Raybould shouldered his way through the rubbernecks, noticing that his client’s Beemer was gone. Not that it mattered anymore. He showed the cops his shield, but before he could speak Claudette had him by the arm.
“There you are. Did you get my purse?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Raybould said, oozing sympathy, “but they were just too fleet-footed.”
“No,” Claudette said, tears squeezing from her blackened eyes. “You don’t understand. You’ve got to find them. You’ve
got
to.”
The officers pried her off Raybould and led her to a waiting squad car, Claudette wailing all the way. Once they got her settled Raybould gave them a run-down of what had happened, describing how he’d witnessed only the last few seconds of the theft over his morning coffee, then engaged the perps in a foot race, which, unfortunately, he had lost.
“Too much starch,” he said, pouching out his plank-hard abdomen, patting it for effect. He took a drag off his cigarette. “And too many coffin nails.” He finished his informal statement with a dead-on description of both punks. “That’s from behind, you understand, at a full run.”
He spent the next few minutes entertaining the boys with one of his standard Holdup Squad war stories and a couple more patiently answering the questions of the more junior of the two, who had aspirations of becoming a detective. He commended the fellows on their thoroughness and competent handling of a hysterical victim. Then, with a jaunty salute, he excused himself.
He walked a block or two in the hard winter sunshine, reviewing his actions. More spontaneous than he liked and definitely more public, but the situation had demanded it—the whole thing, SIU hunting him, his association with Corsino falling apart, only a matter of time before the old guinea decided to shut him down—and suddenly, like a lightning bolt, a solution appears. No time to do anything but react. Sure it could’ve been neater, given more time, but he was reasonably certain no one had seen him go into the alley. And the dead kid’s friend would likely stay out of it, for the time being at least, that street rat mentality. And who else was going to miss the little fucker? If the ticket was legit—and God help that fat sow if it wasn’t—he’d only need a day or two. Then he was gone.
He doubled back to his car, stopping on the way at a variety store for a deck of Lucky Strikes. There was a lottery display by the door and Raybould casually removed the ticket from his wallet and unfolded it. As he compared the numbers to the posted winners, his hand crushed the pack of smokes.
“Mother of God…”
On his way out he tossed the ruined smokes into a garbage can.
––––––––
Steve and Kate pulled into the hospital parking lot at ten forty-five that morning. They parked in adjacent spots and got Kate’s gear unloaded, Steve hefting the bulk of it. As they made their way inside Steve said, “Something occurred to me on the drive back. What if this guy doesn’t realize he’s got your ticket? What if he never realizes it?”
Kate said, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Maybe we need to nudge him a bit,” Steve said. “What’s your schedule for the rest of today?”
“I thought I’d get that power of attorney thing squared away. Go back to the Lottery Corporation and fill out the forms. Then, just hang with my dad I guess.”
In the lobby Steve handed her the suitcases. “Can you get upstairs okay with these?”
“Sure. What have you got in mind?”
He started for the exit, walking backwards, giving her a cagey smile. “Baby, I’m gonna make you a star. See you this afternoon. Be ready. And wear something nice.”
Intrigued, Kate watched him go, then lugged the suitcases into the elevator.
Lee was still with Keith, the two of them sharing a laugh over something on TV. Kate kissed her dad then gave Lee a hug. Keith looked great, his color coming back, and they’d taken that god awful turban off his head. He was all smiles.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said. “How was your trip?”
“Fine. The roads were bare this morning, we made great time.”
Smirking, Lee said, “I bet you did.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Kate said, giving her aunt a poke.
Keith said, “Did you get your job back?”
“Yes, but only barely. And when he finally said yes he wanted me to start right away. Then we got into it again. Truth is the creep needs me. I called Trudy last night before I met Mo, she told me his wife screwed up the route so bad at least twenty customers called in to complain, asking where the usual girl was. I start January second. I took a shot at a raise but Morris almost had a coronary.”
Keith said, “Good for you.”
“I got you an appointment with that dope, Fred,” Lee said. She looked at her watch. “He should be here any minute. I told him eleven o’clock.”
Kate asked her father about his pain and Lee said he was on a permanent high, hitting the button on the pain pump every six minutes on the dot, he didn’t even have to look at the clock anymore. She said Kate better find a reliable pusher up there in Sudbury because her old man was gonna need one.
They chatted about nothing in particular until Fred came in at 11:30, grinning from ear to ear. He shook Keith’s hand—saying they should talk about the accident, too, sue the limo company into bankruptcy—nodded at Lee from a safe distance, then turned to Kate with open arms, showing nicotine-stained teeth. He pulled her into a bear hug saying, “Kate, my God, look how big you’ve gotten,” his hand gliding down her back to the swell of her hip. Kate stifled the urge to knee him in the balls.
