Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (25 page)

Roy looks to the exits. Blocked off. The other two cops flank the group, one on either side. Roy backs up a little farther, Angela by his right. Terrified. He never should have brought her. Never should have involved her in this.

“Make for a good story in the papers,” Saif continues. “ ‘Con and his cohort, Little Miss Mischief.’ Hell, something like that.”

Roy can feel the pressure coming on. Most days, he’d force it away. Think about something else. Now, he’s egging it. Stroking it. Hoping it will grow. Bile in his throat. This was not his plan.
This was not how it was supposed to go down. They should be home by now. Counting the money. Ending this nonsense.

“You killed us, Frankie,” Roy says plainly.

“Jesus, Roy,” Frankie protests, his own voice trembling. “I didn’t know. I thought—I thought he was clean.”

“You killed us.”

Saif lowers his gun for a moment, reaching behind him to pull out a set of handcuffs. Roy can’t drag his eyes away. Handcuffs. He’s never been in them. Doesn’t think he’ll enjoy the sensation. The pressure builds a little more. Vision blurring, not enough. He can’t work up the anger. The rage. He knows he’s beat. Those handcuffs, coming closer.

Next to him, Angela is staring at Saif’s gun. It’s not trained on them anymore. It’s down. Down enough. Roy sees it all—her look, the gun, the thoughts going through her head.

It happens slowly. So slowly, Roy wonders why he’s stiff, immobile, why he can’t do anything about it. Roy can’t help but watch as Angela crouches down, legs tucked beneath her, springing up, springing out. It’s around then that Roy starts screaming, but it comes out late. Comes out long and loose instead of fast and sharp.

Angela’s body is tight against Saif’s, her fingers clawing into his flesh. Drawing blood, scratching at his face. Furrows scraping down his cheeks, huge red welts blistering the skin. Roy gets his feet moving, throwing himself at the struggling pair, trying to pull Angela off the cop. “You can’t do it,” he yells, “Stop it, Angela, stop it—”

Roy can sense the other cops coming up behind him. Sense their presence running to his side. Doesn’t care. He tugs at Angela, trying to save her, trying to keep her from further harm. It’s
all over for him, for them as a pair. But not for her. It doesn’t have to be all over for her. He can spin this right, he can play this for a judge—

Pain, exploding in his head. Not the right kind of pain. Not the pressure. Just a sharp, spreading ache. Out of his rapidly dimming vision, he can see one of the cops lift his baton again. Swirl it through the air. Bringing it down atop Roy’s head.

A grunt. A soft wheeze of air. No pain this time. Just sensation. Movement. The theater picks itself up, flips on its side. Everything is crooked. Spun upside down. Roy’s cheek hits the lobby floor, his body landing hard on its side. Head wobbling. Eyes dancing in their sockets.

The theater is dimming again. Roy wonders what’s going on. Did they leave? Did they leave and close the door? He can see feet, groups of them, dancing back and forth on the ground. He can hear a commotion, still. What’s going on? The lights are still fading.

There’s a shot. A gunshot. Sharp, loud. Echoing. A gunshot and a scream. It’s Angela. Angela is screaming. The lights are gone now, and Angela is screaming. Fading fast, but it’s her.

Angela is screaming
, Roy thinks one last time before passing out.
Angela is screaming, so I must have done something wrong. I take it back. I take it all back
.

L
ying on a beach, suit pulled down low beneath his stomach. Roy looks down, expecting to see flesh and hair. Surprised to find his belly mostly gone. Thin, tanned waistline. It’s good to see. Been many years. The sun is bright today. Not hot, but bright. Can’t really feel any heat off it, but that’s no worry. It’s bright, and that’s all that matters.

Breeze from the east. Can’t feel that, either, but it’s carrying the sailboats along. Whipping the wind, throwing hats off parents’ heads, making a mess of their kids’ sand castles. Blue water, see-through. Fish swimming by the shore, multicolored fins and shining scales. Easy water.

Angela is one lounge chair over, sunning herself. A blue bikini he bought for her … somewhere. Somewhere up in the little town. They visited one of the local shops. Met the owner. He laughed with them, fed them orange soda. Sold them bathing trunks for Roy, a few necklaces made out of shells and shark’s teeth. A blue bikini for Angela.

She looks over at Roy and smiles. She’s older than Roy remembers. Older than she was when they bought her that suit, but that’s no matter. She’s a grown woman now. Beautiful. She’s started dating already, and Roy doesn’t mind. He tells her to be careful, he checks out the boys she’s seeing, but so far he’s approved. Can’t remember any of them, but he knows he must have approved.

She’s reading, too. Schoolwork, he thinks. Studying even while on vacation. She’s a good girl. He’s glad he won custody. Glad they could take this trip. Doesn’t remember the middle parts, doesn’t remember how they got here, but that’s the lure of the islands. You can forget everything and just relax.

He waves. Smiles. She waves back. Only ten feet away, but there’s no need for anything else. Just to know she’s close by, resting. Comfortable. Content.

