A Dead Issue (32 page)

Stomp was taken off guard by my question, unable to answer and factor in some personal gain at the same time. “Ten thousand,” he said at length. My guess was he had doubled the amount lost by Stemcell.

“I can get that,” I said. “I'll give you ten grand to keep Liza safe. Don't let that fucker hurt her. You in?”

Stomp's eyes centered on me and he grunted an affirmative.

“Her husband is going to contact me today. When he does, he's going to have to meet me face to face. And it's going to be at the Crow's Nest. That's my demand. Tony will have to take Liza with him. When he does, follow them to the Crow's Nest. It's off . . .”

“I've been there,” Stomp said, and I momentarily froze, wondering when and how close I had come to being beaten to death.

“You have a car?”

He shook his head. “International Harvester.”

Once again, I was speechless, captivated by an image of Stomp cruising around the countryside sitting on Jonah's tractor.

“I'll get there,” he said.

CHAPTER 57

I found Moe as I pulled up to the garage. The headlights swinging across the north face of the house showed a ginger colored mass by the entry door next to the four garage bays—and I knew. Stomp had, indeed, found the Crow's Nest. The bastard. Moe, the last remnant of my childhood, was gone. The poor guy had refused to become a pampered house cat and lived outdoors on his own, catching his own food, living on his own terms. We were so much alike on that count—and it had cost him his life.

I wrapped his body in an old towel and placed the bundle around the corner. When this was over, I could bury him with care. Then I made my way inside to the vault with its drawers of money.

On TV game shows, they sometimes show a million dollars, piled up like cord wood and monitored by armed security guards standing at parade rest on each side. And you read in the paper that a stack of one million dollar bills would reach the thirtieth floor of the Empire State building or laid end-to-end would stretch from New York to Chicago, but the fact of the matter is that a quarter of a million dollars in wrapped hundreds amounts to twenty-five bundles, weighs about the same as a bag of sugar, and can fit into a shoebox. I was amazed as I emptied my father's drawer of hundreds—so amazed that I thought I was wrong. I had to count the pile again to make sure, and I still doubted myself.

I made a pile of the packets, mounding them up like a campfire, and took a picture of it with my cell phone and stored it for future use. Then I sent Cash a short text message: “Call me.”

A quick nap revived me, and when I awoke the sky started to brighten in the east. The sun was a long way from poking above the horizon, but it was on its way and so was Dusty. I heard his car, rusted muffler and all,
struggling up Cameron Drive. I raced to the garage to be
there when Dusty pulled up.

Dusty parked by the door. “I got the ticket. I'm good to go,” he said, getting out of the car.

“You have the gun?”

Dusty patted the bulge under his sweatshirt.

He followed me up to my father's office and I sat behind the big desk. Dusty flopped into one of the leather chairs off to the side.

“So this is what it's like,” he said, taking in the details of the room. “To be rich, I mean.”

“It's what it looks like,” I said. “I don't know what it feels like.”

He thought about that for a moment and then asked, “Do you have the money?”

“I have my father's money.”

“We just going to wait—until the shit hits the fan, I mean?” Dusty looked worried.

“No, we have some work to do. I'm not going to give that sleazeball a quarter of a million. We're going to fuck him over.” My idea of switching backpacks on Tony took on a new focus.

I rummaged through my father's desk and found some masking tape. The storage closet held several reams of duplicating paper and a paper cutter. Within five minutes, Dusty and I had settled into a monotonous rhythm cutting and wrapping packets of bill-sized paper.

CHAPTER 58

“You sure this is going to work?” Dusty asked as he chopped a dozen or so sheets into rectangles.

“I don't know.” I ran a length of masking tape around a stack of one hundred “bills.”

Manufacturing a quarter of a million dollars from a ream of Georgia-Pacific Soft White copy paper was tedious and gave me time to think about the switch. Tony was going to demand to see the money and I would demand to see Liza. I give the money to Tony and Liza is released. There would be a gun. Tension. Mistrust. Somewhere between the show-and-tell and the tradeoff, I needed to switch backpacks. Tony would have to be distracted for one crucial moment. And Tony would be expecting it.

