And a Fall Cometh

by Frank Zafiro

Getting out of town would've been best, but that took money. And the fucking Russian had my money.

I parked up the street, almost two blocks away from his house. A layer of old snow covered the city, most of it tinged with brown. River City was a dirty town. The politicians can call it the All-American City all they want. That doesn't change anything that goes on just barely below the surface.

The heater in Beth's old Honda barely worked. It didn't matter, anyway. I was sweating as I watched Oleg's house. My hands were clammy. I ran them through my hair to dry them off. The ache in my knuckles flared and I rubbed at them absently.

Would he pay?

Of course he would. A bookie who doesn't pay is like a loan shark who doesn't collect—dead in the water.

Still, he owed me a lot of bank. Thirty-eight large.

I took a shallow breath and winced in pain. My ribs ached from the beating I took in the ring. Goddamn kid I fought almost kept me from pulling off the win by knockout. If he hadn't been so cocky, I'd be two thousand bucks poorer instead of thirty-eight thousand ahead.

Shifting in the driver's seat, my knee bumped Beth's keychain. Bart Simpson swung upside down from the ignition. I thought of her for a moment, stashed away at the Celtic Spirit Motel, waiting for me. Her fiery hair. The little moan she made when I kissed her hard. I thought about the tiny patch of beach we were going to find in California somewhere, or maybe Mexico .

Focus!

I looked up into the rear-view mirror. My own old, battered face stared back at me. The puffy left cheek bore ugly, blue-green bruising that was punctuated by the bend in my nose. A small scar separated my left eyebrow into two. The perfect picture of a broken down fighter less than a week after his latest beating.

“What're you looking at?” I said, DeNiro style.

I didn't have an answer, so I turned back to stare up the street at Oleg's house. He had to pay, I figured. His reputation counted on it. Besides, even though he knew I turned down Bracco on the fix, he must've opened up the floodgates and took a lot of action on the kid. He probably cleared a hundred. My thirty-eight was the price of doing business, that's all.

He'd pay. I didn't have to worry about the Russians. Just Bracco and his goons.

I glanced over my shoulder and scanned the street. I knew they could be out there, just waiting for me to get out of the car. Lurking around the corner, waiting to put a .45 behind my ear or blast my balls off with a shotgun. Refusing to take a dive and then actually winning the fight? That was a hearty fuck you. Bracco wouldn't let that stand. He couldn't let some two-bit fighter show him up.

I hadn't even gone home after the fight. That'd be the first place they'd check. And keep checking, too. They'd ask the neighbors every time and threaten them and work on them until if I ever did show up, those neighbors would never know for sure if they gave me up out of fear or just because they were tired of being messed with.

Screw the neighbors. All I cared about was my take. I'd get my money and get out of town. I didn't need to go home. What little I had was junk.

I took a slow, deep breath around the pain in my ribs and let it out.

Time to see the Russian. If the others come, they come.

I put the car into gear and cruised past Oleg's house, eyeballing the front. He had an open shade. The TV flickered inside. No one visible, though. I drove around the corner and parked.

Outside on the sidewalk, the world around me sounded askew, like something from a Stanley Kubrick movie. A dog barked a few blocks away, his throaty yelp monotonous and in time with my heart as it pounded in my chest. My shoes crunched in the snow of the sidewalk that no one bothered to clear. I glanced over my shoulder, then forward.

A car pulled around the corner, rolling toward me. A stab of fear cut through my stomach. I froze in place, staring at the windshield. For the hundredth time, I wished that I had a gun. The car glided past, though, a little old man in a hat staring intently at the snowy street in front of him.

I realized I'd been holding my breath and let it out in a sigh.

Jesus. Get a grip.

I strode around the corner. No other cars passed me. No shots rang out. My gaze flicked back and forth, searching, but there was nothing to find.

Maybe I gave him too much credit. Maybe I've watched The Godfather too many times.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I pressed my lips together into a scowl, forcing the smile away.

Maybe I did over-estimate Bracco's network. Maybe he didn't know about the bet I laid with the Russian. But I'd wait until Beth and I were far away from River City before laughing about it.

