“I know damn well it’s counterfeit. That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking what you did with the money.”
“There’s a man in Chinatown who’s got the money. A private investigator.” I tell Tully about Simpkins, spinning a tale of how he refused to give back the money. Though I’m holding Anne Elise, he doesn’t mention her, perhaps doesn’t even notice her, so single-minded is he on learning what happened to his money. He drums his fingers on a dust-covered leather-bound ledger and tells me to tell him everything I know about the guy who’s got his counterfeit money. Upon first meeting him, I thought Tully an unsophisticated grease monkey incapable of understanding anything more complicated than a hydraulic torque wrench or the workings of an internal combustion engine, but he takes in what I’m saying unflinchingly, assessing it. “Simpkins is a sharpie. I’ve tried to break him, tried to convince him it’s not in his interest to hold on to counterfeit money. He’s trying to blackmail me.”
“Wait. I tell you to invest the money in stocks and bonds and whatever shit works best, and you’re telling me you gave the money to some private investigator? Why the hell did you do that?”
I understand how bad this looks, me eschewing my fiduciary responsibility and, rather than plowing the money into actual investment-grade financial instruments—“stocks and bonds and shit”—giving the money to a private investigator. Tully squares me a look. “Anyways, why’d you spill the beans to Laurel that her old man’s a crook? She was coming around to liking me again, and then you had to tell her about the money. Now she’ll never respect me.”
Tully’s right: I shouldn’t have told Laurel—not that I think it would have made a difference in how she views him. But I should’ve let Laurel believe Tully was working long hours at the garage, accruing overtime pay and maybe picking up a second job and saving his pennies. Myth has it that hard work and thrift—two qualities I’ve never embodied—are the pillars to financial well-being. I should have told Laurel her father had these qualities down in spades. Why couldn’t I have lied?
“I’m sorry, Tully. I’ll do what I can to get Laurel to respect you again. Honest, I will. Laurel’s a good girl. She’ll give you a second chance. She will. I know it.”
Tully’s eyes become glassy. I wouldn’t have thought him the sentimental type, but maybe it’s the bourbon turning him melancholy. He wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his mechanic’s coveralls. And then he glances at me, clearly uncomfortable that I’ve witnessed him during an emotional moment. He weaves his hands together and cracks his knuckles. “You say you know where we can find this Simpkins guy who’s got my money?”
“Sure do! Want me to write down the address for you?”
“You’re going to do better than that. You and me. We’re family, right? If we’re going to rough this guy up, we gotta do it together.”
“Who said anything about roughing Simpkins up?”
“I did. That’s who. Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? You already tried to talk sense into him, right? That didn’t work too well, did it? So we need to be ferocious and whack him some.”
I’m scared, but cowardice isn’t an argument likely to sway Tully. “Tully, I wouldn’t bring the same skills into the situation as you would. That’s not who I am. I’d be a liability in a down-and-dirty brawl. You’d be better off without me. Besides, I’ve seen Simpkins. He’s a wimp! A tough guy like you can handle him no problem. Trust me.”
Tully crosses his arms. “You’re chicken. Admit it!”
“You’re right: I’m a chicken. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not half the man you are.”
My implicit praise takes Tully aback. He eyes me over, taps his fingers against one of Jack Riggs’s ancient oak filing cabinets. “You shitting me? You think that?”
“It’s true: I’m not half the man you are.”
“You got that right.” Tully’s laugh is deep, rich, a har-de-har laugh emanating from deep within his belly. “You’re all right! I’m not going to make you do anything you’re not A-okay, one hundred percent on board with.”
“You’re okay with this?” I ask with a wave of relief. I’m not going to have to rough up Simpkins. Or run the risk of Simpkins roughing me up. “You’re really okay with this?”
“Sure am, buddy. You being a wimp’s no skin off my nose.” Tully holds out his hand for a handshake. “Let’s shake on it.”
I shift Anne Elise to my left shoulder, freeing up my right hand. As I reach for Tully’s handshake, I hear the spring-action sound of the switchblade that Tully whips out from his coveralls. His eyes are big and green. He looks at the knife in his hand and then grins at me, fierce, near maniacal.
I back up against the oak-paneled wall, more scared than I’ve ever been. The knife is huge, and this cramped hideaway office is small and devoid of places to hide. There’s not even space beneath the desk to crawl under. Tully blocks my path to the hallway, closing in on me so slowly that it makes me think his intent is to exert maximum fear. He could leap on me with that knife, pummel and stab me with it, killing me off quickly, but he inches up to me with exceedingly slow deliberation.
“Don’t hurt Anne Elise,” I say.
“It’s not her I’m fixing to kill.”
A braver man might fight off his assailant, but with Anne Elise nestled against my shoulder, a struggle seems futile. One way or another, she’s bound to be hurt. I could set her down somewhere safe, but that would involve taking my eyes off Tully, allowing him the opportunity to lunge at me. Light glints off the polished steel blade of Tully’s knife. It’s six inches long, maybe longer, but staring at it, I become braver. This is my lucky day, I remind myself. I think happy thoughts. Survival thoughts. Tully reeks of booze. His eyes are wild and bloodshot. Sooner or later, he’s bound to do something stupid—take his eyes off me or stumble over the cradle—allowing me to rush past him to safety. Time is his enemy. The longer he delays lunging at me, the greater the chance he’ll screw up.
“Tully, why are you doing this? Let’s talk this over. Like you said, we’re family.”
Tully snorts. “We’re not family. I don’t want any man in my family who’s not willing to fight for his money.”
“Let’s talk about it. We can—”
Tully lunges at me. I dodge to my right, sidestepping his parry. I wish I could call a time-out to put Anne Elise down and guarantee her safety, but Tully lunges at me again. This time, the switchblade slices into my neck. For a half second, I think I’ve imagined it, but there’s a terrible stinging pain in my neck. An ethereal calmness overtakes me. With my free hand, I press down on the slice in the skin around my Adam’s apple. It’s not deep, giving me hope. Although bloody, the wound’s not the cinematic gusher depicted in movies and television dramas.
Another person, a woman judging by the light footsteps, steps upstairs. I allow myself to think that Trish has pulled herself up from the kitchen table to come to my rescue. I call out to her, but my throat is sore, and my voice is weak—“Trish? Trish, honey? I’m in here!”—but, rather than stepping inside this hideaway office or saying something, she remains in the hallway, listening in on us.
“Your own wife’s not going to save you, is she?” Tully says. He points his knife at my neck. “What’s the matter? You got yourself a little boo-boo?”
Tully’s right. As Jack Riggs would say, “Roosters roost.” After all I’ve put her through, I couldn’t blame Trish for just standing in the hallway, safe and secure, while I’m being terrorized by this switchblade-wielding madman. Blood dribbles down my neck. I’m shocked by how thick, how viscous, this blood is. I’m pressing down on the wound to stanch the flow, conscious of the blood that slicks onto my hand, my white shirt, and the ancient warped floorboards.