Chapter Text
TWENTY DAYS UNTIL THE JOB
The dressing room door opens. “Gee?”
Gerard presses glitter onto his eyelids with his fingers, reapplying what he’d sweat off during his pole routine. He leans in close to the mirror and rubs spit on the mascara smeared underneath his eyes, trying to make it look smokey instead of unkempt. More is more under the club lights. He needs to be the shining disco ball in the middle of it all.
Beside Gerard’s face in the mirror, Derrick appears as he steps into the dressing room. He’s a fit guy, the surfer type, something for the straight ladies to enjoy. “There’s a guy on the floor looking for you,” he says.
Gerard makes eye contact with Derrick’s reflection. Gerard’s still breathing hard as he says, “I got off stage like five minutes ago. Can someone else handle it?”
“I tried.” Oh Derrick, sweet Derrick. “But he asked specifically for you.”
Gerard stops wiping off the bleeding edge of his lipstick and turns around. Shit. When people come looking for Gerard, it’s not usually good news.
“Did you recognize him?” Gerard asks as innocuously as he can. “Has he been here before?”
Derrick shrugs. “I’ve never seen him. I don’t usually dance for that type, though.”
“Guys?”
Derrick lifts an eyebrow. “Suits.”
Yeah, that’s more Gerard’s wheelhouse. Sexually confused businessmen going through their midlife crises are big tippers and, even more importantly, easy marks. That means there might be some money at the other end of this.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Gerard says. Derrick gives him a thumbs up and ducks out of the room.
Gerard finishes with his lipstick, readjusts his pleather pants and body chain — the only things he’s got on besides Pleasers — and heads back out onto the floor. The techno that was muffled by the dressing room walls hits him in full force. He can’t wait for his fucking break.
It’s not hard to find the guy who’s looking for him, since he’s sitting in a public chair right by the entrance, and his eyes land on Gerard as soon as he comes into view. Gerard doesn’t recognize him. He would’ve remembered a face that pretty. Especially one attached to such a fancy suit and expensive watch.
Gerard puts a little more swagger into his hips. When he reaches the guy, he drops a hand on his shoulder and walks a half-circle around the chair until they face each other, his heels clicking deliberately on the floor. The guy looks up at him. His dark, shoulder-length hair brushes against Gerard’s fingers.
“Hey there,” Gerard says. “I’m Gee, but you clearly know that. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Frank. And a Malibu bay breeze,” the guy says, completely serious. Gerard has to fight to keep a straight face. God, the chauvinist suits are always such a fucking prop. Then the guy — Frank — smirks. “No, I’m fucking with you. I’ll take a shot of Bentley’s.”
“But you look so much like the Malibu type,” Gerard says, sweet as artificial sugar. He waits for Frank to dig cash out of his wallet, then drops his hand from his shoulder and glides over to the bar.
“Shot of Bentley’s,” he calls to Ray over the music, slapping the money down. Ray nods and grabs the bottle from the shelf. The glass glints purple in the lowlights.
As Ray pours, Gerard props his elbows on the bar and leans forward. “Can you do me a favor, man, and keep an eye on my chair? I don’t recognize the guy, but he asked for me by name, and you know how that can go south.”
“Yeah, I can do that.” Ray slides the shot across the bar. “If you don’t know him, though, he might just be after you on a recommendation or something.”
“Who recommends strippers?”
“Jackasses in suits,” Ray says, and Gerard laughs sharply. “You look good, Gee. Don’t do anything too stupid.”
“Me? Never.” Picking up the shot, Gerard gives Ray a little wave goodbye and heads back over to Frank. Frank’s leaning back in his chair, watching Gerard coolly.
Gerard hands him his shot and swings into his lap. After downing it, Frank says, “You don’t really need to do that. I’m just here to talk.”
“We can talk,” Gerard says, dropping his voice down to a lower register. He doesn’t believe Frank for a second, because that’s not fucking why people come to strip clubs, but he’ll pretend if that’s what Frank wants. Some guys like to be in denial. Close to Frank’s ear, Gerard murmurs, “What’d you have in mind?”
“A job offer,” Frank says. Gerard pulls back a few inches. His eyes flick over to Ray, just to make sure he’s watching. He is.
Gerard puts on a winning smile. “For parties or corporate events, you should talk to my manager.”
“I don’t think your manager will be able to help me, unfortunately.”
Gerard doesn’t respond to that. There’s only about a minute and a half left of this song; he needs to finish with this guy and move on before another starts and he gets roped into four more minutes. He rocks forward in Frank’s lap, finding the rhythm in his hips.
Frank’s eyes rake him up and down in a way that’s so obvious. His voice doesn’t falter, though: “I’ve heard about your skill set. I’m working on a job, and I could use someone like you.”
“I already have a job that uses my skill set perfectly,” Gerard says. One he hates, sure, but he’s pretty spectacular at hiding that around customers. He spins around to grind his ass against Frank, wanting an excuse to break eye contact. Frank holds Gerard’s hips. Gerard drapes himself over Frank’s chest. He exhales hot air against the side of Frank’s neck and doesn’t miss the way he shivers. “Don’t you think?”
“Nobody’s saying you aren’t good at this,” Frank says. Gerard hums in agreement. He settles back into Frank’s lap the right way, and Frank’s hands find his hips again immediately. As the beat drops, Gerard goes for a sweeping backbend. He grabs Frank’s wrists, pretending like he needs to hold on for balance.
And there’s that expensive watch. Flick, pull, catch. As Gerard drags himself back up, breathing shallowly, he tucks the watch into the back of his waistband.
Lowly, Frank says, “I mean your other skill set, though.”
“I don’t do extras.”
