Kings of Midnight

by Wallace Stroby

  Rorey’s forehead was shiny with sweat. He circled the ATM like a pool player. Ash fluttered from his cigarette.

  “How’s it look?” she said.

  “Getting there.”

  He leaned over, began to make a vertical cut with the torch. Sparks leaped up, died on the concrete floor. It was a job that needed a sure touch. Hollis had told her the first time his old crew cracked an ATM, the torch man had cut too deep, set the cash alight. They’d lost half of it before getting the fire out.

  When Rorey took the flame away, she hit the back plate with another Halon blast. Hollis had come over and stood near the pickup, watching them.

  Rorey waited for the metal to cool, then began to make a horizontal cut across the base. She stepped back as sparks angled toward her. When the cut was finished, he straightened, said, “There you go,” and shut off the torch.

  Two more bursts from the extinguisher, the foam sizzling. She squeezed the trigger again, swept the spray along the back of the ATM until it was covered in white. “That should do it.” She set the extinguisher down.

  “Give it a couple minutes,” Rorey said. He pulled the gloves and goggles off, swept a wrist across his eyes.

  Hollis got two pry bars from the truck bed, handed her one. He pulled the tarp down, spread it out a few feet from the ATM.

  Rorey shut off the valves, wound the hose and torch around the tank. He hung the goggles on the valve wheel, the gloves atop it, flipped his cigarette away, then stood with his hands on his hips. All three of them looking down at the cooling machine.

  “Good enough,” she said. She wanted to be out of there.

  She drove the wedge end of the pry bar into the vertical cut, pushed down, leaning into it. The steel plate began to buckle. Hollis drove his bar in beside hers. They pulled in different directions, peeling back the two halves of the plate, the metal squealing. She could see the innards of the machine now: circuit boards, wires, and long silver racks full of cash.

  “That’s the shit,” Hollis said.

  She gave a final pull on the bar, widening the hole. Faint smoke drifted out. Hollis stepped back.

  “There it is, boy,” Rorey said. “Go get it.”

  Hollis looked at him. He was still holding the pry bar. Rorey met his eyes.

  “Knock it off, both of you,” she said. “Hollis, pull that tarp closer.”

  He set the bar down, tugged the tarp toward her. Kneeling, she wedged her bar into the aluminum cash rack, snapped it with one hard jerk. Cash slid out of the rack and down into the machine. A good haul, she thought. Maybe the best yet.

  She put the bar down and began to pull stacks of bills from the machine, lining them up on the tarp.

  “Get your bags,” she said. “Let’s do this, and get out of here.”

  Rorey went to his van. To Hollis, she said, “Yours is in the trunk. Car’s unlocked. Get mine, too.” She’d driven him to get the pickup, would drop him at his motel before heading back to Columbia.

  She took more money from the machine, pulled apart two twenties that had stuck together, looked at the serial numbers. Different series, different years. The bills were mostly new, all twenties and tens, none of them sequenced. They’d gotten lucky. ATMs were unpredictable. You never knew what was in them until you cracked them. And then it was too late.

  She retrieved the last of the bills from inside the mechanism. None of them was singed.

  “Good work,” she said to Rorey. He set an olive drab duffel bag down, undid the drawstring. Hollis came over with two suitcases, one of them hers.

  Sitting cross-legged on the tarp, she began to count the money, setting the stacks aside as she was done with them. Hollis picked up the piles she’d counted, counted them again. It was their system.

  When she was done, the money was spread in a fan around her, each stack about three inches high.

  “One hundred and forty thousand,” she said. “Four hundred and eighty.”

  “Gotdamn,” Rorey said.

  “Hollis, you get the same?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He was smiling. At almost forty-seven grand a share, it was their second biggest take.

  She began to divide the money into three piles. Hollis was right. It was a good gig. Easy work, minimal risk, with substantial reward. No weapons, no witnesses, no one getting hurt. But it was time to move on.

  Rorey began to load his money into the duffel.

  “I already told Hollis,” she said. “This is it for me.”

