Chapter Eleven

    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 come here."

    "Will you get me my juice," Samir yelled.

    He sounded mad. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she noticed the front door was open slightly, and there was smoke and this strange smell. Then she saw the cop coming out of the closet. What was going on?

    He said, "Ma'am, there was a burglary next door, please stay calm. Did you see or hear anything unusual?" He had a gun in his hand and he was wearing a police jacket and a hat.

    Bobby didn't know who was more surprised, him or the girl. The line about the burglary next door had come to him in a flash of inspiration. Sometimes he even surprised himself. He saw Wade come up behind her and put his hand over her mouth and pull her backwards. Somehow she twisted out of Wade's grip and kicked him in the balls with a nifty kung fu move. The blonde assumed the classic karate fighting pose now. Bobby had seen enough chop socky pictures to know she was the real thing. Karen hadn't mentioned a girl karate expert on the payroll. Wade was bent over in pain. Bobby aimed his.32 at her and said, "You're under arrest."

    "Bullshit," she said. "You're not cops."

    "It really doesn't matter now," Bobby said. "Does it?"

    From the living room Samir said, "What the hell is going on out there?"

    "Smoothie, they're trying to rob you."

    Bobby kept the gun on her, giving her space, watching those feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wade straighten up, step in and hit her in the face, cold-cocked her, and she went down hard on the marble floor.

    "Bitch almost put me out of business," Wade said.

    Bobby rushed in the living room and met Samir coming across the white shag. Bobby pointed the.32 at him, but he wasn't looking at Bobby. He had his eyes glued to Wade, who appeared with a Remington 870 tactical response shotgun. Looked like the same one Arnold used in Terminator. Wade had said it's the weapon designed to get people's attention without firing a shot. He was right. Samir stopped in his tracks.

    "Police," Wade said. "Get the fuck down," taking charge.

    Samir seemed stunned, he stood there frozen just staring until Wade racked the slide and got his attention. He got down on his stomach on the pure white carpeting, eyes searching for Wade, who moved behind him out of sight.

    "Think you can handle it from here?" Wade said to Bobby. He was pissed. "Or do I have to do everything?"

    "Whoever you are," Samir said, looking up from the floor, "you better hope I don't find you."

    Wade stepped over to him and jammed the barrel end of the shotgun against his cheek. "You threatenin' me, Abdul?" Wade kicked him in the ribs and Samir grunted. Wade kicked him in the face and rocked his head.

    Karen came in the room and said, "What are you doing?" She stepped between Wade and Samir, aiming her Smith & Wesson.357 Airweight at Wade's chest. "I told you and we agreed, no one was supposed to get hurt."

    "He asked for it," Wade said, on the defensive.

    Samir was moaning and his face was a mess, bruised, swelling up and bleeding from Wade's steel-tipped biker boots. Karen got on her knees and rolled Samir on his back and put a pillow from the couch under his head. He was out, unconscious. He needed a doctor. She'd have to call EMS.

    Karen was watching Bobby roll the safe out of Samir's office when she heard the shotgun blast and it startled her it was so loud. She ran down the hall to the kitchen, and looked in the doorway and all she saw was blood, spatters of it on the white walls and white tile floor and even on the ceiling. More blood was covering the crumpled figure of a man on the floor, she now recognized as Yalda, the cook, his white shirt splotched with red. Wade was standing there with the shotgun, a crazed look on his face, aiming at Ricky and a young guy she didn't recognize. They were lying on the floor, and their hands and feet were duct-taped together.

    Bobby came in behind her and squeezed through the doorway into the kitchen. "We've got to get out of here," he said to Wade.

    Wade glanced at him and said, "They know what I look like." He aimed the shotgun at Ricky on the floor.

    "Be cool," Bobby said. "I need your help in the other room."

    Wade lowered the shotgun and Bobby and Lloyd escorted him into the foyer where the safe was. It was a tense moment, she could see Wade, the psycho, shooting everyone, including them.

    "What did I say? Jesus, what's the one thing I told you not to do?" Karen said, adrenaline still pumping. She was glancing over her shoulder at Wade in the back seat behind Bobby. They were moving down Samir's driveway, heading for the street.

    Wade said, "What the fuck do you know about it?"

    "I know the police are going to be involved now, you dipstick." She was trying to get her money back and now she was involved in a murder, two, if Samir didn't make it.

    "I didn't have a choice." Wade glanced at Lloyd. "Tell her."

    "He pulled a gun," Lloyd said.

    "What's done is done," Bobby said. "Don't worry about something you can't do anything about."

    "Thanks for the inspiring words," Karen said. "I'll try to remember that when the police come looking for me."

    They'd taken off the police hats and jackets and stuffed them in a plastic bag that Lloyd threw out the window. What kind of bonehead move was that? Karen lit a cigarette. She took a right on

    Coolidge. The safe shifted and rolled with a bang, crashing against the opposite side of the minivan. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Lloyd. "I thought you had that thing tied down." She looked through the windshield, eyes back on the road, trying to calm down. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.