The Devil’s Share (18 page)

She sat on the steps, sipped wine, set the glass beside her. She was overtired, her legs restless. She hoped there were some Lunesta left in the medicine cabinet. Knew she'd need one to sleep tonight.

She called the number she had for the limousine company in Kansas City, listened to the line buzz. When a woman answered, Crissa said, “I need to talk to Sladden.”

“There's nobody here by that name.”

“This is a new phone, so he won't recognize the number. But tell him it's Ms. Wynn. I'm home.”

“I'm sure I can't help you.”

“Right,” Crissa said, and broke the connection. They followed the same routine each time.

She'd just finished the glass when the phone buzzed. An 816 area code—Kansas City—but a different number than the one she'd called. Sladden being careful.

“Ms. Wynn?”

“I'm home.”

“I heard. Heard some other things, too. Our friends from the Northeast have been asking about you.” Keegan and McBride.

“Tell them I'll have something for them soon.”

“They're a little anxious, given recent events.”

“I know. Give them this number if they want to talk to me. I'm working it out.”

“They're concerned about the logistics this time. They don't think the prior arrangement will do.”

“They've got nothing to worry about. I'll take care of it.” Feeling the irritation now. “You told them that, right? That I was good for it?”

“I tried.”

“I'm making arrangements. It'll take a couple days at most. Tell them that. Or they can call and I'll tell them myself.”

“I'll pass that on.”

“And I'll have something for you, too.” The finder's fee she gave him bought his silence as much as his contacts.

“What I like to hear,” he said.

“I'll be in touch this week, let you know the details.” She ended the call.

There was no sense stalling. She punched in numbers. When Hicks answered, she said, “Are you with him?”

“You mean that literally or figuratively?”

“Don't screw around. Is he there?”

“He is.”

“Put him on.”

There was silence, the phone being handed over. Then Cota said, “Yes.”

“Your guys messed up.”

“I'm aware of that. It was regrettable.”

“It was more than that. You owe me money.”

“I'm aware of that as well. I've begun the process.”

“No process. Cash this time. He should have told you.”

“He did, but I was hoping I could convince you otherwise.”

“You can't. And you're going to put in another fifty K on top of what you owe.”

“A penalty fee?”

“Something like that.” She'd divide the fifty between Chance and the others. It would help smooth feathers.

“I guess I have no right to complain,” he said.

“You don't.”

“Still, I'll need a day or two to get this together. Then there's the question of delivery. I'm guessing you're no longer on our part of the continent. So transporting such a sizable sum over long distances has intrinsic challenges and risks.”

“Just get it ready,” she said. “You'll hear from me.” She hung up.

She sat there for a while, listening to the sounds of the night, the traffic on the bridge, the far-off clang of a buoy. In her mind, she heard other sounds. The snap of rifle bolts slamming home again and again. The low moan of a dying man.

But Hicks was right, she thought. It's done. And there's nothing you can do about it.

She picked up the glass, went back in, pulled the sliding glass door closed behind her. In the living room, she turned on the wall-unit radio to chase the silence away. It was tuned to WQXR, the classical station out of New York. Berlioz's
Symphonie fantastique
filled the room.

She'd take a hot shower, more than likely finish the bottle. Tomorrow she'd worry about what came next. For now, she was home.

*   *   *

The bar was on a corner lot in Charlestown, at the bottom of a sloping industrial block. No sign above the door. Across the street was a high fence, traffic moving on the freeway beyond and below.

She parked on a side street, locked the car. A four-hour drive up from New Jersey in her leased Ford Fusion. Almost nine
P.M.
and no one on the streets. Cooler up here. She wore her leather car coat, kept her hands in her pockets.

