Trust Me (6 page)

    Then she met Lou.

    Megan had come up with the idea of robbing gamblers of their winnings one day when she was handing $9,600 in crisp, just-off- the-press $100 bills to a guy named Lou Starr.

    He'd said something dumb like, "Be still my heart, I think I'm in love," staring at her chest. She heard a lot of bad lines so that was nothing special. Most guys took their shot and moved on, but he wouldn't give up, this guy who looked fifty-five-older than her father-wearing a toupee, she was sure of it.

    "Everybody bet the Yankees," he said.

    Megan said, "Except you. How'd you know?"

    "I have a system."

    "Well it obviously works," Megan said. "I have to tell you though, you're responsible for paying your own taxes."

    "I'm going to run right home, fill out a 1099 and send it to my Uncle." He gave her a big grin. "I'm Lou. Want to come upstairs, see the Presidential Suite? It's got a hot tub. We could have some fun."

    "I've seen it," Megan said, wondering if Lou thought he was irresistible or something. Like she was going to go up and bang this little ape on her break.

    The next time she saw him he was with a redhead, who even Megan had to admit was a knockout, the redhead standing next to the little guy, towering over him in four-inch heels. Megan wanted to say, hey Mr. Starr, do you still want to take me up to your room have some fun?

    Lou Starr had taken his money and walked away, but the idea of robbing the winners stayed in her head. And the more she thought about it the more sense it made. People won money playing blackjack and craps and roulette. People won money betting the sports- book. They won and came to Megan to cash out and she handed them stacks of bills. It was amazing what people told her too, offering things about themselves: what they did, where they worked, where they lived, like Lou, who had a house on Walnut Lake in Bloomfield Hills.

    Anybody who won more than $1,200, the casino was supposed to deduct the taxes. Megan had a chart that showed her how much to take out, and the gambler had to fill out a form. Everybody except the regulars. If Megan knew the guest was a regular she could waive the tax form.

    Guests like Lou Starr, once she got to know them, could take home the full amount they won and pay their own taxes. So what would they do with the money? Put it in the bank? No way. They'd hide it somewhere in their house. It was fun money. They were going to spend it.

    She pitched the idea to Bobby, the guy she was seeing.

    He said, "Sweetie, that's genius." Then he hugged her and looked into her eyes and said, "Megan, honey, you've got it all: beauty, brains and balls."

    They would work out the logistics later and come up with a plan. They'd start with Lou Starr and see how it went.

    Megan and Bobby found the Starr residence, a ranch house right on the water. It was fun. They felt like spies, parking and watching the place. Bobby had even thought to bring binoculars. They snuck through a wooded area and went down to the lake behind the house. They used the tall reeds for cover, crouching at the water's edge. A line of little ducks swam by following their mother. Megan said, "Oh, look at all the little duckies. Aren't they cute." She told Bobby her mother loved ducks and had a house full of duck things: decoys and paintings and little duck knicknacs.

    Bobby said, "That's really great. Thanks for telling me. I forget are we here on a nature hike or are we casing a fucking house?"

    Bobby had no patience and would get pissed off at little things, but she liked him. He was real funny too. She watched Lou Starr and the redhead from the casino she now knew was Karen, his fiancée, through the binoculars. They were sitting on the deck behind the house talking. They looked like they were having an argument. Karen got up and went in the house. Lou turned and looked at her and said something.

    Bobby decided they'd go in the next night, Bobby and a guy named Lloyd, he met in a bar. Lloyd had done time in the Oakland County Jail. Megan thought he was weird and creepy-looking. Bobby said it wasn't a personality contest, okay? He liked Lloyd, said he was real, no pretensions, an old-fashioned American. Best of all, Bobby said Lloyd took direction well, did what Bobby wanted him to do.

    Megan asked Bobby what Lloyd did time for and Bobby said, assault, beat a guy up for cutting him off in traffic. Lloyd followed him to his house in Birmingham and broke his jaw. Megan said she wanted to go with them. Bobby said no way, Lou Starr knew who she was. It was way too risky.

    That was the last she'd heard from him. They were supposed to meet at Bobby's the next morning, split the money three ways and plan the next one. So, where the hell was he? She'd left six messages on Bobby's machine and hadn't heard back from him. He could've been in jail for all she knew.

    Megan had met Bobby at the Post Bar downtown one Friday night. The place packed as usual. Bobby introduced himself and they started talking and found out they had some things in common. Bobby liked to play blackjack, his most fun thing in the whole world, and Megan was a cashier at a casino.

    "How do you like that for karma?" Bobby said. "This is wild. I'll bet you've cashed my chips, and here we are together." Megan thought he was overdoing it a little. After a few drinks, Bobby said, "Ever fed a piranha?" "Not in the last few hours," Megan said. "Want to?"

    "Do you really have one," Megan said, "or are you giving me a line?"

    "I really have one," Bobby said.

    Thirty minutes later they were in Bobby's apartment, standing next to his fish tank.

    Megan said, "What do you feed him?" "They're not too particular," Bobby said. "That's Larry," Bobby said, handing her a cosmo in a martini glass. He had one too. "I named him after my former boss. He has razor-sharp teeth too, and devours his enemies."

    Megan was staring into the tropical fish tank and Bobby was behind her, pressing himself against her, pointing at an ugly little fish with a red belly.

    "The red piranha is a
Pygocentnis nattereri
."

