Wtf Page 8

  “Jimmy … Byron didn’t bring anything to the party?”

  Jimmy gave him a look. “What do you mean, bring anything? Like a house gift?”

  “House gift? What the fuck is a house gift?”

  “What are you talking about, Cam? We didn’t go shopping that night!”

  Cam sank back into the pillow. He felt a migraine coming on.

  Jimmy didn’t know. He was clueless. Byron hadn’t told him anything.

  Which meant Byron still had the stuff.

  “Tell me, Jimmy,” Cam said, “does Byron think I’m dead too?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe. We both—you looked really bad, Cam. I wish we could tell him you’re okay. He’s probably still at the party.”

  Still at the party. Still selling. Keeping everything for himself.

  “He must think he’s the luckiest fucking guy in the world,” Cam mumbled.

  “What?”

  Cam propped himself up on his elbows. His forehead clanged. “Let’s give old Byron a little call.”

  “You won’t reach him,” Jimmy said. “His BlackBerry died.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Dr. Wexler came in. “Well, I have happy news. All your signs are good, Cam. Now, I just spoke with your parents, and they are very eager to see you. You can stay here overnight if you wish and they’ll drive up to see you, but they’ve agreed to send a car for you right now if you’d like to be released.”

  There was a quick rap on the door, and a policeman entered, holding out a cell phone. “Here you go, doctor. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Wexler said, pocketing the phone as the cop left. “Odd. A moment ago they were insisting on talking to you. They cornered me while I was on the phone to your parents, and your father insisted on speaking to them.”

  “I’ll take the ride,” Cam said.

  Dr. Wexler smiled. “The nurse will give you a set of instructions. Precautions, mostly. We need to be careful about concussions, that sort of thing. I want you to take it easy for a few days, and I’m recommending no football—practice or games—until you see your own doctor for a follow-up. Which will be in two weeks.”

  “Deal,” Cam said, shaking the doctor’s hand.

  “You’re not disappointed?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  “This will give me the opportunity to join the knitting club,” Cam said.

  The doctor gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. As his footsteps receded, Jimmy looked toward the hallway, baffled. “I can’t believe they left. The cops.”

  “My dad talked to them. I believe he made a generous donation to the local police department. That is his modus fucking operandi, and we are leaving.” Cam leaned into Jimmy. “And you’re taking the trip with me, bro.”

  “Thanks,” Jimmy said. “You can drop me off on your corner—”

  “We’re not going home,” Cam said. “We’re going to that party.”

  Jimmy recoiled. “Are you crazy? You’re supposed to take it easy. It was a stupid party, anyway.”

  Cam slowly swung his legs around the side of the bed. “As soon as I do this fucking paperwork and get out of here, we are going to find Byron.”

  PART THREE

  IT COMES TOGETHER; IT FALLS APART

  24

  REINA

  October 18, 12:07 A.M.

  Chunk.

  The metal gate made way too loud a noise as she slammed it shut. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Across the street a taxi honked, and she jumped. The bag was insanely heavy and dug into her shoulder.

  At that moment, Reina could not imagine hating anyone more than Waits.

  She glanced at his note. Don’t move till I get back.

  The balls. Who did he think he was? He expected her to just sit there like Penelope, waiting for her returning hero? Like she was too stupid to see the obvious. If those two yahoos weren’t Mafia, they were cops—either way, they would be after the bag too. And there she would be, obedient Reina, waiting to be either mugged or arrested by a guy named Scrotum.

  And this seemed totally okay to Waits.

  Uh, no. He had to be taught a lesson. That son of a bitch needed to learn to take care of his own dirty laundry.

  She turned away from the shop, walking quickly, weighing the possibilities. She’d already rejected the idea of just leaving the bag in the locked shop. That would be inviting a break-in, and Ted would blame her. Spending the cash was a sweet possibility—Waits couldn’t exactly report her to the police for that—but if the bills were stolen, they might be marked. And if they were, she would be too.

  So she was stuck.

  For now.