  Rorey looked at her as he packed the last of his money in the bag. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m done with this. You should be, too. We’ve been to the well too many times.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said. “This is sweet.”

  “Maybe. But I’m gone anyway.” She opened her suitcase, stacked cash inside. She would band the bills later, at the hotel.

  Hollis had his money loaded, was latching the case.

  “Maybe I’m not done,” Rorey said. “Why do you get to decide?”

  “Because I do,” she said. She closed and locked her suitcase, and stood. “You get to decide, too. Like I told Hollis, you two can keep working this if you like. But I don’t think it’s worth it.”

  He looked at Hollis. “Well, isn’t that just fine? You take off and leave me to work with a nigger?”

  Hollis straightened and turned to face Rorey, the suitcase forgotten. “You motherfucker.”

  “Back off,” she said. “Both of you.”

  “What’d you call me?” Rorey said.

  “You heard me, bitch.”

  She tried to get between them, and then Rorey‘s hand was coming out of the duffel and there was a gun in it, a blued .45 automatic. She stepped back instinctively. He pointed it at Hollis’s chest.

  “Come on, nigger. You’re so tough? I’m right here.”

  “Put that away,” she said, but Rorey was ignoring her, staring at Hollis, the gun steady.

  Hollis smiled, took a step back, hands on his hips. They looked at each other. There was a low echo of thunder outside.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said to Rorey. “Let’s take our money and get away from here.”

  “I want to hear what else this nigger has to say first.”

  “Leave it. Let’s go.”

  “Okay,” Hollis said. “If that’s the way it is.”

  She never saw him pull the gun. One second his hand was empty, the next it wasn’t. It was a snub-nosed .38. He pointed it at Rorey. “There you go, cracker. That’s what I’ve got to say.”

  She took another step back. The two were facing each other, less than six feet between them.

  “Take a breath,” she said. “We’ve got almost fifty grand each in front of us. All we have to do is walk out of here. Don’t fuck things up. Put those guns down.”

  “Him first,” Hollis said. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  She looked from one to the other. If she could defuse the moment, it would pass.

  “What are you, a couple of punk kids?” she said. “‘Him first’? You’re supposed to be pros. Knock this shit off. We’re losing time.”

  Rorey nodded, but his gun didn’t waver. Hollis raised the snubnose so it was pointed at Rorey’s face.

  “Okay,” she said. “Now let’s—”

  She couldn’t tell who fired first. The big .45 kicked up, Rorey already spinning away. Hollis kept firing, falling back himself. He landed hard on his side on the concrete. Rorey fell across the duffel. The echo of the shots chased itself around the barn.

  “Son of a bitch,” Hollis said.

  She went to Rorey first, kicked the .45 away. He lay on his stomach, not moving. She turned him over and saw the black hole beneath his right cheekbone, just starting to ooze blood. His eyes were half open. He was gone.

  Hollis coughed wetly. She crossed over to him. He was on his back now, looking up at the ceiling with wet eyes.

  “Did I get him?” He coughed again.

  Gently, she took
the .38 from his hand. “Yeah. You got him.”

  “Good.”

  She felt the anger rising in her. “We were almost out of here.”

  “How bad is it?”

  She pulled away the edges of his Windbreaker. The bullet had gone in the left side of his chest, the shirt there already sodden with blood. The shredded material around the hole fluttered with every breath. Sucking chest wound, she thought, a lung hit for sure.

  “It’s bad,” she said. She put the .38 aside. He was breathing in short ragged gasps now. His chest cavity would be filling with blood.

  He looked up at her. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then didn’t say anything more.

  She stood, looked down at the two men, both still and silent now. Nothing she could do for either of them, and no telling how far the sound of the shots had traveled. It was time to go.

  She pulled Rorey’s duffel out from under him. There was a single spot of blood on the canvas. She dragged the bag to her rental, put it in the trunk, then went back for the suitcases. She put them in side by side, shut the lid.

