Hi Five Page 10

  Sal checked the equipment. The ropes, pulleys, masks, black outfits and Annie’s tightrope shoes, thin leather and flexible so you could curve your foot around the wire rope. And guns. Sal had taught Annie to shoot back in Loomis. Sal carried a Walther PPQ .22 with a Q El Camino suppressor, which made no more noise than a stapler. Annie insisted on a 9mm, saying her small size made her more vulnerable. There was no talking to her.

  They met on set, a romantic comedy with a circus for a backdrop. Annie was a featured player with no lines. The director had chosen her on the spot. She was seventeen, photogenic, cute and very tiny, which was mandatory if you were a member of the world-famous Flying Morettis, a staple of the Ringling Brothers Circus for twenty-five years.

  Sal was a stuntwoman, six years older than Annie. Sal rolled out of speeding cars, jumped off buildings, charged through breakaway doors, and had fistfights on top of trains with Matt Damon. She was fit, boyishly attractive, shoulders wide like a swimmer’s, her hands calloused from lifting weights and doing power slams with an exercise rope. She’d marveled at Annie. A fairy princess in her pink tutu, chin up as she balanced herself on the high wire, fluid arms out wide, somehow teetering and graceful at the same time.

  Annie had grown up in the circus. The Morettis lived in a trailer like all the other acts, a portable community that went from city to city, opening and closing like one of those birthday cards where a bunch of happy elves or singing squirrels popped up. There was no chance to make friends. You only went to a real school for part of the year and there was nobody to hang around with except the other circus people.

  Annie liked performing but her parents were disciplinarians with a lot of rules, curfews and lectures. Annie ignored them and spent most of her time running around with Oscar and Manny. Oscar was part of a family of clowns and Manny’s family had a dog act; the yipping Jack Russell terriers drove everybody crazy. The three misfits formed a mini-gang and called themselves the Big Top Boyz. They smoked dope, vandalized, stole whatever wasn’t welded down and got into fights with the locals. It was fun until Oscar and Manny took turns raping Annie behind the hay bales, the horses lifting their hooves and stirring restlessly.

  Ringling Bros. closed for good about a week after the movie ended. By then, Sal and Annie were together. The Morettis moved to Loomis, a rural town right outside Sacramento. Mr. Moretti had family there. A nice place if you liked peace, quiet and hanging out with farm animals. Sal loved Annie and followed her there. Sal’s career was over anyway. An assistant director tried to play grab-ass and she put him in the hospital with a dislocated shoulder and two black eyes. She had a little savings and lived in a shabby guest room just down the road from the Morettis.

  It was blissful being together all the time, but they had no money and no way of making any until they saw a rerun of Bonnie and Clyde. Bank robbery was out but robbing people seemed like a good idea. Annie wore a halter top and short shorts and walked down Stone Road or Sierra College, waiting for some random asshole to pull over and say, “Need a ride?”

  Annie would reply, “No, I need to get laid.” Then she’d take the man to a predetermined spot. It was off the road, isolated, under a copse of trees. Smiling prettily, she would touch the guy’s cock and say, “You’re in for the time of your life.” The man would be ecstatic. Whoever heard of an enthusiastic hooker? After he got his thing out of his pants, Sal would appear at the window with her Sig Sauer and a wide grin.

  “Hi,” she’d say. “What is that? A one-eyed hamster?”

  Annie would take a picture of him. “What would your wife and kiddies think about this?” she’d say.

  Then they’d rob him, make him strip, and take his car to a chop shop in Sacramento. They’d done this about a dozen times when a man who looked like the retiring head of the physics department changed the program. He and Annie were driving to the spot when he stopped the car and punched her. Then he dragged her out, punched her a few more times and started ripping her clothes off. Her screams brought Sal running and she shot him. The guy would have lived, but Oscar’s and Manny’s lurid grins were flashing in Annie’s eyes and she finished the guy off with a rock, bashing his skull into bone fragments and brain matter until she exhausted herself. It took a lot of time to wipe everything down. Their DNA was probably all over the place but they weren’t in the system and there was no way to trace them.