  She looked both ways, then slid off to the left. First things first. She had to get to Blowback. On the way, there would be a hiding place, somewhere that she could leave the bag. She’d text him—make it a little hard for him, maybe make him have to play a game or solve a riddle.

  She looked nervously over her shoulder. Mr. Salton-stall, the old dude who sat on the second-floor tenement balcony, gave her a desultory wave.

  Reina ducked around the corner, onto Capulet Street. Someone was blasting Chuck Berry from behind an open tenement window, and someone else was cooking a dish that smelled of garlic and ginger. From across the way a voice moaned, and a rodent skittered across the alley. She felt the hairs on her legs and arms stand up. Shifting the bag from her right to her left shoulder, she ran to the end of the block.

  There, open to the night like a tyrannosaur jaw, was a huge industrial Dumpster. She stopped. It was perfect. Waits would call her eventually, and she would give him the location. Finding it would be a bit of a messy operation—but Waits deserved nothing less. He might even have to negotiate with a supersize rat or two. Actually, it was kind of fun to imagine.

  She unhooked the bag and drew her arm back.

  A voice, just around the next corner, made her freeze.

  “Whadya go and order that shit for—latte, shmatte—what are you, a faggot or something?”

  An answer shot back: “It’s the twenty-first century, Gramps. They don’t serve castor oil in these places.”

  “We was supposed to tail him, that’s all—wait for him to make his drop, then take him in. But no. You want to be a fucking hero and do a sting operation—like he’s gonna think we’re the drop and just give us the money. Well, guess what? Mob guys don’t order faggot coffee. He knew! He knew right away!”

  Into the light walked the two guys who had met Waits at Smitty’s. They were arguing intently, gesturing at each other.

  Reina backed away, clutching the shoulder bag. The sound of it landing in the Dumpster would draw their attention.

  She glanced left and right. Across the street, at the opposite end of the block, people streamed out of the subway stop for the D train. If she kept to the building shadow and walked fast, away from the two men, they wouldn’t notice.

  “It had to be there, I tell you,” the old man was shouting. “It had to!”

  “Well, it ain’t there now.”

  “How the fuck do you know?”

  “Because you and I have been walking away, arguing like old ladies for the last five minutes.”

  Reina picked up the pace, stumbling on a crack in the sidewalk. She raced into the street, eyes on the subway entrance.

  HONNNKK!

  She jumped back, barely avoiding a car that was barreling down the street at breakneck speed.

  A black Hummer.

  Figured. People who drove those monsters thought they owned the world.

  Looking both ways, she crossed the street, plunged into the emerging subway crowd, and disappeared down the stairs.

  25

  12:19 A.M.

  “Hey, Gino? It’s Reina.”

  Reina pressed her ear to the cell phone as the train emerged from underground. For what felt like the thousandth time, she glanced over her shoulder toward the back of the train car, guarding against anything suspicious. Fortunately this crowd was more hipster
than gangster.

  “Yo, ’sup, cuz?” crackled her cousin Gino’s voice from the other end, barely audible above the thumping din of the music in the club. “You got tired of the SATs?”

  Reina fought back the words that were on the tip of her tongue.

  Help me, Gino, I’ve got a bag full of hot money and I’m scared and all I wanted to do was have some fun tonight. …

  Not here. Not with other people in earshot. She realized she should have texted him, but the sound of his voice was worth the call. Gino was so upbeat and reassuring.

  “I—I, uh, just want to make sure I’m on the list tonight?” she said.

  “Well, I will consult my staff and get back to you on that issue.” Gino cackled. “Uh, ye-ah. Of course you are! The boys know you. You coming alone?”

  “Yes.” Reina caught herself. Byron. You got that hysterical call from Byron. He’s meeting you. “I mean, no. Also Byron Durgin? And he’s bringing someone, I think.”

  “Cool. I’ll put ’em on the list.”

  “Thanks, G.”

