CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MAX
I put my cell down. “It’s done.”
Dawn sits on the edge of the bed with her head down. “Is this going to work?”
I have no fucking idea, but I smile as best I can and take a seat beside her. “We’ve got money. It’s not fifty grand, but it’s not far off. Saul loves his precious fucking money, so yeah. I’d say we’re in with a chance.”
“Where?” she asks. “Where are we meeting him?”
“We’re the ones on the back foot here, so I had to let him choose the time and place. It ain’t going to be Times Square if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She’s fiddling with her hands, rolling them over each other again, her wristband bouncing along. “Should we get weapons?”
“Weapons?” I laugh. “This isn’t Lethal Weapon.”
“Could have fooled me. I’ve been kidnapped, shot at. I punched a guy.”
“Your ex. And what a glorious fucking punch it was.” I take her hand, looking it over. “Sure you don’t want to consider a career in boxing after this? MMA maybe? Ronda Rousey made it work. You could design your own outfits, sell a line of protein shakes…”
“Ronda Rousey has more muscle in her pinkie finger than I’ve got in my entire body.”
I let her hand down but keep hold of it. “You’re mistaking muscle for brains. The latter’s far more important in a fight, which is why we are going to be smart about this.”
“So, weapons?”
I shake my head. “We’ll be patted down. There’s no point, but…” I reach over to the bedside drawer and take out a metal cylinder. “I’m going to put this smoke grenade in the gym bag with the money.”
“Why?”
“Cover, distraction—We’ll have to wing it.”
“That doesn’t sound like being ‘smart’ about anything.”
I kiss her, savoring the softness of her lips. “Have a little faith.”
“I trust you, Max, completely.”
“I know.” I nod, and that’s what scares me.
Truthfully, I don’t know a fucking thing.
*
I borrow one of Oz’s clunkers to take us out to an industrial area on the other side of the river. Being a weekend, the place is deserted, a vast landscape of steel and rust and rot.
I drive through an open gate and stop out the back of a large warehouse. It’s straight from the cliché handbook, but that’s Saul for you.
Dawn’s opted for jeans and a white tank. I don’t know how she’s pulling it off, but she looks even hotter casual like this. I just hope this isn’t the last time I see her, but if one person has to come out of this, it’s going to be her. I’ll make damn sure of that.
I take the gym bag and together we walk towards the open doors. “What is this place?” asks Dawn.
I don’t tell her I’ve been here before. “Old steel mill. One of Saul’s properties, of course. He could sell this land, make a killing, but he keeps it for…” I trail off and Dawn doesn’t ask.
As soon as we’re inside, two goons come forward to search us. I don’t recognize one, but the other’s Viktor, somehow looking sketchier in the middle of the day. He grins as he pats Dawn down, lifting her breasts, his hand lingering too long between her legs. “Good to see you again, sweetheart.”
He blows her a kiss.
“Touch her again,” I say, my arms high, legs spread. “I’ll break your fucking arms, Viktor.”
Viktor puts his own hands up and backs away. “Easy now, Max. We’re all on the same side here.”
I highly fucking doubt that.
Saul steps forward from machinery to the left, materializing in the his usual spilt-wine suit. He extends his hands, stopping before us. “Kids, how are we? I heard you had a quite the adventure over in Sin City.”
“You could say that,” I reply.
Saul shakes his head. “Bobby Emmanuel Cervantes, that snake. But enough of him. Let’s get down to business.”
There’s that word again.
Dawn’s remarkably composed beside me. I take in as much of our surroundings as I can: Viktor and the new goon, the doors still open behind our backs but too far to make without becoming target practice in the process. I can’t see any other exits.
Saul nods to the bag in my hand. He gestures to the new goon, who steps in to snatch it away, unzipping it and dumping the contents on the floor.
“Fifty-thousand and change. Is that what I’m going to find in here?” asks Bobby. He spots the smoke grenade, stopping down to pick it up. “What do we have here, Max?” He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t believe how many of these we burned through in Afghanistan. What did you think you were going to achieve with this? Disappearing act? To fucking where, Max?”
He tosses the smoke grenade to Viktor, who pockets in it his jacket.
Bobby stands there continuing to shake his head. “I’m disappointed, Max. I really am. I wanted this to be civil. You’re a good employee, a friend.”
I let him talk. Nothing I say is going to make much difference.
He stops before me smiling. “We’re both good with numbers, aren’t we, Max?”
“I like to think so.”
“So, like me, you can look down at this pile of cash and instantly know it’s a long way short of fifty large, isn’t it?”
Here we fucking go. “It’s the best she could come up with on such short notice, all Rick had when I shook him down.”
Bobby laughs. “You should have shook fucking harder.”
He walks away with hands in his trouser pockets.
“Please, we did our best,” interjects Dawn.
“Your best?” Saul snaps. “Give me a fucking break, Dorothy.”
“We were almost killed,” she continues, frantically trying to speak.
Not the right thing to say.
“Do I look like I give a shit about excuses?” bellows Saul, losing his cool. “I don’t care if you had to suck off sixty guys. The money is not all there, is it?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
Saul pulls out his weapon, aiming it at me. “This is a fucking shame, Max, a real fucking shame.”
Dawn puts her hands out. “Please!” she screams, begging now. “He was only trying to help.”
“He knows better,” continues Saul.
“Pop me,” I tell Saul. “But let her go. She’s been through enough.” His finger’s on the trigger. It’s not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me, but this time it feels different, more urgent. Adrenaline floods my body, but I’ve got nothing to do with it.
