The Amateurs by Marcus Sakey

Alex said it simple and quiet and firm. “I wish I were.”
    “You’re serious?” Mitch set his fork down.
    Alex nodded. “On my mother.”
    The silence fell again.
    “What did you do?”
    “I packed my pockets and snuck out the back. Brunch is on me.” Alex stabbed at his eggs. “What do you think? I locked up, went back to the bar, and quietly shit myself.”
    “You didn’t touch it?”
    “No.”
    “Come on.” Ian set down the water glass. No less puffy, his bad eye was now just slick with condensation. “Not even a little?”
    “No.”
    “How much was there?” Mitch asked.
    “I don’t know,” Alex said around a mouthful. “A lot. Thing is, I got to thinking. What if it’s got something to do with the meeting? I had figured, you know, he was having trouble with his vegetable suppliers, wanted me there so he could look like the old tough Johnny Love. But there had to be a couple hundred grand. What if he’s going back into the drug business? Meeting with Colombians?”
    “Or Outfit guys,” Mitch said. “Or undercover cops.”
    “Jesus. If he got busted and I was there . . .”
    “You have to find a new job.” Jenn’s voice was sharper than normal.
    “Ya think?”
    “You’re missing the worst part,” Ian said. “Insult to the injury. The money.”
    Alex’s jaw fell open, then he gave a sound that wasn’t much like a laugh. “Three hundred bucks. I’m a bodyguard at a six-figure drug deal, and the cheap bastard is offering me three hundred bucks.” He made the sound again.
    “You know what you should do?” Ian held a beat. “Clean out that safe before you quit.”
    “Tempting,” Alex said. “But I think even Johnny Love could figure that one out.”
    “Well, all you need to do,” Mitch said, “is not quit. Do it on a night you aren’t working, and don’t quit.”
    “Right. Right.” Ian nodded, cracked his knuckles. “Keep a straight face.”
    “Better yet,” Jenn said, “ we should take it.”
    “Yes!” Ian gave her gun fingers. “That’s it. In fact, do it on a night you are working. You stand at the bar all night, meanwhile, we’re emptying the safe.”
    “We could cut through the roof with a torch,” Jenn said, “and then rappel from a helicopter.”
    “Or tunnel in from the building across the street,” Mitch said, getting in the spirit.
    “Meanwhile, I distract Johnny,” Jenn said. “I’ll wear one of those Bond-girl dresses from the Connery years. The short, mod ones that the villains’ girlfriends had. I’ve always wanted to.”
    “I love it when a plan comes together,” Ian said, and raised his glass. “To screwing Johnny Love.”
    “Screwing Johnny Love.” They clinked. Mitch leaned back in his chair, glad he’d come. A flawless blue sky and good friends. A sudden scrap of music began, Brandon Flowers urging smi-ile like you mean it, from the cell phone beside Alex’s napkin. He picked it up, shook his head, then hit a button to silence the notes.
    “Work?”
    “My ex.”
    It seemed like maybe a look passed between Jenn and Alex, but it was just a flickering thing. Mitch dug into his neglected breakfast.
    Ian said, “You guys know what the Prisoner’s Dilemma is?”
    Alex groaned. “Not again.”
    “What?”
    “Let me guess. It’s another game.”
    “Funny you should say that,” Ian deadpanned. “In fact, yes.”
    “You do anything besides play games?”
    “So,” Ian said, “two criminals are arrested. The cops know they did it, but they don’t have enough evidence. So they put them in separate cells and offer each a deal. If one rats on the other, he goes free. His partner, though, gets ten years. If they both keep quiet, the cops can only hit them with something minor, say, six months. But if both of them betray the other, bam, the cops can nail both, and they each get five years.”
    There was something elegant in the situation. Mitch could see the whole game, almost see the equation behind it. He’d always been decent