“You can play dumb all you want,” Frank says. “I know who you are. I used to work with a bunch of guys who all had one thing in common, which was coming down to this club and losing their wallets, and not being able to do anything about it without their wives finding out.”
“That’s a shame,” Gerard says delicately. Frank’s watch is cool against his sweaty skin. “Can I get you another drink?”
Frank ignores him. “I’m going to tell you how big the job is.”
Jesus fucking Christ. “I don’t—”
Frank leans up next to his ear and whispers a number that makes Gerard’s mouth go dry.
Yeah, right. Whatever this is, it’s bullshit, and the song is over, so Gerard’s done with it.
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Arching up, Gerard makes the waistband of his pants obvious, indicating where Frank should put the cash so they can both move the fuck on with their lives. Frank tucks in three twenties. Gerard raises his eyebrows. That’s generous, especially considering what a short and mediocre lap dance that was.
As Gerard climbs off of him, Frank says, “Can I get my watch back?”
Fuck.
Gerard rolls his neck on his shoulders. Other guys in suits never notice. “Who the fuck are you?”
Frank doesn’t answer that, just holds his palm out until Gerard grabs the watch from the back of his waistband and hands it over.
As he puts it back on, Gerard looks down to see Frank’s half-hard in his slacks. At least Gerard can call that a victory.
Frank stands up and holds his shot glass to his eye, marveling at the drop of amber liquid left inside. “You know, it used to be called Iero and Bentley’s.”
“What?”
He hands the glass to Gerard. “Just think about it.”
He walks off, and Gerard doesn’t watch him go. He’s wasted enough of Gerard’s time already.
Gerard returns the glass to the bar, and when he gets back, a balding man who looks like he would let Gerard take anything from him sits by the stage with a shining gold ring on his finger. That’ll work as a consolation prize.
*
Things slow down around three-thirty, but the club doesn’t close until four in the morning. Gerard stands around with his arms folded on top of the bar for the last half hour as Ray runs the glassware through the sanitizer.
“So what was that guy’s deal?” Ray asks over the clinking. “He seemed okay.”
Gerard has to rack his memory for a second; this late, the whole night becomes a blur. One encounter sticks out like a sore thumb. Oh, motherfucker.
“He was an asshole,” Gerard says. “Tried to sell me on some bullshit and then busted me when I lifted his watch.”
Ray’s eyebrows shoot up. “Shit, did he call the cops or something?”
“I fucking hope not.” Gerard puts his head in his hands and looks at Ray through a gap between his fingers. “I don’t know, he didn’t seem like the type. I really could’ve used that watch, though.”
“You’ll get ‘em next time,” Ray says, sounding much more genuine than he should. Gerard’s so glad to have someone at work he can trust with this. Ray has his own secrets that Gerard keeps, so they look out for each other.
After the club locks up, Gerard waits outside in his faux fur coat for the absolute latest bus route. He wishes he lived on the same side of town as Ray so he could catch a ride. He wishes he could afford a damn car. As is, he lights a cigarette under the flickering street lamp and leans back against the brick to count what he’s made.
A few hundred bucks. About par for a weekend night.
He flicks through the bills again, and something slides out from between two twenties. It’s a white business card. All it has printed on it is FRANK IERO and a phone number.
God. Gerard rolls his eyes at no one. He holds the card up to his cigarette, but it’s made of that fucking glossy paper that won’t catch. The corner just turns black. He tucks it back in with the bills.
By the time the bus finally arrives, Gerard’s shivering. He stomps out his cigarette and clambers aboard. It takes a lot of effort to not just drift off in the seat and let the road take him where it takes him.
He can’t ride on through the night, though, he’s got an apartment and Mikey to go back to. And tomorrow, another fucking shift.
NINETEEN DAYS UNTIL THE JOB
Given that it’s a Sunday, the club isn’t too busy the next night. The music sucks and Ray isn’t working, so Gerard has no one to talk to. No one tips big, not even during his turns on the pole. The only thing he manages to snag during a lap dance is a pair of mid-range silver cufflinks.
It goes from bad to worse at about two in the morning when a drunk guy gets handsy.
Gerard rolls with it at first, thinking that if he just grits and bears it there might be a huge tip at the end, blackout money that this loser will find missing from his wallet in the morning and wonder where it went. There’s nothing worthwhile on him and he’s not bringing his wallet out anywhere Gerard can grab it, but Gerard holds on. He rolls his hips and puts on a fucking show.
The guy gets up when it’s over and walks away without slipping so much as a single dollar into Gerard’s waistband.
“Are you fucking kidding?” Gerard yells after him, his brain-to-mouth filter gone about three under-paid dances ago.
The guy turns on his heel and meets Gerard’s glare with glassy eyes. His face is splotched red, wasted and mad. He’s got several inches on Gerard. “Did you say something, slut?”
Gerard holds back a flinch. It’s not like it’s the first time a customer’s talked down to him, but it still fucking stings.
“Lap dances aren’t complimentary.” Gerard holds out his hand. He’ll take whatever he can get — for his pride, and because he hasn’t made shit tonight, and his student loan payment is due tomorrow.
“Should be, considering the price of fucking drinks,” the guy slurs. “I’m not paying to watch you keep your skirt on, honey. You want to make some cash? Fucking—” He hiccups. “Meet me in the alley and give me something worth paying for.”
Gerard thinks that if he meets this guy in an alley, he’s bringing a tire iron. Realistically, though, he can’t beat this meathead in a fight, and if he tries he’ll get fired. Especially without Ray here to have his back.
Good thing he has something else in his arsenal. Hiking his plaid mini skirt further up his hips, Gerard saunters towards the guy. He wraps his arms around the guy’s neck and leans his body weight onto his chest to distract him. “You’re right, handsome,” he says, laying it on thick. “Why don’t you tell me all about what I can do for you?”
