Authors: Tim Maleeny
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“That’s disgusting.”
“How do you know if you haven’t tried one?”
Sam tried to think of a suitable answer.
I tried one before and didn’t like it. I hate the French. I’m allergic to things that smell worse than my feet.
But they all sounded like he was chicken, so he reached across the table with his dainty fork and pried a snail free of its shell.
“Tastes like a snail.”
Jill laughed. “That’s why they call them
escargot
. No one in their right mind would order snails.”
“Then why did you order them?”
“I wanted to see how you’d react,” she said with a wicked grin. “Besides, how do you know I’m in my right mind?”
“I heard you sing, remember?” Sam smiled briefly, just long enough for the lines around his eyes to make an appearance.
“You really liked it?”
“There’s already enough seafood at this table,” Sam said, gesturing at the shrimp, snails, and clams scattered before them. “No need for you to go fishing.”
“I just like hearing you say it.”
“It was incredible,” said Sam simply. “How long have you been a singer?”
“Not long enough,” said Jill, reaching for her glass.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing much,” said Jill. “I started singing later in life, in my twenties.”
“So?”
“So it’s a hobby I wish had been a career.”
“And you need to start young?”
Jill shrugged. “The odds are against you at any age, but these days it helps if you’re video material—you know, sixteen with a perfect midriff.”
Sam suspected her midriff looked just fine but didn’t say anything.
Jill continued, “Most of the successful acts today are performers, not singers. Their sound comes from a mixing board. I’m just an old-fashioned singer.”
“Well, you’re a damn good one,” said Sam. “What’s the day job?”
“Graphic designer. Brochures, business cards, websites. I helped the girls down the hall with their site design—Tamara and Shayla—have you seen it?”
“The website?” Sam blushed despite himself. “No, I haven’t.”
Jill smiled. “But you’ve seen the girls?”
“They’re hard to miss.”
“And what did they have to say for themselves?” asked Jill. “About our late landlord?”
“Not much,” admitted Sam. “They thought he was a scumbag.”
“They’re smart girls.”
“That they are.”
“That is why we’re having dinner, isn’t it? To talk about Ed’s fall from grace.”
“No, that’s why we’re talking,” said Sam. “But that’s not why we’re having dinner.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Jill held his gaze for an extra beat. “That’s why I wanted to eat here—it’s quiet.”
“So you don’t like French food, either?”
Jill chuckled. “I like the atmosphere more than the food, but there’s only so many options in the neighborhood. And if we went to the Mexican place, you’d see half the people on our floor there.”
Sam nodded. “Tamara and Shayla said the two brothers ate there a lot.”
“So does Walter.”
“The fat guy?”
“Yes, you could say that,” agreed Jill. “Walter could lose a few pounds.” The she added, “He tends to leer.”
“He’s never leered at me.”
“No accounting for taste.”
“So you know everyone?”
Jill shrugged. “More or less.”
“And you knew Ed.”
She leaned forward, the mote in her eye electric. “Are we getting down to brass tacks?”
Sam shifted uncomfortably. “There are no brass tacks. If you want, we don’t—”
“No, no,” said Jill emphatically. “Let’s get to it.”
“OK.”
“I’m
thrilled
Ed bought it,” said Jill. “Wish I’d thrown him off the balcony myself.”
Sam sat back in his chair. “Jesus.”
Jill looked defiant. “Tell me you heard something different from the other tenants, and I’ll tell you they were lying.”
Sam shook his head. “One thing this case doesn’t lack is motive.”
The waiter came and cleared their plates. They both ordered coffee and the conversation returned to idle chatter until it arrived. Then Jill said, “Ed tried to rape me.”
Sam blinked, not sure he heard her correctly. Her delivery was so flat, so matter-of-fact. But the look in her eyes told him it was no joke. As a cop he’d seen that expression too many times. He gritted his teeth.
“When?”
Jill looked at her hands. “About three months after I moved in. I was recently divorced, not going out much. Wanted to be alone. One night Ed comes to my door, tells me he needs to check a fuse. I go back to the couch, and the next thing I know, he’s on top of me.” She clenched her fists slowly, then eased the fingers open one at a time, looking up to meet Sam’s gaze.
He asked, “What did you do?”
A quick, bitter smile. “Ed didn’t realize I studied kick-boxing for fifteen years.”
Sam felt a knot in his chest loosen. “But he found out?”
