Fun and Games

Hardie nodded.

Lane reached out, touched his hand.

“Please say something.”

“Are you up for a little acting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you pretend you’re trying to score?”

“What—why?”

“Just follow my lead when we reach the parking lot.”

Hardie stood up. Lane stood up, shaky, ankle really hurting now that she’d had a little while to rest it. Hardie moved toward the front entrance, but Lane quickly hooked his arm and pulled him in the other direction. “It’s back that way.” She allowed Hardie to take the lead, and he wound his way through the dining area and past another bar until he reached the back of the restaurant, which opened up into a valet-parking area.

While the two attendants were busy trying hard not to notice Lane but totally noticing her, anyway, Lane saw Hardie inch closer to the cabinet of keys. Then she leaned forward toward the attendants, smiled, and asked if either of them was holding. While both guys shook their heads and smiled, Hardie helped himself to a set of keys, slid them into his jeans pocket, then pretended to notice what was going on with Lane.

“Hey!” he barked. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? C’mon.”

Hardie took her by the wrist and yanked her forward. She fell, limping toward him, then hooked her arm through his and leaned in close, the two of them walking past the rows of parked cars.

“Nice,” she whispered.

“Not nice until we get a car.”

He pressed the security button. Thhhweep-weep. The headlights of a Saab a few cars up blinked. Quickly they scrambled inside. By the time the attendants realized what was happening—wait! They didn’t let customers park their own cars back here—Hardie was already backing up and then rocketing out of the lot and onto North Cherokee.

The full story hit the gossip sites—including Zoey Jordan’s—within ten minutes of their daring grand theft auto. The story was supported by photos and eyewitness accounts and plenty of conjecture and groan-worthy blog-post titles: RELAPSE DANCE. CAREER-END. MUSSO & TANK(ED). Actress Lane Madden, thought to have been involved in a crash on the 101 early this morning and to have fled the scene, reappeared at Musso & Frank in the late afternoon, ordered a meal, then quickly fled with some unknown male (dealer? bodyguard? dealer, bodyguard, and enabler all rolled into one?) into the parking lot… where they promptly stole a car and raced off. “She tried to cop from me.” “The big guy took the keys.” “She looked like hell— and she was definitely not wearing that ankle bracelet.” “Looked like she was in the mood to celebrate.” “Yeah, the end of her career.”

Mann speed-read the posts with her tired, damaged eyes and rewrote the narrative in her head. She forced pieces together, tore them apart again. Tried it from another angle; it fell apart. Laid out the pieces in her mind fresh and told herself to forget what came before. Work with what you have now. She rewrote and rewrote and rewrote.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Lane asked.

“About what?”

“About what? Come on, Charlie. I just told you I was responsible for killing a little boy. You’re probably a dad or something. You probably hate me right now. You’ve gotta hate me right now.”

Hardie said nothing as he made another random turn onto an uphill street. He gave it more gas. Halfway up, he finally said:

“I killed my best friend and his family.”

Lane blinked.

“What?”

Hardie continued in a low voice, speaking slowly and carefully, keeping his eyes on the road. Just narrating.

“I told you I used to be a kind of cop. Well, I wasn’t. Not really. I just helped a cop buddy of mine out from time to time. We worked Philadelphia. One of our last cases, we were up against a drug gang. Bunch of Albanians, trying to carve up the Northeast into territories. They also had ties to terrorist groups, which really pissed us off. So we started fucking with them. Hard. Maybe a little too hard. But I’m thinking, we’re fine. The bad guys don’t know where I live, the bad guys don’t know where Nate lives. See, when we really got into it, we put our families somewhere else. Nate even got permission to break the charter rule that said cops had to live within city limits—and I followed him out to the burbs. We used trains, buses, cabs. We never drove our own cars. We were superclever about getting in and getting out. So we thought. But these Albanians, they were ruthless motherfuckers. Somehow they found out where I lived. And one night they showed up at my front door. One of them beeped his car horn, the other shouted out my name. I recognized the accent—I knew who was outside. Har-DEE, Har-DEE, they yelled. It was audacious as fuck. In a weird way I admired it.”

“Your family…,” Lane said.

“My family was with my in-laws, thank God. I’d been working too hard, and when you work too hard at your job, you start to take your loved ones for granted because, after all, you’re working for them, right? And you think they’ll just suck it up and understand? Well, that’s not the case.”

“Yeah,” Lane said. “I can understand that.”

“So anyway, I’m there alone, and these fuckheads have the nerve to come to my home, shout my name, like they’re bullies picking a fight. I pull out two of my guns, and in my head I’m already putting up a For Sale sign, thinking that I’ll just take a few of these bastards out and start the process of moving. The place was nice while it lasted. I sneak up to the second floor, crack open a window fast, and start firing. They fire back. Hard. They’ve got Remington eight-seventies, they’ve got gas-operated, air-cooled M- fourteen carbines, and they start chopping apart the top floor of my house, the bottom floor, the whole damned thing, wood chunks flying, glass spraying. I’m hit once, I dive behind this huge dresser my wife inherited. Thick wood, should be able to block anything. They keep firing for a few more seconds, and then… that’s it. It’s over. I hear a few words in Albanian, the screech of tires, and they’re peeling down my street.”

“God.”

“No, God wasn’t exactly paying attention to me, because if he had been, maybe he would have stopped me from making the worst mistake of my life.”

“What happened?”

“I went to save my friend Nate.”

The logic in Hardie’s lizard brain went something like this:

If they’d found his home address, then no doubt they’d uncovered Nate Parish’s home address, too. After all, he and Nate bought their houses around the same time, they were partners, and it was understood that whatever happened to the one happened to the other. Yeah, Nate was the one with the official job, and the big brain, but they were in this together. They were two soldiers in a war.

And if the enemy was going to show up and fire some shots over the bow of the Hardie residence…

Then clearly the Parish residence was next.

“I bolted out my backdoor, kicked down the door of my own garage—because you see, I didn’t want to even bother unlocking it—then got in my car and took off. Peeled right down the street, praying to God I wasn’t too late. Praying I wouldn’t be rolling up to Nate’s house to see windows smashed and the door swinging open. I think I did seventy in a thirty-five zone, and I didn’t care.

“But when I arrived, everything was fine. Quiet. Normal. Nate and his wife and his two kids were huddled on the couch, doing their usual thing, which was reading or playing little computer games or drawing pictures. They weren’t the kind of family who got together to play board games or sing “Kumbaya,” but whatever they did, they did together. I always admired that about Nate. Somehow, he’d found a way to keep it all together. The family, the job,