As the guy spouts drunken bullshit into Gerard’s ear, Gerard finds his wallet and dips his fingers inside.
No cash. Just a card, which Gerard can’t fucking use unless he wants to put a neon sign over his head for the cops. This asshole was never going to pay him for anything.
Gerard pulls back, infuriated, and shoves at the guy’s chest. He stumbles back but catches himself, pulling himself up to his full height. He looks down at Gerard. His grin is nasty. His nostrils flare.
Oh, shit.
Gerard ducks under the first punch. The second hits him in the shoulder and he almost loses his footing. He should run, but all he sees is red, and before he can stop himself, he swings and catches the guy across the cheek.
Gerard’s manager appears between them. Gerard’s stomach drops to the fucking ground.
Mr. Strickland puts a hand on Gerard and pushes him back, even though the other guy’s the one with his fists still up. “What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Strickland hisses.
“Mr. Strickland,” Gerard starts, but he’s cut off as Mr. Strickland turns to the drunk guy and starts to rattle off apologies, saying how this will never happen again and how it’s completely Gerard’s fault.
“And the next time you’re here, drinks and dances are on us.” Glaring at Gerard, Mr. Strickland says, “Right, Gee?”
“Oh, more free labor?” Gerard says, not as quietly as he should have.
Mr. Strickland’s fake smile flickers. To the guy, he says, “Sir, if you’d like a complimentary drink, our bar is open, or our bouncer would be happy to refund your cover on your way out.”
After one last grumble, the guy heads for the door. Gerard’s shoulders sag as he lets out a breath. But before he can slink off, Mr. Strickland jabs him with a finger on his bare chest.
Lowly, Mr. Strickland says, “Do you know why you’re such a good employee, Gee? Do you know why you’re going to do what I say?”
Gerard waits, doesn’t respond. Mr. Strickland scowls at him.
“Because you have no other options. Remember that.”
He lets Gerard go, and Gerard stumbles back a step. He has a million curses he wants to throw at Mr. Strickland, but he bites his tongue. He can’t afford to fuck up again right now.
“Go ice that shoulder,” Mr. Strickland says. “No one wants to look at a bruise. And be back out on the floor in fifteen.”
*
Gerard gets home in a shitty mood, too riled up to sleep. He goes to see if Mikey’s still awake, but his door is closed and there’s no strip of light coming from underneath it.
“Fuck,” he mutters. He wants to bang around in the kitchen, slam the cabinets while he makes ramen to get his anger out, but he stays quiet for Mikey’s sake. Their cabinets probably couldn’t take that abuse, anyway.
He fills up a mug with diet Coke while the ramen spins in the microwave. It’s an old mug with a hand-painted unicorn on it. Gerard gave it to Mikey forever ago, back when he still had the motivation to pick up a brush.
He takes his mug and ramen to his room to eat alone. Restless, he strips off his hoodie and sweatpants so he’s left in his boxers and sits down on his bed to eat. Once he’s done, he sips at his diet Coke and adds tonight’s cash to the week’s total.
Shit, the obnoxious business card from that Frank guy is still mixed in with the bills. He’d forgotten to throw it out.
He thinks about getting rid of it now, but instead, he looks down into his empty ramen bowl. He’d be eating a hell of a lot better if he had the kind of money Frank had offered him yesterday.
Maybe he’s too pissed off tonight to be making smart decisions, but Gerard pulls out his phone and runs a quick search. Frank Iero’s name brings up news articles from almost three years ago. Gerard scans the top headlines: “Frank Iero of Iero & Bentley’s Liquor Arrested for Assault and Battery,” “Iero & Bentley’s Liquor Stock Plummets, Investors Wary of CEO Change,” “Iero & Bentley’s Liquor Falls to Bentley, Jury Rules,” and “Frank Iero Sues Bentley’s Liquor, Loses.”
It looks like quite the fall from grace. Gerard clicks on the first article, the one about Frank being arrested, and reads further. It was a bar fight. Frank broke some guy’s nose. There’s no mention of what instigated the fight.
Gerard skims through the rest: after his arrest, Frank paid bail and reached an agreement with the guy he assaulted that kept him out of jail, but his business partner claimed he was too unstable and had him kicked off the board of their liquor company.
Gerard scrolls down, sees the then-estimated worth of Iero’s & Bentley’s Liquor, and lets out an involuntary, “Jesus.” More like liquor empire.
But when Frank took Bentley to court, he lost.
There’s a video clip at the bottom of the last article. Frank, in sunglasses and a wrinkled suit, yells at a reporter outside of a courthouse, “I got screwed, okay? Screwed. Cheated out of my own company. But that’s what happens when everyone around you is just sitting, waiting for you to fuck up, right? Right?”
He’s such a wreck, it’s almost hard to watch. Gerard is glad Frank’s eyes are covered by sunglasses so he doesn’t have to witness the crazed look that must be behind the lenses. The desperation in Frank’s voice, though, that’s a sound Gerard can’t tune out; it’s too familiar. The pain of knowing your life is ruined, and worse, only having yourself to blame.
Gerard closes the search tab after the video is over. Instead, he opens his number pad and types in what’s on the card.
As the line rings, he leans down and tucks the business card into the pocket of his sweatpants on the floor so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.
Frank’s voice, muffled through a yawn, says, “Frank Iero speaking.”
Gerard freezes. He can’t speak. He shouldn’t be doing this.
“Hello?” Frank says, sounding a little more awake.
“This is Gee,” he manages. “From the club. I. . .”
Frank’s laugh is tinny. “Do you want to call back and leave a voicemail?”
“Fuck no, I don’t want any record of this,” Gerard says quickly.
“Okay,” Frank says. He waits.
