XXXI: Renegade
Tillman was one of those people, the kind that you don't want to fuck with. That much was clear. But there was nothing to be done about the situation now. All he could do was stand there and hope to ride things out successfully. And it was certainly bad, but it was not as bad as James had expected.
"I don't want you killed," Tillman assured him, his voice light, almost kindly. James wasn't buying it, though. Tillman tapped some stray ash off his cigarette, taking a drag off it before he continued, "If I had you killed, you wouldn't pay us back, and where would that put me? No better off than before." He smiled blandly towards James, adding, "You'll pay us back. Five thousand, right? That had better be a good car you bought, boy, or the best pro in the world." He steepled his fingers, staring down James for a long moment before adding, "And a thousand in interest. That makes it six k as of this week. Seven k as of next week. And we can keep goin' down that road as long as you need."
I wouldn't have wasted the money on some car, James thought, but he knew that Tillman would not value that information. So he kept quiet. Keep your eyes open. Look. Listen. Learn. Don't depend on anyone but yourself.
"You see, the thing you have to understand, James, is that when you borrow money, you pay it back. Ain't no two ways about it."
"Yeah, I know." James studied Tillman, trying to size him up, but it was a hopeless endeavor. The guy had both the height and weight advantages. "But I told you, Mark's my friend. I can't just go to him and say, 'Hey, that money that I lent you for your stuff, pay it back,' hear?"
Tillman shook his head. His eyes met James' own. "You can, son. And you will." He suddenly sounded like a high school teacher. "You asked us to give you the money so you could get it double from Boswell. Now, we figured you weren't a real good con yet, since you're all of nineteen, but we decided to trust you. I would be very disappointed if you were goin' to break our trust."
To James, that sounded like an insult. They were implying that he would cut and run, not do what he had to do. He was not someone who ran away from his problems. He faced them, head-on. He dealt with them, even though nobody else he knew dealt with their problems, cowards that they were. He would face Tillman head-on, too, and deal with him. He had no other choice. He drew himself up straight, shaking his head at Tillman. "I won't do that. I'll have you your money. Promise. I don't know how, though," he admitted suddenly. Maybe if I keep on repeating this, maybe he'll take pity on me.
"Find a way," Tillman said airily. "Ain't my concern. But if you bring me anything less than six grand for the trouble you put us through, it will be my problem, Mister Ford." Accentuating the young man's name precisely, he extended a cigarette towards James. James caught the scent of tobacco, could almost feel the cigarette between his fingers, the warmth of the embers and the smoke. He knew he should take it.
Suddenly, though, it seemed like bait for a trap.
James dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He shook his head sharply. "I had a smoke, man. I'm good." He saw a frown and thought, I've done something wrong there. It had felt right, though, so who cared what Tillman thought? "I'll get you your money," he continued. "You got nothin' to worry about there."
Tillman pulled the cigarettes away, stashing them in a pocket. "I know I don't," he agreed quietly, smoothing down his pocket. "Seven days. If you don't have the cash here by then, six thousand bucks, then we're going to have to get ugly over this. And I don't think you can stand losin' friends like me, in your position." He made a little wave of dismissal. "Go. Get me my money, boy."
James made the point of standing there for a moment longer, just to spite Tillman, until he turned on his heel and moved for the door. He threw a glance over his shoulder as he went, though, and saw Tillman watching him. Tillman's gaze was pretty vague, but there was a sense of evaluation about it. Walking towards the door felt like a test, but he could not figure out just what the subject of the test was.
–––
They were on East Campus, before the music building. That was supposed to be a famous place, James knew, and he wanted to sightsee, but he knew he didn't have the time to do so. It had taken him a day to get to Durham from Knoxville, and he was damned if he was going to spend any time acting like a tourist when he just about had a price on his head. He had to get the money out of Mark, and he had to do it quickly.
"I don't have the money, James." Mark shrugged at him carelessly. "I told you it would be spent at a frat party over here. Not my fault."
James couldn't believe it. "Five thousand dollars on beer?"
Mark sounded pained. It was as if James' question had insulted him. "Not just beer, man. Pot and – and other things." He shoved his hands in his members-only jacket, looking deliberately away from James. "It's not my fault," he began, as if expecting a lecture to come. "My mom did it, too. Don't say you didn't know."
"Yeah, but…" James began, instantly feeling like a hypocrite. Who was he to lecture Mark, when he had given the guy the money and he was currently in more trouble for it than Mark could ever imagine? "Never mind," he decided, scowling at the ground beneath them.
The college was in between classes, and the campus was all but deserted, save the stray late coed heading to class, or the pair of students taking a long walk. James suspected he looked like Mark's classmate, but he had more important things to talk about than college classes, Plato or Nietzsche or whatever they read here. That sort of stuff didn't matter. None of these kids had any real idea of how the world worked. For all they read, they didn't understand what they read, and they didn't understand what they saw when they weren't reading, either.
"Well, however you spent the money, I don't care," James continued, trying to meet Mark's eyes again. This time, he succeeded. "The point is, I need it back. All of it. Five thou. I owe another thousand, but I'll get that somehow. I need the money, Mark." His voice sounded strangled. He wondered if he sounded like he was about to cry out of frustration.
Mark shook his head. "Sorry, man. Forgive me?"
