30

He liked to buy lottery tickets. Once, he’d won $1,000 on a scratch ticket, and he was sure it was a sign that his luck had turned. He’d spent the whole grand on tickets for the giant Mega-Millions drawing, positive that he was going to cash in. During the forty-eight hours before they pulled the numbers, he was so lost in fantasies about what he’d do with his big payoff that he could barely sleep. In the end, he hadn’t won. The loss made him so bullshit he needed a whole afternoon shooting squirrels to work off his frustration. But the happy hours he’d had to dream were still great.

The gradual approach of the Columbus Day weekend had been like that. In fact, the pleasure he took in anticipation was, in a way, even more intense. He’d won this lottery before, and he knew just how sweet the payoff was going to be. He hummed to himself—actually hummed!—as he cleaned out the back of his Jeep. The old buggy had a little rust on her, but the cargo area was nice and big, and they were going to need it.

He and his nephew had been texting all morning, and Buddy was going to meet him at the motel and bring the happy powder and the condoms. With all the cameras they had in the pharmacies these days, he didn’t like to be the one to pick up the necessaries. He wasn’t worried about the girl getting pregnant, but you never knew what these kids had been up to, and he certainly wasn’t taking any chances if he played second fiddle behind Buddy.

His nephew had booked the reservation per his instructions, using a false name and a disposable phone—telling the clerk that he had trouble sleeping and needed a room around back, as far away from the other guests as possible. Buddy also had the job of putting down the cash for the room and picking up the key. It was something Buddy always enjoyed because it allowed him to play the sleuth and use one of his outfits.

The plan was to wait until Li’l Sis texted them that she was on her way before giving her the room number. Once she got inside, they’d be sure she didn’t make too much noise, just enough for fun.

It was going on eight p.m. and almost dark when he slid into the parking spot below Room 305, at the back of the Ho Jo’s. As he made his way up the outdoor stairs to the third floor, he counted only a handful of cars in the lot below. The traffic noise was muffled, and he could make out the chirr of a red-winged blackbird in the ragged field beyond the asphalt. Birds and little girls. He stood for a while on the third-floor balcony, listening. Dusk. It was perfect.

When he got to the room, he found something he didn’t like: a folded scrap of paper taped to the door with a note in Buddy’s scrawl: “Meeting a Guy. Be Right Back. Rooms Open.”

What the hell? Li’l Sis could be texting him any time now, letting him know she was close. This was Buddy to a T. He always put things off too long, and then if there was some hitch, they’d be up the creek. It didn’t matter, of course. He could stall Li’l Sis if he needed to. By this time, he could tell her anything, and she’d believe him.

He pushed open the door and went inside. The room was nice and neat, with a big queen-size bed and the smell of some artificial perfume. Was it supposed to be roses? Behind the flower aroma was the scent of a cigarette. Buddy. A sign in the room clearly said no smoking. He must have stood in the doorway, thinking the smell wouldn’t enter the room, the stupid shit. There was a big mirror at the foot of the bed; he liked that.

The canvas tool kit always went on the floor on the far side of the bed, where it couldn’t be seen from the door. He took out the tubes of Vaseline. Then he snipped off three swatches of duct tape—wrists, ankles, and mouth—and hung them on the far side of the nightstand within easy reach. In plain sight at the head of the bed, leaning against the pillows, he placed the large pink teddy bear with the i love you!! T-shirt. Pinkie Bear always got a smile.

He walked into the bathroom, turned the water on good and hot, soaked a washcloth, and held it over his face to calm himself. His girls had all been different. Each one, after she figured out what was up, had been scared out of her little mind, of course—the blind, helpless terror in their eyes was the biggest turn-on—but each had had her own way of acting her part. One just froze, could hardly open her mouth or make a sound. Another, a smarter one, tried to talk her way out of it by negotiating. If I let you do this, then you’ll let me do that, her eyes all the time darting toward the door. Sure thing. His favorite one put up a fight, trying to yell, flinging her arms around, and kicking. Gave him a bloody lip. By the end, she wasn’t saying much.

He breathed and examined himself in the mirror. The years were piling up. His face didn’t look like he was nineteen, but he’d fixed that. He’d told Li’l Sis he was really twenty-seven and looked a little older. He admitted that he’d lied to her and had sent her a fake picture, but he told her he’d only done it because he loved her so much, couldn’t stand to lose her, and after all, he reminded her, she had lied to him, too. It had taken a while, but she’d forgiven him, and now she loved him more than ever. When she saw him “irl,” she’d hesitate just long enough for them to get her into the room. After that, they’d keep her quiet, pretty much, and how old he looked wouldn’t matter anymore.

The time crawled. He thought about watching TV but decided not to. He sat in the armchair, read a pamphlet about local businesses, drank a glass of water, dabbed up his shirt where he spilled, and paced the floor. He nearly jumped out of his shoes when his cell phone beeped. It was a text from Li’l Sis: “aunt finally left, finally, finally, finally!!! im coming dont hate me r u in the room? i cant wait!!! xxxxxxx ;)”

He quickly texted back: “of course i luv u! its ok im in 305. Cant wait to give you tons of XXXX come quick!!!”