The walkway up to Oleg's door had been shoveled. I climbed the concrete steps and peered through the window next to the front door. On the TV, a woman with a microphone somehow managed to speak with a perma-smile pasted across her face. No Oleg, though.

I looked up and down the street. Nothing. That did little to put me at ease.

I knocked on the door. The rap of my knuckles against the screen door rang up and down the block. I cringed inwardly.

A few long moments passed without an answer. I wiped the sweat from my lip and forehead with my sleeve.

He had to be home. I couldn't risk staying in town any longer. I needed the money.

Come on, Oleg, you prick. Be home.

After what seemed like an hour, I raised my hand to knock again. Then I heard a metallic click.

My heart jumped in my chest. Without thinking, I stepped back from the door, my pulse pounding in my temples. There was another moment of silence. Then the door swung open from the inside.

I realized what the sound had been. The deadbolt.

A slender, mousy man eyed me through the crack in the doorway. “What you vant?” he asked, his voice thick with accent.

I cleared my throat. “I'm here to see Oleg.”

The man appraised me for another moment. “Who vants to see him? Olek busy.”

“He has something for me.”

Another long appraisal from Mouse. Then he said, “I ask him” and closed the door, snapping the deadbolt into place.

I zipped up my sweatshirt and rubbed my arms. My breath fogged in front of me. I noticed it came in short bursts, like I was in the third round or something. The cold air bit into my lungs while I waited. I wished I still smoked.

A couple of minutes later, I heard the metallic click again and the door opened. Mouse was back.

“Come in,” he grunted at me.

“Thanks.” I pulled open the screen door and stepped past him into the living room.

Mouse shut the door behind me. He pointed at a staircase. “Olek downstair.”

“Downstairs?” I glanced at the open door and the stairs that lead downward.

“Da.”

I watched Mouse for any sign of danger, but the small Russian reflected nothing back in his gaze. If anything, he looked bored.

“Okay,” I said and headed for the stairs.

The wooden steps creaked under my feet as I went down them. The smell of earth and concrete filled the air. When I reached the bottom, the room opened up into a single large space. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting pale, yellow light. Oleg sat at a card table in the far corner. Beside another smaller lamp, which was much brighter than the one in the ceiling, a cash box and notepad lay on the table. He tapped away at a calculator. The small buzz of the receipt printing filled the room.

I glanced around the room. Only one door. It was opened a crack and I saw the silhouette of a sink inside. Bathroom.

The tapping and buzzing stopped. Oleg looked up at me. He grinned wolfishly, exposing crooked, yellow teeth. “You are one lucky bastard,” he said, his English much smoother than Mouse's but still thick with the tones of Mother Russia. “Bet on yourself and then pick the fucking round . Unbelievable.”

“Sometimes you get lucky,” I agreed.

Oleg shook his head. “No, this is more than luck. This is amazing. That other kid, he very strong and good fighter, too. How did you know what round?”

I shrugged. “It just seemed like the right choice.”

“Three to one against you. Nineteen to one for that round you get knockout.” Oleg sighed. “Amazing.”

I glanced over my shoulder and rubbed my palms on my jeans. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty amazing.”

“Many people bet against you,” Oleg observed. “Some very angry now.”

I felt a tickle of fear deep in my chest. “I'm sure. But I bet you made a lot more taking those bets than you lost taking mine.”

He nodded. “Is true.”

I stepped closer to the table. “Look, I'm in kind of a hurry—”

“So you need money now.”

“Yeah.”

Oleg removed a thick envelope from the cash box and held it up. “Thirty-eight thousand dollars. You want count it?”

I shook my head.

Oleg shrugged and dropped it on the table in front of him. “I not even worry about this money. I make seven times as much from idiots who bet on kid.”

I reached for the envelope.

Oleg watched my hand. “Besides,” he said, “I not lose this money, either.”

My eyes snapped to his. They were flat and a malevolent smile played on his lips.

The unmistakable sound of a gun hammer being cocked came from behind me.

I shot Oleg a deadly glare and turned slowly around. One of Bracco's goons stood in the bathroom doorway with a pistol leveled at me. Fear washed through my stomach like a rush of cold water, making my arms and legs feel heavy.

