Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (12 page)

“I wasn’t dropping my ass,” Roy says. But he knows he was. He doesn’t always pay attention to Frankie. Certainly wasn’t tonight. “I was just …” Can’t find the right words. Frankie’s hurt, he can see that. Wants to know things will be right again. Roy can fix it. Roy can explain. Hell. It’s gotta come out sometime.

“I got a kid,” Roy says plainly. “I got a daughter and her name is Angela, she’s fourteen, and she’s staying at my place tonight.”

Frankie takes a bite of his burger, laughs through the bun. “Bad joke, Roy.”

“If it’s a joke, I’m still waiting for the punch line.” And he tells Frankie the whole story.

All the way down to the docks that night, Frankie lets Roy know exactly how he feels about the situation. “It ain’t good. It ain’t good at all.”

“It’s temporary,” Roy explains. “She had a fight with her ma, she’s staying for a day or two until things cool off.”

“All I’m saying is, you don’t know what having a kid is like.”

“And you do?”

“I don’t. But I wouldn’t take one on just like that—just ’cause my shrink said it’d be good for me.”

“She’s my—she’s from me. I made her. In part, I—look, I got a responsibility now. Some kind of responsibility, whatever. And if that’s what it takes to do my part, then that’s what it takes.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“It’s not.” They arrive at the docks, and Roy parks in the same spot, edged up against Saif’s warehouse. “She doesn’t know what I do, she’s not involved.”

“Sounds like she wants to be.”

“But she’s not, and it’ll stay that way. You don’t wanna see her, you don’t got to see her. Period.”

Frankie slams the passenger door as he climbs out of the car. Roy lets it go. They stomp into the warehouse, Frankie in front. Roy’s got the shopping bags, the money. He doesn’t like carrying the money. Makes him nervous. He tries to watch the shadows as he walks, but the footing is tough out here. The rotting fish smell is still around. Roy can’t wait for winter.

Saif is there to greet them, as always, arms wide, ready for an embrace. Roy gives in. He let Saif hug him the last time they came, and now he’s set a precedent. Price of doing business with Syrians. Or Turks. Whatever he is.

“Forty grand,” Frankie tells Saif, taking the money out of Roy’s shopping bag, piling it atop a crate. “This is off the Kandinsky and the—what’s the one with the black rectangle in the middle and the orange one off to the side?”

“The Wilder,” says Saif.

“Yeah, that one. Twenty-five for the Kandinsky, fifteen for the Wilder.”

Saif snaps his fingers, and a thin man dressed in a blue jumpsuit comes over, takes the cash. “And your cut?”

“Taken out already,” says Roy. “Saves us time. If that’s all, we’ll see you tomorrow for another pickup.” He starts for the warehouse door.

“My friends,” calls Saif. “Please, if you have a moment?”

Roy doesn’t. He wants to get home. To get to bed. To see if Angela is asleep, dreaming. Safe. He looks to Frankie, whose eyes, hangdog, say it all. Stay. Listen to the man. “Yes?” Roy sighs, turning around.

“Given that we have done so well these last few weeks, perhaps we are in a position to take our relationship further.”

Roy shakes his head. “I don’t kiss till the fifth date.”

Saif grins. “I grow tired of dealing with the same art. I have been doing it for many years, and while it is lucrative, it can be … boring.”

“Take up a hobby,” Roy suggests. “Macramé. Golf. This concerns me how?”

“The hobby I am looking into is your lifestyle.”

“Our
lifestyle
?”

“The con. The grift. I am interested in joining your situation.”

“I thought I made this clear,” Roy says. “We don’t take on partners.”

“Perhaps as a student—”

“And we don’t take on projects.”

Saif looks to Frankie. Roy can see they’ve discussed this before. Frankie nods his support to Saif, and the Turk continues. “I understand that for the larger schemes, the … the long-con … you need capital.”

“We don’t play long.” They do, but not often. No use telling him that.

“I understand that it can be most profitable. And I have the capital required.”

“Money we got. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Saif keeps talking, his words flowing over Roy’s. “Also, I have many friends with similar funding, similar capital. Many who are looking for a good score.”

Roy makes his motions deliberate. Careful steps. Hard steps. He wants it to sink into Saif’s thick head this time. “I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you this,” he says, keeping his tone level. “Maybe I gotta scratch it into your forehead. Maybe I gotta carve it on your tombstone. But since we’re doing this art deal together, I’ll be nice one more time, and tell you plain: We. Don’t. Take. Partners.”

Saif backs off. Lowers his eyes. “I see. Perhaps another time, my friends.”

Another time. Roy can feel the pressure starting to build in his head, hear the sound of rushing water. The warehouse walls start to blur, and Roy knows he needs to relax. Think about his
pills at home. Think about how well they’re working. Think about Angela, sleeping in the den. He can’t explode right here, right now.

Teeth grinding, jaw clenching, Roy grabs Frankie by the upper arm and wordlessly leads him out of the warehouse, into the fish-air and the night.