  She looked around the barn a final time for anything that could link her to what had happened here. There was nothing. The police would find the bodies, the guns, the gutted ATM, put two and two together. The only thing missing would be the money.

  She switched off the droplight, went to the big door, and put her shoulder to it, pushed it open. On the horizon, a cloud glowed for an instant, lit from within, then went dark again.

  She got behind the wheel of the Ford, started the engine, realizing only then her hands were shaking. She gripped the wheel tighter, and drove out into the darkness.

  THREE

  Benny was washing pots, using a scrub brush on the last hardened bits of spaghetti sauce, when the two men from New York walked into the restaurant.

  The kitchen door was ajar, so he had a clear view into the dining area. Ten tables with checkered tablecloths, the front windows fogged, the neon CAFE MILAN sign dark now. Rick, the manager, was at a table, sorting register receipts. The other tables were empty. The night had been slow, and Rick had let Pablo, the busboy, and Lila, the waitress, go home early.

  Rick looked up from the receipts. “Sorry, fellas. We’re closed. I was just about to lock the door.”

  The men looked around, didn’t speak.

  Benny was forearm-deep in hot soapy water. He dried his hands on a dish towel, got his glasses from the counter. The lenses were steamed. He wiped them clear with an edge of apron, worked the wire frames over his ears.

  One of the men was in his sixties, wearing an expensive overcoat, his thick silver hair swept up and back. It took Benny a moment to realize he was looking at Danny Taliferro, older now, thinner. Under the coat, he wore a roll-top sweater that covered his throat. Still vain about that scar after all these years, Benny thought.

  The other man was younger, late twenties, thigh-length leather jacket, close-cut dark hair. Benny didn’t know him, just the type.

  Rick stood, the kid trying to be polite. “Sorry, but the kitchen’s shut down, and the grill’s cold. Couldn’t make you anything if we wanted to.”

  Taliferro looked past him. Benny backed away, kept an angle on the door.

  “There’s a twenty-four-hour Denny’s out by the highway,” Rick said. “Just a couple miles away. I can tell you how to get there. Probably the only place open this time of night.”

  Taliferro turned to the other man. “What did I tell you? Bumfuck, USA.” Then to Rick, “We’re not here to eat.” An edge of hoarseness in the voice, unmistakable. Danny Taliferro for sure.

  So this was it, after all this time. Benny looked around. There was a cleaver hanging above the cutting board. He set it on the counter, covered it with the dish towel. Almost immediately, he felt foolish. What was he going to do, go out there swinging?

  “We’re looking for Benny Roth,” Taliferro said. “He works here, right?”

  “Who?” Confusion in Rick’s voice. Benny stayed where he was, listening.

  “Benny Roth,” Taliferro said. “But maybe he calls himself something else now, right? I guess he would.”

  The kid squared his shoulders. “I don’t know what you two fellas want. But there’s no Benny here. And I’d appreciate it if you all would leave now. We’re closed for the night.”

  Benny suddenly felt guilty. The kid was going to get himself hurt over something he didn’t understand.

  Benny took a last glance at the dish towel, then pushed open the kitchen door. The three turned to look at him. Taliferro smiled.

  “Benny,” he said. “Long time.”

  Rick looked from Benny back to the men. “Leonard, you know these guys?”

  Taliferro laughed. “Leonard?”

  “It’s okay,” Benny said. “Yeah, I know them.” He took off his apron, bundled it. “We’re good in there. I did the last of the pots, loaded the washer. It just needs to be turned on.”

  “What’s all this ‘Benny’ stuff?” Rick said.

  “What?” Taliferro said. “You didn’t know you had a celebrity working for you?”

  Benny set the apron on a table. “How you doing, Danny?”

  Taliferro nodded, looked him over. “Day at a time, like everybody. What’s it been? Twenty-five years?”

  “Longer,” Benny said.

  “You got old.”

  “We all did.”

  “What’s all this about?” Rick said.

  Benny touched his arm. “It’s all right.” Then to Taliferro, “How about we talk outside? Let this man finish closing his restaurant.”

