The man from the black Ford runs his hand along the inside of the door. He unlocks it, then opens the car door and slides in next to Jay. He props a foot against the glove compartment. Boots, Jay notices. Alligator, with gold stitching.
“Drive,” he says.
Jay holds his hand over the key in the ignition. He thinks of his wife in the apartment upstairs, above them. He thinks of his baby. And he has a sudden, overwhelming desire to do whatever this man asks, whatever keeps Jay alive and unharmed from this moment to the next. He pulls out of his parking space.
“You know, I could drive this car straight to a police station,” he says.
The man from the black Ford settles into the torn fabric of the passenger seat. “I got a nickel-plated twenty- two in my pos session says you probably won’t.”
Jay remembers his stolen gun, the one missing from his bed room.
An unlicensed weapon with his fingerprints all over it.
It’s the final clink in the trap.
“Where are we going?” Jay asks.
“Just drive.”
Part II Chapter 13
He has Jay pull into an abandoned rail yard, instructing him to park on the tracks, across from a busted-out trailer with broken windows and a missing door. Jay does as he’s told, then places his hands, clearly visible, on top of the steering wheel, awaiting further instruction. The man in the passenger seat reaches for Jay’s car keys. He kills the engine. In the silence that follows, Jay hears the man’s heavy, even breath and the almost musical jingle of metal on metal as he slides Jay’s keys into the pocket of his sports coat.
Jay is careful not to move. The mouth of the gun is still pointed in his direction. His captor shifts several times in his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Jay sees him reaching under neath his sports coat for something in his waistband. It’s a large manila envelope folded in half.
The man lays it on top of the dashboard, motioning for Jay to
pick it up, which Jay is not the least bit eager to do. The man in the passenger seat fishes a cigarette out of his coat pocket, his hand still on the .45. He pops in Jay’s car lighter and once more motions for Jay to pick up the envelope, which Jay, finally and reluctantly, does. He’s surprised by the weight of it, like a brick in his hands.
“Open it,” the man says.
The car lighter pops out. Jay jumps in his seat.
The man smiles, enjoying this. He lights the cigarette. “Open it.” Jay unfolds the envelope in the darkened car, fumbling with
the fastener. Inside, he sees stacks and stacks of one-hundred dollar bills, each bound neatly by a rubber band. “It’s yours,” the man says. “Twenty-five.”
Jay stares at the pile of money in his lap.
“Thousand,” the man adds, as if he needed to clarify. It’s more money than Jay made last year, more than he’s
ever held in his hands at one time. He feels light-headed at the thought.
“What is this?”
“Consider it a business proposition, an exchange of sorts,” the man says. “The money is for your . . . discretion.”
Somewhere in the distance, Jay imagines he hears the rumble of a freight train. He glances over the man’s shoulder, out the window and down the long length of railroad tracks. He wonders if this is still a working line.
To the stranger, he says, “I’m not sure I follow you.”
The man shifts in his seat, refreshing his grip on the gun. He sighs, as if he’s searching for the right words, the right way to put this. “August first,” he starts, looking at Jay. He pauses then, waiting for Jay to catch up.
August first, Jay thinks, the night of Bernie’s birthday.
“You didn’t see anything, understand?” the man says, lifting the gun slightly. “You follow me now?”
“I think I do.”
“Good,” the man says. “The money is just a show of my appre ciation.”
“I can’t take this,” Jay says. He folds the envelope in half and lays it back on the dashboard. “I don’t want it.”
The man from the black Ford laughs.
Again, Jay is sure he hears the rumble of a train on the tracks.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Porter,” the man says. “But I suppose if I have some show of good faith from you, if I find I can trust you, I suppose there might be more down the line.”
“I’m not
His voice cracks on the last word, a sour note hit so strongly that it echoes inside the car. It betrays a feeling he didn’t know was there. How good the money felt, the weight of it in his lap, nestled so securely there.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Not important.”
“Why should I go along with this, I don’t even know who I’m talking to?”
“I think the
Over the man’s shoulder, Jay can see a pinpoint of light down the tracks, maybe a half a mile in the distance. It could mean only one thing: a train coming.