  “He deserved it,” Annie said as they hosed off the blood. Sal didn’t answer. She knew about the rape but still couldn’t believe so much rage was inside her tiny, perfect girlfriend. They moved to Sacramento. Their income situation was no different than before so they went back to their routine. They killed another man when he tried to take Sal’s gun away, and it went off in his face. They never talked about the killings. It was like a family secret, buried but still moving around inside its coffin.

  About a week after the second killing, Sal said, “I’m going to get a job.” Sal got work in a Vietnamese restaurant. Her major duty was to take phone orders. People were complaining they couldn’t understand Mr. Dao’s thick accent. Sal also washed dishes and mopped floors. None of the other workers talked to her and she didn’t try.

  Annie waitressed in a bar. She had no experience and had to give the owner a blow job before he’d accept her application. He never knew how close he’d come to getting his entire crotch bitten off. Both Annie and Sal were depressed, gaining weight, fighting a lot, drinking a lot, and nearing despair.

  Among Annie’s regulars at the bar were two black guys. They were older, the kind who wore fedoras and patent leather shoes and kept their sunglasses on indoors. Their names were Sonny and Rolando. Annie thought they were pimps. She chatted them up with her blouse open, flashing her little titties, and they tipped her extravagantly.

  The bar was separated into two rooms by a low partition, plastic ferns sticking out of it. One afternoon, Annie was cleaning a table behind the two men and overheard them talking. They wanted to kill somebody named Eric, discussing who could do the job and ruling out everybody they knew. In the middle of the conversation, Rolando turned around and said sharply, “You didn’t hear this, girl. You understand?” Annie nodded.

  She told Sal and the next day they approached the two men. Annie said, “That guy you were talking about? Eric? We’ll take him out for you.”

  They laughed. “Oh, yeah?” Sonny said. “You big-time killas, are you?”

  “We’ve killed two people,” Annie said. “A third won’t be a problem.”

  “What’d you kill ’em with?” Rolando said. “A hatpin? Your fingernails?”

  “We killed them with this,” Sal said. She lifted her shirt and showed them the Sig.

  “Whoa, whoa, girl,” Sonny said, putting up his palms. “Don’t be waving that around.” The two men glanced at each other, starting to take this seriously.

  “You ain’t playin’, are you?” Rolando said.

  “No, we’re not,” Sal replied.

  The men hesitated, no doubt wondering if they were being set up.

  “This isn’t a scam,” Annie said. “Even if it was, two players like you would know in a heartbeat.” They nodded—true dat. Annie had poked their egos. She was good at that.

  “Anyway, what are your alternatives?” Sal said. “Some brainless street kid with a record who smokes dope before the job? That’s what Eric will be expecting. But two cute white girls in dresses? Annie could still be in high school. He’ll never see us coming.”

  They went outside and got in Rolando’s giant SUV. The men made the women lift up their shirts and open their pants and checked them for wires.

  “If we give you a down payment,” Sonny said, “how do we know you won’t run off with the money?”

  “We won’t,” Sal said. “We want to work for you again.”

  Eric was a drug dealer. He was in his forties, a white guy with a comb-over and belly fat hanging over his belt. He listened to rap music and dressed like a teenager. Rolando said Eric was expecting a hit and
traveled with two bodyguards who knew what they were doing. The women watched them, followed them, got a pattern down. There were very few openings. Eric was either in his car, a crowded club, partying with a bunch of women or safe in his apartment on the seventeenth floor of a high-rise.

  Sal snuck a peek inside the building. A guard was at the kiosk 24/7. Guests had to sign in and there were cameras all over the place.

  “It’s impossible,” Annie said.

  “Maybe,” Sal replied. They sat in the bar, talked and drew diagrams. They chose a Saturday night, when Eric was likely to be drunk or high. They parked across the street from the building at midnight. Eric usually didn’t get home until one or two in the morning. They were both nervous, silent the whole way over.