  Taliferro swept an arm toward the door. “After you.”

  “Leonard…” Rick said.

  “It’s okay,” Benny said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” To Taliferro, he said, “I just need to get my coat.”

  “I’ll go with you,” the younger one said.

  “No need for that,” Taliferro said. “I don’t think we’re gonna have any issues here.”

  Benny went back into the kitchen, got his red hunter’s jacket from the peg, looked at the dish towel, then the back door. He could make a run for it, but wouldn’t get far with his bum knee. And there might be more of them outside, waiting. It would only piss them off if he tried to get away.

  When he came back out, the younger one was holding the door open.

  “Maybe I should call the sheriff’s office,” Rick said.

  “No,” Benny said, pulling on his coat. “These are friends from back home. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

  “Back home?” Rick said. “St. Louis?”

  “Somewhere like that,” Taliferro said. “Come on, let’s go have a drink.”

  Benny zipped his coat, and they went out into the cold. There was a shiny Lincoln Town Car with New York plates parked at the curb, just behind his own Hyundai. Except for the Sunoco station two blocks away, all the storefronts on Main Avenue were dark.

  “You two drive all the way out here?” Benny said.

  “Seemed easiest,” Taliferro said. He took a hard pack of Marlboros from his overcoat pocket, offered them. Benny said, “No, thanks.”

  Taliferro lit one with a silver Zippo, turned his head and blew out smoke. Benny looked at the younger man. “Who’s this?”

  “My nephew,” Taliferro said. “Frank Longo. My sister’s boy. You knew his father, Petey.”

  “Right,” Benny said, lying. The name meant nothing to him. “How you doing, kid? How’s the old man?”

  “Dead,” Longo said. “Last year. Cancer.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Taliferro said, “Sal Bruno says hello.”

  “That psycho?” Benny said. “He still alive?”

  “Better not let him hear you say that.”

  Rick was at the window. Benny waved to reassure him.

  “I should have figured you’d be working in a restaurant,” Taliferro said. “You always were a good cook.”

  “It’s something I enjoy.” Benny loo
ked past him, toward the gas station, knew he’d never make it. “How’d you find me?”

  “It was easy,” Taliferro said. “Everybody knows you’ve been out here, since you left the program. Isn’t hard to track a person down these days, Internet and all. You are out of it, right? Or was that just a rumor?”

  Benny shrugged, put his hands in his pockets. “I told them to go fuck themselves.”

  “That’s what I heard. But you lived off that federal tit a good long time, didn’t you?”

  “They screwed me over, made promises they didn’t keep.”

  “What did you expect from the G, huh?” He blew out smoke. “But hey, come on, it’s cold out here. Let’s take a ride.”

  Benny looked at the Town Car. “No way. You want to go somewhere, I’ll take my car, follow you.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Taliferro said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Ride with us. We’ll talk in the car, it’ll save time. We’ll drive you back here when we’re done.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re gonna wanna hear what I have to say, I guarantee you.”

  “Come on,” Longo said. “Get in the car.” Benny looked at him, didn’t move.

  “Benny, let me explain something to you,” Taliferro said. “Anyone had a beef against you is long gone. Why do you think nobody’s bothered you all this time? And you stood up to the feds, told them to go pound sand. You got some respect back for that.”

  “I never testified against you or your people,” Benny said. “I did what I had to do, nothing more.”

  “I know that. Got their money’s worth out of you though, didn’t they? Put you on the circuit.”

  “They didn’t give me a choice. You think I wanted that?”

  “I don’t know what you wanted. Couldn’t any of us figure out what was in your head, everything we’d done for you.”

  “Done for me? You mean done to me?” Benny said. “With that crazy Jimmy Burke going around whacking everybody? I was next on his list. The feds played me the tapes to prove it.”

  “Freezing my nuts off out here,” Longo said. “Can’t we do this in the car?”

  “The feds, they like to fuck with you,” Taliferro said. “That’s how they get into your head, make you do things you know are wrong.”