How in the hell...?

“Who are you?” I asked. His face was vaguely familiar but I couldn't quite place him.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled at me.

“What do you want?”

He strode purposefully forward. I watched him as he approached me and without preamble, he brought the butt-end of the gun downward in a sharp arc. I raised my hands too slowly and the hard metal bit into the meaty part of my neck.

I grunted and fell to a knee. Pain radiated from that spot, pulsing outward.

“I said to shut the fuck up,” he repeated.

I struggled to catch my breath and stared at the concrete floor near his cowboy boots.

“You tell Dom,” Oleg said. “Everything even now.”

“Bullshit,” the goon said. “Dom said he gets half of this asshole's winnings.”

“Half!” Oleg squealed. “What the fuck is that, Joe?”

I glanced up at Joe. The pitted face. The flat nose. Now I remembered.

“It's the cost of doing business,” Joe told him. “Now hand that shit over.”

Oleg paused. “But I give you this guy—”

“Give me the fucking money!” Joe told him and swung the pistol to point it directly at Oleg.

I sprang upward.

Joe grunted in surprise when I grabbed his wrist with both hands and jerked his arm downward. At the same time, I drove my knee up. The point of my knee drilled into the fleshy part of his forearm. The gun discharged with a loud crack. Oleg yelped in pain and fell over backward.

I drove my knee upward again. Joe's grip loosened. The gun clattered to the concrete and bounced under Oleg's card table. I pivoted and gave him a two handed shove in the chest, sending him stumbling backward.

We both paused, staring at each other. I was closer to the gun, but I wasn't sure I could get to it before Joe made it back to me. Joe stared at me and I figured he was calculating the same set of odds. Behind me, Oleg moaned weakly, his voice soft and wet.

“I'm not going with you,” I told Joe.

His eyes flicked to the gun and back to my face. “Dom wants to see you. You're going.”

“I know he's going to kill me.”

Joe shrugged. “You shoulda took his deal.”

I swallowed slowly. “You're Joe Bassen, right?”

“So?”

“You used to fight.”

A touch of pride lit up his face. “Yeah.”

“What happened? You lose your balls? Turn chicken-shit?”

His eyes narrowed. He jabbed his finger at me. “Hey, motherfucker, I was ranked. Number fourteen in the world. What did you ever do outside of this area?”

I ignored his question. “Fourteen, huh? I remember that. Good for you. Even if it was ten years ago.”

He watched me and said nothing.

“I remember something else, too,” I said. “I remember how you got your ass kicked by that black kid—”

“Shut up.”

“What was his name? Forester? Something like that?”

“I said, shut up.”

I shook my head in disappointment. “He laid you out with a left hook that he brought all the way from the East Coast. Don't know how you didn't see it coming.”

Joe's face turned red. “You think you're something special? Huh? Just because you beat some punk in a piss ant fight?”

“At least I didn't get my ass knocked out by some moolie.”

“That's it, motherfucker. You're dead.”

Joe raised his fists and dropped into a boxer's crouch. His eyes glazed over with rage.

Suddenly, I was calm. I fell into a light boxing stance and brought up my hands. This was better than hiding at motels and sneaking around. This I knew.

Joe Bassen fought as a middleweight, but he looked like he could fight as a heavyweight now. He had a little bit of a belly on him, but his arms were thick with muscle and his chest looked solid. As he moved toward me, he still showed a fighter's bounce in his legs.

He snapped out a jab with a sharp exhale. I slipped the punch and circled away. He advanced on me, devoid of caution. I remembered seeing a couple of his fights years ago. He was more careful then. I guess a few years of busting skulls for Dominic Bracco changed his style. Too bad for him, I figured.

We danced around the small basement, my tennis shoes and his cowboy boots scraping across the concrete floor. Sometime after the first punch, Oleg stopped moaning. Either that, or I stopped hearing him.

Joe stepped to his right and I shifted to my own right to slip away. Too late, I saw it was a feint. He shuffled left, cocked and launched a thundering left hook at my head. I tucked my chin to my chest and covered my head with a forearm. The blow landed below my ear. I tried to roll with it and it sent me stumbling. The bite of his knuckles stung, but the force of the punch rang in my ears and along my jaw. I saw floating spots in front of me and shook my head to clear it.