Frankie’s upset. “That’s the kinda thing I’m talking about,” he whines. “That’s the thing you do—that man wanted to
deal—
”

Roy spins on his partner, faces him down with the first real anger Frankie’s seen in years. Now there’s no need to keep his tone down. Now there’s no need to keep his words deliberate. “Don’t you ever go behind my back like that again, you understand me? We got a thing here—this is not how we work. If it’s you and me, then it’s you and me, and this other fuck don’t enter into it, no matter if he’s got the cash, you got that?”

“Jesus, Roy, I didn’t mean to—I thought you might like the idea.”

“What you did—what you wanted to do—that’s not business sense, that’s a death wish, you know that? How many three-man, four-man games you know of stuck around long enough to watch themselves on the other side of the jailhouse fence? You got another guy, then it’s worrying about the other guy. You don’t know him long—you know him two years, you say—he could spin around and stab you in the back—fuck that, stab
me
in the back—anytime he sees fit. Take our money and run.”

Frankie’s cowed, petulant. “You’re overreacting,” he says softly.

“I am underreacting. I should be throwing you to the fucking seals, that’s what I should be doing. Hank always told me when your partner gets itchy feet, don’t put the cream on for him. Let
him go. You wanna go, is that it? You wanna team up with Saif from now on?”

“No—Jesus, Roy, no—”

“No, you don’t.” And now Roy’s out of steam. The pressure is gone. Released. He can see again, see through the darkness to the car. “Because we make a good pair,” he continues, volume lowered. “You and me, we make a good pair. Let’s not screw that up. Yes?”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Okay. Conversation over.”

Roy doesn’t want to wake Angela, but he doesn’t want to keep the eight grand in his pocket anywhere other than inside the horse. He knows it’s silly. Knows there’s no safety in the horse, no more so than a drawer or a cabinet. But it’s his way, and pills or no pills, he wants the cash inside that horse.

He tiptoes into the den, holding his breath. Walking on the balls of his feet. It’s hard. It hurts his calves. Angela is asleep on the fold-out, covers kicked off her body, arms still wrapped around that pillow. Her nightgown rides high above her knee, and Roy tries to keep his gaze away from her legs. Like Heather’s legs. Long. Better to look away. Look at the horse.

The head is heavy, it’s always heavy. Tonight, it’s made out of lead. The quieter he tries to be, the more noise he seems to make. The ceramic neck scrapes against the body as he lifts. He stops, holds it in place. Beads of sweat break out along the back of his neck. Angela takes a breath, a sleeping snort, and turns over, away from him. Facing the wall. Perfect.

Roy lifts again, and the head pops off. He tries to hold it with
one hand, balancing the head against his hip, as he takes the money out of his jacket pocket. Pushes down the pile, squashing the money already inside. Full. Too full. He needs to get to the Caymans, and soon. Too much money in the house. Too much for anyone.

It’s easier to put the head back on. No creaks. No scraping. He stands there for a moment, looking at the Miró on the wall. It’s like Angela, he thinks. It has life. It’s the only thing on these walls with any life. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll ask Saif for another one.

“Roy?” Angela, behind him. Roy’s heart kicks up a notch.

“Go to sleep,” he says, turning around. She’s up on one elbow, peering through the darkness. Didn’t see him with the horse. Probably didn’t see him with the horse. “You just wake up?” he asks.

“Uh-huh. Can I have a drink of water?”

“Sure. Sure. You sit tight.” Roy walks into the kitchen, finds a clean glass, and pours her a bit from the tap. Puts in a few ice cubes to make it cold. Dash of lemon to help with the taste. Tap water isn’t so good around these parts.

He returns to the den, sits on the corner of the fold-out, and hands her the glass. “Thanks,” she says, taking a sip. “It’s dry in here.”

“It’s always dry. It’s the winds.”

She takes another sip. “How was your meeting?”

“Good. I’ve got some buyers.”

“For what?”

“For a piece I’m selling. A table set. Very old.”

Angela smiles, pulls her hair on top of her head. The strands
hang down in front of her eyes. All he can see are her lips, and they’re grinning. “Can I ask you another question?”

“Tomorrow. Go to sleep.”

“Why’d mom leave you?”

This kid and her questions. “You’d—you’d have to ask her.”

Angela hands Roy the water glass, lies back down in the bed. Roy pulls the covers over her body. “That was part of the whole mess,” she says. “I asked, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Called you a few names.”

“I’m sure she did. Well …” Roy doesn’t want to tell Angela about that one time, when his fists got the better of him. Heather would have left him anyway. Eventually. Maybe she saw it coming long before he did. “I don’t really know why your mom left me. Maybe she thought I was a bad guy.”

“Are you?” asks Angela. Words slurring, arms grabbing for the pillow again. Hugging it close. Dropping back to sleep. “Are you a bad guy?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a bad guy.”

“That’s part of it. That’s what makes me good at it.”

Angela’s eyes close, her head sinks lower into the pillow. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy. I don’t think you’re bad at all.”

“You’re young,” says Roy. He stands, smooths out her covers, and walks to the door. “Go to sleep.” Steps into the hallway, closes the door behind him, watching the light sliver and fade inside the den. Time for Roy to go to sleep, too. He heads for the bedroom.

Five feet away, he can still hear Angela’s murmur: “I don’t think you’re bad at all.”