Gerard rolls his shoulders and gathers his gall. “Tell me more about the job.”
“Are you in?”
“That’s definitely not what I said.”
“Oh, you just want to know what you’re in for before you commit.” Gerard can practically hear Frank’s smirk over the phone. “Well, when you’re with me, there’s a good-time guarantee.”
Gerard grimaces to himself. “Did you think that was a good line? The rhyming thing?”
“You’re still on the phone, aren’t you?”
“Not for much longer, unless you tell me what the fucking mark is already.”
“Yeah, I knew I liked you,” Frank says, useless sweet talk that Gerard isn’t buying. “You want to know the mark. Ever heard of Juliet Kade?”
Gerard barely holds back a snort. Heard of her? He could break her work down to the brushstrokes. “Yeah, I’m familiar.”
“Then you know how much her paintings are worth,” Frank says.
Gerard sucks in a breath. Oh, shit. “I cannot grift a goddamn Juliet Kade. No way in hell. What is this, a museum job? That’s not even original.”
“So you’re out.” Frank doesn’t even sound disappointed. Why isn’t he disappointed?
“Yeah, unless you can tell me how to fit an entire painting into my waistband.”
“You’re not that stupid, don’t act like it,” Frank says. “It’s not a museum job.”
“Then what is it?”
“An auction. I can’t tell you any more unless you’re in.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Yeah, I can play hard to get too.”
Gerard makes a face at his bedsheets. That’s not what he was doing.
He should hang up right now, he knows that. But he still can’t get that number Frank whispered in his ear last night out of his head. He’s sick of living like this. And another, much nerdier part of him can’t help but be enthralled at the idea of seeing a Juliet Kade up close.
He’s less enthralled by all the potential jail time.
Before he can come to any conclusion, Frank asks, “Why’d you call me tonight? Was it the money?”
Gerard curls in on himself a bit. His muscles are starting to ache, the exhaustion setting in. “My job was threatened today. You could say I’m looking for a way out.”
Frank hums down the line. “That’s a good story. Stripper sob story. Not enough for me to believe you’d commit grand larceny, though.”
Suddenly feeling wide awake again, Gerard grits his teeth. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, why don’t you tell me why you really called?”
“I just did.”
“And yet I don’t believe you. If you’re this bad of a liar, I’m not sure if I actually want you on the job.”
“Good thing I didn’t agree to be in on it.” Gerard knows Frank is just trying to rile him up, it’s obvious, but that doesn’t mean it’s not fucking working.
Expecting Frank to fire something back, Gerard sits tense like a wound-up snake, but nothing comes. Frank stays silent. He’s got more bite to him, that much was clear from the articles and video Gerard saw. But he’s holding back right now. Like he doesn’t want to blow this.
It’s possible that Frank actually really wants Gerard on this job. Needs him, even.
Gerard can’t lie, it feels kind of good to be indispensable.
“I got screwed once too,” Gerard says. “That’s why I called.”
Frank pauses. “You looked me up.”
“I did. Had to know who I was dealing with. Forgive me for not trusting every guy who walks into my strip club and offers me the biggest payday of my life.”
“This happens to you a lot?”
Gerard almost laughs. “No. Not like this.”
“Doesn’t that make me feel special,” Frank says, before he sobers. “I assume you found. . .”
It’s the first time all night Frank’s confidence wavers. “Reports of your arrest. Yes,” Gerard says.
“Time of my life.”
“It was fucked up that you lost your company over it. One mistake shouldn’t define your life.”
Frank clicks his tongue. “I’m not going to disagree with you.”
“Can I ask?”
“Depends on what.”
“None of the articles mentioned it. What started the fight?”
“I’ll answer that question when you answer mine. How’s that?”
Gerard’s curiosity isn’t actually that strong. But he does have a decision. If he’s honest, he’s had one since he saw Frank defend himself to that reporter.
“Fine. I’m in.”
“Great,” Frank says, and he sounds like he means it. “We can meet at my place tomorrow. I’ll text you the address.”
“Okay, and?”
Frank hesitates. “I don’t remember what started the fight. I was really drunk.”
“Hold on, you asshole—”
Frank’s voice grows fainter, like he’s pulling his phone away from his face. “Goodnight, Gee. See you soon.”
The line goes dead. Gerard falls back onto his bed and closes his eyes. He’ll deal with his regret in the morning.
EIGHTEEN DAYS UNTIL THE JOB
Gerard borrows Mikey’s car and drives to the address Frank gives him the following afternoon. It’s over half an hour away; the closer Gerard gets, the more and more out of place he feels in Mikey’s piece of shit Subaru.
It's a gated community, go figure, so Gerard has to flash his ID and be confirmed on Frank’s guest list before he’s allowed inside. There’s some brief confusion over his name, but the attendant lets him through. Frank’s place is tucked away in the back left corner of the neighborhood. His lawn is overgrown. It may not be the biggest house in the vicinity, but Gerard still has to crane his neck back to see the roof.
After Gerard climbs an unreasonable amount of stairs and knocks, Frank comes to the door in a black button-up and slacks. He lifts his eyebrows. “Gee. You came.”
“It’s my day off. I had nothing better to do,” Gerard says.
Frank flashes his teeth. “Be careful, if you keep acting so disinterested I’ll think you’re flirting with me.”
Stepping aside, he lets Gerard in. Gerard’s eyes sweep over the interior of the house: the giant living room, the winding staircase that looks like it’s from a movie, and somehow even more space upstairs. Based on how many stairs he climbed to get up here, Gerard suspects he’s on the second floor and there’s an entire level beneath them as well.
Compulsively, he smooths out his Bowie t-shirt and pink velvet blazer, tucking away the loose threads at his wrists. Frank leads Gerard towards the main room.