“Ya da da da dee,” she says, smiling.

Roy doesn’t understand her. He leans closer, grinning.

“Ya dee da da dee da.” Insistent now. Like she needs him to understand.

But the surf is getting louder, and Roy can’t make out what she’s trying to say to him. He cups an ear.

“Ba dee da doo da dee dee dum,” she repeats. “Ba da dee da dee doo. Da dee dee da da ba da la doo!” Calling over the waves. Raising her voice to be heard. Opening her mouth all the way, yelling it loud.

But he still can’t make it out. What is she trying to say to him? He tries to lift himself off the lounge chair but finds that he can’t. He’s stuck there, lying on his side, cheek pressed into the taut fabric. Tries to pry himself off. Upright. He can’t do it.

He looks up, to Angela. For help, for assistance. She’s gone.
The lounge chair is empty, only the blue bikini top blowing in the breeze. She’s not on the beach anymore. No one’s on the beach anymore. The sand is turning black. The sky is turning black. But he can hear her calling out to him, singing those nonsense syllables, even as the lounge chair buckles and engulfs him, drawing him down, into the shore, into the surf.

A trumpet, ya-da-da-ing up and down the scale. He can see it, a pair of little children, one boy and one girl, running back and forth, climbing a huge set of stairs, sliding back down the banister. The trumpet goes up, and the kids zoom past. The trumpet descends, and the kids slide on by. Images, floating past his mind. Through his mind. A bass now, thumping out the rhythm, a bouncing ball those kids are chasing. Bounce, thump, boom, thump. All going past him. Through him.

Bumps, not musical. Shaking his body, slamming his head against something not quite hard, not quite soft. Leather. Something leather. Each bump a warning jolt of pain. His head, pulsing. Pressure, external. Like a vise around his temples, squeezing.

Road noise. The sound of tires on pavement, of a car moving at considerable speed. He’s lying on a leather seat. Two leather seats, sprawled out. Bucket seats. Black leather bucket seats. Frankie’s car.

The trumpet. The music and the car. Frankie’s here. He’s in the back of Frankie’s car. Can’t imagine why. Can’t figure out why his head hurts like it does. And isn’t someone else supposed to be with him? A … a woman?

Roy props his hands on the seat and tries to push himself up. No strength in his arms. No motion. Tries to turn over, to call
out Frankie’s name. His mouth’s not working. Drool spills out one side, puddling under his cheek.

He needs to lift his head. To lift his head and find Frankie. To ask him what’s going on, what’s happening. Roy steels himself, readies the muscles in his neck. Lifts. His head comes up, floating in the air, and Roy thinks that this isn’t so bad, this wasn’t so hard to do.

Another bright bolt of pain, a flash of light before his eyes, and he’s down again, face mashed into leather. Blue skies and warm sand. Back on the beach, in Fiji. Back on the beach with Angela.

Rolling along again, faceup. He’s able to open his eyes. For a second, no more. The light, blinding. Carving into his head. Discussion around him. Frankie’s voice, somewhere, talking up a storm. Explaining something.

Left eyelid pulled open. A face above his, an unfamiliar face. Left eyelid closed. Right eyelid pulled open. That same face. He can see the body. Wearing green. Others wearing white.

More rolling. Bumping. He’s being wheeled somewhere. Announcements over a public address system. Fuzzy. Loud. Crashing through, another bump. He tries to sit up, but can’t. Straps around his head, he thinks. Around his arm, his body.

He tries to break free. Unable to do so. They’re holding him down, he thinks. Holding him back. Trying to keep him from … from someone. That’s the plan. They’re trying to keep him down.

A jab in his arm. A prick, then it’s gone. A sensation, building through his body. Glowing. Heaviness. Warmth.

When Roy wakes, it is with the full knowledge that he’s been unconscious. That he’s been out of it for some time. He remembers the theater and he remembers the scam. He remembers that Saif turned out to be a cop, that it all went horribly wrong. He remembers that Angela got away from him. He remembers the gunshot and her screams. He just doesn’t know where he is
now
.

Frankie’s voice. He’s nearby. “What do these lights mean?” he can hear him asking.

Another voice, female. Stern. Not Angela. “Please don’t—sir, please don’t touch that, it’s sensitive equipment.”

“They show if he’s gonna wake up soon?” asks Frankie. “Like if—like when he’s gonna wake up?”

“It’s very expensive. Please, sir.”

Roy opens his eyes. Bright, but not too bad. Not stabbing at his corneas like before. Clean white ceiling. Clean white linens. He grunts, trying to lift his head up.

Frankie’s face suddenly looms overhead, taking up most of his vision. Out of proportion, out of focus. Large looming teeth, eyes bulging out. But it’s Frankie. “Hey!” he cries, nearly shouting into Roy’s face. “Hey, I think he’s waking up.” Frankie kneels down by the bed, by Roy’s head. “You with us, buddy?”