Cash Burn (30 page)

“I’m not changing any agreements.” She folded her arms. The chained-up reading glasses looked down on her forearms. “We need to talk about what she said.”

Here was Vince’s launchpad. “What did she say?”

“Rumors,” Jason said. “It’s all some people have in their pathetic lives.”

Margaret wouldn’t have it. “What she said was that these two have an inappropriate personal relationship.” She closed the door and produced a pen out of her jacket by the time she sat behind Jason’s desk. “Sit down, you two.”

Jason opened the door. “Brenda, go back to your desk.”

Vince lifted a fat hand into the air. It hovered in front of her, five digits on a pink blimp. “Stay where you are.”

Brenda let her eyes rest on Jason, and the faintest smile drifted to the corners of her lips. “Excuse me,” she said to Vince and stepped to Jason. Her eyes held onto him. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

She drew the door toward her, and when the door blocked her from the view of all but Jason, she let her smile come. With a wink.

He wanted to crash through the door and take her in his arms. Instead, he faced the HR manager and the chief banking officer. Margaret held her pen like a hypodermic needle, ready to skewer any lies that might flow in her direction.

She thumbed the button on the end of the pen. “Okay, Jason, let’s have it.”

“You have all you’re going to get. A rumor from a separated employee. What do you expect when you do a RIF?”

Vince lowered himself onto the sofa, his palms cushioning the blow from his weight collapsing onto it. “Come on, Jason. They even let me in on it. And the boss is always the last to know.”

From behind his own desk, Margaret began a recitation. “‘A manager found to be engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a direct report faces disciplinary action, including possible termination.’”

“Does everybody in HR have the employee handbook memorized, or are you the only one?”

“This isn’t the time to get nasty,” Vince said. “I would think you’d want us on your side. The bank could be sued. And I don’t think your wife’s legal contacts will help you this time.”

“Leave my wife out of this.”

Vince snorted out a laugh. “You certainly are.”

Jason drew a breath. His vision shook with fury. He shoved his hands into his pockets. He hadn’t fought anyone in years, but Vince was making himself a great target for a kick in the teeth. In front of the head of HR. Wouldn’t that make a nice addition to his personnel file?

He turned to Margaret. “I’ve got work to do. If you plan to put something in my file about this false rumor, you’ll get a formal complaint from my attorney.”

She clicked the pen, and the tiny brass tip disappeared from the business end.

“And you, Vince. I don’t think your budget can stand the kind of legal fees you’d incur from a wrongful-termination suit. Not from me.”

Vince leveraged himself off the sofa. It took some doing. “By the time I terminate you, there won’t be anything wrongful about it.”

“Vince . . .” Margaret looked like a woman bracing to be hit by a wave.

Vince stepped to Jason. Brushing past, his shoulder clipped Jason’s chest. It knocked him back a step.

“Hey, Kalinsky.”

Vince turned.

“You just bumped into me. Was that intentional?”

His plump, stubbled cheeks ballooned when he smiled. “Sorry.”

Jason pulled so close, the smell of Vince’s aftershave nauseated him. Quietly, he said, “Right now, fat man? Out back?”

The smile disappeared, and Vince’s upper lip thinned. “Maybe some other time.”

Jason wasn’t sure if it was fear he saw on Vince’s face or anticipation. Vince threw the door back and began his wobble across the common area. Margaret chased after him as fast as her prudent shoes would carry her.

Angie’s prying eyes were gone, her desk drawers open and emptied of everything but bank property. Jason stood next to Brenda’s desk, feeling her watch him. The place was as silent as he’d ever heard it. Those who knew Angie best were missing, probably in the parking lot consoling her, or commiserating.

Margaret closed Vince’s office door from inside.

Jason turned to Brenda. “He’s trying to get rid of me.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He ran his tongue along his molars. “Come inside for a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

He went in. She followed. Three faces in the lobby sustained a pretense of not watching him as he closed the door.

Brenda collapsed into his arms. “That was scary.”

“He’s a big blowhard. We just have to be more careful.” He reached down and locked the door and kissed her. Her lips melted into his, fever swirling through him like every other time he’d been with her this way. The touch of her hands clutching at his head, pulling him toward her, spiked his heartbeat.

