Out of Sight

Moselle watched from the bedroom window: watched them get in the big commercial van that had a company name on the side; watched until the van's red taillights were way up the street and gone. She went to the phone looking at the card Karen had given her, the card saying Karen Sisco, Deputy United States Marshal, sounding important, nice-looking card with a silver star on it in a circle. The clock by the bed was on 2:20. They'd been down there almost two hours talking and having drinks, Moselle waiting for them to leave. She knew what she wanted to ask this Karen Sisco, but didn't know what she'd say after, or how she'd answer any questions, knowing she'd be asked some. She had her hand on the phone. Then took it off, wanting to think about it some more. Get her words right in her mind. Have some weed first.

TWENTY-FOUR

Oley saw himself playing out the end of his life and was quiet, watching it happen scene by scene: in Maurice's living room, a half-gallon jug of vodka on the coffee table, watching Maurice duck and weave, telling how crafty he'd been in the ring; listening to White Boy's dumb remarks and the annoying way he laughed; listening to Kenneth speaking a language that seemed all hip-hop sounds, rhythmic, but making hardly any sense;

Foley listening to sociopaths offering their credentials, misfits trying not to sound like losers, Foley realizing, shit, here was just a little more of what most of his life had been. He would hear Buddy make quiet comments that were meant to zing but fell flat, the same old same old, that stand-up talk you heard in the yard, but nobody here bothering to listen, busy thinking of what they'd say next. All us tough guys, Foley thought.

In the living room with the vodka, Maurice passing out knit ski masks before they left. Now in the back end of the big van full of plastic pipe and equipment: Kenneth driving, flying up Woodward Avenue past miles of dark storefronts and lit-up used-car lots, snow piled in the median, the road wide-open to them this time of night. Twice, Buddy told Kenneth to slow down. Kenneth grinned at the mirror. Buddy got out the.38 and touched the back of Kenneth's head with the stubby barrel.

"Get ready to grab the wheel," Buddy said to Maurice, "when I shoot this asshole." Kenneth looked up at the mirror to find Buddy in there as Maurice told him, "Do like he says, man; slow down."

They came to Long Lake Road, took it over to Vaughan and crept up and down the road twice, looking for security service cars or any kind of surveillance, before turning into Richard Ripley's circular drive.

All five of them were in the back end of the truck now, bumping into each other until Maurice let White Boy out the rear end and left the doors open enough so he and Foley could watch.

"He's ringing the bell," Maurice said.

"They open the door, we're in. They don't open it but ask what he wants, White Boy says he's the heating man come to fix the furnace went out. They say they didn't call any heating man, White Boy asks can he use the phone, call his boss as he must've been given the wrong address.

They look out the window, see the truck. Yeah, he must be telling the truth, he's a heating man, all right, and he's white."

They watched him ring the bell again. This time not a half minute passed before coach lights on either side of the entrance came on.

"Get ready to go skiing," Maurice said, pulling his mask down. Now the door was opening and he said, "Here we go."

Foley had time to see a young guy in the doorway, his shirt hanging unbuttoned over jeans, in the moment before White Boy gave him a push and stepped inside the house with him.

Maurice was out of the truck and Kenneth, with a shotgun, was scrambling to be next. Buddy caught him by his jacket collar and held him squirming until Foley was out. But then the moment Kenneth's feet hit the driveway he turned the 12-gauge on Buddy, still in the truck.

Foley took the barrel in one hand and shoved it straight up in Kenneth's face, seeing the guy's eyes freaked with speed. Foley said,

"Go on in the house before you get hurt." Kenneth had to put his face up close to Foley's and stare at him good before going inside.

Buddy said, "What're we doing here?"

Maurice had the young guy backed against a table in the foyer the size of a living room: good-looking young guy about eighteen with hair down on his shoulders; the pants and shirt he must've thrown on hearing the doorbell, but no shoes, barefoot on the marble floor. He looked scared and had to be, facing five guys in ski masks holding guns. Foley saw him trying to act natural, shaking his head.

"Honest to God, he isn't here."

Maurice said, "Out for the evening?"

Now the young guy looked surprised.

"He's in Florida, Palm Beach."

Maurice hesitated.

"When's he due back?"

Foley said, "Jesus Christ, what difference does it make? You want to wait for him?"

"Mr. Ripley's down for the season," the young guy said, "Christmas to Easter."

"Now tell me who you are," Maurice said.

"I'm Alexander."