He came after me, relentless, a small, evil grin pasted on his mouth.

I'd hoped he couldn't hit hard any more and I was wrong. He wasn't as fast as he used to be. Size slowed him down, but he'd been fast enough to land that hook.

He doubled up on the jab, clipping my forehead with the second punch. An idea occurred to me, but before I had time to think it through, he followed with the straight right. I tucked my chin and leaned away, taking most of the shot on my shoulder and danced away.

Joe lumbered after me.

This is how I won the fight, I remembered. I lulled the other guy into thinking I was finished and counter-punched him with my best shot, a right uppercut.

It worked before. It could work again.

Joe looped another hook at my head and I ducked under it. His belly was exposed and I chopped at it with my right fist. He grunted and threw the opposite hook. I slipped it, stepped inside and unleashed my right uppercut.

He was too quick. My fist grazed his chin as he stepped to his right. He countered with another right. It landed flush on my cheek and drove me back into a cement wall.

Joe grinned at me. “Stupid fuck. I saw your fight. A real boxer, one that gets ranked , needs to know more than just one move.”

He stepped forward and hammered at me with another right. I dropped my chin low and took the shot on the top of my head. It hurt like hell but when I heard the crunch of his knuckles and his howl of pain and surprise, it was worth it.

“Son of a bit—” he started to yell before I drove my foot straight up between his legs. Then he let out a guttural sound and sank to his knees. I followed up with two hard shots to his face, shattering his nose with the second. He looked up at me with bleary, confused eyes.

I thought about it a second and then laid him out with a left hook. I don't know why I bothered. The irony would be lost on him.

The basement suddenly became very quiet, except for my ragged breathing. I gave Joe another kick to the mid-section for good measure. His body absorbed the blow but he didn't react. He was definitely out.

I glanced over at Oleg. His still body lay crumpled on the floor beside his chair. I grabbed the envelope with my winnings in it from the table. The cashbox yawned open next to it. I guessed another eighty or even a hundred was stacked inside.

My mind whirred. I was already on Bracco's hit list. If I stole money from the Russians, I'd be on theirs, too.

Fuck it. Oleg's dead body already put me on that list. Might as well have the money, too. I gathered it up and tucked it inside my sweatshirt pocket. Then I picked up Bassen's .45, took a deep breath and headed upstairs. I still had Mouse to deal with.

The basement door was shut and the inside covered with soundproofing foam. Only the doorknob was exposed. I pulled the door open and peered around the corner. Mouse sat in front of the TV, watching a young girl croon “Because the Night” and butchering it.

I leveled the gun at him and backed toward the front door. He twisted his head toward his shoulder but didn't take his eyes of off the television. He spoke a short sentence in Russian. When I didn't answer, he turned around and started to ask again. He stopped cold when he saw the gun. His eyes widened. “Where Olek?”

Without answering, I reached for the door, fumbled with the knob and pulled it open. Mouse stared at me the whole time, frozen in place. His surprise looked to be fading to anger. Would he check on Oleg first or find a gun and come blazing after me? I didn't know and I didn't have time to wonder.

I backed through the doorway, pushed open the screen door with my back, turned and ran.

My shoes slapped the pavement as I scuttled down the walkway. My footfalls crunched in the snow when I reached the sidewalk. I kept an eye over my shoulder and ran as fast as I dared on the slippery snow to Beth's car.

With a shaking hand, I slid the key into the driver's door. I kept expecting Mouse to come around the corner with an AK-47 blasting at me. My hands shook worse when I tried to put the key into the ignition.

The little Honda fired to life. I put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. No sign of Mouse. No AK-47s.

By the time I got onto Birch, a main arterial, the shaking started to fade. My head ached, but a thrill shot through my chest. I survived! And I had more running money than I'd counted on. I won. I beat them all. Now Beth and I could get the hell out of this dirty little town and start somewhere fresh.

I let out a whoop and slapped the steering wheel.

