Free The Amateurs by Marcus Sakey Page B

roll as she realized he wasn’t wrong.

CHAPTER 7
    S OMETHING WAS UP.
    Mitch couldn’t put his finger on it. On the surface, everything seemed OK. Ian deciding to host an impromptu dinner had been a surprise, but not a startling one. His building was a trip; thirty stories of gray brick and wrought-iron perched at the bend in the river and surrounded by skyscrapers. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city gleamed close and bright, the skeletal frame of the unfinished Trump Tower near enough to chuck a beer bottle at.
    When Mitch had arrived, it was Jenn who opened the door, looking dynamite, pale arms glowing through the gauzy black sleeves of her shirt thing. He’d held up a bottle of red the guy at the liquor store had said was decent, then given her a hug, trying not to linger over the smell of her hair.
    “Just in time,” she’d said. “Ian’s about to kebab Alex.”
    As if in response, a jovial yell echoed down the hall. “Mitch, thank God. Would the two of you get this asshole out of my kitchen?”
    Alex wandered out, smiled, shook his hand. “I swear, he’s an old woman. Just needs an apron.”
    They poured the wine and moved to the living room, chatting in front of the windows. That was when the feeling first hit. It reminded him of the way his parents had acted in the months before they told Mitch they were getting divorced. A sort of forced cheer. Alex talked more than usual, laughed a little too hard at a joke Mitch had heard at work. Jenn nursed her wine and stared out the window. He was just about to ask what was going on when Ian announced that dinner was ready.
    He may have been touchy about his kitchen, but the dude could cook . They started with a warm spinach salad with some sort of cured meat fried crispy, followed by a risotto with gorgonzola and then blackened swordfish. But Mitch noticed that while everyone else attacked the food, Ian mostly pushed his around the plate, restless to the verge of twitching. How much coke was the guy doing? Mitch had tried it once, years ago, liked it OK, but he couldn’t imagine being wired to want the feeling all the time, like drinking ten espressos while socking yourself in the mouth.
    Still, the food was great and the wine was flowing, a second bottle empty by the time they finished. Alex pushed his plate back, slapped his stomach. “Damn. I guess all that stainless steel in your kitchen makes a difference.”
    “It’s not the hardware. I’m just that good.”
    “Modest, too.”
    “How’s your eye?” Jenn asked.
    “I’m starting to like it.” The swelling hadn’t lessened, and now shades of yellow and sickly green crept around the purple rim of the bruise. “Makes me look tough, don’t you think?”
    She snorted. “Boys.”
    They fell silent, one of those moments. Alex opened a new bottle and refilled their glasses, holding by the bottom and twisting professionally when he was done.
    “I’ve got one,” Ian said.
    “One what?”
    “Ready-Go question. What would you do with fifty grand?”
    “Foul. We did that the other night.”
    “That was five hundred. This is different. Go.”
    Alex spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’d make up the child support I owe so my ex-wife couldn’t take my daughter from me.”
    “Your—what?” Mitch glanced back and forth. “Your ex is trying to take Cassie?”
    “Yeah. To Arizona.”
    “Can she do that?”
    “Sure,” Ian said. “She’s the mother, providing a home, and with missed child support payments . . .”
    “What about you?” Alex’s voice was hard. “What would you do?”
    Ian gave one of his cryptic smiles. “Oh, just pay some bills.”
    “I bet. The late fees look like a bitch.” Alex tapped his forefinger below his eye.
    “I told you, I tripped. Jenn?”
    “I’d start by quitting my job. Take some time to figure out what I want to do with my life.”
    “What’s wrong with your life?” Mitch felt like he was on a cell phone with bad reception, his questions coming