She said, “Hi, Uncle Fred, long time no see,” and backed away. “So tell me, what’s involved here?”
Fred glanced at Lee, staring bullets at him. “Piece of cake,” he said, opening his briefcase. “I’ve got everything we need right here.”
* * *
Hicks had to admire the man’s cool. If the ticket had fallen into his hands he’d’ve run straight to the Lottery Corporation to pick up his check, caution be damned. But Raybould had spent the rest of the day performing his appointed rounds. Business as usual. Probably analyzing every angle in that iron trap mind of his, the way he’d done when Hicks was partnered with him. His deliberate approach to even the simplest things used to drive Hicks nuts, though in retrospect he had to admit, more than once that same methodical nature had saved their skins. “You don’t go kicking the door down, Rodney, until you’re damned sure what’s on the other side.”
They’d tailed him all day, Hicks growing increasingly agitated, Mayer unusually quiet. Now, at change of shift, they sat in the van in front of headquarters, Mayer working on a meatball hoagie, Hicks staring at the silent audio receiver. Raybould had entered the building ten minutes ago, but so far no conversation.
“So when do we move on him?” Mayer said around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Tonight,” Hicks said, “when he’s all nice and cozy at home.”
“What’s our line gonna be?”
Hicks tapped the tape recorder with a finger. “We start by quoting from his conversation with the spic. If that doesn’t shake his tree, we remind him about the garbage he dropped down the sewer.”
“Think that’ll do it? I heard he doesn’t scare so easy. Heard it from you.”
“It’s not about being scared, Bryan, it’s about being cornered.”
Mayer put his hoagie on the consul, unfinished. “Know what a weasel does when you corner it?”
“What’s he gonna do? Shoot us?”
“Maybe.”
Hicks looked at the half-eaten sandwich. In all the time he’d known Bryan he’d never seen him leave food uneaten. “You gonna finish that?”
“Uh-unh.” He made a sour face, burping softly.
“Okay, Bryan, what’s up? Talk to me, man. Look, if you want out, now’s the time to say so. I’ll take the fucker alone and no hard feelings. I mean it. Shit, you can sit at home and I’ll still cut you in.”
Bryan sighed, the sound heavy and asthmatic. “No way. No charity. If I’m in then I’m in.”
“So take your time,” Hicks said. “Be certain. Then tell me: Are you in?”
Bryan looked him in the eye. “Know what, Rodney? Ten years ago? Or if it was just me and Donna, I’d tell you, ‘Sorry, pal, you’re on your own, I don’t need the aggravation’. But my boys…Mick’s gonna be ready for university in a couple years, Jerry’s only eleven months behind him, and I don’t think I’m gonna be able to afford the tuition. You know how that feels? Shitty’s how it feels. I want the world for those boys, Rodney. Always have. And this is my chance to give it to them. So yeah, I’m in. Count on it.”
Bryan was saying the right words, but Hicks still didn’t like his tone. He said, “Bryan, we’ve got him. He’s fucked, and when I explain that to him he’ll see that I’m right. You know what? You don’t even need to come in. That’s how sure I am. You can wait in the hall, back me up if you hear any commotion.”
“Stuff that bullshit, Rodney. We go in together or we don’t go in at all.”
Hicks smiled, the old Bryan talking now.
There was a pause before Bryan said, “If we pull this off, what’re you gonna do with your share?”
“Quit this fucking job and get my wife back,” Hicks said without hesitation. “If she’ll have me. Then? I don’t know. Travel. Stop worrying.” He grinned. “Whatever the hell I want.”
Bryan returned the grin, relaxing a little. “We tell everybody we’ve been going halves on tickets and we finally lucked out. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that.”
After another pause Bryan said, “Don’t you think…?” and trailed off, looking unhappy again.
“What?”
“Don’t you think it’d be smarter to cut him in? Ten million three ways, what’s the difference? We do it that way, we’re all sitting pretty, and we don’t need to be looking over our shoulders the rest of our lives. I don’t know about you, but a son of a bitch takes a fortune off me, I’m gonna be pissed. Forever. I don’t know what I’m gonna do to him, but I know he’s not gonna like it. I can see myself dedicating my life to that fucker’s misery.”
“I hear you,” Hicks said, pretending to consider it. “Maybe you’re right. Tell you what, we’ll play it by ear, okay? See how he reacts.”