“My real name’s Gerard,” Gerard says as they walk. “If we’re doing this, you may as well know.”
“Aren’t stripper names supposed to be way different from your real name?” Frank looks over his shoulder at Gerard. “Like Vixen? Lolita?”
Gerard rolls his eyes. A Vixen does work at the club, but he’s not going to tell Frank that and give him the satisfaction. “It’s a lazy stripper name. It was my nickname first.”
In the living room, Frank gestures for him to sit down on a boxy white couch. As Gerard gets comfortable, Frank walks off and comes back with a bottle of booze, two crystal glasses, and a binder.
“No thanks,” Gerard says as Frank sets everything down on the coffee table. “I’m sober.”
Frank’s expression doesn’t flicker, he just pushes the bottle and glasses to the other side of the table. That’s nice, at least.
Gerard looks down at the plush couch, then around at the room. There’s a fireplace in front of them and a chandelier above, geometric and silver. He says, “If you live like this, why the fuck do you want to steal a Juliet Kade painting?”
Gesturing around them, Frank says, “I didn’t do the decorating, for the record.”
“Who did, the ex-wife?”
“Do I look old enough to have an ex-wife?” Frank straightens his sleeve cuffs. “An ex-butler.”
“That’s worse.”
“Right, because you’re in a place to judge me.” Leaning forward, Frank flips open the binder. “Here’s the auction house where they’re selling the Juliet Kade. It’s in Manhattan.”
Gerard inspects the images of the warehouse-like building. They’re exterior shots, not blueprints like he imagines they’ll need. “When’s the auction?”
“Eighteen days from now.”
“Okay.” Gerard divides that number into weeks, then mentally slots in his schedule at the club. “Tight, but maybe we can make that work. Who else is in on it?”
Frank flips to the next page in the binder. It’s covered in near-illegible handwriting with arrows connecting different fragments and a bunch of ideas crossed out. When Gerard looks back up at him, Frank’s disguising a grimace.
“I’m the first,” Gerard concludes.
“You are.”
“Wow.” Gerard traces an arrow inked on the page. “You really need to figure this shit out.”
“I’m working on it, asshole, sorry that this is my first time committing grand larceny,” Frank says. “From what I’ve got so far, I figure we need two more guys. One to help me open the vault. Another to drive.”
“There’s a vault, and I’m not the one helping you with it?”
“Have you ever cracked a vault?”
“This is also my first time committing grand larceny.”
Frank half-smiles at that. “I want you on the floor. You can be a diversion in case we need one.”
“A diversion,” Gerard repeats, narrowing his eyes.
“I mean.” Frank flicks his gaze up and down Gerard’s body. “Look at you. You could distract anyone.”
Gerard bites hard on his bottom lip. “Flattery will get you nowhere, sorry if you heard otherwise.”
He traces another arrow drawn on the binder page. There are gaping holes in this skeleton of a plan; Frank hasn’t accounted for the crowd they’ll be in or sketched out any form of exit strategy.
“Do you have a pen?”
“Here,” Frank says, and produces one out of his pocket. It’s silver with a gold band. Gerard might consider nabbing it, if Frank wasn’t so clearly watching him.
Gerard starts to draw over some of Frank’s markings. “First off, you don’t need a dedicated driver, that’s a waste of manpower.”
“So we only need one more guy?”
Holding up his index and middle fingers, Gerard says, “Still two.”
As Gerard continues writing over Frank’s work, Frank puts his chin in his hand. “Tell me how.”
“You need someone to help you blow the vault, and you need a technology guy. One of them can also drive.”
“I said crack the vault.”
“And I said blow. You’re worried about semantics?”
Shaking his head, Frank says, “Where am I supposed to find these people?”
Gerard holds his hand out and examines his cuticles. “I can’t believe you started this job without any contacts.”
“I found you through a contact. And you’re proving to be more useful than annoying, almost.”
“You’ll make me blush,” Gerard says dryly. He stands up. “Let’s go over to my place. You should meet my brother.”
Frank also stands. “Your brother? How come?”
Gerard takes his keys out of his velvet blazer pocket and spins them around his finger. “It’ll be easier just to show you.”
*
“You’re back early,” Mikey calls in place of a greeting as Gerard closes their apartment door behind himself and Frank.
“Hey, Mikes.” Gerard’s keys clink as he tosses them and his wallet onto their kitchen table. He gestures for Frank to follow him to Mikey’s room.
Gerard knocks on Mikey’s door frame and leans against it. Frank puts his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet. Gerard relishes in the fact that Frank’s uncomfortable, on unfamiliar terrain.
Once Mikey finishes his hand in online poker and minimizes the tab, he spins around in his desk chair to face them. He looks blankly at Frank, then turns to Gerard. “This is the guy from your mysterious meeting?”
“Yeah. I brought him here because I want you to meet him,” Gerard says.
Frank steps forward. “Hi, Frank Iero.” He tries to shake Mikey’s hand, but Mikey just keeps looking at Gerard.
“Why?” Mikey asks flatly.
“Uh.” Before Gerard can come up with a gentle way to tell Mikey that he wants him to help them commit grand larceny, Mikey’s eyebrows go up a fraction of an inch. It may not be a big expression, but Gerard can read exactly what it means.
“No,” he says immediately. “Not that. Come on, Mikey.”
Defensively, Mikey says, “You take my car and refuse to tell me where you’re going with it, and then you bring a guy back to our place. What am I supposed to think?”
“I don’t know, that I have a thriving professional life?” Gerard tries to make his voice authoritative, but it comes out more bitchy. Mikey rolls his eyes at him. “We’re here because Frank is interested in your skill set, alright?”
“Oh,” Mikey says. “What for?”