James' reply was curt: "Yeah, if I'm still alive." He turned on a heel, and though everything in him wanted to beat up Mark, to exact a little bit of revenge on him for screwing him over like that, he knew he couldn't do that. He was in polite company, and he would not ruin people's day. He would get back at Mark another way, and he would do it in a way that would last longer than a simple fist-fight.
"You know, Mark," he said heavily, turning halfway back to study the collegian, suddenly direct and honest, "I thought we were friends in high school. I got you that money because you said you needed it. You knew it wasn't my money, and yet you aren't gonna pay me back?"
"What can I say?" Mark replied levelly, his eyes on James. "You make a lousy loan shark. I don't have the money, and I ain't gonna ask the guys in the frat. You want the money so badly, you go beg for it."
James almost laughed at that. I did beg for it. That's how you got the money in the first place, idiot. He did not say that, though. He chewed on his lip, shook his head, and struck off across campus. He was not going to waste any more time begging Mark to pay him the money he was owed. There was always a better route. The only thing he would have to do would be to find it.
From the athletic fields, he could hear Duke's band strike up Dixieland, and it put a spring into his step and a smile onto his face. Things would turn out all right after all. All he had to do was change his methods. If honesty would not work, deception certainly would.
–––
He was still in the Duke Bubble, but it was a ritzy part of the Bubble. He could tell, because more professors hung out at the bars here and less students did. The fake ID he'd passed had sufficed to get him in, and he sat there nursing his drink. He wanted nothing more than to get smashed, but he couldn't afford himself the luxury at the moment. He had to find some good targets. They were definitely here. From the way they flashed money around, they were definitely really stupid as well. The 'bubble' name definitely fit.
Most times, a mark swam out of the sea of people, showing itself to him like one of those beta fish they used to sell at the stores in downtown Knoxville. They were as hard enough to miss as those fish, too, and this time was no exception. They were professors, both of them. History professors, from the Duke Faculty - History Building parking stickers on the car they'd parked nearby his. Finally, they were both dressed in chintzy tweed. He knew them. Professors Roger and Marianne Campbell. He had spent the past few hours memorizing names and photos of all of the freshman-campus professors in a yearbook sitting in the student union.
In his mid-forties, the guy even had a pipe, little patches on his jacket at the elbows, and a jaunty English cap. He was a stereotype and looked it. His wife was a bit younger, late thirties or early forties, and looked like she hadn't gotten laid for a long time, as blunt an evaluation as he knew it was. She looks desperate, you should say, James corrected himself mentally, and he knew from having checked himself out in the car mirror after he had parked that he looked good enough to attract her attention.
He listened to them, counting down, hoping the guy would get up to order drinks for himself and his wife, keeping his fingers crossed that the crowd at the bar would keep him waiting there for the martinis or gin-and-tonics for a while. James would have to approach the woman, alone, in the first five minutes, or she would get deep enough in conversation that her husband would be unlikely to leave. He didn't want to have to look for a new mark. It was tricky enough even locating this one.
And then he saw the guy leave, but he wasn't heading for the bar. James watched as the patches moved past the bar, headed past where he sat along the side without stopping, reached the end of the bar and headed for the gents'. Even better. All he needed was a minute. This poor unlucky bastard had given him at least five.
James rose from where he sat, making his way towards the female professor. He was cool. He didn't need shills to help him out. He had his looks and he had his charm, and they were help enough. He felt his eyes grow wide as he neared her, his limbs grow loose, putting on a shocked look, and for a moment, it felt as if he had become another person. Perhaps he had. He'd think about that later, though. For now, he had a job to get done.
He smiled at the older woman, making sure it was an embarrassed sort of grin. "Professor Campbell," he greeted her, and she looked up. Unfamiliarity spread across her face, but she did acknowledge her name. He knew that much about her. "It's Dave Ramsey. I took your Western Civ class a few years back." He had picked a few past students that he looked like, too. The freshman classes were big enough that she'd barely recognize any name he gave her, but he wanted to make sure it was close enough for comfort. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Dave," she responded warmly, and whether it was at the name or at the killer grin that he was currently giving her, James wasn't sure and didn't care to find out. "I don't think I'd have expected to see you here, either. They let you in? You're old enough?"
He shrugged. "Twenty-two, if you can believe it. But I'm not in college anymore. Long story. And nah, I don't want to interrupt you or your husband. You got office hours, though?" He continued to stare at her, feeling his pulse pound, but keeping her in his gaze.
She stared back at him, transfixed, making no real noise for a few long moments. At last, she nodded. "Sure. If you're awake that early, come by at 9:30 tomorrow. You know where it is. I don't have any classes tomorrow, so you can take as long as you need."
From those words, and the way that her French-manicured hand traveled to the collar of her silk blouse, smoothing it carefully as she stared at him, her mouth hanging open a bit, he knew she had fallen for the con. He would have to get out fast, though, before her husband came back. He pushed the 'send call' button on one chunky, bulky cellphone, in his left jeans pocket, hidden by a long coat. The right pocket rang, and he pulled the second phone out. "Dave Ramsey here. Right – yeah, I'm coming to your pledge ceremony, Mark. Gimme a few. I know I'm late. I'm on my way." It was a short conversation but, really, how much could you say into a silent call before the illusion started to become apparent?
James signaled to the woman that he had to leave, promising her, "I'll be there tomorrow, hear? Don't you worry." He did his best to make it sound reassuring. "You folks have a good night, now." With that, he was on his way, and the con job was on its way as well.