We were on our last few sheets of paper and the sun was breaking when Cash called.

“Waldo?”

“Yeah, here I am lost in a dilemma.”

There was a pause on the other end. “The dilemma better not be that you don't have the money.”

“You have the gun?”

Cash chuckled—probably imagining my face when Dusty told me about him finding it. “If you have the money, you can buy if from me. No dilemma.”

“I have the money,” I started to explain. “I'll send you a picture . . .”

“Oh, that's good. I'll send you a picture of the gun. Listen, asshole, no games, no pictures. You give me the money, and I give you the gun. It's that simple. If you have the money, I'm on my way over. No sense putting this off.”

Cash hung up and I smiled and turned to Dusty. “He's on his way. You need to ditch your car—hide it in the garage so he thinks I'm alone.”

We jockeyed the cars around in a maneuver that looked like we had spent years working in a parking garage. Then
we returned to my father's office to work out some details.
On the way, I grabbed two pillowcases from one of the guest rooms.

Dusty filled one pillowcase with the fake packets, keeping them in a rough pile so edges and corners were outlined against the cloth. Then he twisted it shut while I went into the vault for the real cash. When I came out, I had envelopes for Dusty and Stomp, and a bundle of money exactly like the one Dusty held.

“Looks pretty good,” Dusty smiled with a touch of pride.

I held the bag open for Dusty and he peered in.

“A quarter of a million dollars,” I said, allowing the words to settle upon us like a benediction.

“And my money?” Dusty asked.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out an envelope filled with fifties and flapped it at him.

“My ticket—one way, Thursday night out of Newark.” He paused before adding the important part. “It cost me close to twelve hundred.”

“There's an extra two grand in there for travel,” I said, “I'll keep the envelope until . . .”

“The shit hits the fan. I know.”

I twisted off the second pillowcase and dropped one into each of the identical backpacks and lined them up against the wall, fake money on the left, real on the right. Then we admired our work.

“We should mark one so we know which is which,” Dusty suggested.

“It already is,” I said, and flicked the little plastic price tag fastener stuck through the right shoulder strap.

We studied the backpacks for a moment longer. “I think it's about time to take our positions,” I said.

Dusty nodded. I looped my arm through the strap and headed for the observatory.

CHAPTER 59

Cash showed up about fifteen minutes later. I stood at the broken window of the observatory and watched him come up Cameron Drive. He parked his car at the far edge of the garage apron, well out of range of falling telescopes. He stepped out of his GTO, dragging the Boscov's bag after him. When he closed the door with his hip, I ran down to meet him.

“Where's the money?” he said when I opened the door.

“Inside. I'm breaking my habit of answering the door with a big bag of cash.”

I led him up to the observatory.

“You could've saved me the climb,” Cash complained as we walked down the hallway past my father's office. “Could've had the bag ready downstairs. Christ.”

I didn't need to look back to know he was shaking his head at my stupidity.

“I wasn't thinking.”

At the top of the stairs, I stopped and turned toward Cash.

“What's wrong?” he asked. He paused halfway up the steps, one hand on the railing, the other clutching the bag.

“Nothing,” I said and held up the backpack. “Know what's in here?”

“Better be a hundred and fifty thousand,” he said and his eyes narrowed.

I shook my head and unzipped the backpack. “It's a quarter of a million.”

Cash frowned, obviously confused by the increased amount. I reached into the pillowcase and pulled out a handful of packets and waved them at him.

“Then I guess it's time to show you the gun.” He reached into his shopping bag and pulled out Jonah's pistol and I found myself staring at the enormous hole in the end of the barrel. “And I guess we don't have to go no farther than this,” he added. He spit out a little laugh. “You are such an asshole. It's hard to believe you lived this long.”

“I know,” I said. “But I'm learning.”

Dusty stepped into view at the bottom of the stairs and cleared his throat.

Cash turned his head and froze as Dusty raised his Beretta.

“Shitbird!” Cash cried as if surprised to see an old friend.