  “You okay?” Sal asked.

  “Yeah,” Annie said. “I’m good.”

  They were both skilled at makeup and wigs. They’d worked on themselves a long time, coming up with looks that were radically different from their own. On camera they would be unrecognizable. Sal could be conventionally attractive when she wanted to be. She wore a short skirt and heels, trudging through the lobby looking exhausted and lugging a heavy suitcase.

  “How can I help you?” the guard said.

  “I’m Eric’s daughter. Eric Mehlman? Is he in?”

  “I’m not allowed to tell you that, miss. Can’t you call him?”

  “I have, but he doesn’t pick up.” She hung her head. “We’re not exactly getting along.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you,” the guard said. “Those are the rules.”

  She made puppy eyes. “Can I wait in the lobby? Please?”

  “Sure, that’s fine.”

  Sal sat on a sofa and tried to look miserable. Twenty minutes went by. She could tell the guard was uncomfortable—this poor, bedraggled girl waiting and waiting, making him wonder if he was being a tight-ass. She went to the desk.

  “I know this is asking a lot, but could I please use the bathroom?”

  “Sorry, there isn’t one in the lobby,” the guard said.

  “Please? There’s nothing else around here. Don’t make me go in the bushes.” She looked like she was going to cry.

  The guard sighed. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Right around the corner there’s an office. The bathroom’s in the back. Don’t be long. I could get into trouble.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” She found the bathroom, locked the door and waited. Ten minutes later, the guard came and knocked on the door.

  “Miss? Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sal mewled. “I’m having…female problems.”

  “Oh, my God. You’ve got to be kidding.”

  While the guard was away from his desk, Annie ran across the lobby. She was wearing her hooker outfit; short shorts, a tank top and a girly pink backpack. She got on the elevator and rode up to the seventeenth floor. There were only four apartments. Eric’s was 1702. She set her backpack down, sat next to it and waited.

  The guard kicked Sal out and now she was waiting in the car. Just after one a.m., Eric arrived. He got out of the car, said something to his bodyguards and went inside. Thank God there wasn’t a woman with him. Sal texted Annie. He’s here.

  Eric Melhman got off the elevator and found a girl sitting next to his door. She was cute, really cute. She looked exhausted and was wearing next to nothing. That backpack was bigger than she was.

  “Hello,” he said in his friendly voice. “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Yeah,” she said in a tiny voice. “I’m waiting for my father.”

  “Here?” He nearly laughed. “This is my apartment. I’ve lived here for six years. Sure it isn’t one of the others?”

  The girl looked panic-stricken. She stood up and took a slip of paper out of her cute little shorts. “No. I wrote it down. See?”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Eric said, starting to feel sympathetic, “but you’ve got the wrong one. Can’t you call him?”

  “I did but he won’t pick up. We’re not getting along.”

  “Friends?”

  “I just got here from Ohio. I don’t know anybody.” She started to cry.

  I wouldn’t mind a taste of that, Eric thought. He liked spinners. You could move them around, do things. Maybe she’d be grateful to someone who offered her a place to rest, good food and the best cocaine outside of Bogotá.

  “Come on in. Take a load off and we’ll figure out what to do.”

  “Thank you. That would be great.”

  Annie had never seen such a lavish apartment. It was something you’d see in People magazine or on Entertainment Tonight.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” Eric agreed. “I decorated it myself.”

  “You did a good job.”

  Eric went into the kitchen, chose a bottle of wine from a rack. He used a fancy corkscrew and poured her a glass. “Here. Villa Domaine Vincent Grand Cru, eight hundred dollars a bottle. The best thing you’ve ever tasted. Swirl it around in your glass and smell it first.”

  Annie swirled, sniffed and sipped. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. “Wow,” she said again. She knew she should have shot him by now but it occurred to her that a drug dealer who lived in a place like this might have some quality coke lying around and maybe some cash as well.

  “Are you hungry?” he said.