Ten never-ending minutes later, there was a knock on the door. He peeked through the curtain and saw a tall shadow—Buddy, the dick, skidding in at the very last minute. One of these days, he was going to kick that kid’s rear end up around his eyelashes.

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Buddy. It was a black guy who obviously had the wrong room. He wasn’t scared, just pissed. He didn’t need any interruptions at the moment, especially not from some black asshole.

“You got the wrong room, pal.”

The man didn’t say anything, just limped forward, put out a big hand, and shoved him hard, backward into the room. Trying to get his balance, he tangled himself up in the chair and fell onto the carpet. He hurt his wrist catching himself. As he tried to get up, the black guy shoved him back down so hard his head popped on the floor. What the fuck? Was this a rip-off? Did Buddy set him up?

The black guy was squatting over him now with a knee on his chest, holding out some kind of metal thing that caught the light. Other people were crowding into the room.

“Hello there, 2Kool,” the guy was saying. “My name is Li’l Sis. Pleased to meet you in real life.” Hands were flipping him over, slamming him onto his stomach, and yanking his arms around his back. “Been looking forward to this.” The steel of the handcuffs was icy and bit into his wrists. His heart was slamming away. He couldn’t think. He could barely even breathe.

A voice behind him with a Puerto Rican accent. “Hola! Trick or treat bag over here by the nightstand.” A disgusted snort. “And some tape, Mike. Nice and handy.”

“Get a good shot of it.”

“Should I smile?”

The black guy was bending down now, close, an inch from his ear. His breath smelled like steak. “Welcome to our world, punk. Your life is officially over.” The voice was deep, very angry. They were going to kill him.

The Puerto Rican man off to the side broke in. “Want to stand him up, Mike?” He could see the tips of the guy’s high-tops. Black jeans.

“Don’t bother,” the deep voice continued. “Just grab his legs there, Jimmy, and we’ll throw the son of a bitch off the balcony.” He felt hands slipping down under his shoulders, strong fingers hooking into his armpits. “We’ll say he was trying to escape.”

A man with a Marine crew cut began to pick up him up by his feet. His heart kept banging away like a pile driver, and he heard a high-pitched moan. Was that him? A fart bubbled out of him as he rose into the air.

“Jesus, Henry!” The crew-cut guy was struggling to keep his grip on him. “The fuck you have for dinner?”

Another, shorter man helped out, grabbing his right leg, and the two of them hoisted his lower end together. His top end rose up smoothly, head jammed against the black guy’s stomach.

“Upsy-daisy.”

“You’re going to make an awful mess on the blacktop.”

A new voice, higher, “Christ’s sake, don’t drop him on my van. I just had it detailed.”

The two men holding his legs set his feet on their shoulders. They staggered as they moved forward. The black guy shifted him easily, strong fingers digging into him painfully, no problem with the weight.

“Hey!” He barely recognized his own voice, begging, “Come on!”

They cleared the doorway, stepped out onto the balcony, and began to swing up him up over the railing. Somebody said, “One … Two!”

The black guy’s face, hovering over him, looked evil. They were going to kill him. He managed a scream, not as loud as he wanted.

“H-Help!” He couldn’t breathe. His throat was clogged. He could barely move his lips.

“What’s the matter, Henry?” Crew-cut, down by his legs, was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen before. A killer’s eyes. “Aren’t scared, are you?”

“It’ll be over in a second. Quick splat, and you’re done.”

“M-My name’s not Henry.”

The black guy spoke down to him. “You’re all named Henry.”

They dropped him abruptly inside the railing. The landing hurt and produced a gray puff of air that smelled like concrete dust. The shorter guy was wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, making a face as though he had touched something filthy.

“What’s the matter, Henry? Can’t take a joke?”

A shadow fell across his face, and he saw the black cop on one knee looking down at him. The others were standing in the background, hands on their hips.

A blue light was bouncing off the side of the building. In the pale flashes, the faces appeared and vanished, like devils out of some nightmare. He could see they were all still hoping to kill him. What was going to happen? He couldn’t stop making little squeaks. Was it him or someone else? The cuffs, mashed between the concrete and the middle of his spine, cut into him.

The deep voice slid into his ear again. “My name is Mike Patterson. I’m a special agent with the FBI. You have certain rights, and I want to be sure you understand them. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say …”

Out of the corner of his eye, in the six inches under the bottom rung of the railing, he could just make out a pickup truck down in the parking lot, rounding the corner of the building. It was Buddy, with his right-front headlight still out. For once in his godforsaken life, the fact that Buddy could never get anywhere on time was working out for him. One of the plainclothes guys was leaning over the balcony, keeping an eye on the lot. Buddy never hesitated, just drove slowly right past the squad cars and the milling cops and on around the far corner, as though he didn’t have a thing in the world to worry about.

A glimmer of last-laugh satisfaction flickered across his mind. Buddy was not the brightest bulb on the tree, but he had a fuck-you-all vicious streak that ran deep. He wouldn’t appreciate being cheated out of his little fun. Some of these bastards must have kids, and somebody besides him was going to rue this day.

PART THREE

DIRECT AND CROSS