Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (24 page)

“We’re sorry about that.”

“I don’t like tardiness.”

Roy shakes his head. “It couldn’t be avoided.”

“I had to pee,” Angela says, just on cue.

The guy looks at the three of them. At Angela. “And this?”

“My daughter.”

“You brought a kid?”

“She knows what’s on.”

Angela shoots a grin in the man’s direction. “I been at it for years.”

Mr. Thomas backs off. “You got your own family problems, I don’t care. Look, we doing this or are we doing this?”

Roy motions for Saif to step up. The Turk takes his place.
“This is Alan,” says Roy. “Friend of mine from way back. Alan, show the man the cash.”

Saif plops the gym bag on the ground and theatrically unzips the top. The bricks are still there, wrapped up good and tight. “Three hundred thousand dollars,” says Saif.

“The fuck is with the cellophane?”

Roy shoots Saif a look, fields the question himself. “Didn’t have time to find wrappers. Money is money, who cares how it’s wrapped? Let’s see what you’re bringing to the table.”

Thomas doesn’t press the matter. He throws his own bag to Roy, who staggers backward at the weight. Opens the top, letting Saif get a good look at what’s inside.

Six plastic bags, each one stuffed with a pure white powder. Roy pokes one with a finger. Full, packed. Firm. “Nice,” he says. “Better be pure—”

“Goddamned right it’s pure,” says Thomas defensively. “Send you so high—”

“Just asking,” Roy says. “Just asking.”

Thomas looks around, foot tapping impatiently. “So are we done here? We gonna trade goods?” He looks to Saif’s gym bag.

“I’d say we’re done.”

“Good,” says Angela. “Place gives me the creeps.”

A crash, from up near where the lobby used to be. A crash and the sounds of scuffling. Of walking. Everyone freezes in place, Thomas’s head darting from left to right. “Shhh,” whispers Roy. “Stay still.”

A beam of light flicks on behind the rows of seats; they can see it strobing back and forth. Coming closer to the theater itself. A man’s voice, calling out, “Who’s back there? Darryl, is that you again?”

No motion from the four on the stage. They wait in the shadows. Hiding in the darkness. Waiting for the light to pass them by.

“You can’t be back here,” says the voice. “I kicked you out last week, I’m gonna kick you out again. You want me to find you a shelter, I’ll find you a shelter, but don’t think I’m gonna waste my time running your ass downtown again.”

The silhouette entering the theater is front-lit by his flashlight, but it’s not hard to make out the uniform behind it. Brimmed cap, sharp lapels. Long shadow dangling off the right hip. It’s a cop.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, reaching for his pistol, fumbling with the holster snaps.

Thomas drops to one knee, reaching into his pants, pulling out his own gun, aiming it at the officer—

Who’s already got the four of them dead to rights. “Drop it,” screams the cop. “Drop the goddamned weapon.” He advances on them, stepping over the trash as he walks down the aisle.

Thomas lets his weapon thunk to the ground. Roy’s eyes blaze with anger. “Motherfucker,” he says, pushing Thomas in the chest, throwing him to the ground, “you set us up!”

“What?” Thomas scoots backward along the ground, away from Roy’s outstretched arms. “I don’t know what—”

“I’ll have you killed for this. Killed.”

“Shut up, the both of you,” says the cop. He steps onto the stage, flicking off the flashlight with one hand and tucking it back into his belt. With the light out of their eyes, the four of them can make out the officer’s features now. It’s Frankie.

“Hey,” says Roy, “can’t we make a deal here?”

Frankie aims his gun at Roy’s chest. “I said shut up.”

“Dad?” says Angela, looking toward Roy, laying it on thick.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “Hang tight.”

Frankie kneels down by the gym bag on the floor, keeping his gun trained on Thomas. Rips open one of the containers, letting some of the powder drip out. Sticks his finger into the mixture, licks it off. “Y’all a couple of big-time drug smugglers? Bringing a kid along, that’s real smart. That’ll look good in front of a judge.”

Frankie pulls out a walkie-talkie and flicks it on. Static fills the empty air. “Base, I’ve got a possible four-thirty-three in progress,” he says, cutting through the white noise. “Down at the old Adelphi theater on Sixth, gonna need two squads for backup.”

Thomas takes a step forward. Staring at Frankie’s gun, giving it a good once-over. Roy tries to motion him back, eyes wide. The guy doesn’t listen, doesn’t see. Roy shoots a worried look to Saif, who shrugs.