  “Yeah, a little. I haven’t eaten since I got off the plane.”

  “Then I will make you the best ham and cheese sandwich you’ve ever had in your life.”

  He stood at the cutting board and made a sandwich with meat rolled up in wax paper and thick cheese he sliced himself. He was humming, showing off, handling the knife with precision. Annie heard her phone ping. It was Sal, wondering why she wasn’t back yet. Annie drew a gun out of the backpack.

  “Drop the knife and get down on the floor.”

  “Hey, what’s all this?” he said. He didn’t drop the knife.

  “I said, drop the knife and get down on the floor,” she said.

  He smiled and shook his head. “No, sorry, sweetheart, I don’t take that shit from—”

  She shot him in the foot, the bang muffled by the silencer. Eric howled and fell on the floor. She took his phone and his wallet. She found a Whole Foods shopping bag and dropped them inside.

  “Hey, I’m bleeding to death!” Eric shouted.

  “Where’s your stash?” Annie said.

  “What stash? I don’t have any—” She shot three rounds close to his head, chipping the marble floor and splintering a cabinet. “Okay, all right! In the bedroom.”

  “Get up,” Annie said. Groaning and dragging his leg, Eric found a safe in the closet. He blubbered while he worked the combination. “Hurry up,” Annie said.

  Sal was afraid. This was taking too long. What are you doing, Annie? Eric’s bodyguards were still in the car, arguing about something. What were they waiting for? Her stomach wrenched. Maybe Eric was supposed to text them and tell them he was okay. “Oh, shit,” Sal said. The bodyguards got out of the car. They ran inside and Sal ran after them. What the fuck are you doing, Annie?

  There were bundles of cash and a baggie of coke inside the safe. Annie laughed and dumped it all into the shopping bag.

  “That’s everything,” Eric croaked.

  She shot him twice in the head. She walked into the living room, wiped down everything she’d touched. She started for the front door and stopped. She grinned and said, “Bling!” She went back into the bedroom.

  The bodyguards ran across the lobby. The security guard got up from the desk and stood in their way. “Sorry, you can’t go up there.”

  “Why?” one of them said. “You know who we are.”

  “It’s regulations, fellas. You know that. I have to call him first.”

  The bodyguard shoved the guard so hard he hit the floor and somersaulted backward. Both men got on the elevator and as the doors were closing, Sal pushed her way in.

  “Get
out,” a bodyguard said.

  “Why? I live here,” she protested.

  He grabbed her and flung her out.

  Annie was dropping Eric’s Rolex collection into the bag when she heard pounding on the door. She went out into the living room. Men were shouting, the pounding continuous. The cops would be here soon. There was only one thing she could do: shoot the men through the door and run for it. She got into position, aimed about chest height and stopped.

  The gun. A fucking .22 peashooter Rolando had given her. This was a lux building and the goddamn door was heavy and thick. Maybe she’d take the men out, maybe not, and they would no doubt return fire with 9mms or .45s. Annie was sweating and she never sweated, even when she was thirty feet off the ground, standing on Pietro’s shoulder, posing like a maidenhead on a sailing ship. Her only option was to open the door fast and let ’er fucking rip. “Ready, Annie?” she said aloud. She wished she could talk to Sal, say goodbye, say she was sorry. She put her hand on the knob and tightened her grip on the gun.

  Sal didn’t want to be in the lobby when the cops arrived. She’d returned to the car and heard sirens. She couldn’t wait around until she was spotted. “Goddamn you, Annie!” She banged her fists on the steering wheel. “Why didn’t you stick to the fucking plan?” Terrified and angry, she drove to the end of the block, turned and drove alongside the building. She was wondering what the fuck she should do when she jammed on the brakes. She saw her tiny partner climbing down from balcony to balcony with a Whole Foods bag over her shoulder, a hundred feet between her and the concrete below. Annie looked calm, measured, her steely nerves shining like a sword. “Oh, Annie,” Sal said, wiping tears from her face.