And before I can think too much about it, I lean down, grab a couple of paperclips from the junk cup beside the register, take the bat from beneath the counter, and head for the front door.
#
Three in the morning, snow whirling from a sky stained pink with reflected light. The city sleeps.
I try not to think about what I'm doing. If I think about it, I might back out, and if I back out, I lose everything. So I just focus on Jess and the road.
It takes half an hour to find the right block. The house is somber against the sky. A thin layer of snow drapes the porch. I'd like to circle back to take another look, but I can't be sure that someone isn't watching. So I keep my speed steady, go two more blocks, then swing into the alley and kill the engine.
There is no silence like the middle of the night in the midst of a Chicago snowstorm when you are about to do something truly stupid.
I take a breath.
I take my Louisville Slugger.
I get out of the car.
I rifle through the trunk for the ski mask I wear to shovel the car out. Putting it on does nothing to muffle the sick-sweet odor of trash. I stick to the side and move carefully. The air is sharp. Snow crunches under my boots. My fingers are cold, the skin waxy and thin. After two blocks, I'm right behind the house. And sure enough, Lester was right.
Kids these days aren't worth a goddamn, because there's still no security cage on the back of his stash house.
Taking delicate steps now, careful not to disturb the broken bottles and chunks of concrete that line the sides of the alley, I move to the building. There's no screen, just a solid-core door with a metal kick plate. The cold of the wood is startling when I press my ear against it, but I can hear music. Someone is awake. Figures. Twenty-four-seven, people want what Lester sells.
The door is locked, of course. But you don't go down for a robbery beef without knowing a thing or two about locks. I bend one paperclip into an awkward tension wrench and the other into a scooped pick. My tools are clumsy, and it's hard to work with numb fingers, so it takes almost ten minutes. But finally the cylinder of the deadbolt gives, spinning counterclockwise.
My heart is hammering my chest hard enough I'm afraid my ribs might crack. There's no way to know what's on the opposite side of this door. I could be walking right into the barrel of a shotgun. Even if I'm not, there will definitely be two or three guys in the house, definitely armed and probably jacked up. Tweakers aren't known for trigger discipline.
Trying to remember the words for a Hail Mary, I turn the knob, pull the door a scant inch, and press my eye to the crack.
It's dark, but looks like a backroom or a pantry. I can make out metal racks sagging under the weight of shadows. There's an archway screened by a bed sheet, and beyond it, yellow light. The music is clearer now.
Gripping the bat so hard my hands shake, I step inside and close the door behind me, and just like that, I'm back where I started. The last time I broke in where I wasn't supposed to be it cost me five years, my wife, and my daughter. And now, here I am again, and just like last time, I'm doing it for Jess, even if she'll never understand.
The kitchen is on the other side of the curtain. It's been converted to a lab, every surface covered with burners and flasks and tubing and jars. An efficient little operation: cook meth in the back and sell it out the front. No muss, no fuss. Of course, when the cops get wise to it, everybody inside will face federal time. But what does that matter to Lester? There'll be nothing connecting him, and there's always another stupid kid ready to step up for a spin of the wheel.
I can hear voices now. The music swells, and realize it's a television. Perfect. If they're caught up in something, maybe I can sneak right by, find the stash, and get the hell out without anyone the wiser.
Adrenaline sings in my blood as I step through the kitchen towards the stairs.
#
One night in a past life, Lucy rolled on her side and looked at me. Leno was on mute, and the light flickered across her features. "I think Jess is starting to figure out what you do."
"She say something?"
My wife shook her head. "Not exactly. But she roots for the bad guys on TV."
"What, I'm a bad guy?"
Lucy touched my cheek. "No, baby. But you're not a model citizen, either."
I snorted and rolled over on my back, stared at the ceiling. "I don't know. Maybe it's time I quit."
"Maybe it is."
I looked over. "A little fucking judgmental, are we?"
Lucy smiled, that slow sweet thing. She turned to take the locket from the bedside table. Dangled it from her right hand and used her left to open it. Inside were two pieces of tan paper, cut to ovals and glued in place. Us. On the left, her thumbprint; on the right, mine. Whorls and spirals marked in black ink, two one-of-a-kind things brought together. Facing each other.