Page 83 of Guilty as Sin

John glances at me, but when Brady doesn’t introduce me, he decides not to inquire. He’s holding a brown food market bag of all things, as if what we’re exchanging is groceries. He looks quite pleased with himself as he carries the bag over to Brady, handing it to him with a polite nod.

Brady takes it, peers inside, then passes it to me. Hiding my surprise, I hold the paper bag by its bottom as Brady pulls on a pair of white cotton gloves. Whatever’s inside can’t be more than two pounds, but when I try to peek at it, it’s too dark to see. Looking like a museum curator with his gloved hands, Brady reaches inside to pull out something wrapped in thick tissue paper. Carefully he unfolds the first layer to reveal an old book. I can’t make out the title, but the cover looks teal in the dim light, and by Brady’s expression, it’s what he expected.

“Signed,” John says proudly.

Brady gently lifts the cover to verify, then closes the book, rewraps its tissue paper, and returns it to the bag I’m holding. My curiosity burns.

“An extra fifty,” Brady confirms, pulling off his gloves and folding them into his pocket.

“That’s the good news,” John says.

The atmosphere tightens. In the glare of the headlights, all of our faces are shadowed, but our pants are in the spotlight. John shifts his weight from foot to foot, as if his dad jeans are suddenly uncomfortable. Brady doesn’t ask what the bad news is. He just lifts his eyebrows and waits.

“J.C. was only able to get me ten bricks this time,” John says, his hands up in apologetic surrender.

“He’s paid for twelve a month.” Brady’s voice is hard steel.

“I know, I know. And he’s very sorry, and I am too. There was an incident at the border, completely beyond his control. But he knows the trouble it causes you. He knows, I know, and we’re very sorry, so we wanted to get you this signed copy as an apology for the hassle. At the unsigned price, of course.”

Brady does a slow blink. Even with the empty night air between us, I can feel the rising heat of my husband’s rage. My own pulse leaps in response. Subtly I shift the paper bag so it’s balanced against my left arm, freeing my right hand to reach the concealed holster at my hip. John’s wide eyes stay trained on Brady, silently pleading. But my husband is as merciless as ever.

“Our arrangement with your boss is special,” he tells John. “We pay him a quarter bag a month. Reliably. Because he’s reliable.”

Brady’s voice is so threatening I shiver with the impending violence.

“I know, I know,” John says. “We know it’s a special arrangement, we appreciate that it’s a special arrangement, and next month we’ll bring fifteen bricks to compensate. J.C. told me it’s already lined up.”

Brady takes a deep breath, as if to keep himself calm. I run the numbers in my head, because I don’t like the sound of this special arrangement with John’s boss. It implies that he can get away with screwing us over. And if Brady’s avoiding violence, then this unimpressive man in front of us is going to get off scot-free.

“Sixteen,” Brady says at last. “It’ll be sixteen next month, and J.C. will deliver them himself.”

“Understood, understood.” John nods like a bobblehead doll. He thinks he’s getting away with it.

But the violence inside me has already raised her head. I slip my Beretta out of its holster, keeping my movements slow so I don’t draw John’s attention. It’s not until I’m holding my gun straight up in the air beside my face that he notices. Then his whole body flinches, and Brady turns his head to look at me too.

“So,” I say to John, “your boss’s apology is worth less than $8,400. Is that correct?”

“F-for now,” he stammers. “But then next month, we’ll give you the two extra bricks, no charge.” He glances between me and Brady, as if hoping Brady might call me off. But all my husband does is cock his head at me.

“Thing is,” I say, “we can’t really trust next month, can we? And $8,400 isn’t much of an apology.”

“But the arrangement we have,” John pleads. “It’s a gentlemen’s agreement, we’re all men who—We’re all—We…” He trails off, having realized his mistake, and I smile graciously at him.

“You owe us a gesture of goodwill,” I say. “And by my calculations, that’s either the book free of charge, or your left kneecap.” I point my gun at John’s knee. His dad jeans are quaking now.

“The book, the book. Free of charge, of course, goodwill, like you say.”

“Excellent!” I lift my gun in celebration.

A dark spot appears on the crotch of John’s jeans, and he turns hastily away.

With the paper bag and the inadequate product loaded in our trunk, Brady drives us back through the moonlit farmland. He shakes his head to himself, glancing over at me occasionally, but he doesn’t say anything. Finally, I can’t take it anymore, and I ask my burning question.

“What’s the book?”

“Seriously? That’s your concern right now?” He exhales in a huff. “It’s a first edition Ulysses. Mam’s birthday’s coming up.”

“Well, that’s adorable.”