The exterior of the bar was brown shingles, neon beer signs in the windows. Inside it was dark and narrow, a long bar with green vinyl stools on one side, high-walled booths on the other. On the walls, an Irish flag, maps of the old country, coats of arms. There was an ATM near the bar, and an old-fashioned phone booth in the back, next to a curtained doorway. No TV, no jukebox. Half a dozen serious drinkers on the stools. The room smelled of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and floor polish.

A white-haired bartender was drawing a pint. He looked at her for a moment, then nodded at one of the booths.

Keegan sat facing the door. In front of him were an empty pint glass, a black plastic ashtray, and a pack of Newports atop a folded newspaper.

She slipped in across from him. “Funny. Couldn't find this place in the Michelin guide.”

He blew out smoke, ashed his cigarette in the tray. “Fancy that.”

The bartender came over, set a full pint down, said, “Miss?”

Better to have a drink in front of her while she was here. She nodded at the pint. “What's that?”

“Murphy's,” the bartender said.

“That's fine.” He took the empty, went off.

“You made it back,” Keegan said. “Almost surprised, after that cock-up out there. Saw it on the evening news, I did.”

“It could have gone better. But it's over now.”

“Not quite.”

“Reason I'm here.” The smoke was making her eyes water. She squinted, looked at the drinkers at the bar. One of them was younger than the others, wore a motorcycle jacket and work boots, was watching them in the bar mirror. He had a pint in front of him but hadn't touched it since she'd come in.

She nodded toward him. “One of yours? If not, he seems a little too interested in what's going on over here.”

“Don't worry about him.”

She heard the front door open. A moment later, McBride slid in beside her. He wore a thigh-length black leather jacket, had a thin growth of beard now. She moved over to give him space. “Am I late?” he said.

She looked at him, feeling the first stirrings of danger. The bartender brought her pint, set it on a paper coaster with a shamrock on it, looked at McBride.

“Killian's,” McBride said. “And a Tullamore, too.”

When the bartender was gone, McBride said, “Had a look. She's alone.”

“I could have told you that,” she said.

She slid over a few inches, to put more space between them. She and McBride were the same height, so that would be an advantage. If she had to, she could drive her elbow into his throat, push him out of the booth, head for the door. Take her chances with Keegan and the other one if they came after her.

McBride reached for the pack of Newports, bumped against her. She felt the weight in his left-hand jacket pocket. He took Keegan's cigarette from the ashtray, used it to light his own. More confident now than he'd been out West. He was back in his own element, his world.

The bartender brought his pint and a shot glass of amber liquid. When he was back behind the bar, she took the thick envelope from her inside pocket, set it beside the ashtray. “Just so there are no misunderstandings.”

Keegan didn't look at the envelope, said, “And what would that be?”

“Twenty thousand,” she said. “Ten each. Call it a down payment on what you're owed.”

She'd taken the money from her personal account, would replace it when she got the balance from Cota. She needed to keep these two on her side in the meantime, allay their fears.

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Keegan said. “But if I did, I might say ten isn't enough.”

“Like I said, it's a down payment.”

“We're on the installment plan, are we?”

“I'm expecting the rest soon. When I have it, I'll contact you, and we'll meet. Here again if you want.”

Keegan drew on his cigarette. McBride moved closer to her until their elbows touched. She pulled hers back, looked at him.

“Sean,” Keegan said. “Manners.”

“We agreed on a hundred for each of you,” she said. “I negotiated another ten per man. Which means even with this”—she touched the envelope—“you've still got fifty each coming.”

“I would have been much happier,” Keegan said. “If you'd brought it with you.”

“I don't have it yet. But I will soon.”

“Thing of it is,” Keegan said. “How do I know, once you walk out that door, we'll ever see you again?”

“You'll have to trust me on that. Or at least more than you have so far.”

“What's that mean?” Keegan said.

McBride reached past her to ash the cigarette. With her left hand, she caught his wrist, pinned it to the table. As he tried to pull back, she reached into his pocket with her other hand, felt metal, drew out the gun, a snub-nosed .38. She brushed the tail of his jacket back, pushed the muzzle into his side just above the belt.

