MIKE PACES BACK AND forth on the shag pile, alone in Colleen’s apartment above the Silver Fish.
He’s waiting on a callback from the minister.
Whispering to himself.
He kneels and takes a bump off the coffee table. Needs it to stay alert. He’s still down there, holding the rolled-up note to his nose when he sees flickering movement under the apartment door.
Someone knocks lightly.
‘Hello?’ A female voice.
He waits.
To his horror, a key slots into the lock.
Mike starts frantically wiping up the powder but gives up as the door swings open. A woman in black jeans and a black long-sleeve shirt steps inside. She has a small leather handbag at her side.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he says.
The woman closes the door behind her and takes stock of the room, the pulled blinds, the coffee table, Mike’s ruffled state. ‘Colleen sent me. I’m Amy.’
‘She didn’t mention sending someone.’
‘She’s busy. Take a seat on the couch for me.’
‘Are you sure this is—’
‘Sit down.’
He does it. ‘So, ah, what’s the plan?’
‘Getting you the fuck out of here.’ Amy comes over and sits beside him. ‘May I?’
Mike hands her the note.
Amy snorts up a line. ‘I try to stay away from this shit, but …’
Mike forces out a breath. ‘Colleen definitely sent you?’
‘She definitely did. I know what I’m doing.’ Amy does another line and wipes her nose. ‘Now let’s get this show on the road. Go pack your stuff.’
As they’re leaving, the phone rings.
Mike picks it up. ‘It’s me.’
‘Hello, Mike.’
He’s expecting the God Minister, but that’s not who this is.
‘You remember me, Mike? It’s Arthur Sorensen. You came to my party the other night. How are you?’
‘I’m, I’m fine.’
‘That’s good to hear. I just wanted to ring and give you my number. You got a pen there, Mike? Where are you?’
Mike doesn’t answer, but Sorensen doesn’t care. He rattles off his digits as Mike just stands there, barely comprehending it.
‘Now, Mike, now that you have my number, I figure we should have a little chat. You’re in a lot of trouble, son. Wanted for murder, I hear. Tsk, tsk. There might be a way we can salvage things, you know? I … are you there, Mike?’
Amy asks, ‘Who is it?’
Mike stammers, ‘It’s, it’s the deputy commissioner.’
Sorensen is talking into the receiver. They can both hear his voice.
‘The police?’ says Amy. ‘No.’ She snatches the phone off him and slams it down. ‘We’re leaving.’
It’s not an elaborate escape. There’s a fire exit staircase at the southern end of the building. They take it, floor after floor, all the way to the basement, only to find that the door is locked.
‘Is it usually locked?’ asks Mike.
‘I don’t know,’ Amy says.
They go back up four storeys, checking each door and cursing until they find one that opens. Both of them are sweating, panting for breath.
Amy checks the hallway. ‘It’s clear.’
They move out into the open, across the carpet, to the lift.
Amy hits the down button.
Minutes elapse. Minutes of standing there where everyone can see them.
The elevator arrives.
They ride down two storeys before the elevator stops and the doors slide open. Two uniformed cops are standing there. The cops look at Mike and Amy for an awkward second, perspiration dripping from their faces, then the cops step into the lift and turn back towards the closing doors. As they descend again, Mike steals a glance at Amy. She has her hand inside her handbag. She silently motions to the gun on the man’s hip in front.
Mike shakes his head. No fucking way.
Amy’s eyes intensify: Yes fucking way.
The cop in front of Amy scratches his shoulder and says, ‘I could murder a beer.’
‘Same,’ says his partner.
The lift comes to a halt.
The doors open.
The cops disembark.
The lift moves again.
‘What the hell?’ hisses Mike.
‘You should buy a lottery ticket,’ Amy says, slipping a pair of brass knuckles off her fingers and dropping them back into her bag. Her eyes lose their focus momentarily. ‘Goddamn, Mike, that’s really good coke. My heart is racing. Christ almighty. Thank god we’re not driving.’