43

The tires of his BMW met the streets.

Everything was different now. The waking city pulsed around him to a beat out of sync with him, its tempo tired as an aged rocker compared to the melody of the sonata he and Brenda had composed during the night. The ugliness of the streets, the hazy air, trash flitting along the gutters and crushed in tire tracks—all of it was different now.

For a moment he dared to imagine it might be temporary.

If he pursued this path, if it wasn’t just talk, if the seeds of a plan he and Brenda had planted last night took root and they fled together with millions in their pockets, he wouldn’t have to drive these streets much longer. These buildings wouldn’t hem him in; he would no longer be enclosed by these cold edifices rising around him, aloof as the stars up there somewhere you couldn’t see because of the smog from millions of Angelenos. He and Brenda could leave all this ugliness, these buildings, these filthy streets, these striving, frenzied people all a paycheck away from ruin. The two of them would be gone, their only worry the feds on their tails.

Not that the feds were a small worry. But you could cure a lot of problems with enough money.

Part of him still hung back from the details, not wanting to give place to it. This life of his would end. He would be flushing away everything he’d worked for in the past sixteen years.

But where had it gotten him? Soon Vince would either fire him or relegate him to a role so menial he wouldn’t even have the authority to approve an expense report. He’d spend the rest of his career bouncing from bank to bank around town, maybe adding 5 or 10 percent to his salary with every new business card, until his hair was too gray to find anyone willing to put him on the payroll. This chance with Brenda would be gone forever.

As he turned the corner onto his street, the numbers he’d discussed with Brenda flitted through his mind. Twenty million. Maybe thirty. A couple of loan advances would be harder to catch than just one. He could set up offshore accounts over the next couple of weeks to receive the loan proceeds. He thought of the bankers he’d met from London and Japan at bank syndicate meetings. Those contacts could help a lot. And the Israeli lawyer who’d negotiated for a client, and the business manager for an actor who was a client. Guys on the edge of legal. He could sense it when they talked about certain loans and fund movements. But you didn’t ask too many questions. Even though you knew that somewhere past the part you played, something wasn’t quite right.

They could be useful.

He reached up to press the garage-door remote, and the sections rose. Serena had stationed her Mercedes on the left. His lips tightened. He would not engage. Just shower, change clothes, and get out, get to the office, away from her.

He slotted the BMW in and switched off the engine. Stepping out into the garage, he was about to turn to enter the house, but the sound of nearby footsteps caught his attention. Two men were hustling from the sidewalk up the driveway. Big men. One white and tall, bruises shadowing his face and one arm in a cast, the other guy Hispanic, black hair combed back from his forehead, round face set like concrete.

Jason had an urge to run. But they would be on him before he could make it to the door or get back into the car. When they moved into the garage, the space seemed to close down on him.

The tall one had to bend his neck to fit under the door opening. The Hispanic stepped ahead.

A carjacking. It happened all the time in the city. They followed a car until it parked and got to the driver while the key was still in his hand. Home invasions started like this sometimes too.

He realized he was still standing between the open door of his car and the chassis. The key was in his hand. Nowhere to go. “What do you want?”

They stared at him. The tall guy in back looked at him as if measuring him for a coffin. It was a crowd between the Mercedes and the BMW, this gap never as small as it was now. He was hemmed in.

He could hit the panic button on his key. It would sound the car alarm. But car alarms in the city had no impact. All it would do was bring Serena out. And that was the last thing he wanted.

The Hispanic guy in front spoke up. “You got a brother Flip?”

Not carjackers. Not home invaders. Jason shifted his feet and he put a hand on the top of the open door. Finally a breath would come.

“What about it?”

The guy who had spoken moved closer. Jason could count the pockmarks on his face. “He’s got something belongs to our boss.”

Jason took a step forward so the door would clear his back. He reached back and slammed it. “Well, I don’t know where he is. My advice is to check the jails around town. That’s where I usually hear from him.”

“Maybe we should look around inside.” He had so many pockmarks he looked like somebody had taken a hat pin to his face. “Could be you got him visiting and you don’t know it. You been out all night.”

“Visiting? He doesn’t visit. Tell you what. Why don’t you give me your number? He shows up, you’ll be the first guys I call.”

“I think he’s getting smart with us.”

Jason looked past Pock-Face to the tall guy. He hadn’t said a word. The bruises on his face weren’t fresh, but the cast on his arm was bright white. “Did Flip do all that to you?”

He kept quiet. Maybe his jaw was wired shut.

Pock-Face said, “What he’s got, we need to get back. You understand? You get it for us, it would be better for him. You let us know. We come and get it from you, and he doesn’t get hurt.”

Jason smiled. They didn’t know Flip. “Sure. I’ll let you know. Just give me your number.”

The tall one had something in his hand. Jason craned his neck around to see. It was a blade. He held it against the BMW’s fender. He began to scrape it.

“Hey!”

Pock-Face shoved a hand against Jason’s chest.

The garage rang with the screech of metal scraping metal.

“Stop. Stop!”

The tall guy brought the knife away from the fender and spoke for the first time. “Just giving you my number. You want me to write it somewhere else?”

Pock-Face shoved Jason farther into the garage. “Maybe we write it someplace handier.” He took his own knife out and folded the blade out from the handle. The blade was shiny as a mirror. “Maybe I carve it in your face.”

Jason held his hands out. “I’ll remember.”

“I think you’ll forget.” Pock-Face kept coming.

“No, I’ll remember. I have a good memory. Good with numbers. Really good.”

The grin on that pocked face mocked his fear. “You sure? ’Cause I could help you remember.” He kept shining the light from the garage door opener off the blade and into Jason’s eyes.

The tall guy was carving into the fender again, a straight line now as he approached the hood, coming in Pock-Face’s and Jason’s direction.

“Come on, man,” Jason said.

The tall guy brought his eyes up. “You shouldn’t worry so much about your car. Hey, maybe we could get your lady to help you remember. She’s been home all night while you been out.”

Pock-Face kept grinning, reflecting the light into Jason’s eyes. “Yeah, let’s go see the pretty lady. She’ll help you remember. Otherwise you’ll forget.”

“I won’t forget.”

The tall guy gashed the paint so deep he made a spark. “Five-five-five,” he said. “You listening?”

“Yeah. Five-five-five.” It was all Jason could get out. His breath was failing him.

“Five-two-zero-seven. Say it.”

Jason squinted against the flash of the light off Pock-Face’s blade. He repeated the digits.

“I don’t know,” Pock-Face said. “I still think he’s going to forget the numbers. Forget to call. Let’s go see the pretty lady.”

“No. I’ll remember. Five-five-five, five-two-oh-seven. I got it.”

“You got it?”

Jason nodded. “Believe me. I’d like to get rid of him myself. You’d be doing me a favor.” He repeated the number again.

“You’re not going to try to protect your brother? I still think we should see the pretty lady.”

“No. I got it. I won’t try to protect him.”

“’Cause we got to get what belongs to our boss. Understand?”

Jason was beginning to feel like a bobble-head, he was nodding so much. “I understand. I do. You don’t have to talk to her.”

“It ain’t talking to her I want.” Pock-Face let his words hang in the garage. To Jason it seemed that they stared at each other for five minutes before the blade folded away against Pock-Face’s leg. He dropped the knife into his hip pocket, held his thumb by his ear and his pinky by his lips, and mouthed the words, “Call me.” He winked and turned away.