Bryan laughed, no humor in it. “You’re full of shit, Rodney. You’re planning to kill the man, aren’t you. You’re fucking him out of a king’s ransom here and it’s still not enough for you.” Hicks said nothing. “Well, here’s the news. If that’s the case, I don’t want any part of it. Forget it. You give me your word, right now, we offer him a three way split and keep our cocks in our pants. Do it smart. He balks, we walk away and bust him for the dink in the sewer. The money goes to charity or down the toilet, I don’t give a fuck. My kids get jobs and put themselves through school. That’s the deal, take it or leave it.”
Hicks said, “Okay, all right, we’ll do it your way,” surprised and a little touched by Bryan’s ability to read him. “We’ll cut the fucker in and I’ll use part of the money on a stack of self-help books.
Anger Management
,
Forgiveness Is Bliss
, shit like that. Read ’em on the beach.” He smiled. “Now will you relax?”
Bryan eyeballed him a moment longer, then picked up his hoagie and took a bite.
“That’s better,” Hicks said, shivering a little in the ensuing silence. He turned the heater up a notch, warming his hands in front of the dash vents. “Fucking winter,” he said.
“I like winter,” Mayer said, chewing noisily. “Suits my metabolism better.”
“What’s your metabolism got to do with it?”
“I sweat. Like a pig. You know that. I’m sweating right now, fuck sake. Summer in the city, pure hell. Allergies, can’t breathe worth a shit in that heat. Grass to cut. And that cottage Donna’s dad gave her? Fuckin’ work camp. I can’t get a minute’s peace up there. Fix this, repair that. Busted pumps, rotten porch boards, mice in the goddam walls. And bugs. Black flies, mosquitoes, spiders everywhere. Moths. I’ve never seen anything like it. If you’d come up like I invite you every year you’d see what I mean.”
“Your wife doesn’t like me.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?
I
don’t like you.”
“Fuck you.”
“And the horse you rode in on,” Mayer said. He took another bite of his sandwich, a big one. “Fucking moths. Squadrons of the dizzy bastards, all shapes and sizes, bopping against the porch light like retards. Drive up there at night, the fuckin’ car’s coated in ’em. Jesus, that is one stunned creation. What’re they good for? They like light so much, why don’t they come out in the daytime?”
Hicks laughed. “You’re a doorknob, Bryan, there’s no escaping it. How’d you get out of grade school?”
A voice came out of the receiver, laced with static. Both men recognized it immediately.
“Hey, Al,” Jack Cullen said. “Pull up a chair. You’re gonna love…”
Then it was gone, swallowed in white noise.
“Shit,” Mayer said, adjusting dials, frowning. “He’s out of range.” He looked at Hicks. “Wanna take it inside? See if we can pick him up from the office?”
“Naw. Let’s just sit tight. How much trouble can he get into in a police station?”
* * *
After checking his messages, Raybould cut through Homicide on his way to the gym. One last workout, a good night’s sleep for a change, then the Lottery Commission first thing in the morning. After that, first class to Grand Cayman for a few days R&R, then off to Europe and fuck all the rest.
It was five o’clock and a change-of-shift bull session was in progress around Jack Cullen’s desk, five or six detectives forming a loose circle around Cullen himself. A small TV/VCR sat on the desk amidst a litter of pop cans and styrofoam cups. Cullen had everyone’s attention. Raybould couldn’t stand the man, just another bullshit artist who’d never pulled his piece, except maybe in front of his bedroom mirror. His cronies in Homicide called him ‘The Exorcist’, saying he looked like the dark-haired priest from the movie, but Raybould couldn’t see the resemblance. Dummy looked more like Elmer Fudd.
“Hey, Al,” Cullen said, waving him over. “Pull up a chair. You’re gonna love this.”
Raybould grabbed a chair and sat down. What the hell. One of the men handed him a can of pop, which he tabbed but didn’t drink.
Cullen got right back into it. “So yesterday morning early, I get this call. Lebanese guy shotguns an armed scumbag tryna empty his till. Straight-forward, right? The Leb even got it on tape. Then that slacker Fitzpatrick calls in sick, I gotta pull a double. Around supper time, I get this domestic call—the
same
Lebanese guy comes home drunk and starts bashing on the wife. And, oh my, you gotta see this broad. Three hundred pounds if she’s an ounce, this guy goes maybe one-forty soaking wet. Anyway, he starts wailing on the blimp and
pow
, lucky shot, knocks her out cold. Now get this—she fucking
falls
on him. Can you picture it? By the time she comes to, this guy’s clock has been punched. He’s fuckin’ dead.”