  She closed the phone and took a deep breath. Gino had seen everything. Gino would know what to do. She would deal with the bag when she got there—hide it in another Dumpster, maybe. Force Waits to come looking for it.

  As the train sped across the bridge, she gazed out over the blazing Manhattan skyline. During the day it was a force of human energy, exclamation points in steel and marble, but at night it was all about stories—each window a tiny movie screen that turned and danced with the train’s approach. When she was little, she and her dad would list all the things they imagined people were doing behind each window: dipping stale chicken nuggets in milk, breaking up with someone by e-mail and sending it to the wrong address, hearing the Rolling Stones for the first time, discovering a dead pet goldfish, peeling a mango. Odds are, every one of those things is DEFINITELY occurring, her dad always said.

  For the first time all night, she smiled.

  Soon she’d be dancing away her fears … maybe even laughing about what had just happened … imitating Scrotum … figuring out why Byron had sounded so horrible over the phone …

  He had sounded truly frantic, nearly incoherent. Dear, sad, brilliant Byron. So smart, so uncomfortable with himself. She never could understand him—but he was the kind of guy who staked his personality on the ability to lament that no one understood him. If he ever got to Blowback, she’d be playing Patient Listener all night.

  Inscrutable.

  As the train sped across the bridge, she instinctively clutched Waits’s bag. She was beginning to smell like his aftershave, which was really annoying her.

  Her cell phone vibrated, and she glanced at the screen: UNAVAILABLE NUMBER.

  “Hello?” she said tentatively.

  “Where are you?”

  Waits.

  If there was one thing Reina hated, it was cell phone callers who blocked their numbers—and still expected you to know who they were by the sound of their voices.

  Presumptuous.

  “It depends,” she said.

  “I’ve been trying to call you!”

  “Have you? Well. Maybe you could start by telling me who you are.”

  “This is Waits! You were supposed to stay at Smitty’s.”

  “Oh, darn. Guess I forgot.”

  “Christ, Reina, I hope you aren’t carrying that shoulder bag.”

  “What if I am?”

  “Damn it! Where can I meet you?”

  “Who says I want to meet you? Maybe I’ll keep all the money. Maybe I’ve spent it already.”

  “You opened it? That was not a good idea, Reina. If you have that bag, you are in deep shit. Trust me. Where are you?”

  Reina glanced out the window. The train was descending toward the tunnel on the Manhattan side. “I’m on the Williamsburg Bridge. But not for long, so we’ll lose contact. I’ll be at Blowback. My cousin’s friend owns it. It’s a club. But it’s very hard to get in unless you’re on the list. Or you’re a celebrity.”

  “I know what it is. Reina, listen to me. Whatever you do, don’t go in there with that bag. You know the Acropolis Diner, on Tenth Avenue? Meet me there.”

  “Um, you are not the one calling the shots, I think. And I am not playing your stupid game anymore. I thought you’d like to know that.”

  “It’s not a game. It is so not a game. Look, if you order something I’ll pay, if you’re worried about that—”

  “No problem, I’ve got cash.”

  “Reina, please, just go to the diner. Don’t say another word about money over this phone. Make sure you are not being followed—especially by those two goons who were at Smitty’s. I’m in a cab now. I will try to get there before you.”

  “For your information, I saw those guys,” Reina said, “back in Brooklyn. They are nowhere near me, Waits. So I’m heading for Blowback. If you’re not there, I’ll leave the bag behind the bar. Or maybe I’ll toss it in the river.”

  “Reina, don’t do that! Whatever you do, don’t—”

  “What? What? Oops, my phone’s going dead.” She hung up. Almost immediately the phone rang again, but she let it go to voice mail.

  As the train plunged toward street level on the Lower East Side, a ragged-looking man with sharp eyes stumbled toward her, paused, and sat down next to her shoulder bag. “Got something for me?” he said.

  Her heart began to race. She fingered her phone. Could she text for help without looking at the keypad, before service really went out?

  “Um …,” she said, sliding to her left as far as she could Above her was the emergency brake. She could pull that, and the train would stop. She could scream bloody murder. Someone in the car would jump to her defense.

