TWELVE

Hours after I made my prediction, Heller and 2-Time stationed themselves outside Global Journeys. It was a cloudless evening, roasting hot, reminding Heller that he should’ve worn something lighter, maybe a sweater instead of a coat, definitely not the goose down parka he had on.

“Get ready,” he commanded 2-Time.

2-Time bridled at Heller’s superior tone. Heller was continuously issuing directives—ever since he hooked up with that gold digger Mitzi and joined the 12-step program.

“Fuck, here he is.”

The bagman strode down the sidewalk holding a briefcase in each hand. He paused in front of Global Journeys, craned his neck to see if the coast was clear. Satisfied that it was, he entered the shop.

Heller removed the Glock from his parka. He saw no homeless around him, which was odd, until he realized the hour—all the street people were at the soup kitchens in the Tenderloin.

“It’s weird out here,” 2-Time grumbled. “Too damn quiet.”

Heller cast a scornful glance at 2-Time. He vowed if 2-Time didn’t keep his cool, didn’t keep a lid on his tensions, specifically his criticisms about Mitzi, harping on how she was undermining their friendship, always talking his sexist shit, he’d shoot him in the fucking neck.

The courier resurfaced from the travel shop, the street’s lights in his eyes. Heller casually walked up to him and without any further ado, socked him in the right ear. The punch was hard enough to knock the guy off-balance, but not hard enough to make him drop the briefcases.

Heller shrieked at 2-Time. “Help me, asshole!”

2-Time’s reflexes were lax. The bagman took advantage of his slowness and whacked him in the belly with the flat side of a briefcase. Doubling over, 2-Time capsized to the pavement.

The courier swung the other case and nailed Heller’s cheek, scoring a bull’s-eye on the cigarette burn. Heller never knew there was so much pain in the world. Blindly, he reached out and clamped a hand on a briefcase. He was close enough to see his adversary’s clean shaven chin, close enough to smell the Chinese food that spiced his breath. The briefcase, like a child with divorcing parents, was between them.

It’s ballet, thought Heller. So he kicked the courier in the shins, causing him to yowl. Heller then pried the case from his grip. He backtracked and whooped, “Let’s go, 2-Time!”

Dashing into the street, Heller was in front, the briefcase snug under his left arm. He sent a desperate, frantic message to his legs. Run fast. Outrun my enemies. Help me get rich. If you don’t help, I’ll fucking die.

Heller and 2-Time hurried down Market Street.

Nightfall descended with a guillotine’s satisfying quickness. It found 2-Time and Heller tallying the loot in Heller’s living room. Bundles of bills lay on the iridescent green shag carpeting.

“How much we got?”

“A hundred and nineteen grand.”

Mitzi sashayed into the room, her breasts swaying counterclockwise under a thigh-length black rayon negligee, which was all she wore, other than a gold chain around her right ankle. Nonchalantly, she bent over a pile of hundreds and stroked it, pantomiming a hand job with the cash. Heller was mortified. Ignoring her, he carped at 2-Time. “How do we handle Bellamy?”

2-Time swallowed the lump of cynicism in his throat. Heller was bossy, mister big shot himself, but when it came to Bellamy, 2-Time had to supply the brains.

“Get your wife out of here so we can talk in private.”

Mitzi overheard the comment. She didn’t get Heller’s friendship with 2-Time. 2-Time was quicksand, an inveterate asshole. Rita was no better, a classic codependent, sinking with 2-Time. Studying the money in her hand, as if she didn’t know how it got there, Mitzi flung the paper at 2-Time. The wadded bills bounced off his red, veiny nose.

“Fuck you, chick! I swear!”

Heller watched helplessly as Mitzi fled into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her, depositing a trail of bitter vibes in her wake. Pretending he was indifferent, Heller confided in 2-Time. “Bellamy is not as capable as he thinks.”

“Hell.” 2-Time brushed money from his lap. “I know that.”

“What should we do?”

“Give him his rightful share of the job.”

“How much is that?”

“One thousand.”

“A grand? He won’t like it.”

“Tough titty for him. If he wants more, he can predict another score. And we need the money. All we can get.”

“What for?”

“To get the hell out of this town.”

2-Time got up and walked to the window, opened black velour drapes stained with green threads of mold. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass and gazed outside. No cars were out there, no people. Nothing but a handful of epileptic streetlights flickering in the evening smog.