R is for Ricochet

I was walked, rubber-legged, to Beck's office, where I sank onto the couch and covered my face with my hands. The image of Marty was like a photograph that I saw now in negative, light and dark reversed. There was conversation going on above my head – Beck instructing the two guys to get the body out of there and dispose of it. I knew they'd take him down in the service elevator to the ground floor, where they could drag him through the service corridor and out to the garage. They'd stick him in the trunk of his car and dump his body by the side of the road. Odd, so odd. I'd seen it in his eyes – this ending, this death – but I'd been unable to intervene.

My vision condensed, threatening to shut down. Dark closed in from the periphery and I had that curious sensation in my ears – white noise – that told me how close I was to fainting. I put my head down between my knees. I remembered to breathe. Within a minute, the air seemed to cool and I could feel the darkness recede. When I looked up, the two guys were gone and Beck was sitting at his desk. "Sorry about that. It's not what you think. He had a heart attack."

"He's dead all the same and it's your fault," I said.

"Reba had her share in it."

"How do you figure that?"

"Take a look at what she did. We're supposed to have a deal and she shows up with an empty suitcase? What's she think, she can fuck with me and get away with it?"

"She didn't steal the computer. Marty took it with him when he left."

"I don't give a shit who took it. All she had to do was give it back and he might be alive. The stress was what killed him. Couple of harmless punches and he was gone."

I couldn't argue with the man. He was so sure of himself and his thinking was so bent. Where was this going to end? The contest between them had spiraled out of control and matters could only escalate. Beck had the upper hand. It was as simple as that. He had me.

He smiled slightly. "You're hoping she'll call the police, but she won't. You know why? Because it wouldn't be any fun. She's a gambler. She likes betting against the house. Poor girl's not nearly as smart as she thinks she is."

"I don't want to talk about this shit. The two of you can hash it out."

"I'm sure we will."

We sat, the two of us, waiting for the phone to ring. I'd given up trying to predict what either would do. My job was taking care of me. The problem was, I was tired and feeling panicky. The jitters were causing my hands to shake and I was having trouble marshaling my thoughts. Beck rocked back in his swivel chair, fiddling with a paperweight, tossing it from hand to hand.

I noticed a row of cardboard boxes, lined up along the wall, all of them neatly taped and ready to be shipped. His office was a mess – shelves half empty, numerous bulging files on his desk. It looked as if Beck was all packed and ready to go. No wonder he was hell-bent on reclaiming his computer and his floppy disks. The disks and his hard drive contained his entire enterprise, every nickel he owned, all the money he'd salted away, shell corporations, Panamanian bank accounts. He wasn't a man who remembered numbers or dates. He had to have it written down or it was lost to him. He knew as well as I did the data would be his undoing if it fell into the wrong hands.

I said, "I have to go to the ladies' room."

"No."

"Come on, Beck. You can tag along with me and listen at the door while I tinkle."

He shook his head. "Can't do it. I want to be by the phone when she calls."

"What if it takes an hour?"

"Tough."

We waited in silence. I checked my watch. The crystal was smashed, the hands permanently frozen at 11:22. I couldn't see a clock from where I sat. Time dragged on and on. If and when Reba called, I had one more chance to signal the agents recording Beck's calls. I wasn't sure how I'd manage it or what I'd say, but the possibility was there.

The silence went on for so long that when the phone finally rang, I jumped. Beck picked up the handset and held it loosely against his ear. He smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "Hey, Reeb, good girl. I knew you'd touch base. Are you ready to do business? Oh wait. Hang on a second. I have a friend of yours here and wondered if you wanted a chance to speak to her."

He pressed the speaker function on the phone and the office was filled with the hollow sound of Reba's voice. "Kinsey? Oh, geez… are you okay?"

I said, "I could use some help here. Why don't you call Cheney and tell him what's going on?"

"Forget him. Let me talk to Beck," she said, irritated.

Now that his hands were free, Beck opened his desk drawer and took out a gun. He slipped the safety off and pointed it at me. "Hey, Reeb? Sorry to interrupt, but let's cut to the chase. Listen to this."

He pointed at the wall above my head and fired. A sound came out of my throat, half scream and half moan. Tears sprang into my eyes. He said, "Oops. I missed."

She said, "Beck, don't."

"I'm not very good with this thing. Willard tried to show me, but I can't seem to get the hang of it. Should I try again?"

"Ohmygod, ohmygod. Oh, please, Beck, don't hurt her."

"I didn't hear your answer. You ready to do business?"

"Don't fire again. Don't shoot. Don't do that. I'll bring the thing. I got it. It's in the trunk of my car. I put it in a duffel."

"You said that before. I believed you then, but look what you went and did. You pulled the big switcheroo."

"I swear. I'll do it right this time. I'm not far. Give me two minutes. Just hang on. Please."

His tone was skeptical. "Gee, I don't know, Reeb. I trusted you. I thought you'd play fair. What you did was bad. I'd say very bad indeed."

"This time I'll bring it for sure. No tricks. I swear."

Beck was watching me while she spoke. He winked and smiled, having a wonderful time. "How do I know you won't pull the same old gag? Give me a duffel and there's nothing inside."

I stood up and pointed at the door, mouthing, "I have to pee."

He motioned me to sit again while Reba, sounding desperate, was saying, "I know what we can do. I'll come in through the service corridor. You can go to Willard's desk and watch on the monitor. I'll unzip the bag and show you the computer. You can see it with your own eyes."

I clutched the crotch of my jeans and then clasped my hands, mouthing, Please.… I pointed at the hall again.

Distracted, he waved the gun at me, motioning me to sit down. I was edging out of the room. I held up a finger, whispering, "I'll be right back."

I left the room and walked rapidly down the hall, footsteps soundless on the carpeting. I pulled office doors shut as I passed, letting them bang, bang, bang. I could hear him yell, "Hey!" He didn't sound angry so much as a

I doubled my pace. I reached the vestibule. Mercifully, the service elevator doors stood open. I moved to the back wall and punched in the code for the counting room. 5-15-1955. Reba's birthday. The doors slid open.

Out in the corridor, I could hear Beck shout my name, banging into offices in search of me. He fired a shot that made me jump even at this remove. While I'd known I wouldn't shoot him, I wasn't at all convinced he wouldn't shoot me, accidentally if nothing else. I yanked off one shoe and set it in the path of the open elevator door. The door slid shut, encountered the shoe, and popped open again, a process that repeated like a tic. I turned and pressed the G button on the opposite panel, dispatching the freight elevator to the garage level. The doors were slow to respond, which gave me time enough to cross to the second set of doors. I yanked my shoe from the track and slipped into the counting room as the corridor doors slid shut. The doors to the counting room slid shut half a beat later, and I was safe. Temporarily, at any rate.