“And Waldo,” I reminded him. When Cash swung around, he faced the business end of my Smith and Wesson.

“Looks like we have a Mexican standoff,” Cash smiled but I could tell he was uneasy. His confidence had vanished.

“You know,” I said. “I really don't think so. I think if you don't put the gun down, one of us is going to shoot your sorry ass. Now if you want any part of this quarter of a million, drop the fucking gun—now!”

Cash rolled his hand over and let the forty-five drop.

“Come on up.”

We sat in a loose circle in the leather chairs, tension building along with mistrust and fear. It took only a few minutes to tell him about Liza's kidnapping and Tony's demands. As I laid out the details, Cash seemed to understand—even to sympathize with Tony's actions. He had only two questions.

“You love her that much?”

I wanted to say yes, but stopped myself. “I owe her that much.”

“And you had that much cash on hand?”

“Emptied the piggy bank,” I lied.

Cash shook his head. Obviously those two points were beyond his understanding.

“I only saw a few packs. I got to see it all.” Cash pointed his chin at my backpack.

I tossed it over to him, and he arranged it in front of him, unbuckled the flap, and pulled out the pillowcase.

“Don't seem like much,” he said hefting it. He spread open the end of the pillow case and peered in, taking a rough count with his lips moving. When he looked up, I had the gun on him.

“I can't pay both of you,” I explained. “I give you money I won't be able to pay Tony and then he kills Liza.”

“You have the gun,” Cash said. “Why don't you shoot me?”

“I need your help. I can't do this alone.”

Cash threw his head toward Dusty who was polishing fingerprints off the forty-five. “What's wrong with Shitbird?”

“I don't think either of us are cut out for this kind of thing.” I paused. “Besides, I doubt if you'd just walk away and forget it. This gives you a chance to earn your fee.”

The corners of his mouth curved up at my wisdom. “Tony isn't going to walk away from this either. That means we have to kill him.” He paused. “You prepared for that?”

“If we don't, he'll kill Liza.”

Cash considered that for a few seconds. “Then the fee is just about right.”

There was a moment of silence and the sound of a car approaching drifted in through the broken windows. Dusty rose and peeked down.

“It's Devereaux.”

“Fuck!” Cash said under his breath and stuffed the pillow case back into the backpack. “Now what?”

We joined Dusty and peered down as Devereaux's unmarked Crown Victoria stopped directly beneath us.

CHAPTER 60

I grabbed the backpack and raced down the stairs to let Devereaux in, stopping along the way to lock the money in the vault. The other backpack, filled with Georgia-Pacific, I left in my father's outer office. Cash had seen the money, taken a rough count, so he knew this was for real. I needed him to drool over it for a while—lure him in.

Devereaux was at the door, looking back at Cash's GTO. I held the door open for him.

“Nice ride,” he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Yours?”

“It belongs to Cash. I'm testing it before I buy it,” I lied.

“Thought it was his.”

Devereaux followed me into the kitchen where I offered him a seat at the table. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily. He looked tired.

“The reason I'm here,” he began slowly, “is because of a conversation I had with one of our officers—the one who investigated your little accident. That must have happened after you left the diner.”

“Right after.”

“I'm concerned about Liza,” he said and paused. “You told DiNuccio that her husband took her away from the scene. Did he?”

I nodded.

“Have you heard anything from her?”

I shook my head and I could tell by Devereaux's deadpan stare that he did not believe me.

“Listen. There are a lot of things going on here and you seem to be caught in the center of what promises to be a category five shit storm.”

He let that piece of information marinate for a moment while he smoothed out an area on the tablecloth. He folded his hands and dropped them on the table. “Jonah and Eric Stem were both shot on the same night with a forty-five. I'm thinking it was the same guy using the same gun. Eric Stem's father, Horace Stem, wants Jonah's land. He also pays Stomp to keep an eye on Eric—to protect him from himself. Both are involved with drugs. And Stomp Jessup hides out at Jonah's farm after running out of the hospital—like he's been there before.” Devereaux paused. “You see possible connections?”