  The guy leaned closer, whispering. “Are you the Secretary of State?”

  “What?” Reina said.

  “Are you the Secretary of the Interior?” he asked.

  “No!” Reina replied.

  “Do you have a cigarette? Or a bagel?”

  “Sorry.”

  Reina got up and moved to the other end of the car. She could feel all eyes conspicuously not following her. As she sat back down, the guy was slumping onto the spot she’d vacated, falling asleep.

  Calm down. You are being paranoid.

  If anyone was in trouble, it was Waits. If someone was after that money, they’d be following him, not her.

  And she would be surrounded by Cousin Gino and his entire entourage of ex-football players and Christopher Street muscle boys.

  Quickly, while she still had coverage, she redialed her last number.

  “Reina Leina Bing-Bang!” Gino shouted. “’Sup, girl?”

  “Can you put one more name on? Waits?”

  “Waits? Like Tom Waits?”

  “I don’t know his first name.”

  “Done.”

  “Tha—”

  The phone died. The subway windows rattled as the train entered the tunnel.

  Waits would follow her to the club. She would call the shots from there.

  26

  WAITS

  October 18, 12:24 A.M.

  “I got it,” Waits said into the phone, shutting the taxi window to block the wind noise. “I got the money.”

  The cab flew onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Overhead the threaded cables shrouded the cityscape like spiderwebs. So far, no traffic. He had told the driver to hit the FDR South, until it curved around the bottom of the city and became the West Side Highway North. With luck he’d be at Blowback by 12:35 or 12:40.

  The voice at the other end, as always, was slow to answer, a pregnant silence that seemed to say I am giving you time to correct this absolutely stupid-as-shit thing you just said. “Youse got it….” the voice finally replied, growly and deep. “Kid tells me he’s got it. He doesn’t show at the drop, makes my guys look like fuckin’ baboons, and he expects me to believe he’s got it.”

  “I was followed to Smitty’s,” Waits replied. “So I left. And then they closed earl
y. Sorry, Sal, but we have to change the location of the drop.”

  “So … what is supposed to mean this ‘got it’? As in, ‘got it in my hands right now’?”

  “As in, I will put the money in your fucking hands if you meet me at Blowback right now, Sal,” Waits said. “It’s on the corner of West and—”

  “I know where the fucking place is,” Ianuzzi said. “You think I don’t know shit about the clubs? My conundrum is this: I am supposed to interrupt my night, my precious personal time, to follow your orders?”

  He let out a snapping, sibilant hiss, a snarl masquerading as a laugh.

  “Sal, all I’m saying is if you happen to be in the city, that’s where I’ll be tonight,” Waits said. “With the cash. If you’d rather, I can give it to you another day. You’re in control, dude.”

  That would do it, Waits thought. The guy wanted the money, and he would show.

  “I am, as a matter of fact, finishing up a nice baba au rhum at Umberto’s,” Ianuzzi said, with a lusty belch. “But I will sacrifice my usual postprandial nap in order to have my guy take me to pay you a special visit. I trust you realize what a rare occasion this is. So you better have the fucking cash.”

  Waits swallowed. He felt his insides shrinking. “I will, Sal.”

  “And Watts?”

  “Yes, Sal?”

  “It’s Mr. Ianuzzi to you.”

  Waits swallowed hard. The last words he heard before the line went dead were Feets, get the fuckin’ car, pronto.

  27

  REINA

  October 18, 12:27 A.M.

  “Hey, girl, ’sup?” said Tito the bouncer, with a massive grin spreading across his massive face.

  Reina clutched the shoulder bag tight, trying to look normal as she rushed past him. “’Sup, Tito,” she said. “Did you see Waits?”

  Tito scowled. “Don’t you be telling me you’re hanging with that hunk of doody.”

  “He … left something. At Smitty’s? I brought it for him. I mean … he was a customer.”

  “Girl, you are looking tight as a drum. You need to take my Pilates class—”