The Green Line (11 page)

Trip and Billy looked at each other and smiled. They both sat on the couch. The boy turned his attention to the muted
Wheel of Fortune
and began guessing at the puzzle.

The man headed for the kitchen, yelling back over his shoulder. “It’s coke you want, right?”

“Yes.”

Pots and pans banged around and then a cabinet door slammed. He returned to the living area and dropped a quart-sized bag of cocaine on the table.

“That’s about two pounds. And it’ll cost you about five thousand. Can you handle that?”

Trip smiled. “I can.” He leaned toward the table and leafed through the roll of bills. “Ah, this isn’t quite enough.” He stood to reach back into the coat as the man relaxed and sat next to Billy.

Trip bent down, pulled a revolver from his ankle holster, and pointed it at the man’s head.

The man sat back, exasperated. “Motherfucker. You’re fuckin’ dead, Billy.”

Billy looked away from the TV when he heard his name and froze to see Trip standing in front of them with the gun.

“So, little Billy here was wrong. I am an officer of the law and, as I’m sure you’re aware,” he said, grabbing the quart-sized bag of cocaine, “this is enough coke to get you for trafficking and put you away for a long time. Now, since I entered your home with your permission and have now been given probable cause, please get up.”

“What the fuck?” The man slapped his hands to his thighs. He didn’t budge.

Trip stepped forward and smashed the side of the gun into the man’s head.

The man fell forward and grabbed his head. Blood poured out of the gash. “I ain’t listening to a thing you say, muthefucka.”

Trip bent down, cocked the revolver, and lowered his tone. “I don’t think you understand, my friend. I will blow your fucking brains out. I don’t give a fuck if you live or die. Now where’s the fucking cash?”

The boy began to cry.

Trip continued, gesturing to the sobbing child. “I’ll kill the kid too. But if you cooperate, I’ll just walk away. I don’t even care about arresting you today. But I’m taking your stash, with your help or without.”

The man stood. Trip directed the boy. “You too.”

They headed to the kitchen and Trip followed.

The man bent over to reach into the cabinet.

“Wait a second.” Trip stopped him. “Have the boy do it.”

The boy bent over and pulled out a cash box and opened it on the counter.

Trip reached in and grabbed the gun that was in the box and put it in his ankle holster.

“Now, let’s see here. Looks like about twenty thousand. Not too bad.” He left the small bags of drugs and led Billy and the man back to the couch.

“Sit down.” He grabbed the bag of coke and the cash from the table and began backing out of the room. They sat and watched. Vanna White smiled on TV.

Trip reached for the door. “Sorry boys. Maybe you should start fresh, change your ways!” he said with a sarcastic smile.

TRIP
drove off with the satisfaction of a decent score for thirty minutes of work. That was easily a down payment. He checked his cell messages. There were two. His mother, asking him to come home for dinner on Monday. And Mike, who was panicked and yelling into the machine. “She saw you! That woman from Reggie’s said she saw you coming out of the bar! What the fuck do we do now? Call me!”

Trip slammed the phone against the steering wheel. Bullshit. Mike needed to calm the fuck down. There was no way anyone saw him. It had been dark. No one was around. But he’d check it out. And then he smiled, remembering the ID card from the purse Mike had showed him. He smirked at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. “Might even be fun.”

ELEVEN

ABBY
sat in a middle pew along the aisle to get a good view. Waiting for the service to begin, she focused on the architecture to avoid any unintentional eye contact with David, who was ushering people to their seats. Fourth Presbyterian was sandwiched between all the shopping of North Michigan Avenue, and Abby had walked by it hundreds of times, but she’d never been inside. The limestone brick walls must have been forty feet high. She counted fourteen angel statues, each at least seven feet tall, propped on piers along the sides of the sanctuary. Massive arched timber supports, each painted with more angels, graced the ceiling. Gothic pendant lights suspended by old black chains hung from above. As the organ music began, all eyes turned toward the back.

The setting sun cast light through the stained glass windows, creating a multicolored spotlight on the action at the altar. Abby focused on David, who stood beside Rick, serious and engrossed in the moment. David was always a casual guy, but she had loved seeing him in suits when they went to weddings together, and now, to see him in a tuxedo, he took her breath away. His typically disheveled hair, longer now with a few natural curls at the ends, had been tamed for the occasion. And when the priest instructed Sarah and Rick to kiss, David led the cheers and wiped his eyes. He was always sentimental, never embarrassed to cry. She remembered the tears they both shared the night she had finally said yes. She scanned the pews, guessing who might be taking her place in his life.

The guessing was over once the cocktail hour began.

Though David and the rest of the bridal party were taking horse-drawn carriages from the church to the Drake Hotel, Abby and the other guests had hurried, en masse, the two blocks to the reception, where they were greeted with champagne at the entrance of the grand ballroom. After a few minutes of soaking in the space—marveling at the forty or so round tables draped in satin, the second level balcony encircling the room, and the hundreds of guests already there—Abby had convinced herself she might not even notice David and her replacement in this crowd. But when the wedding party walked in, they stood out against all others. They seemed taller somehow, and once she saw a groomsman, her gaze quickly found the others among the crowd.

David was escorting his future wife up to the bar to get a drink. They were holding onto each other tightly. He looked happy. She was beautiful. She did not look anything like Abby. Olive skin, dark hair, taller. Maybe Latin or Italian or something else exotic. Suddenly, Abby’s dress felt like a tent and her up-do felt like curlers in a rag. Her stomach ached. She felt incredibly thirsty.

She grabbed a champagne glass off the tray of a passing waiter and walked toward the exit. Collapsing onto a big upholstered chair by the grand piano on the mezzanine level, she secretly freed her feet from their torture devices under the ottoman directly in front of her, and sipped her champagne. She was already exhausted by the small talk, her spiked heels, and the David-spotting. She still could not believe that he would marry another woman.

