Karen was sitting behind the wheel of a Chrysler minivan Bobby and Lloyd had stolen off the used car lot at Jim Fresard Pontiac in Royal Oak. She was about to take her ex-boyfriend's safe, trusting three guys she barely knew. She felt a jolt of nerves, the full impact weighing on her now. She adjusted the electric seat to get comfortable while she watched the house. She was parked between Samir's and his neighbor's to the south, and had a clear view of the front door and the circular drive flanked by giant gold lions. The lions, Samir had once told her, were a symbol of the power and wealth of the Fakir family.
In a few minutes, she'd pull up to the front door and pick up the safe. But going through with it was a lot more difficult than planning it. For the first time she wasn't in control. Before Bobby, Lloyd and Wade got out of the van Karen had said, Don't say anything unless you have to. Don't make it personal, and whatever you do, don't shoot anyone. She didn't think Samir would involve the police. He'd take care of things himself, in his own way, unless someone was shot. Then he wouldn't have a choice. Karen saw headlights in the rearview mirror. She ducked down as a car approached, slowing as it passed her, a VW Jetta, and parked in front of Samir's house. She could see two people in the front seat, their heads coming together, probably kids making out. This was going to be a problem. She'd have to get rid of them and do it fast.
In the kitchen, Ricky said, 'You'd like some of that wouldn't you? That's the centerfold. You're lookin' at Playmate of the Month.' Moozie didn't seem to understand; he just wanted to see more pictures. The magazine was open on the kitchen table. Moozie was sitting across from him, staring at the airbrushed girl who had nothing on except fur boots and a fur hat. Ricky said, 'Check her out, the pride of Juneau, Alaska.' He glanced at Moozie, whose eyes were glued to the page. 'Her turn-ons-you ready for this? — men who sweat. You got that covered. Riding her Jet Ski and honest people. Her turn-offs-oh, shit-dirty fingernails, bad breath and hair in the shower. Sorry, Mooz, you just struck out.' Ricky grinned having some fun with his cousin from Beirut. He opened the centerfold all the way and gave the magazine to Moozie. 'Here, you want to look at it. Just don't slobber on the pages, okay?'
They ate out of Styrofoam boxes, too late for dinner with Samir. Moozie hadn't touched his, feasting instead on the sculpted close-up of the girl's cootch. It looked strange, Ricky thought, that ugly little thing with folds of skin that men sold their souls for. 'You don't want that, I'll take it,' Ricky said, half finished with his meal, eyeing the one in front of Moozie.
Moozie opened the white box now and picked up a piece of grilled, marinated chicken with his fingers, taking his time. He put the chicken in his mouth chewing the meat, licking his fingertips, eyes still glued to the centerfold.
Ricky spilled tomato sauce on his yellow warm-up, rubbed it with a napkin and made it worse. It was Ricky's favorite outfit: pale yellow with black stripes down the sleeves and pants. He thought it reeked of class. He was going to teach Moozie how to dress. His cousin looked like he crawled into a Salvation Army drop box, grabbed some things that didn't match and put them on in the dark.
They were going at it, all right, mashing and pawing at each other, but there was something strange. It was two guys with their arms around each other, making out, two suburban teenagers in khaki shorts and T-shirts. Karen stood next to the car, looking in the open driver's window, and said, 'I'm with Neighborhood Watch. I'm not going to tell your parents. Just get out of here and don't come back.' It must've sounded believable. The two guys stopped kissing and looked at Karen. Neither of them said a word. The Jetta started and accelerated, tires spinning, kicking up stones and dirt. Karen watched as they took off down the street.
In the living room, Samir sat on a white leather couch with Minde, one of the Automotion dancers he'd seen performing at halftime at a Pistons game, and arranged to meet. Minde was an auto parts model hoping to turn that into acting.
'I act when I perform,' she'd said to Samir on their first date at the Phoenicia, a restaurant in Birmingham. 'I become different people expressing different feelings. I might be Helen of Troy one night, or Joan of Arc. Great heroines of the past.'
Samir didn't care who the hell she was as long as she would go to bed with him later, and she did, Minde with her long dancer's legs bending into positions he'd never seen before. She was something, all right, until she opened her mouth and started talking and never stopped.
They were watching Samir's favorite program, Desperate Housewives, on a fifty-inch flat screen. There was a close-up of Eva Longoria in a dramatic scene, her face filling the screen.
Minde said, 'Smoothie,' cuddling next to him, 'do you think she's prettier than me?'
He wasn't listening, he couldn't take his eyes away from the TV.
'Smoothie, I'm talkin' to you.'
Eva was making out with the gardener.
'You're not even listening,' Minde said, 'are you?'
'I'm watching the show,' Samir said. 'If you don't mind.'
Minde said, 'Who's better-looking her or me?'
Samir rubbed his jaw as though he was considering between them and said, 'Her.'
'Who's got the better bod?'
'Her.' He winked at Minde and smiled.
'You son of a bitch. I hope you like sleeping alone.'
Samir said, 'You have the best body I ever seen and it's real. No silicone.' It wasn't true, but he said it to shut her up.
Minde said, 'You really think so?' She snuggled up next to him and put her arm over his shoulder.
He'd trade Minde in for a night with Eva Longoria in two seconds. Minde, like most women, was a pain in the ass. Always needed attention like right now, leaning against him, crowding him-four feet of couch next to her. Samir fixed his attention back on the TV. He was pulling on his mustache. He could feel her eyes on him, staring at him.
'Smoothie, you shouldn't do that all the time. It's a bad habit.'
Why did she care if he pulled on his mustache? A twenty-two- year-old girl talking to him like he was a kid. Samir said, 'Go get me something to drink, a glass of juice.'
Minde stared at him the way his mother used to. 'You could say please, you know.' She got up off the couch sniffing the air. 'I smell something burning.'
Samir glanced at the fireplace that hadn't been cleaned since last winter. 'It's the fireplace. Nothing to worry about.'
Minde moved around the couch behind Samir, stopped, bent over and kissed his bald spot. He turned looking up at her. 'What're you doing?' She could really be annoying.
'I love that little spot, it's so soft,' Minde said.
Samir edged sideways on the couch, watching her over his shoulder not sure what she was going to do next. 'I'm dying of thirst here,' he said.
Minde stared at him and smiled. 'Oh, you big baby…' She danced out of the room, moving to some beat in her head. Always dancing, stretching, where'd she get the energy?
There was a whoosh of gas and then a pop as the fire ignited, turning into a long multicolored flame that was yellow on the bottom, turning red and then blue at the tip. Wade turned a dial on the base of the torch, adjusting the flame, shortening it into a thin blue dagger. He wore thick goggles that made him look like a crazed aviator in the dim light. The torch was hooked up to a big industrial tank on wheels. You could weld a skyscraper together with this rig, Wade had said earlier.
Bobby thought it was overkill until Wade melted Samir's front door lock in a few seconds and Bobby pushed the door open and went in. The foyer was dark. He could hear a TV on in the living room thirty feet away. Bobby found the alarm pad right where Karen said it would be, punched in the code, everything going according to plan.
Minde stepped into the darkness of the foyer. A staircase with a gold banister curved up to the second floor. She sniffed the air. Something was definitely burning. 'Smoothie, I'm telling you your house is on fire. You better
