Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues by Eric Garcia Page B

faces him down with the first real anger Frankie’s seen in years. Now there’s no need to keep his tone down. Now there’s no need to keep his words deliberate. “Don’t you ever go behind my back like that again, you understand me? We got a thing here—this is not how we work. If it’s you and me, then it’s you and me, and this other fuck don’t enter into it, no matter if he’s got the cash, you got that?”
    “Jesus, Roy, I didn’t mean to—I thought you might like the idea.”
    “What you did—what you wanted to do—that’s not business sense, that’s a death wish, you know that? How many three-man, four-man games you know of stuck around long enough to watch themselves on the other side of the jailhouse fence? You got another guy, then it’s worrying about the other guy. You don’t know him long—you know him two years, you say—he could spin around and stab you in the back—fuck that, stab
me
in the back—anytime he sees fit. Take our money and run.”
    Frankie’s cowed, petulant. “You’re overreacting,” he says softly.
    “I am underreacting. I should be throwing you to the fucking seals, that’s what I should be doing. Hank always told me when your partner gets itchy feet, don’t put the cream on for him. Lethim go. You wanna go, is that it? You wanna team up with Saif from now on?”
    “No—Jesus, Roy, no—”
    “No, you don’t.” And now Roy’s out of steam. The pressure is gone. Released. He can see again, see through the darkness to the car. “Because we make a good pair,” he continues, volume lowered. “You and me, we make a good pair. Let’s not screw that up. Yes?”
    “Okay. Okay.”
    “Okay. Conversation over.”

    Roy doesn’t want to wake Angela, but he doesn’t want to keep the eight grand in his pocket anywhere other than inside the horse. He knows it’s silly. Knows there’s no safety in the horse, no more so than a drawer or a cabinet. But it’s his way, and pills or no pills, he wants the cash inside that horse.
    He tiptoes into the den, holding his breath. Walking on the balls of his feet. It’s hard. It hurts his calves. Angela is asleep on the fold-out, covers kicked off her body, arms still wrapped around that pillow. Her nightgown rides high above her knee, and Roy tries to keep his gaze away from her legs. Like Heather’s legs. Long. Better to look away. Look at the horse.
    The head is heavy, it’s always heavy. Tonight, it’s made out of lead. The quieter he tries to be, the more noise he seems to make. The ceramic neck scrapes against the body as he lifts. He stops, holds it in place. Beads of sweat break out along the back of his neck. Angela takes a breath, a sleeping snort, and turns over, away from him. Facing the wall. Perfect.
    Roy lifts again, and the head pops off. He tries to hold it withone hand, balancing the head against his hip, as he takes the money out of his jacket pocket. Pushes down the pile, squashing the money already inside. Full. Too full. He needs to get to the Caymans, and soon. Too much money in the house. Too much for anyone.
    It’s easier to put the head back on. No creaks. No scraping. He stands there for a moment, looking at the Miró on the wall. It’s like Angela, he thinks. It has life. It’s the only thing on these walls with any life. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll ask Saif for another one.
    “Roy?” Angela, behind him. Roy’s heart kicks up a notch.
    “Go to sleep,” he says, turning around. She’s up on one elbow, peering through the darkness. Didn’t see him with the horse. Probably didn’t see him with the horse. “You just wake up?” he asks.
    “Uh-huh. Can I have a drink of water?”
    “Sure. Sure. You sit tight.” Roy walks into the kitchen, finds a clean glass, and pours her a bit from the tap. Puts in a few ice cubes to make it cold. Dash of lemon to help with the taste. Tap water isn’t so good around these parts.
    He returns to the den, sits on the corner of the fold-out, and hands her