Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (26 page)

Roy tries to nod. Barely moves his head. A nurse comes trotting over, notices Roy’s movement. “I’ll get the doctor,” she says, and scurries out of the room. Frankie follows, closing the door behind her. He walks back to the bed.

“Roy, man, I was worried about you.”

Roy wants to put it all together. Get all the information, figure
it out on his own. But he’s tired. Even though he just woke up, he still feels so tired. Concentrates on forming a sentence. Concentrates on forming a single word. “Where …?”

“Tapper General Hospital,” says Frankie. Roy doesn’t know where that is. He’s never heard of Tapper General in his life. “Didn’t want to take you to the local bins, ’cause they’ll be looking for you there. I drove for about two hundred miles, man.… You started to get all pale on me, and I got worried, so I figured this was far enough. You been out for like two days.”

Two hundred miles in the backseat of Frankie’s car. The germs back there. Roy can’t think about it. He tries to sit up again, but the pain lances out with every effort. Frankie rests a hand on his chest. It feels leaden.

“You stay down,” Frankie says. “They said you gotta stay lying down. This here’s a private facility, and I got you in a real nice room. Good doctors, I think. I told ’em you were in a bar fight, and got hit over the head with a two-by-four. I think they went for it.”

Roy doesn’t care what Frankie told them. He needs to know the situation, the layout. He needs to know about Angela. Tries another word. “Wh … what … happened?”

Frankie’s face twists in disgust. “I fucked up, that’s what happened. That Saif, man … Two years I known him, can you believe that? Two years, and he winds up being a goddamned cop. I’ve seen more shit go down with that guy than half the pimps on the street, and
he’s
the one busting us.”

“No. What happened … after?”

“After? Hell, it wasn’t pretty. Those other two cops started whacking you on the head, Marco took off running. I woulda
split, too, but when I saw them beating on you like that … man, I just—I snapped, you know? Threw myself on one of ’em, starting whipping the tar outta him—”

“Angela—”

Frankie turns away. “And he was a strong motherfucker. Biceps like … fucking big biceps, man. But I got in a nice one under the jaw—”

Roy’s hand shoots out from under his body. Grabbing Frankie by the lapel, pulling him close. All his strength in that arm, in that hand. “Angela,” Roy says. Spittle drenches Frankie’s face. “What happened to Angela?”

Frankie tries to turn away; it’s no use. “They got her.” Frankie sighs. “The cops, they got her.”

The strength ebbs out of Roy’s body. His arm falls off Frankie’s jacket, dangling limp at his side. Eyelids close. Blot out the room. “It was a fucking mess in there,” Frankie continues. “They had more cops out front, waiting. I had to get you out the back, sneak out through the shadows.”

Roy’s trying to think. Trying to remember the name of his lawyer. Wondering if he does criminal work. If he can help with this thing. “She—she didn’t do anything,” Roy says. “I can testify to that.”

“Roy, no—”

“I’ll give myself up. I’ll give myself up, and I’ll tell them I dragged her along. That she didn’t have anything to do with it. That she was—”

“Roy,” Frankie interrupts, “that’s not it. It’s not …” He stops, takes a breath. “She killed a cop, Roy.”

“What?”

“She killed a cop. She killed Saif.”

Roy’s eyes are shut hard now, balled up tight. Squeezing out the world. “No—you got something mixed up, here.…”

“They were struggling,” Frankie explains, each word a new blast into Roy’s chest. “Her and Saif, for the gun. She had one hand on it, and—I guess there were shots. There was a shot. And he fell over. That’s when the other cops broke out and … that’s when it all broke down.”

“No. No.” He doesn’t want to hear it. Can’t hear it. Sounds of the surf. Sounds of the beach.

“She shot a cop, Roy. That’s the bottom line. She didn’t mean to, but … it’s done.”

Roy steels himself. Needs to be clear-headed. Needs to think. “Where is she?”

“County,” says Frankie. “I made some calls, had some friends check up on her.”

“Juvie ward?”

Frankie shakes his head. “They got her in adult lockup. Transferring her to the prison tomorrow.”

Roy can remember the last time she was locked up. How she was still traumatized by it two hours later, outside the police station. She’s fourteen. No place for a fourteen-year-old. She’ll die in there. She’ll be killed in there.

“Did you bail her out? She can’t—she can’t be in there.”

Frankie shakes his head. “I don’t have that kinda dough, man. The cops got the gym bag.”

“How much is bail?”

“She killed a cop, man.”

“How much?”

“Half a mil,” says Frankie, his voice low. “Judge set it this morning. I’m sorry.”

Roy’s breath is long. Labored. There has to be a way to handle this. “What about Dominic?” Their bail bondsman friend is always at the ready, just in case.

“No can do,” says Frankie. “Dom’s outta town, and Eddie’s not taking that kind of action when the boss man’s away.”

“Jackie?”

“I tried—he won’t take it.” Frankie pulls over a chair, sits next to Roy. “No bondsman’s gonna take the bet. She killed a cop, she’s a minor—that’s a flight risk. They won’t put it up, ’cause we don’t have the collateral. I wish I had the cash, man.…”

“I’ve got it,” says Roy. Decision made.

“What?”

“The cash. I’ve got the cash.”

“Are you serious?”

Roy nods. It doesn’t hurt quite as much this time. “Yeah, I can do it.” He tries to sit up again, tries to right himself. Straining his atrophied abs, trying for a sit-up. Head crushing all the way, room going dark. Closing in from the corners. He collapses back on the bed. No use. Roy isn’t going anywhere for a while.

“You gotta do it,” Roy tells Frankie. “You gotta get her out.”

“Me? I can’t—I—if I walk into that station, I’m a dead man.”