Gerard blows air out of his mouth and makes a half-assed motion towards the binder Frank brought along and is still holding. “A job I agreed to pull with him. Auction house job.”
Frank, standing between Mikey at the desk and Gerard at the door, nods. “Can you crack vaults, Mikey?”
“Fuck no.” Mikey leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “What kind of auction house has a vault?”
“The kind that sells Juliet Kade paintings,” Gerard says.
Mikey’s eyes widen the slightest amount. “Oh, shit. Gee, you used to be obsessed with her, didn’t you?”
A beep sounds from Mikey’s computer, and he holds up a finger. “Hang on. I should play this hand.” He swings back around in his desk chair, pulling his online poker screen up on his monitor.
“Can we watch?” Gerard asks. Mikey doesn’t look at him, but he nods, so Gerard grabs Frank by the arm and pulls him forward to watch over Mikey’s shoulder.
“What, so he’s good at poker?” Frank whispers. His face is skeptical.
“He’s not good,” Gerard says. “He’s unbeatable.”
They watch as Mikey pulls a black box filled with blinking green font to the front of his screen. He types out some code that looks like gibberish to Gerard before going back to the poker screen.
“Because he cheats,” Frank murmurs, cluing in.
“I don’t cheat.” Mikey pulls the code box back up, inputs some more, gets a scrolling dialogue of code back, and clicks on poker again. “I can still smoke your ass in a face-to-face game. But the way poker has always worked is that the smartest person in the room wins. I’ve adapted."
“It’s cheating, Mikes,” Gerard says fondly.
To Frank, Gerard explains, “He gets into everyone else’s computers and finds out what their hands are so he never makes a bad bet.”
The corner of Mikey’s mouth twitches up. “Helps keep the lights on.”
After Mikey wins the pot, he looks over his shoulder at Frank. “Online poker servers are notoriously difficult to hack into.”
Watching Frank, Gerard can practically see the pieces coming together in his mind. He opens the binder, takes out his pen, and starts to scrawl on a new page. “How about an auction house security system? Harder or easier than online poker?”
Mikey doesn’t hesitate. “Easier. Offline places are always easier. They aren’t expecting it as much.”
Frank twists his pen closed. “You want in?”
Mikey looks at Gerard. Gerard knows what he’s asking: is this an opportunity, or are they about to really screw themselves? Gerard still isn’t entirely sure, so he shrugs. It’s okay, because Mikey always makes his own decisions anyway.
“What’s the painting worth?” Mikey asks.
Frank points with his chin to Mikey’s now-finished poker game. “About twenty thousand times what you just made.”
A tiny smile unfolds on Mikey’s face. “I’m in,” he says, and finally lets Frank shake his hand.
Frank pumps their joined hands with all the enthusiasm of an ex-businessman. “Welcome to the team, Mikey.”
*
On Frank’s way out, he stops before Gerard can open the door and leans back against it. “We still need someone to help me get into the vault. It’s not the kind of thing you can hack into.”
Gerard tilts his head. “Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll have Mikey track down a blueprint or something,” Gerard says, and makes himself a mental note. “I do know someone who can help, though. Do you remember the bartender from the night we met?”
Frank squints. “Yes? Maybe?”
“His name is Ray. And he does more than make martinis.”
Frank scoffs. “Yeah, like they’re serving martinis at your club.”
“Every bartender can make a martini, you dick.” Gerard puts a hand on his hip. “This one also happens to be a demolitions expert.”
“That’s useful,” Frank says, and Gerard can tell he’s trying not to look too impressed. “He didn’t ever work for the government, right?”
“Yeah, he went straight from a government position to slinging drinks in a strip club.” Gerard scoffs. “No. He never worked in the industry. He was just a film student who got too obsessed with making his on-screen explosions look realistic, if you get me.”
“You’ll convince him to help us, or should I?”
“We’re friends already. I’ll do it.” Gerard puts a hand on the door by Frank’s right arm, caging him. “In exchange for one thing.”
“Which is?”
“An answer.” Drumming his fingers on the door, Gerard asks, “What aren’t you telling me?”
Frank’s shoulders stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“Back at your place, you never answered when I asked why this painting is the mark. I can tell when a man is hiding something, Frank.” That something is usually a diamond wristwatch, but still.
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“I think you are.”
“You can think whatever you want. Your trust issues aren’t my problem.”
“Not much of a team player, are you?” Gerard bends his elbow, pressing himself further into Frank’s space, before he drops his hand to the doorknob and twists it. It opens behind Frank, and he takes a step back with it. “I can’t blame you for looking out for yourself.”
“You’ll talk to your demolitions expert friend?” Frank doesn’t sound desperate like Gerard wishes he did; he sounds cold.
Gerard doesn’t indicate one way or another, just says, “Bye, Frank.”
FIFTEEN DAYS UNTIL THE JOB
After their next shift together, Gerard follows Ray out to the parking lot and leans against his car door before he can get in. “Remember that guy from last Saturday?” Gerard starts.
It takes a second, but he sees it on Ray’s face when the memory clicks into place. “He didn’t come back, did he?”
Gerard bites his lip. “No. Against all better judgement, I actually went to him.” As efficiently as he can, he fills Ray in on what they’re up to.
When he’s done, Ray grips the hood of his car like he needs something to hold on to. “I haven’t touched an explosive since I graduated. And what I did for my films, Gee — that was a lot different.”
“It may have been different, but it was also illegal,” Gerard points out.
“It wasn’t as illegal,” Ray says. “Technically. And I was younger and stupider.”
“Imagine how many movies you could fund,” Gerard says. “You could make whatever indie shit you want. Start your own production company.”
“You have a severe misunderstanding of how much it costs to make a movie.” After a moment, though, Ray gets a far away look in his eyes. “Actually,” he says, almost to himself, “that would just about cover an independent release, if I went light on marketing. . .”