“Marry me,” he’d said to her so long ago.

She’d had a spicy tuna roll in her mouth and had started choking when he said it. She smiled, thinking of that ridiculous moment. They had been talking about work. Abby had just shared some gossip about that brown-noser, Neil, who unfortunately for her, had an awesome handicap in golf and partners were already lining up to play with him on the weekends, even as a first-year associate. She’d been waiting for David’s reaction to her tale. Instead he’d said, “Marry me.”

Luckily, he had understood the apparent absurdity of the moment and they both laughed. But he was serious. The dinner had been to celebrate their one-year anniversary and David had made a reservation at Le Colonial. Of course, Abby had called with a work crisis and suggested that they hook up at his place later and walk up to Kamehachi’s on Wells.

“Let’s just live together,” Abby had suggested.

“Don’t we do that now?”

“But not really. We can make it official.”

David had smiled. “Okay, I’ll live with you. But you’re going to have to marry me at some point, you know.”

“Of course.” Abby did love him. She didn’t want to lose him.

That was five years ago.

With a deep breath, she braced the arms of the chair and sat up straight. She couldn’t stay in the lobby forever. She put her shoes back on and looked around for a restroom to do a vanity check.

A man standing by the bar caught her eye. He was tall, blond—very Matthew McConaughey—a little unshaven, jeans, black turtleneck, camel suede coat. Yum. He was leaning against the bar, looking out into the crowd and smoking a cigarette. Once he saw her, his gaze remained fixed. It felt good to be looked at that way.

She acknowledged the silent compliment with a smile in his direction.

He grinned and waved.

She waved back.

He patted the barstool next to him.

The three drinks she’d already downed gave her a little courage. Maybe you can come be my date, Mr. Marlboro Man, she thought. She was still giggling to herself as she approached.

“Do you have another?” Abby asked as she hopped up onto the barstool next to the stranger. He was smoking a Marlboro Light, her old brand. This was meant to be.

“Sure. Need a light too?”

“Yes, please.” It had been six years, but suddenly it seemed like a great idea. She turned to the bartender and ordered another champagne. The man insisted on buying her drink and she thanked him.

“I’m Trip.”

“Trip? Is that a nickname?” she asked.

“It’s what friends call me.”

“Is it short for something?”

“Kind of.” He smiled.

“So? Are you going to tell me?”

“Maybe at some point.”

It was annoying, but then again, he was really cute. She put the cigarette to her mouth and let him light it.

“And you are?”

“Abigail.”

“You’re stunning, Abigail. Are you here alone?”

This was just what she needed. “I’m at a wedding reception. There.” She pointed toward the ballroom door.

“So, why are you out here?”

“Oh, just trying to escape the crowd for a moment.”

“I see.” He examined her from head to toe.

His intensity was unnerving. She looked around the bar and felt his eyes on her.

“And what brings you here this evening?” she asked.

He took a drag from the cigarette and looked around. “Business.”

“Oh, are you in from out of town?”

“Sort of.”

She waited for more information but he offered only a smirk.

“You sound like you’re from…Memphis, perhaps?” he asked.

“Georgia, but I thought I’d lost the accent.”

“There’s just a hint.” He looked into her eyes. “A beautiful southern belle. How did I get so lucky?”

She shrugged, “Thank you,” and focused on her cigarette. It didn’t taste good, but she couldn’t look at him.

After a final drag, he put his cigarette out. “Hey, maybe you’d like to get out of here?”

Abby was startled. It was a bit much. “Oh, thanks for the offer, but I can’t go. It’s a big night for a good friend.” She put out her cigarette and stood up.

He stood too. “Wait. I didn’t mean to scare you off. I’m just a straightforward guy. It’s just like in business. When I see something I want, I go after it. No apologies. And you’re lovely.” He looked into her eyes, right through her. It drew her in. His eyes were piercing ice blue, surrounded by long lashes. He had a slight tan and dimples. It was a killer smile. He was probably a master salesman.

He put his hand on hers. It was hard to resist. She imagined running her hands through that hair. But the non-champagne-soaked part of her brain kicked in. She snapped out of the trance. “I’m flattered. I just can’t leave.”

“We could stay here?” he said with hope. “Have some more drinks?”

“No, I really should be getting back in.”

“Okay, well, if you’d like to go out sometime, I’d be honored.” He grabbed a pen from the bar, wrote his number on a cocktail napkin, and handed it to her.

She took it and extinguished the cigarette. “Thanks. It was nice to meet you.”

As she neared the ballroom entrance, she could hear the band playing “At Last,” that old bluesy Etta James song she loved. The song, the only song, she’d ever sung to David. She smiled, remembering that night all those years ago.

But as she got to the doorway, she saw David—on the dance floor, holding her replacement. She braced the frame of the door for support. She felt sick. It could have been the cigarette or the drinks. But it felt more like she was getting punched in the stomach every time she looked at him.

Abby looked down at the recently acquired cocktail napkin. The Marlboro Man could take her mind off of David. At least for the night. She looked back toward the lobby bar. He was still there. She stared at him for a moment. Maybe I should just do it, she thought. Have a fling. Go roll around with that beautiful man and forget everything. He turned and saw her. He raised a glass to cheer. She waved. Just do it. She went in the ballroom to grab her coat. This is just what I need, she silently assured herself.

“Abby!” Sarah was shuffling toward her with open arms.

It stopped Abby in her tracks. Seeing Sarah brought tears to her eyes. She felt surprisingly choked up and whispered, “You look beautiful,” embracing her friend.