    He dropped a Ball Park hot dog into the tank. It looked like a torpedo sinking in the blue-tinted water, moving past a sunken model ship, an old-time one with cannons and masts and sails.

    "They've got 18 percent more lips and snouts this year, hot dogs do," Megan said. "According to an article I read in the
Free Press."

    "That's gross," Bobby said. He sipped his cosmo.

    It didn't seem to affect Larry's appetite. He was attacking the hot dog now, and the water was cloudy with fragments of meat.

    Megan said, "You ever put mustard on them?"

    "I'll have to try that," Bobby said.

    "Why do you only have one fish in this big tank?"

    "I used to have a pumpkinseed and a southern redbelly dace, a rainbow darter, a neon tetra and a bunch of other beautiful fish. Larry, the voracious carnivore, ate them all."

    Megan sipped her cosmo. It was strong, like it was all booze. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

    Bobby wasn't listening now. He said, "You have beautiful eyes," staring at her. "Anybody ever tell you that?" He brushed her cheek with his finger. He had a dreamy look on his face.

    Megan put her drink on the coffee table and pulled her sweater up and lifted it over her head and said, "Where's the bedroom at? I'm not driving all the way back downtown."

    Bobby decided not to say anything to Megan about Samir. She didn't have anything to do with that job, so there was no reason to cut her in. He was at the apartment pool, checking out the action, young professionals letting loose after work on a Friday evening. Bobby lay back in a lounge chair, taking in the scene, talking to a couple of girls. They were drinking vodka and lemonade, watching a muscular guy in a Speedo, posing as he got out of the pool, flexing and sucking in his gut, trying to make it look natural.

    The tall skinny girl's name was Nicole something, Bobby wasn't listening that carefully and what the hell difference did it make? She worked in after-sales marketing at Chrysler she told him. The one with the jugs, Kirsten, sold fur coats at a store in Bloomfield Hills. She was going to move to South Beach, her big plan, and was getting retail experience selling mink and sable coats. It seemed an odd choice for someone going to Miami Beach. Bobby wanted to say if the fur job doesn't work out, what're you going to do, try snowmobiles? Bobby finished his drink and poured himself another one out of an orange plastic pitcher.

    The muscular guy came over and the girls offered him one. His name was Todd Bendler, a systems analyst at GM. Bobby shook hands with him. He had an iron grip and tried to crush Bobby's fingers. Todd had a deep voice and was very serious when he talked about his job.

    "My team's responsible for the M cars, Monte Carlo and Malibu."

    Bobby said, "What exactly does a systems analyst do?"

    "Analyze data," Todd said.

    "Sounds interesting," Bobby said. He winked at Nicole then closed his eyes and dropped his chin like he was falling asleep.

    Nicole smiled and put her hand over her mouth trying to hide it. Todd started talking about GM's Customer Satisfaction Index and Bobby got up from his lounge chair and said he had to go.

    Back in his apartment, five o'clock, Bobby made himself a cosmopolitan and checked his messages. Another one from Megan, sounding pissed off.

    "I know you're there, pick up the fucking phone. If I don't hear from you—"

    Bobby punched erase, rolled a joint and went in the bedroom to get dressed. A few minutes later he danced into the living room with the joint in his mouth, drink in hand, listening to
The Black Parade
by My Chemical Romance. He heard a knock on the door, thought it might be Nicole, danced over and opened it. Megan came at him, glaring and grabbed the collar of his black Lacoste golf shirt.

    "I've left six messages."

    Bobby said, "You're kidding. Must be something wrong with the machine."

    "I think there's something wrong with you," Megan said.

    "What kind of talk is that? You're my honey girl." Bobby tried to say it with feeling, but he sounded like a soap opera actor. He wasn't ready for this, hadn't prepared. He put his arms around Megan, still holding the glass and the joint. She pushed him away, spilling the drink, Jesus, on the beige carpeting.

    "I did my job," Megan said, still in his face. "Now I want my money. It was my idea in the first place."

    Bobby said, "I have it. What's the problem?" He decided to give her some of his own money rather than try to explain what happened. He was going to be rich soon anyway.

    Megan followed Bobby into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, took out an opaque plastic pitcher and pried off the top. There was a white number ten envelope inside. "It's kind of cold," Bobby said. "But it'll warm up once you get to the mall."

    Megan took the money out, a stack of bills, all hundreds, and started counting.

    Bobby said, "Can I get you a drink? How about a nice cosmo? Fix you right up."

    Megan finished counting the money and looked at Bobby. "You've got to be kidding. This is only $1,500. Where's the rest of it at?"

    Bobby gave her a puzzled look.

    "The man cashed out with $9,600," Megan said. "I know for a fact because I handed it to him."

    "Trust me, I only found $4,500 in the house, and you got a third like we agreed." He said it straight and serious, trying to hold back the grin that was forming on his mouth.

    "Come on," Megan said. "That's bullshit and you know it."

    She opened the refrigerator and started dropping things on the floor: a plastic half gallon of milk that slid into the base of the island counter; a carton of eggs that hit and exploded sending yolk and chunks of shell all over the floor and wall.

    Bobby said, "What the hell're you doing?"

    "Looking for my money. You owe me $1,700 more."

    He said, "Lloyd's got it."

    Megan said, "You expect me to believe a control freak like you is going to let Lloyd keep your share of anything? Come on?"