Traffic was light. I took a right at Maxwell and followed it over to Division. Traffic was heavier there. Just in case Mouse or anyone else tried to follow me.

The Celtic Spirit Motel sat off of Division on the north end of River City . Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the gravel lot and drove to the rear of the U-shaped layout. The curtains in number eighteen were closed, just like I told Beth to keep them. She had a light on inside, which I warned her against. It didn't matter now, though. Bracco had made his play and he lost.

I parked the car and went to the door of number eighteen. The motel key was over-sized and slipped into the lock with a loud click.

I paused and said, “Beth, it's me” before opening the door to an empty room.

The scene took a moment to register. The door to the bathroom stood open and the light inside was off. A made bed with rumpled covers. Our suitcases sat in the corner.

“Beth?” I called, but there was no answer.

She went to the store. Or to get a burger.

I took a deep, wavering breath and thought about that. Yeah, it could be. Even thought I told her to stay put, it could be. Then I saw her purse perched on the nightstand, next to the telephone. The red message light flashed at me.

“Oh, no,” I groaned. My stomach turned to lead.

I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers to retrieve messages. The bland, computerized female voice informed me that I had one new message.

Bracco's unmistakable thick voice filled my ear. “Forget something?” There was a rustle and then Beth's voice called out my name. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“Hear that?” Bracco continued. “Maybe you should come home and we can work out a couple of things.”

The message ended and the monotonous woman's voice asked me if I wanted to delete it, save it or listen to it again.

I hung up the phone.

My headed pounded. I tried to swallow. My legs suddenly felt weak and I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

Oh, Jesus, Beth!

Tears streamed from my eyes. My mouth opened in a long silent scream. I pounded my fists down onto the bed beside me. My chest ached. When my breath returned, I cursed Bracco with every word I could think of.

After a few minutes, I shook my head to clear it. This wasn't over. He had her but he wanted something. Me.

That sliver of beach in Mexico or California flashed past my eyes.

I set my jaw and rose from the bed.

I gathered up our suitcases and threw them into the trunk of the car. Her purse I put on the front seat next to me. I stole glances at it as I drove.

There wasn't any time for a fancy plan. I stopped at the night deposit location at our bank and deposited the money into our joint account, using five different envelopes. The bank would report it to the IRS, but that was a problem that could be worked out later. I was running out of options.

I folded a blank deposit slip in half. From inside Beth's purse, I removed her wallet. I slid the deposit slip behind a picture of the two of us standing in the ring after one my fights. Beth was smart. She'd find the slip of paper and figure it out.

On the drive toward our small house in Hillyard, images of Bracco and his goons kept popping up in my mind. I saw them holding Beth, hurting her. No matter how hard I tried to force them down, the images rose up again, each more brutal than the last.

No cars were parked in front of the little two-bedroom we owned. He probably parked in the alley. Fewer witnesses.

I turned off the engine and wrapped my hand around the Bart Simpson key ring. I hadn't prayed since I was a kid at St. Charles but I thought about doing it right then. I didn't, though. If there was a God, he wouldn't be listening to me.

I slipped Bassen's .45 into the small of my back and got out of the car.

The walkway hadn't been shoveled since the last snowfall. A medley of footprints criss-crossed between the sidewalk and the door. The living room curtains were drawn and the house looked deserted.

I knew better.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Dominic Bracco sat at the kitchen table. His hulking frame dwarfed the small chair, which he'd turned backwards and rested his forearms across the back. Next to him, on her knees, with her hands bound and a strip of silver duct tape across her mouth, was my Beth. Her terrified eyes beseeched mine.

Next to her, similarly bound and gagged was my trainer, Reggie. The old man bled from a jagged cut above his brow.

“I see you got my message,” Bracco said.

“I got it,” I whispered.

Behind Beth and Reggie stood a smaller-framed kid, well dressed with hair in carefully styled disarray. He held a pistol with a silencer pointed at the back of Beth's head.

Next to Bracco stood Joe Bassen. His nose was swollen and red. His face still bore a pained expression.

“You got it,” Bracco said, his Jersey accent thick, “and now I got you, motherfucker.”