Nodding, Gerard folds his arms behind his head on Ray’s driver door window. Ray catches the smug move and glares.
The squeal of the bus cuts through the late-night quiet. They both snap their gazes over to the street. The bus slows down, but without Gerard there, it doesn’t stop.
“Fuck,” Gerard mutters.
Ray rolls his eyes. “Look at that. You spent so long talking to me about crazy shit that you missed your bus, and now I have to drive you home.”
Gerard shakes his head. He’d wanted to corner Ray, but forcing him to give him a ride wasn't actually his intention. Mikey’s probably asleep, but Gerard can call and wake him up. “You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Ray, I live like twenty minutes in the other direction.”
Ray sighs. “How about this, okay? You spend the drive to your place telling me more about this half-baked job of yours, and I’ll spend the rest of the time deciding whether or not it’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”
Shit, that’s about the best Gerard could hope for. He slides out of the way, letting Ray reach the door handle.
Ray yanks the door open and shakes his head as he gets in, but Gerard’s pretty sure he sees him smile.
*
Forty minutes after Gerard gets back to his apartment, Ray calls him. He says, “I've decided that this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. But if you’re in, I’m in.”
Gerard grins, then catches himself. He doesn’t need to act so glad to have this job on the right track. “I want to be in one of your movies.”
“I’m sure I’ll always need extras.”
“That’s cold, Ray.”
Ray laughs a little. “Goodnight, Gee.”
“‘Night,” Gerard says before they hang up.
FOURTEEN DAYS UNTIL THE JOB
Mikey shoves a spoonful of soggy Lucky Charms into his mouth and says, “I keep running into a problem.”
Surfacing from his long sip of coffee, Gerard looks at him. “With what? The job?”
“Yeah.” Mikey nods. “I know we’re miles from a full plan, but I keep running through what we have, and it’s not, you know.” He holds his hands up and interlocks his fingers, shaking them to show how they don’t break apart.
“We still have like, two weeks.” Gerard adjusts his grip on his mug and braces his elbows on the table between him and Mikey. “It doesn’t have to be airtight yet.”
“No, that’s true.” Mikey’s spoon clinks as he absentmindedly taps it against the side of his bowl. He’s quiet for a minute, seemingly getting his thoughts together. Gerard’s still waking up and doesn’t have the energy for a fast conversation anyway, so he doesn’t interrupt.
“Ray can blow the vault. You can get him down there, obviously. I’m handling the auction house’s security. And Frank—” Mikey pauses. “What does Frank do?”
“Provides us with the opportunity of a lifetime,” Gerard says, all fake-pompous, before he rolls his eyes and shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s going to help Ray carry the painting out of the vault.”
“What an asset.” Mikey cracks the faintest smile. “Anyway, any of us can drive, I think. But we’re still missing someone.”
It’s too early for crypticness. And Gerard doesn’t need to pretend to be smarter than he actually is around Mikey. He waits.
“We don’t want to play baccarat. It should be us against the house, not us against the dealer,” Mikey says.
“We should be playing poker, is that where this is going?”
Mikey’s nose crinkles. “Everyone should play poker over baccarat, it’s the better game. But that’s not the analogy. What I mean is, let’s take one more thing out of our way and get the auctioneer on our side.”
“What are we going to do, bribe them?” As soon as the words are out of Gerard’s mouth, the lightbulb goes off. “No. We use a plant.”
“I think a real auctioneer is our best bet,” Mikey says. “We can scout them from another house. One-fifth of a Juliet Kade painting is probably enough to convince anyone to switch venues.”
“We’ll have to find the right person,” Gerard agrees. While he’s distracted fast-forwarding through the new possibilities in his head, Mikey steals his coffee and takes a sip.
“Do you have work?” Mikey asks as he slides the mug back over.
“Not until late. We can go today.”
“Should we tell Frank?”
“No.” Gerard grins. “We’ll call him if we find someone. Wouldn’t want him to get the impression that he makes decisions for us.”
“You can be such a dick, Gee.”
“I regret to tell you it’s in our genetics, Michael.” Gerard pushes himself back from the table. “Let’s leave in fifteen.”
*
They find an auction house along the Jersey-New York line, a converted airplane hangar hosting estate sales and mid-range antiques. Just dingy enough for Gerard and Mikey to blend in without effort.
Foldable dividers separate the auctions; each makeshift room has rows of chairs and a stage with an auctioneer up on it rapidly calling out bids into a microphone. All the cacophony means that Gerard and Mikey have to lean in close to talk as they float in and out of the back rows of ongoing auctions.
The first two auctions they sit in on are busts. Everyone in the room looks too honest. The third auctioneer makes Gerard do a double take; he’s got visible tattoos and piercings, and Gerard doesn’t mean to stereotype, but the auctioneer doesn’t not look like he would fit in with them.
Gerard settles further back into his metal fold-out chair. “Let’s watch this one for a while,” he says.
The auctioneer sells some dead old lady’s set of china and a few vases. The room takes a break, most people getting up to meander around other rooms while new items are wheeled onto the stage. Among them is a black grand piano, expensive-looking if in need of a good dusting.
Gerard and Mikey stay put in the back row as the room empties. As they watch, the auctioneer walks to the side of the stage behind where the piano is being hauled up and shakes hands with a blonde woman. Visible only through the smallest angle of the grand piano’s lifted lid, he hands her some folded bills. She pockets them, strolls off the stage, and comes to sit in the audience.
“Somehow I don’t think he’s a philanthropist,” Mikey murmurs.
The auction starts, the auctioneer yelling prices at the audience with infectious fervor. When they come to the big ticket item, the piano, bidding starts at the highest Gerard’s seen it all day at fifty-thousand dollars.