“I’ve got three suspects,” Frankie continues. “One minor.”

Another step forward. Thomas is smiling now, a full grin on his face. He takes another step forward, and another. Frankie raises the gun higher, tightening his grip. “Stay where you are. Right there, don’t take another step.”

Thomas doesn’t listen. “For chrissakes,” Roy yells, “quit it, it’s over—”

But Thomas just laughs. He’s not listening to Roy. He’s not listening to Frankie. “I don’t think so,” he says. Reaching down, grabbing his own gun. Pointing it at Frankie, at Roy, at Saif. At Angela.

Saif has begun to sweat. He looks around helplessly. Hands working over themselves, rubbing together. Anxious. “Please,” he begs, “this man is a police officer. He won’t—”

“This man ain’t crap,” says Thomas.

Frankie looks to Roy. Roy nods. Frankie lifts the gun higher. “Drop the piece, or I’ll shoot.”

“With what?” asks Thomas. “Blanks? You’re gonna shoot me with blanks?”

Frankie trembles. “I’ve got backup coming.”

“You’ve got dick coming. Put down the gun. Or don’t, I couldn’t care.” Thomas steps confidently into Frankie’s line of fire, wrapping his hand around the barrel of the gun. Ripping it from his palm. Throwing it over his shoulder.

Angela runs to Roy, buries her head in his shoulder. He holds her close, arms around her body. Hugging her tight.

“You fucks were trying to screw me over,” says Thomas. “You were trying to set me up.”

“No, man,” Roy counters. “I never met this pig before, I swear it.”

Thomas isn’t listening. “You think I never seen this before? You think we don’t have bunco schemes back where I come from, huh? I’ve never seen the cop blow-off before?”

Frankie backs up. Still sticking to the script. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you don’t—”

Thomas slams the butt of his gun into Frankie’s face. He goes down hard, hands clutched around his nose. Howling in pain.

“Big bad police officer comes in,” Thomas continues, “makes a scene. Supposed to scare me off so I run outta here without my money. Without my dope. Nice trick. Nice try. Or maybe you got other friends on the outside who rush in as Chicken Little’s ‘backup’ force. Arrest us, put us in fake squad cars. Knock me out, and I wake up with no bags, nothing. Maybe that was the plan?”

Thomas picks up both gym bags, slinging them over his
shoulders, and strolls up to Saif. His swarthy tones blanched of color. Mustache drooping. Breath coming fast. “So which one was it?” asks Thomas.

Saif shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Thomas’s hand lashes out, grabbing Saif by the jaw. Forcing it open, shoving the barrel of the gun inside. Thomas cocks the hammer. “I’ll ask you once, and if I don’t like the answer, I’ll indicate it by pulling my finger against this trigger. So tell me: Was … that … the … plan?”

Saif nods, teeth rattling against metal. Nods again, and again, near tears. A high trill emanates from his throat. Thomas pulls the gun out of the Turk’s mouth. “That was it,” Saif admits. “The first one … the first one …”

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Roy. “Nice going.”

Thomas walks back to the middle, keeping them all under the gun. “Now, the question isn’t how do I get rid of you, but which one of you do I kill first?”

“Take the money,” says Frankie. “Take it, the money, the drugs. We won’t say a thing. Swear.”

But Thomas is shaking his head. Smiling. “That’s no fun. I gotta have my fun, right? I could kill you first, of course. Fake cop. Not as much fun as a real one, but that’s no matter.” He points the gun back at Saif, who cowers. “And this one … who knows what this one will do when it all goes down. Might get to see him wet himself.”

Thomas takes a step toward Roy and Angela. Pushes them apart with the barrel of the gun. Inspects Angela up and down. Nodding his approval. “And then there’s this little one. What’s your name?”

“Leave her alone,” snarls Roy.

“Shut up, old man. What’s your name, honey?”

She can barely get it out. “An—An—Angela.”

Roy takes a step forward. “Goddamn it, I said leave her alone.”

Thomas pays him no mind. Runs the barrel of the gun down Angela’s shoulder, down and across her hip. “You’re a pretty little thing, Angela. How would you like to come home with me?”

“I—no, I don’t—”

“That’s all right,” Thomas says, smoothing out her hair. “We can do it right here.”

Something animal, nonhuman. A growl, a trill. A roar through the air. Roy charges toward Thomas, his head down, bull-like. Arms spread wide to take him down, to knock him off his feet.