I licked my dry lips. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” he repeated. He shook his head. “Did you really think you could tell me no? That you could just go your own way and fuck me over?”

“I didn't do—”

“Shut the fuck up!” he shouted, his face suddenly enraged. He slammed his beefy fist on the table, causing everyone in the room to jump. “Just shut the fuck up with what you did and didn't do!” He raised his fingers to his face and rubbed his eyes, sighing. “You think you're smarter than me? Huh?”

I thought of the boxing match he wanted me to throw. How I refused. “No.”

“You think I don't deal with the Russians?” He shook his head. “I've got this fucking town wired, top to bottom. And I made you a perfectly fair offer. You should've taken it.”

He was right. I should've. My pride got in the way. I didn't want to be his lackey, even just once. And I figured I was good enough to pick my round. But even when I won, I knew it wasn't all over. I knew that I hadn't paid for that sin, not right away.

My gaze met Beth's. I gave her a short nod of reassurance. Then I turned back to Bracco.

“I know I shoulda,” I croaked. “But what now?”

“What now?” His ruddy face broke into a huge grin. “Well, now it's payback time.”

Fear raced through me anew, making my mouth dry. My fingertips tingled. I knew I didn't have time to go for the gun in my waistband at the small of my back.

“Please—” I started, but Bracco raised his hand.

The kid with the pistol moved it from Beth to Reggie.

“No!”

He fired. The crack of the gunshot was suppressed, but the clacking sound of the slide echoed throughout the kitchen, followed with the sickening splat of the bullet hitting Reggie in the back of the head. He collapsed without making a sound. A red pool spread outward from his head across the white linoleum.

Beth tried to scream behind the duct tape. The kid with the pistol grabbed her by the collar and gave her a shake. She stopped screaming, but slammed her eyes shut and cried fiercely.

I stared at Reggie's crumpled body. The poor man had been a second father to me. He believed in me.

“You son of a bitch,” I tried to yell, but it came out as a sob.

“Oh, we're just getting started,” Bracco said. He motioned toward Beth with his head. “This little cooz here is gonna get it, too. But first, I think I'll let Joe here fuck her a few times right in front of you.” He gave me a cruel smile. “Only fair, since you smashed his nose.”

I realized then the way things would have to go. As a result, a crazy calm washed over me. I cast a quick glance at Bassen. “You like that left hook, pussy?”

Joe took a step forward, but Bracco stayed him with a wave of his hand.

“Just a second.” He stared at me for a long moment. “I don't think you quite grasp the situation.” He pointed at Beth. “Your little wife here is going to get fucked eight ways from Sunday. Then she gets a bullet, just like this cocksucker here.” He pointed at Reggie.

I swallowed, but said nothing.

Bracco pointed at me next. “Then you're next. By the time we're through with you, you'll be begging for that bullet, believe me.”

I shook my head. “That's not how it's going to happen.”

Bracco stared at me, amused. Then he laughed out loud. “Oh, really? Why's that?”

“Because I have something you want.”

“What's that?”

“The money. And not just my thirty-eight, but the whole wad Oleg had at that house.”

Bracco's eyes narrowed.

“At least a hundred grand,” I told him.

Bracco glanced sidelong at Bassen for confirmation. The ex-boxer gave him a reluctant nod of affirmation.

“Fine,” Bracco said. “Where is it?”

“Someplace safe.”

Bracco snorted and waved at Bassen. “Check him.”

Bassen stepped forward and roughly frisked me. I held my arms out to the side and allowed him. There was nothing else I could do. Not with that kid pointing the pistol at the back of Beth's head.

Bassen ran his hand over the hard lump in the small of my back. He reached under my sweatshirt, grasped the butt of his gun and jerked it free with a glare. Then he continued his search. Once he finished checking, he drove a hard right into my stomach. Air whooshed out of my lungs and I collapsed to my knees, struggling to breathe.

“Nothing,” Bassen reported, holding up the gun. “'Cept this.”

“Check his car,” Bracco ordered him.

Bassen slipped the gun into his belt and stalked out the front door.

I slowly caught my breath. “You think I'm stupid enough to bring it with me?” I wheezed at Bracco.

