The Amateurs by Marcus Sakey Read Free Book Online Page A

years.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “I said it, so it’s true. Get me?”
    How the hell had they ended up here? One minute he was coming in to cover a shift, now he was in danger of losing his job? Part of him wanted to stand up and tell Johnny Love to screw himself.
    But then he remembered his bank account, maybe two hundred bucks in it. He thought of Trish, and the way she’d started in on him about the child support from the moment he saw her. He could find another job, but Johnny was right; if he tried to go to another bar, the owner would call. Sure, he’d be able to find something eventually, probably something better. But how long would it take? And what would Trish say when he told her he’d been fired?
    What would she say to Cassie?
    Then Johnny smiled. “Anyway, you’ve got this all wrong. It’s no big deal. Just a show, kid. No need to get your stockings twisted.”
    Alex felt another cocktail of emotions coming on. Two parts sickness in his stomach, one part pissed-off, with a twist of what-choice-do-I-have? “Mr. Loverin, I need this job. But—”
    “Good. Tuesday. And you know what? Let’s call it three hundred.” He reached for the phone, dialed, rocked the chair back on two legs. “Mort! How the hell are you.” Johnny laughed, then looked up at Alex as if surprised to see him still standing there, and jerked his head toward the door.

CHAPTER 4
    H E WASN’T GOING.
    Mitch lay on his back, one arm behind his head. The night had been cool enough to leave the bedroom windows open, and the breeze blew the curtains in flips and swirls, morning sunlight blinking as they parted. The room went from dark to bright to dark.
    He could imagine the scene this Thursday night. Them asking where he’d been, why he’d missed brunch. Just shrugging, saying something came up. Playing it cool, like Jack Nicholson. Aloof. In control.
    Of course, Jenn would be there. Probably wearing a sundress.
    He stared at the ceiling. Sundress. Jack Nicholson. Sundress.
    Mitch kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed. Maybe he’d be late.
    He showered, NPR in the background. The subprime housing crunch, the Dow plummeting, the Bush administration pushing for war with Iran because the two wars they already had were going so well. He shaved carefully, then killed the water and dried himself with the same towel as always, even though there were two hanging in the bathroom. Two because that’s what grown-ups had, just in case someday there were two people showering.
    He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Made coffee. Sipped it slowly. The clock read 10:37. If he left now, he’d be right on time. He poured a second cup, picked up a novel.
    It was funny. When the four of them had started hanging out, they’d all had other people they thought of as their “real” friends. But time kept passing, and those people got married or moved away or just got lazy in that late-twenties way, never leaving the house, always saying they’d love to get together but never doing it. And so Thursday nights went from optional to mandatory, and before long, they started adding more occasions. Dinners at Ian’s condo in the sky. Cubs games in the summer. And lately, Saturday brunch.
    That seemed to be the way with life. The things you were now, today, were the things you really were. Maybe you used to play guitar; maybe in the future you’d take up bowling. But what you did now , the people you saw, the books you read, the dreams that woke you, they were the real you. Not some construct of what you wanted to be or once were.
    At 11:02, he stopped pretending to read and went for a cab.
    Though named like a convenience store, Kuma’s Corner was a cross between a heavy-metal bar and a café, with tasteful lighting and tattooed waitstaff, eggs Benedict and burgers named after bands. Mitch had timed it right, strolling out on the small patio to find the three of them already there. Jenn flashed white teeth, motioned to the empty chair beside