“Got him off me with a shove. He stands up, hands on his hips, starts threatening me. Says I led him on.” Jill shook her head in disbelief. “That was the opening I needed…”
“To do what?” asked Sam. “Call the cops?”
“Kick him in the balls,” replied Jill.
Sam smiled despite himself. “Nice.”
“Figured it was faster than dialing 911.”
“What did Ed do?”
“Curled into a ball.”
“And then you called the cops?”
Jill shook her head. “Why bother? His word against mine. The kick ended it—I could see it in his eyes. After that, we had…” her voice trailed off, “an
understanding
.”
“An understanding,” repeated Sam, not sure he understood.
“Ed understood I wasn’t interested,” said Jill, “and if he ever pressed the point again…”
“Yes?”
“I’d kill him.”
Sam watched her eyes but didn’t interrupt.
Jill forced a smile. “There, you want to put the cuffs on now?”
Sam shook his head. “Not unless that’s something you’re into.”
“Don’t cops think everyone’s a suspect?”
“If this were a real case,
everyone
would be a suspect,” replied Sam. “But I’m not a cop, just a neighbor.”
Jill gave him a look that said she didn’t believe that any more than he did, but she let it pass.
“OK neighbor,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
“Where do you live?”
Larry didn’t want to answer. The little guy asking the question was decidedly creepy, not someone you’d give your home address to, even if he was a cab driver and you were drunk. Zorro with his carnivorous smile and the jolly Mexican giant, Julio, looked normal by comparison.
Not that the guy had any noticeable scars, birthmarks, or tattoos. In fact he was amazingly average, forgettable in every way. A little short, maybe, but dressed in simple chinos and plain white shirt, clothes you could buy at any Gap. A typical hair cut for a guy his age, which Larry guessed around thirty-five. A bland expression on an unlined face.
But his eyes were something else entirely. Zorro might be a scary fucker, but when this guy locked eyes with you, you practically shit yourself. At least that’s what Larry almost did until he blinked.
Zorro had the temperament of Beelzebub, but he wasn’t the Devil. Not even close. This short fucker won that contest hands down. He had the eyes of Satan, two black pools of pure sadism poured into his skull and left there to cool.
“Tell Carlos the address,” prompted Zorro, his fingers tapping idly on his desk.
Larry mumbled the street name, keeping his eyes fixed on Zorro. Jerome shifted from one foot to the other but remained silent.
“
Bueno
.” Zorro clapped, once, and the driver came through the door. He nodded at Julio, then turned his attention to Zorro, who said, “Hernando will take you and your brother home, then he will watch your building until this
pajero
Walter shows his face. Then Carlos will decide what to do.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Larry could see Carlos nodding eagerly and felt the excitement pour off him in waves. There was a twisted, erotic energy around him, as if he were getting aroused in anticipation of the kill. Larry tasted bile but fought the urge to gag.
Zorro must have noticed because his tone became almost soothing. “You OK, Larry?”
Larry nodded but couldn’t speak.
Walter was a dead man the moment we came here.
Suddenly Larry missed making sandwiches for a living.
Zorro swiveled in his chair. “Jerome?”
Jerome shrugged but avoided eye contact with everyone, even Larry. “Whatever you say, Z.”
“
Amigos
, go home and relax. It is out of your hands.” Zorro stood up, smiled. “From now on, there is no reason to worry.”
“I’m worried.”
Walter said it out loud, feeling the need to keep himself company.
“This is bad,” he added, grabbing the TV remote and thumbing the off button.
“I’m fucked.”
He threw the remote onto the couch and began pacing from the living room to the kitchen. Crumbs from popcorn, chips and Cheez-its fell off his shirt and chin with every step, crunched softly into the carpet, but Walter didn’t notice. He was replaying movies in his head, looking for some flaw in his logic but finding no escape.
He’d discovered a dangerous pattern in the drug business: Things ended badly for the drug dealers.
Not sometimes.
Always
.
Not for some of the drug dealers.
All of them.
Not just the big fish.
Every fucking fish in the pool.
Walter had seen these movies more than once, like everybody else. In the theater when they came out, then on cable again and again. He knew the top guys always got greedy, took a fall. But Walter wasn’t planning on becoming the top dog. He wasn’t Tony Soprano or Tony Montano or any other fucking Tony who wanted to be on top of the world.
Walter wanted to be a tapeworm.
