Now.”

This was no good. He didn’t want Mr. B going to his dad’s house, Doberman or not. “It’s Flip.”

“Okay, Flipper, here’s how it’s going to work. We already been to see your brother and his wife. But if that list isn’t in my hands today, a couple of my guys go have a talk with your dad tonight. Then they go back to your brother’s house after. Get it?”

Diane would know what to say. Flip had nothing to tell him.

“You thinking it over, Flipper?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking.”

“Okay, here’s an idea. You keep sitting there at Dino’s Motel. My guys’ll be right over, pick up that list. And my money. You can give me my money back too.”

Flip had seen phones that read out the caller’s ID. He should have bought a throw-away cell phone. Gone to a payphone. Something. He closed his eyes.

He was going to have to go out into the sunlight.

46

Max never barked. But the sniffing noise on the other side of the door told Jason his father was gone. That dog stayed glued to the old man’s side whenever he was home.

Jason pounded on the door again. He still had a key to this lock somewhere, tucked in the back of a drawer at his house. He should have looked for it before he left. He knew there was a possibility the old man wouldn’t be home when the phone had gone unanswered, but sometimes he ignored the ringing. There was no answering machine in the house, so all Jason could do was let it ring and ring.

It occurred to Jason that his dad could be lying on the floor in there, victim of a heart attack or stroke or something else. Or maybe Max had let the two guys with the knives get to the old man. Could be Dad had said something stupid to them. He never kept his mouth shut, and he always thought he was tougher than the other guy.

Jason gave up on the door and went to the window. He put his face to it between his hands, but the drapes blocked out everything. He went to the driveway at the side of the house, the leather soles of his shoes grinding the gravel, and opened the gate that led to the detached garage in back and the rest of the property. At the side of the house he tried the kitchen door. Max sniffed behind it, shadowing him to every entrance.

“Hey, Max, unlock the door, will you?”

More sniffs in response.

The drapes on the kitchen window were open. Jason went to it. Inside, Max stood on the faded linoleum, staring back at him through the glass.

Jason went to the plastic patio furniture propped up in the back yard. The chairs and table had started off white, but they’d been baked into a mottled gray by years in the sun and smog. Pooled dew and dust had dried into stains on the seat of each of the chairs. Jason left them empty. He took out his smartphone and thumbed through his e-mails. He was responding to one of Vince’s morning taunts when he heard a car crunch up the gravel driveway and cut off. Pocketing the phone, he crossed to the gate and opened it a crack.

His father pulled himself out of the open car door with both arms. He took a moment to steady his balance before stepping past the door and slamming it.

Jason opened the gate. “Morning.”

The old man turned. His neck had lost most of its flex, so his shoulders and head moved as if he wore a brace. With recognition of Jason, he lifted an eyebrow. “Why aren’t you at work?” He went to the trunk and got the key jammed in and the lid popped open.

“When are you going to trade this thing in?”

“You people always think newer is better. Grab some of these groceries, will you?” He lifted two bags out. No plastic bags for the old man. He had too many uses for the paper ones.

“What is it, a ’78?”

“You know it’s a ’79.”

“Is GM even still making Buicks?”

“I thought bankers were supposed to keep up on things like that.”

Jason thought it might be a smile tugging at the corner of the old man’s mouth, but it was so faint he couldn’t be sure.

They lugged the bags to the kitchen door, and Jason’s father hinged over to set the bags on the stoop and get to his key. As soon as the door opened, Max stepped out. The old man’s hand went to the dog’s head before he gathered the bags and went inside. Jason followed, the Doberman circling them like a herder.

“Get the rest, will you?” The old man put the bags on the table and pulled out cellophane-wrapped spaghetti noodles and a loaf of bread.

Jason went back to the car. The neighborhood was silent. No thugs with knives loitering around. He gathered up the last three bags and propped one on a knee so he could slap the trunk lid shut. The gravel crunched under his feet like knocked-out teeth.

He kicked the kitchen door closed. “Did you have any visitors today?”

The old man was at a cupboard sliding cans in one at a time. Peas. Soup. Pork and beans. “Just you. Why?”

“Did you see my car?”

“Looked like it could use a wash.” He folded an empty brown bag and slid it into the space between the refrigerator and the cabinet with the others that gathered dust and spider webs in there.

“A couple of guys came by looking for your boy.”

The old man froze, one hand in a bag, the other among the cans in the cupboard. He didn’t look up. He went back into motion. “Cops?”

“Not hardly.”

Now his dad turned his shoulders and head toward him. “What’s that mean?”

“It means Phil’s in trouble. That’s what.”

The old man sniffed. “Tell me something new.” Another bag folded and jammed into the slot. Jason thought there were probably bags in back that had been there since he was a teenager.

“You seen him? Phil?”

The Jim Beam was in its own bag inside a bigger one. Jason’s dad slid it out and set it on the counter. No point putting that away. “Couple weeks ago.”

Saltines. White bread. Both into the broom closet where the old man had installed shelves because the cabinets had run out of room to keep food for a man and his two hungry grade-school boys. He kept the brooms in the garage now with all the other junk.

“I want to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”

“Maybe he don’t want to talk to you.” The old man plopped into a cracked vinyl chair next to the table. “Take a load off.” He had the Jim Beam in his bunched fist. It was only ten in the morning.

Jason sat. “You have any breakfast, Dad?”

Every time Jason saw him, that old nose seemed rawer. It could be a rotten, chewed-up vegetable. Blood vessels trailed across it like a graph of contrary indicators.

The old man sniffed. “Get me a glass, will you?”

“I’ll get you some orange juice. Or something to eat. Got any eggs around?”

One of those eyes folded down into deeper wrinkles. “Yeah, I got eggs. I already got a conscience, too.” He shoved out of the chair and opened the cupboard over the sink, where three glasses stood at different levels of dirty. Back in the chair, he twisted the cap and the seal snapped. His eyes avoided Jason as he spun the cap and set it on the tabletop and poured.

This explained why he’d gone grocery shopping so early. He was out of JB. He swallowed a sip, and something changed behind his face.

He brought his eyes back to Jason. “You plan to give Philip a warning? You going to protect him?” The grin was peppered with meanness.

“Sure.”

Another sip. This one brought the level in the tumbler way down. He poured more.

“Take it easy, Dad.”

A sniff. Jason’s father leaned back in his chair, and the vinyl sighed underneath him. He drew the glass toward him and left his fingers on the smudged glass as if he got comfort from it.

Max came off his belly and onto his paws, his nails scratching at the linoleum. He came to the old man’s side and sat. The wrinkled hand left the glass for the Doberman’s head.

“That why you come by all dressed up? Tell me to take it easy?”

Jason sighed. As always, blame charged every word. It colored everything red with anger.

“All right.” He stood. “You don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me. But if these two guys come here, don’t answer the door, okay? And you might want to keep your car in back, unless you want it keyed.”

He frowned, and shadows fell over his eyes. “They keyed your car?”

“I’m just glad they didn’t do the same to me.” He paused just one second. “Or Serena.”

At the mention of her name, the old man’s elbows drew in. “Don’t you let her get hurt. You hear me?”

“That’s why I’m here.”