“How much is that thing worth?” Gerard whispers, only to see that Mikey’s already looking it up.
“A hundred to two hundred grand if it was new, probably,” Mikey says.
The auctioneer calls for seventy-five thousand and gets it. Eighty thousand, bidding paddles stay up. Around ninety thousand, the bids start to slow. “Ninety-five? Do I hear ninety-five?”
A few rows up, the blonde woman holds up her bidding paddle and calls, “One hundred and fifteen thousand!”
The few other bidders still in don’t drop; one of them yells from the other side of the room, “One hundred and twenty!”
The blonde says, “Hundred and thirty!”
“Hundred and thirty five!”
Once the bidder from across the room gets up to one hundred and eighty thousand for the piano, the auctioneer makes a gesture to the blonde woman. It’s subtle, just a tug on his ear, practically unnoticeable if Gerard hadn’t been looking for it.
The bidding abruptly stops. The old grand piano sells to the bidder across the room for way more than it’s worth. The blonde woman gets up and leaves the room without so much as a glance back.
“He’s our guy,” Gerard says.
“He is,” Mikey says. “He also seems like he’s got a perfectly good operation running here without us.”
“His commission can’t be that big. Not bigger than one-fifth of a Juliet Kade.”
“And?”
Gerard rolls his shoulders back. “And we just watched him violate the integrity of his employer. If he doesn’t bite, we’ll blackmail him.”
The corner of Mikey’s mouth curls up. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
After the crowd disperses, they head up to the stage. The auctioneer is crossing things off a list attached to the podium he stands behind. He looks up when Mikey and Gerard stop in front of him. His eyes are sharp, but he’s shorter than both of them, so it’s not intimidating.
“I’m Gerard Way. This is my brother Mikey Way.” Gerard offers his hand, pretending to be a professional he most certainly is not.
The auctioneer takes it. “Brian Schechter. Can I help you?”
“Oh, I hope so. We’re scouting auctioneers on behalf of a house in New York City.”
“Sorry, not interested.” Brian picks up the list he’d been working on and moves to push past them.
“Okay, just one more thing.” Gerard stops Brian with a hand on his chest. He puts on his most charming smile, the one that distracts people long enough that they don’t notice their wallets are gone. “We were also wondering about that blonde plant of yours.”
Brian narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“It just made me curious, is it standard around here to deceive your entire audience to drive the bidding up, or is that just something special you like to do?”
“It’s how this house operates,” Brian says evenly. “You can ask my boss.”
Mikey clicks his tongue. “No, he’s bluffing.”
Gerard fakes a look of concern. “Still want us to ask your boss?”
Crossing his arms, Brian looks at them like they’re shit on his shoe. “Fine. Stop wasting my time and tell me what you want. Want me to cut you in? I won’t go higher than five percent.”
“We don’t want your money,” Gerard says. “We want to help you make some.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means we’re in need of your services.” After glancing at Mikey, Gerard says, “Brian, have you ever heard of Juliet Kade?”
*
Frank yells, “You did what?”
Putting his phone on speaker, Gerard sets it between himself and Mikey on the car’s armrest. “We found our last person,” Gerard says. “You’re welcome.”
“Last I checked, you told me we only needed four people. What happened to that?”
“What, I’m not allowed to make a fucking recalculation? And what’s the problem? Do you not want to split the cash five ways? Because last I checked, you don’t need this money anyway.”
“Yeah, what is his deal?” Mikey asks from the driver’s seat, low enough that Frank won’t hear.
Gerard can’t be bothered to keep his voice down. “His deal is that he doesn’t appreciate the favor we just did for him.”
“Gee, you knew he’d be upset,” Mikey says.
Gerard can’t help but grin. “Yeah. I did.”
The line crackles as Frank sighs deeply. “Look, it’s fine. Don’t you dare fucking do it to me again, but it’s fine. If we need him, we need him. I have enough room for five of us.”
Mikey slants him a confused look, and Gerard says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re all staying at my place until the job’s done,” Frank says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not wasting time rounding you all up every time we need to talk plans, not when we only have fourteen days left to figure it all out. Tell your new guy to pack up some stuff and come over tonight.”
“His name’s Brian,” Gerard says distractedly as he processes this new information. Committing to a job is a big deal, he knows that, but the pace this is moving at sometimes makes it hard to believe it’s really happening. “I have work tonight. I can’t come over.”
“That was a great example of informing me about your plans before they happen. Let’s do that more often,” Frank says. Gerard rolls his eyes. “Come over after. Bring your stuff.”
“I’ll be there,” Mikey says. He flicks on his turn signal and takes the highway exit toward their apartment.
As Gerard shoots Mikey a look, Frank hums smugly. “See you both later,” he says, and hangs up.
Once it’s just them, Mikey says, “Stop glaring at me. Why don’t you want to stay there?”
It’s not that Gerard doesn’t want to. He gets why it’s the smartest option, and it’s not like living as a guest in a mansion is tough shit. But he can tell that Frank is hiding something. And by having them on his home turf, he shifts the power balance even further in his direction. “I need to keep some leverage.”
“You’re so paranoid. Even if that were true, what leverage would you keep by staying behind in our shitty apartment?”
It doesn’t make much sense, Gerard knows that. But he can’t help the feeling in his gut.
Still, he should go where Mikey goes. “Fine, I’ll be there after work, and I’ll bring Ray. Make sure someone stays up to let us in.”
Mikey nods. They’re quiet for a few minutes, until something seems to dawn on Mikey.
“What?” Gerard asks, thinking he’s had another breakthrough about their plan like he did this morning.
Mikey shakes his head incredulously. “Nothing. I’m just excited about how fucking much we’re going to save on utilities this month by staying at Frank’s.”