“Please,” pleads Dawn. “Let us go.”
Saul pauses. Is he actually fucking considering it? But soon the mask is gone, his finger starting to squeeze. “Sorry, Max, but you know the rules.”
A ringtone sounds out. It’s Saul’s cell, Shake It Off by Taylor Swift, Lucy’s doing.
“The fuck.” He pulls it out, holding the cell in one hand, his gun still trained on me in the other.
He goes to answer the call, bringing it to his ear, but it’s on speaker.
“Dad?” comes the mousy voice.
He holds the cell away from his ear. “Lucy, baby. I can’t get this shit off speaker. He fumbles with the cell, eventually giving up and holding it before him. “I’m a little tied up here, hon. Can this wait?”
It’s Saul’s beloved daughter Lucy, now twenty-two and a star socialite. She’s everything Saul is not—compassionate, understanding, the voice of angel. I’ve often wondered if she’s his biological child at all. She’s already signed up to a label, and I have to admit, she’s got talent. She’s going places.
When it comes to Saul, whatever happens, Lucy always comes first.
“It’s about the festival, Dad.”
He looks to Viktor. “What about it, baby?”
I’m desperately trying to find a way out, but we’re stuck fast.
“The designer I was using,” Lucy continues.
“Lindsay someone, right?” says Saul.
“Linda, Dad, Linda McMasters. She cancelled.”
“She fucking what?” yells Saul, his voice echoing around the warehouse.
“She said it was a family emergency or something. She hasn’t even started on the dress.”
“I’ll give her a family emergency,” Saul seethes. “You tell her…”
“What am I going to do, Dad? I’m due on stage in eight hours.”
“I can help.”
All eyes turn to Dawn.
Saul presses his cell into his chest. “What did you say?”
“Dad?” Lucy says, her voice muffled.
“I can help,” repeats Dawn. “I’m a designer.”
“Dad? Who’s that?”
He brings the cell back before him. “No one, baby.”
Dawn steps forward, raising her voice. “I work for Noel Boone, but I do my own designs. I studied at Parsons here in New York. I know your style. I follow all your feeds. I can make you an amazing dress in eight hours.
Holy fucking shit. Dawn might be in with a chance here. Even if she can’t do it, she could buy us time.
“You should listen to her,” I tell Saul.
“Noel Boone?” says Lucy, thinking, “Yeah, she did that thing last season with the witches hats, right?
“That’s right,” replies Dawn, trying to regulate her breathing.
“Dad?” queries Lucy.
Saul eyes Dawn with suspicion. He places his hand over the cell. “Are you fucking serious? Don’t you dare fucking lie to me now.”
Dawn nods. “I’m serious. If you can get the materials, I can take her measurements, and whip something up in no time.”
“I’ve got my own studio here at the apartment,” says Lucy. “Fabrics, machines… everything you need. I’m something of an aspiring designer myself.”
Lucy might have a great voice, but her talents do not extend to fashion design. I’ve seen her so-called ‘designs.’ A dog wouldn’t wear them in public.
Saul’s struggling with it, torn.
“Dad, is this for real? Where did you even find her?”
“It’s a long story,” says Saul, chewing his lip. “Can this girl help you, Lucy, or what?”
“It’s Noel Boone, Dad. Kim wore one of her dresses to the Grammy’s last month. She’s got this great shop down in Brooklyn, like—”
“Can she help you or not?” Saul barks.
“I think she can. Thank you…” Lucy’s beaming through the phone. “What’s your name?”
“Dawn. Dawn Hayes.”
Saul’s screwed now. “We’ll talk it over—”
“Please, Dad!”
“We’ll talk it over, Lucy. I love you.”
“Call me back, Dad!”
“I will,” he hangs up and breathes out, addressing Dawn. “If she doesn’t have the best fucking dress she’s ever seen in eight hours, consider yourself dead.” He turns the gun to me. “And you, you should consider yourself very, very fucking lucky I’m letting you leave here without any holes.”
“There’s a condition,” stutters Dawn.
“Let me guess?” says Saul. “Afterwards, I let you go.”
She nods.
Saul lowers his gun. “You make my baby girl happy, consider it done. However, I don’t need to tell you what’s going to happens if you don’t.”
She did it. It’s risky as hell, but Dawn has actually got us off the hook here. I just hope she isn’t bluffing about the dress.
Saul looks to me. “You two better drive straight to the apartment. Viktor will follow you. I don’t care what Lucy says. Eight hours isn’t a lot of time.” He focusses on Dawn. “If you break her heart, if I see a single tear, you’re gone—both of you.” He holsters his weapon and claps his hand together for dramatic effect. “Dust.” He jerks his head. “Now, get out of my fucking sight and get to work.” He points to Dawn. “I’ll be over later. Don’t fuck this up.”
I take Dawn by the arm, waiting for the bullet in my back, but it never comes. We make it into the car and I waste no time getting us out of there.
Once we’re safely on the freeway, I turn to Dawn. “Tell me you were serious in there.”
She’s smiling. She’s actually smiling. “Do you know what this could do for my career?”
“Your career? it could get us fucking killed if you don’t deliver.”
“I can deliver,” says Dawn.
I see the purpose and possibility taking her over. She’s even sitting up straighter. “You’ve done your part, Max. I owe you my life, but now it’s my turn. Let me do what I do best.”
“Okay,” I tell her, and I believe it. We might just get out this thing alive.
We might get our happy ending after all.