She finished the kiss, and withdrew an inch from him. “Jason?”

“Hm?”

“Let’s crush them.”

49

Sunlight burned into Flip’s back. The black sunglasses helped protect his eyes but did nothing to stop the sun from cooking him. He couldn’t hide from Mr. B’s two guys and from the sun at the same time. It was a living thing behind him, radiating into the backs of his legs and his rump, crushing into his exposed neck, baking the black cap on his head into some kind of medieval torture device.

From across the street, Flip’s angle showed him only one side of Ronny’s face; the bruises and swelling gave the bouncer the look of an elephant man. He stood next to the Chevy with his good arm propped on the roof while his partner did the work inside.

Ronny would be easy. The other guy was new. Flip had watched as the guy moved toward the office. Hair slicked back, face darkened by beard or acne, he moved like a spider.

Flip hated spiders.

Mr. B hadn’t sent his office punk Garrett for this job. The spider was no Garrett. Flip wondered why Mr. B hadn’t used the spider when Tats was breaking up the club. He looked like he might have been able to handle the big convict one way or another.

The spider tiptoed out of the glass door. He had a key in his hand, and he was making his way along the sun-facing doors toward Flip’s room. Somehow the spider had convinced the kid in the office that he was scarier than Flip. Maybe he was.

Ronny joined him, leaving the car unprotected. The spider held the key to the doorknob and reached into his back pocket. Out of his fist something flashed. A blade. He held it against the back of his thigh.

This spider had a stinger.

They rushed into the room.

Flip came around the corner. He waited for a break in the traffic and ran across the street, scuffling to a stop beside the Chevy. He could hotwire it. But he slipped his own knife out and folded out the blade. He plunged it into the hard rubber of the rear tire. The hiss reminded him of snakes. One hand on the fender, he felt it drift downward as air rushed out of the tire. He crouched around the back and slashed the second rear tire. The shocks groaned as the car settled.

He peeked around the rear bumper. The door to his room was open. No light inside. Furniture crashed to the floor. Flip hadn’t left much behind. They must be destroying the place.

A horn blew out on the street. He risked turning his head away from the room. In the middle lane, a white Explorer jerked forward an inch at a time. The driver was trying to muscle his way across the lanes to make a left turn into the motel parking lot. The passenger door opened. A beach boy came out with a cell phone pressed to the side of his head, eyes on Flip, his other hand lifted in a futile attempt to slow oncoming traffic. He put the cell phone away and searched at belt level under the back of his Hawaiian shirt.

Behind the wheel of the Explorer sat Officer Cole. He pounded on the steering wheel, his face contorted as he let out screams muted by closed windows. Cars continued to pass without pausing. He was hopelessly blocked by me-first drivers northbound on Sepulveda.

Flip bolted. If he could make it to the alley in back of the motel, he had a chance.

* * *

Tom watched Hathaway try to stop oncoming traffic by waving a badge at them. It was useless.

Tom was through waiting. He laid into the horn and took his foot off the brake. The Explorer moved in front of an old Camaro. It was a classic, blue finish glossy in the smoggy sunshine. The driver honked back but stopped. The van behind him didn’t.

The impact behind the Camaro shoved it ahead. Rubber squealed, and Tom’s Explorer rocked.

Hathaway disappeared behind the Explorer, and Tom caught a glimpse of him hopping between cars in the unblocked northbound lane. Shawn Barnes’s boys were ahead of Hathaway, rounding the motel’s corner after Flip.

Tom’s view was blocked by the driver of the Camaro. The guy’s face was purple with rage. He yanked on Tom’s door handle. Tom plastered his badge against the window and backed up to try to get clear of the folded Camaro.

Now it was the southbound traffic that wouldn’t stop for him.

He backed into the flow anyway and missed causing another collision by millimeters.

The Camaro driver didn’t care about badges. He pounded on the Explorer’s door. Tom shifted back to Drive and forced the Explorer’s nose ahead. The other lane had slowed enough for rubbernecking that Tom edged through without any more damage. He bounced into the driveway and followed Hathaway around the corner. Hathaway clambered over a wooden fence.