He shrugged. “Nothing surprises me anymore,” he said. “Especially when it comes to how stupid people can be.”

I rose to my feet. Beth had opened her eyes and now stared at me. Fear and panic radiated from her almost like sound waves that were deafening. I forced a little smile. “It'll be all right, babe,” I whispered to her.

“I wouldn't count on it,” Bracco said, matter-of-factly.

Bassen returned and shook his head. “Just a couple of suitcases and the bitch's purse.”

Bracco turned his gaze back to me. “Where is it?”

“Somewhere safe, like I said. Now, you want to hear my offer?”

Bracco paused. He studied me carefully, as if he were deciding whether to call a poker hand or raise it. For him, there was no such thing as folding. Finally he nodded. “Okay. What's your offer?”

“We go free,” I said. “Unharmed. I buy our freedom with the hundred kay. Her and I go far away from here. No one ever hears from us again and you get rich.”

“That's it?”

I nodded.

Bracco considered for a long minute. I could almost hear the argument going on inside his head. Anger versus greed, battling it out.

Greed won. It usually does.

“All right,” he said. “Now where's the money?”

I shook my head. “Uh-uh.” I pointed at Beth. “She leaves first, free and clear. After she's gone, I'll take you to the money. Once you have the money, I go free. That's the deal.”

Bracco thought about it for another few moments. “All right,” he said. “All right.” He motioned to the kid with the gun. “Cut her loose.”

The kid snapped open a knife and cut through her bindings. As soon as her hands were free, she tore the tape from her mouth, scrambled to her feet and threw herself into my embrace. I held her close, breathing in the smell of her hair and skin.

“I love you, baby,” I whispered.

She sobbed, unable to speak.

“Head south,” I breathed into her ear and she stiffened. Then I added, “I'll find you,” and she melted against me again.

“Enough Danielle Steele shit already,” Bracco said.

I pulled her away from me and held her at an arm's length. “See you soon, okay?”

She nodded through her tears.

I kissed her softly on the corner of her mouth. “Now, go.” I pressed the keys into her hand.

She took the keys and brushed past me. I closed my eyes and listened to her go, smelling the remnants of her presence. I saw her warm and safe on that sliver of beach.

“Okay, she's gone,” Bracco said. “Now where's my money?”

I didn't answer until I heard the Honda engine come to life and then fade away. I opened my eyes and stared at Bracco.

“You're never going to let me go, are you?”

“Sure I am,” he said. “Once I get the money.”

I snorted and jerked a thumb toward Bassen. “I may be a fighter, but I'm not as stupid as him.”

Bassen tensed, but Bracco held up his hand again.

“As soon as you get the money,” I told him, “I'm as good as dead.”

“That's not true. I'm a man of my word.”

“Fuck your word,” I told him and spat on the floor near his feet. “And fuck you.”

I expected rage from him, but what came across his face was something closer to disappointment. “You don't have the money, do you?”

“I've got it. But I'm not giving it to you. You'll just kill me anyway.”

“I let your woman go,” Bracco said.

I shrugged. “Small price to pay.”

He held his hands out to me, palms up. “What can I do to convince you?”

“You can get on your knees and blow me.”

Anger flashed across his face. There was no going back now. Not after I said that to him in front of his crew. He sighed.

“Get on your knees,” Bracco said, his voice low and dangerous.

I didn't move.

“Isaac,” Bracco said.

The kid raised his pistol and fired a shot into my leg. I cried out in pain and fell to the floor. I heard the chair scrape against linoleum and Bracco's stylish shoes appeared next to my face. “Stupid fuck,” he muttered. “Get him up.”

Bassen jerked me to my knees. I looked up at Bracco, who now held the kid's silenced pistol in his right hand. He stared at me coldly and raised it. I took a deep breath and considered praying again. Instead, I thought of Beth. Alive. Safe.

“You shoulda just taken the dive, like I offered you,” Bracco told me again.

“I know,” I tried to say, but my throat and mouth was too dry. I stared at the end of the barrel, looking deep, deep into that darkness until it swallowed me up.

Some sins you have to pay for, eventually.