McBride froze. She twisted the gun deeper into the soft flesh there, finger on the trigger, the movement hidden beneath the table, Keegan watching her.

“Trust,” she said, “also means not coming heavy to a meeting when there's no reason to. It sets the wrong tone.”

She took the gun away, felt McBride relax. She released his wrist, and he jerked his hand back. She set the gun atop the envelope. Keegan moved the newspaper to cover it.

“Think about it,” she said. “If I planned to screw you on this, would I even be here?”

Keegan gave her a half-smile, said, “Point made.” McBride's face was red.

“If our friend in Kansas City had any doubts about me,” she said, “he wouldn't have put us together. He vouched for both of you. I'm guessing he did the same for me.”

“He did,” Keegan said.

“Then you know we're all professionals here. So there's no reason to act otherwise.”

McBride reached for the gun. Keegan slid it out of his reach, still hidden beneath the newspaper. McBride sat back.

The man at the bar had swiveled on his stool, was watching them. Keegan looked at him, shook his head. After a moment, he turned around again.

“You're getting more than you're due,” she said. “Consider the envelope a bonus, for being patient.”

“Patience is one thing,” Keegan said. “But situations like this, that go bad that way, it's not exactly normal business, is it? It's what you'd call special circumstances. The kind of situation where people panic, start making deals.”

“No one's making any deals.”

“That you know of.”

“I can speak for Chance as well. No one's making any deals.”

“We want cash,” McBride said.

She ignored him. Keegan drew on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the tray. “How soon?”

“Couple days, maybe,” she said. “I'm waiting to hear back, to set up a time and place. And yeah, cash this time. I've already seen to that. No deposits. No transfers.”

“Good.”

“It'll take a little planning to pick the right location, right time. I'll let you know as soon as it's done.”

“You won't have to do that,” Keegan said.

“Why not?”

“Because we'll be coming with you.”

She shook her head. “Not a good idea.”

“It wasn't a suggestion.” The smile gone from his face. “You talk about trust. It's a two-way street, isn't it? You find out when the pickup is, you call me, we all go together. That way no one gets confused or concerned. Everyone's on the same page.”

“Listen,” she said. “I respect the work you two did out there, the way you handled your end. But it's better I see this through myself. I'm the one they've been dealing with. They won't like my bringing someone else along.”

“Then you'll just have to explain things to them, won't you?”

She looked at him, thinking it through, knowing she had to offer them some reassurance, something beyond the cash she'd brought.

“All right,” she said after a moment. “I'll tell them. See what they say.”

“I'm sure you can be very persuasive,” Keegan said. “And in this case, you'll have to be.”

“Why's that?”

“As I said, this isn't a suggestion. Or a request.”

She sat back. The man at the bar was watching them in the mirror again.

“I'll talk to them,” she said. “That's all I can promise. Now I need to get back on the road. Long drive.”

“Where to?”

She didn't answer, said to McBride, “Mind?”

Without looking at her, he slid from the booth, stood. She got out.

“One thing,” she said to Keegan. “Don't have your boyo at the bar, or anybody else that might be outside, try to follow me. I'll spot them, and I'll lose them. And then we're back on less-than-friendly terms again.”

He raised both hands, palms out, let them fall. “I wouldn't think of it.”

“I'll be in touch,” she said.

 

NINETEEN

A warm breeze blew in from the ocean, brought the smell of the sea. She sat at the wrought-iron table on her deck and sorted through the mail she'd picked up that morning. Junk mostly, an electric bill, an envelope from Rathka. She kept a box at the small brick post office downtown, under the name Linda Hendryx, the one she'd used to buy the house. She kept other post boxes in other towns, under different names.

She was still tired from the drive the night before, and she'd slept poorly, even after three glasses of wine. The image of the bound men facedown in the sand, blood on the stone behind them, wouldn't leave her.