Tom would never be able to keep up with the surfer. And with his knees, the fence would be impossible to climb.

He hoped Hathaway was clear of it.

He stomped on the gas. The engine surged. He steered for the fence. The boards rose up in front of the windshield.

The fence shattered.

Tom braked and cranked the wheel around. Mud and weeds flew. He stopped in somebody’s backyard. A pit bull in a frenzy strained against a collar, fangs and slobber flying. It was chained to a stake in the middle of the yard. Blood stained its jaw.

Barnes’s boy with the cast hopped toward the Explorer, his free hand clutching at his leg, blood dripping from his fingers.

Tom jumped out. “Which way’d they go?”

The only response he got was a series of curses.

Tom grabbed a fistful of the guy’s hair. “That dog’ll get another bite if you don’t tell me which way they went.”

“That way, man.” He pointed next door.

Tom shoved away from him and sat back into the car. He couldn’t plow through a whole block of fences. He backed out, shredded fencing snapping under his tires.

* * *

Flip longed for the night, but it was an hour away.

His chest heaved. He shifted out of his crouch and looked around the paint-chipped corner of the house.

Nobody yet.

Mr. B’s pistol felt foreign to his palm. He’d never fired it, and that was the last thing he wanted to do now. It would be as good as announcing his location over a bullhorn.

He heard dogs barking, doors slamming, sirens howling, horns honking. He tried to listen past it all for footfalls. Whoever was back there was doing sweeps of every yard and house before moving on. It would give him a minute or two.

He pocketed the pistol. Above him was an unbarred window. He peeled the screen back. The window wouldn’t budge. No time to be gentle. He found a rock and wrapped it in his cap. He held the cap against the glass and drove it through. Glass fractured and fell. He took out the pistol and counted to five.

No response.

He put the pistol back in his pocket and the cap on his head. The rock worked against the glass to clear the frame. He tossed the rock aside. A look inside through the curtains to make sure it was clear, and he reached for the lock. He slid the empty window frame up.

He rolled in, and a shard of glass made it through his jeans. He fell to the floor. No noise inside. Just smells. He extracted the glass from his rump and got to his feet. He was in a kitchen, and the glass he’d punched out had dropped into the sink and sprinkled the counter.

Outside, the fence creaked in its footings. He had the screen back in place before the spider came around the corner and into view.

He was close enough for Flip to see the shadowy acne scars on his face. Flip didn’t move for fear of grinding the glass under his feet. He drew the gun out of his pocket.

The spider went to the back door. Screen-door hinges screeched. Sirens outside echoed closer. The doorknob rattled. Flip knew it was locked. He’d tried it himself. But for some reason he thought the spider might be able to open it. He shoved the pistol’s safety forward. The trigger was a smooth hook under his index finger. He didn’t move. Any glass that had fallen off the counter and onto the floor would reveal every step. And the floorboards in these old houses always gave off noises. His eyes were riveted on the back door.

The spider pounded on it.

“Who is it?” A weak voice floated from upstairs. Flip looked over his shoulder. Somewhere back there in the darkness was a woman, her voice cracked with age or illness or both.

Sirens outside alternated up and down. Some cut off, too close. The spider wouldn’t be able to hear the voice through the door. Flip had barely heard it himself.

“Hello?” The weak voice again.

Flip peered out the window. The spider came back around, looked down the side yard, clambered up onto the top of the fence, and dropped out of view.

“Liz? Is that you?” The voice barely had breath behind it.

Flip set the safety and put the pistol back into his pocket. He ventured a step away from the shards of glass. The floor gave, and the old planks squealed like stuck hinges.

Outside the kitchen, a staircase rose into darkness. The drapes were all drawn down here. He moved past the stairs, watching for any movement, listening for any evidence of the woman coming down or making a phone call.

At the front of the house was a picture window. He went to the edge and drew the drapes out a half-inch. No one to the north. From the other side of the window, he looked south.

Hawaiian shirt. Blond guy leaning into Cole’s white Explorer in the middle of the street. Officer Cole was going to have some work to do on that Explorer. The front end was hammered in, and the white was smudged with blue.