I returned to the recording room with the whiskey and four plastic cups. Poured a small amount in each cup and handed them out.
Only then, cups in hands, did I realize my mistake. I’d meant to cement something between us, to express goodwill. But our parting was nothing to celebrate. No doubt we all wanted to forget as quickly as possible that we’d ever been together at all. So nobody said anything—there was nothing to say—and we all just looked into the bottom of our cups, saw what we saw, and swallowed.
It was time then for logistics. Time for Marie to walk out alone, go home, and call us at the studio with her bank information. Nolan and Jeffrey would then wire a lot of money, and we’d all try to live our lives.
Marie was rubbing her thumbs over the top of her plastic cup, still looking into it. She bit her lip and looked up at us.
“So I’ve been thinking,” she said, and hesitated. The words dangled in front of us.
My body must have sensed something before my brain did, because my gut seized in pain as if the whiskey were tainted. I needed to sit down, but I stayed standing and gently rubbed my stomach outside my shirt, trying to massage away the pain.
“What have you been thinking?” Nolan asked.
“Well, a lot of things.”
I couldn’t help it—the pain was too much. I sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall.
“I had all night on that couch,” she was saying, “and I thought about a lot of things. And what I’ve decided is, well …” She sighed. “Forty thousand isn’t enough.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Don’t do this, Marie,” I said.
“I’m not doing anything,” she said. Her tone was tinged with sarcasm, even a bit of confidence. I opened my eyes again. Something important had happened overnight while I had been sleeping. She looked different—her eyes more severe, a darker, more calculating blue—and I couldn’t imagine ever thinking she was sixteen. “It’s just that, the way I figure, I’m standing between all of you and a lot of trouble,” she said. “A lot of trouble. And I just wonder if maybe forty thousand dollars … you know, all things considered … might be a little stingy.”
“It isn’t,” Nolan said. “It’s generous, and you know it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “You could be right. But my nana, she used to pay a neighbor’s kid forty dollars to cut the grass. He was a nice little kid in the sixth grade, but sort of dumb. I think he might have been retarded. But as I was lying on that couch last night, I kept thinking about him, and about how you’re all important men. Family men, too. I think you’d do pretty much anything to avoid … well, you know. And all night I kept asking myself, am I only a thousand times more important to these men than some retarded kid who cuts my nana’s grass? And my guess is no. I’ll bet I’m way more important than that.”
Her voice exuded confidence, but her hands squeezed the empty cup and shook slightly.
“Cut to the chase.” Nolan’s gaze bored into her. “How much do you want?”
Her brilliance, if it could be called that, was in recognizing the power she had over us and having the nerve to act on it. Had she named her price at that moment, she almost certainly would’ve gotten it. Her mistake was to equivocate.
“Well,” she said, looked up at the ceiling as if considering the question—blatant theatrics—then back at Nolan again. She shrugged. “That depends.”
“It depends?” He laughed dismissively, then narrowed his eyes. “All right, fifty thousand.” Silence. “Sixty.” He shook his head. “Fuck, I knew this was all a waste of time. Now get the hell out of here before I throw you out.”
“No, wait a second!” Too late, Marie caught her error. She had vacillated when decisiveness was called for, and now her moment was slipping away. She could see her two years’ salary vanishing before her eyes, and suddenly I understood what Nolan had meant last night, how everything depended on trust. Without trust, a deal like this meant nothing. “I want more money, that’s all.” Her voice was desperate and shrieky. “That’s all I want. Come on, I don’t have anything, and … you just have to give me more.”
Nolan stepped closer to Marie. “I’m going to ask you one last time. How much more?” She was still avoiding his eyes, so he put a hand on her arm and said: “Give me a number, Marie.”
The physical contact. That was his error.
“Hey!” She yanked her arm free from his grip and backed up like a wild animal that had inadvertently crossed paths with another, larger one. “Don’t touch me.” She looked over at Jeffrey. “Get him away from me!” The irony of that glance over to her abductor for assistance wouldn’t hit me until later.