“Then get Dr. Klein to do it, anyone. I’ll tell you where the money is, how to get it out, and you send a proxy in to spring her, okay?” His eyes stare up at Frankie. Pleading with him. “You do this for me.”

“Okay,” Frankie says. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Roy lets out a long breath of air. The monitors beep away in
the background. “There’s an account at the Grand National Bank in the Caymans.” He gives Frankie the fourteen-digit account number. Makes him memorize it. Repeat it back to him a few times. “When they ask for the password, you tell them it’s Anafranil. Say it.”

“Anafranil.”

“Right. Have them transfer the half million to Klein’s account here in the States. They’ll put up a fuss, but insist on it. Get her out of there, fast. If you can come back to see me, do it. If not, hole her up somewhere.”

Frankie grabs Roy’s hand, holds it tight. “We’re gonna get through this,” he says. “We’re gonna be fine, partner.”

“Yeah,” Roy says. A bitter laugh escapes his lips. “We’re gonna be swell, huh?”

The door swings open a few moments later, and the nurse steps inside, followed by a steady stream of doctors. Frankie places Roy’s hand back on the bed, slaps the doctors across the back, wishes them all good luck, and walks out of the room. At the doorway, he turns around one last time, to say good-bye. But he can’t see Roy anymore. All he can make out is a small, prone figure surrounded by a curtain of white robes and plastic tubes.

Two days pass, and Roy hasn’t heard from anyone. Hasn’t gotten a phone call, a visit. Nothing. Starting to worry that something went wrong. That Frankie got himself picked up. He tried to make an outgoing call this morning, tried Frankie’s place, but the number kept ringing. Machine picked up, but he didn’t want to leave a message in case the cops were listening in.
Klein’s answering service was useless. Roy hung up before they even started talking. He’d dealt with them before. Didn’t want to do it again.

A concussion, the doctors said. A major one, but nothing broken. Nothing that requires surgery. Rest and relaxation, no future bumps on the noggin. They said his brain swelled from the hits, that it caused enough pressure to knock him out for forty-eight hours. Said they’d seen worse, but usually it resulted in a coma. They were glad he came out of it all right, they said. Roy just laughed, and they ordered more tests.

The concussion isn’t his concern anymore. Angela is. She’s been on his mind the past two days, jolting him awake when he should be sleeping. Thinking about her in prison. With the other inmates. Crying herself to sleep. Wondering why she’d been abandoned. He needs to know what’s happened to her. To Frankie, too, but mostly to Angela.

Roy hits the call button. He’s been avoiding its use, trying to save it for emergencies. As he expected, the nurse comes quickly.

“Is something wrong?”

“Did anyone come by while I was sleeping?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Little girl, about fourteen? Hair down to here. Skinny guy, sunken eyeballs?”

The nurse shrugs. “I was on duty the whole time, but … I don’t think you had any visitors. I’m sorry.”

“She’s my daughter. She was getting out of—she was supposed to come by. To see me.”

The nurse nods knowingly. “It happens. People get busy.”

“No, I—okay. Okay.” He looks around the room, at his clothes
hung over a chair. At the open bathroom door. He sits up in the bed, wincing with the effort. But it’s not that bad. It’s bearable. “What about phone calls? Did I get any phone calls?”

The nurse points to the beige push-button on the stand next to the bed. “Your phone’s right there. Private rooms get private calls. If it didn’t ring, you didn’t get a call.”

“Right,” says Roy. “Right, but maybe I was sleeping, and the call got routed back to the front desk.”

“We don’t take messages.”

“But maybe someone did. People do things sometimes, if you ask them nicely.” Roy softens his tone. Asks nicely. “Could you check for me, please? If there are any messages?”

She sighs, huffs. About to refuse, but stops. “Be right back.” Walks out of Roy’s room, down the hallway, and up to the front desk.

“Nicole,” she says, strutting up to the desk clerk, “you get any messages for the guy in 218?”

“Honey, you know we don’t take messages. I look like an answering service to you?”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Then tell him again.”

The nurse shuffles back down the hall, toward Roy’s room. She opens the door and pokes her head through. “Like I said,” she begins, “we don’t take any—”

The room is empty. The bed is made. The linens are pulled up tight. The lights are off, and the chart is gone. Like no one was ever in there. Cleaned and ready for the next ailing customer.

The taxi ride back into town is an expensive one, but Roy got lucky. His money clip was still in the pants he wore to the theater. To the hospital. A hundred and fifty dollars later, he’s still got around eighty on him. Enough for fares around town. Doesn’t want to go back to the house and pick up his car. Not yet. Not until he knows if they’re looking for him.

The cab pulls up outside Frankie’s apartment building. The green glass windows stare down at Roy, reflecting the sun. Blinding him. He tells the cabbie to wait outside. The driver doesn’t mind. It’s the best fare he’s had in weeks.

Apartment 618, Roy remembers that much. There’s a buzzer at the front door to the building, and he finds Frankie’s name listed among the residents. Punches the code on a keypad. Waits for an answer.

Ringing. Like before, when he tried to call. Frankie’s voice mail answers, and Roy hangs up. Not sure what to do. Sometimes Frankie doesn’t answer the phone. Maybe he’s lying low.

A resident comes down the elevator, making his way through the lobby. Roy watches him through the glass. Pretends he’s talking into the monitor. “So you want me to come up?” Roy says loudly. “Gonna have to buzz me in.” The man doesn’t even see Roy, doesn’t care about him. He leaves the building, the front door swinging wide. “I’ll be up in a second,” Roy calls, slipping inside the lobby and walking briskly to the elevator bank.

Sixth floor, and it doesn’t take Roy long to find apartment 618. He recognizes the building layout now, remembers it well. This is definitely Frankie’s place. He rings the doorbell and waits. The chimes echo inside the apartment, but he can’t hear any scuffling about.