Frankie screams, “Roy—no—”

A deafening blast as the gun goes off. Acrid smoke fills the air, and Roy collapses to the ground, clutching his stomach. Blood seeps from between his fingers, pooling on the theater floor below.

Angela shrieks and runs to his side, falling on top of his body. “Daddy,” she sobs. “Daddy …”

As Thomas approaches to grab Angela off her fallen father, Frankie jumps on the man from behind. Grabbing his arms, pinning them to his sides. The gym bags slamming into each other, twisting around into impromptu restraints. Thomas twists around, flailing about, and the two go down in a heap, falling to the stage. They struggle for the gun, each one trying to wrest control.

Saif doesn’t know what to do. He stands there, shell-shocked. Staring at the scene. “Go!” Frankie screams. “Get outta here!”

Saif takes another look at the scene—at Roy, bleeding to death on the ground. At Angela, crying and screaming, trying to get her father to wake up. Frankie and Thomas rolling around, fighting to see who will get control of the gun. Saif doesn’t wait around to find out. He leaps off the stage and sprints down the aisle, heading for the window and the street beyond.

The struggle continues for a few more minutes, their motions becoming less violent as the seconds pass. Soon, Frankie and Thomas stop wrestling altogether. They lie on the floor, panting. This was tough, fighting like this. Tougher than they’d expected.

“Knock it off,” Frankie says, throwing Thomas off of him. “He’s gone.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s gone. Halfway back to Turkey by now.”

Thomas stands up and helps Frankie to his feet. “You almost took off my goddamn arm, you know that?”

“
Me?
You hit me with that gun any harder, and I’m up in the hospital for a broken nose.”

Thomas shrugs. “Roy said make it look real, so I made it look real.”

They turn to Roy, to Angela still sprawled over his bleeding body. She’s not crying anymore. The grin on her face says it all. “I did good, huh?”

“Hate to admit it,” says Frankie. “But you did all right, kid.”

Roy opens his eyes. Stares up at the group. “Looked pretty good from down here. Help me up.”

They drag Roy to his feet. His stomach is a mess of red liquid. “I set one of the squibs backward,” he says, rubbing his belly. “Hurt like a motherfucker.”

Frankie to Thomas, shaking his head. “And Marco, what’s up with the baby powder?”

Thomas—Marco—grins abashedly. “I couldn’t find any flour.”

Roy laughs. “You know how hard it was not to make a face when I tasted that shit?”

“ ’Least your lips’ll be rash free.” Marco shakes his head in amazement. “You see how fast that guy ran outta here? Like his ass was on fire.”

“That’s the plan,” says Roy. “Let’s get outta here. We’ll divvy it up at home.”

They hop off the stage and begin to make their way up the aisle, toward the main theater exit. Frankie throws an arm around Roy’s shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you, man.”

Roy nods. “You, too. But it was a good capper.”

“Good times,” says Frankie. “Way to go out.”

Angela squirms her way in between them. Comfortable in the middle. “So we’re set now, Roy?”

“We’re set,” he replies. Relieved, in a way. It’s over. The last fifteen years, the games, the con. Done. His new life, whatever that means, can finally begin. “All the way.”

They step into the lobby. Roy is surprised to hear voices. Slivers of light outside, through the cracks under the double doors. No one should be out there this time of night. No one should be anywhere near here.

Light explodes into the theater as the front doors blow wide open. A rush of voices, barking commands, yelling orders. Roy, falling backward, stumbling on his feet. Holding up his forearm to block out the light. Angela, grabbing on to him. Grasping his arm. Tight.

Saif steps into the theater, flanked by two uniformed officers. Real officers. Not Frankie’s kind of cop. He’s got a badge hanging around his neck. The mustache is gone. The accent is gone, too.

“See that belly wound healed up on you,” says Saif. His speech is perfect, plain old American.

Roy’s face twists into a mask of dread. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Angela’s fear is real now. Grasping at Roy, holding on to him. “What’s going on—Roy, what’s going on—”

He stumbles back again, away from Saif, away from the two other officers. Away from Saif’s gun, out of the holster and pointed at them. He should have known. He should have pegged the guy from the start. Never should have even gone to the warehouse. Never should have brought him in on the deal.

“I knew you were rotten,” Roy says plainly. “Day one, I knew it.”

“Thanks for your trust … 
partner
,” says Saif, stepping into the lobby. Keeping them at bay. “Scam in a scam. It’s a good one. They don’t run it anymore, but it’s a good one. I’m glad I stuck around with you two.”