He wanted to live off the inside of the drug trade, invisible and unnoticed, sucking away enough sustenance to keep him swimming in greenbacks during his twilight years. No ego, no hubris. No risk of ending up dead like the movie kingpins. He wanted to be a character actor, part of the story but quickly forgotten when the movie ends, until the name comes up in some Trivial Pursuit question and someone says
I remember that guy…he didn’t get killed in that movie…he must’ve skipped town with the cash, got the girl after the boss died, outlasted them all…at least that’s what I think would happen if they ever made a sequel
.
Walter wanted to be the one that got away, so he searched the rented DVDs for one that did. He wanted to find just one happy ending for some bit-player he could relate to.
But there were no happy endings. Even in the comedies, no one got away unless they got out of the business. And in the dramas? Everybody got killed or went to jail. No exceptions. No happy ever after for the drug lords.
Walter had rented this one flick,
Layer Cake
, an English crime drama by one of the guys that made
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
. The lead actor was the blond guy playing James Bond. Totally smooth, always one step ahead of the competition. Ready to bail at the first sign of trouble. A middleman who outlasts them all. Walter’s kind of criminal.
After ten depressing movies, Walter was rooting for this guy, and sure enough, he gets away with it—keeps the drugs and the money, even gets the girl. Walter practically fell off the couch with relief.
But then, in the final scene, right before the credits roll, the guy gets capped. Out of nowhere, some minor character from earlier in the movie, somebody Walter had forgotten all about, comes up and shoots the drug dealer right in the chest.
Boom
. Then the movie ends, just like that. Walter couldn’t fucking believe it.
No one got away with it. Even Johnny Depp went to jail for life, fucked over by his own wife. So even if you get the girl, the bitch is your undoing.
More worrisome for Walter, the middleman actually got the worst of it. Funny how you forgot those parts until you saw them again. No matter how many times you’d seen the movie before, you only remembered what happened to the main guy. But long before the drug dealers went down, and way before the kingpin met his grim fate, somebody cut out the middleman. Sometimes the guys dealing on the street wanted to move up in the food chain. Other times the Mob boss needed a scapegoat. No matter how much money there was in the drug business, the margins weren’t big enough for the guy in the middle.
And Walter was the guy in the middle. Hell, he’d put himself there.
Might as well paint a target on my back
.
Walter looked at the DVDs scattered across his living room and felt the sweat under his arms. Easy money was one thing, but getting killed was another. He had to figure out a way to stay off the radar.
He thought of the two brothers, how they’d backed into this drug business. Maybe there was an angle there. Walter knew people, places. Maybe he could supplement their distribution. He worked with all the edit bays in town, the recording studios. Production companies. They weren’t office buildings, but the people working there ate lunch, didn’t they? And they smoked pot, almost to a person, except for dinosaurs like Walter.
Maybe if he helped the brothers expand their distribution, he’d become an active partner instead of a silent one. Get on the front lines, away from the middle. Become the third leg of their stool. Then, when trouble came knocking, as it surely would, he would run out the back door and let those
schmucks
down the hall take the rap.
It just might work, if he didn’t get too greedy. The middle was the killing ground. He had to change positions.
Walter went over it in his mind until he was satisfied.
From now on boys, we work together.
Sound confident, tell them how it is.
You are the puppeteer.
Set them up now, before they see it coming. Then get out when the heat arrives. He recited these principals like a series of mantras until he was calm again.
Piece of cake.
Walter snatched his keys off the counter and stepped into the hallway, barefoot and covered with crumbs. In ten strides he had reached the brothers’ apartment.
Taking a deep breath, Walter raised his right hand and knocked on the door.
No one answered.
Walter put his ear to the door, heard nothing. Knocked again, loudly. Felt the adrenaline rush fade. Standing there in the hallway barefoot, he felt exposed. Vulnerable.
Fuck
. He was getting paranoid. Walter checked his watch. Still early. They were probably having dinner, maybe at the Mexican place. He returned to his apartment and sat down heavily on the couch. Looked at the clock on the wall, just to see if it contradicted his watch. Still early.
Grunting with the effort, Walter pulled on his shoes. If he hurried he could make it to the grocery store before they closed, buy a six pack. Then he’d sit on his couch and wait them out. When he heard them walking down the hall, he’d give them five minutes to get settled.
Then he’d knock on their door and they’d invite him in.
Piece of cake.