Thick as Thieves

by Peter Spiegelman

  “I don’t see why I have to go anyway. What do you expect me to do there?”

  “I expect you to eat and drink, and when I tell you, to ask Prager to do that favor.”

  “But I don’t feel—”

  “You do it, Howie, and we’re headed home tonight.”

  Bessemer leans against the bar and laughs some more. Carr shakes his head and checks his watch. He checks the empty ocean north, and the jagged peninsula to the west. He can’t see them, but he knows Bobby and Mike are out there now, beyond the rocks. They’ll call when they’re ready, and then they’ll wait for his say-so. He checks his watch again. Time to lift the latch.

  Champagne flute in hand, Carr crosses the beach and climbs one of the stone stairways. He cuts across the croquet lawn toward a fieldstone patio and the main house. His heart pounds harder as he walks, and his legs are reluctant. He passes two women headed for the beach. They smile at him and giggle as they teeter by. The taller one reminds him of Valerie, though she’s not as arresting, and for a moment he wonders where Valerie is and what she’s doing and if he’ll see her tonight. He touches his ear, but there’s no earpiece there, no whispering voice, no breath that he can almost feel. Then his mind comes back as he approaches a pair of glass doors. Laughter, music, the chatter of the crowd, all fade behind him. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t look at the camera mounted above. He pulls at a handle and hears Declan’s brogue in his head. Nothin’ like a house in the dark, lad. Nothing like one in broad daylight, either, and filled with security guards.

  The hall is quiet and the air-conditioning sends a shiver down Carr’s arms. His footsteps echo on the polished stone floor. He has spent hours squinting at the floor plans of this house, and on them he’s found three places he might enter when the time comes. Today, after walking the grounds, counting and recounting the guards, watching the flow of guests and staff, and visiting several bathrooms, he has narrowed his list to one.

  Down the hall, on the right, is a powder room. It’s small and windowless, and Carr has already been there once today. Just past the powder room, around a corner to the left, is a stairwell, with stairs climbing up. Past the stairs, across the hall, and three paces down is Carr’s way in.

  It’s a rectangle labeled LAUNDRY-2 on the floor plans, but it’s not the room’s function that interests Carr, it’s the small window set in its wall. It’s in a casement-style frame, and because of its size and ground-floor location, and the dense hibiscus growing just outside, it has no view to speak of. What it does have, by Carr’s careful calculation, is a position outside the view of any of Prager’s security cameras.

  As on Carr’s prior visit, one of Rink’s security crew cuts appears at the end of the corridor, to make sure he doesn’t wander too far afield. Carr raises his champagne glass.

  “Toilet?” he asks the guard.

  “Of course, sir,” the guard says. “Right here.” He points toward the powder room. Carr steps in and locks the door. He lifts the toilet lid and pours his champagne down in a thin, noisy stream. Then he sets his glass on the edge of the sink and starts unrolling toilet paper.

  “A little help,” Carr calls, as he steps out of the bathroom.

  The security guard comes down the stairs and around the corner, and almost slips on water that’s begun to flow across the powder room’s threshold. “Oh Christ,” the guard says.

  Carr smiles sheepishly. “I think it’s clogged,” and he points his glass at the toilet and the water and bits of toilet paper flowing from the top of the bowl.

  “You think?” the guard says impatiently, a look of disgust on his face.

  “I tried jiggling it,” Carr says, and raises his hands helplessly. He looks down at the spreading water and moves out of the way, careful to keep his shoes dry. The guard steps gingerly into the bathroom, and Carr backs away.

  The guard shakes his head. “Christ,” he mutters.

  When the guard emerges from the powder room, his knuckles are skinned from wrestling with the jammed water valve under the toilet tank, and his trouser knees are soaked. The hallway is empty, and the patio door is just swinging shut.

  Outside, crossing the lawn, Carr feels the sun’s warmth for what seems the first time. He takes a deep breath and at last there seems to be some oxygen in it. The music returns, coming to him on the warm, gusting breeze. His shirt, he realizes, is stuck to his back. He’s suddenly thirsty, and he heads for the bar set up at the edge of a terrace looking over the beach. He orders an ice water and checks his watch and his phone vibrates.

  “We’re all right,” Bobby says. His words are indistinct against the background noise of water and wind. “We’re getting bounced around in the chop pretty good, but we’re ready to rock. And you?”

  “So far, so good. It should be soon.”

  “Soon would be aces.”

  Carr pockets his phone and looks out at the ocean. The sea is boiling around the reefs offshore, and platoons of whitecaps stagger drunkenly this way and that across the bay, to fling themselves on the sand. To the east, the sky is painted with a milky wash. Carr shakes his head and wonders how long the weather will hold.

  He walks along the terrace and scans the beach, looking for Prager and Rink. He spots Prager, surrounded by a knot of petitioners and making his way east from the guesthouse. He doesn’t see Kathy Rink immediately, but knows she can’t be far behind. Suddenly, Howard Bessemer is at his elbow.

  “Are we almost done?” Bessemer asks. He’s pink from heat and from drink, and there are damp circles under the arms of his blue button-down shirt. His blazer hangs over his shoulder like a drowned thing.

  “Soon, Howie.”

  “We’re going to get some of that storm, you know. Sometime tonight they said on television, maybe sooner.”

  Carr nods and looks again for Kathy Rink. “Thanks for the update. You should head back to the beach and get something to eat. And switch to soda water.”

  Bessemer grimaces, unfastens another button on his shirt, and wanders off.

  Carr picks out Prager again—smiling, nodding, drink in hand—walking up a shaded path. He sees no sign of Rink and checks his watch once more. It would be better, he thinks, if they were down by the water, but the thrashing surf and the sky and the tightening in his stomach tell him there’s no point in waiting. He pulls out his phone.

  “I’m headed in,” he tells Bobby. “Put three minutes on the clock and go.”

  “Three it is,” Bobby says over the wind. “Clock is running.”

  Carr finishes his ice water, places his glass on the bar as he passes, and heads back toward the main house. He rounds a corner and there’s an orange blur to his right. Kathy Rink drops a thick, manicured hand on his arm.

  She squints up at Carr. “Been lookin’ for you, Frye. What the hell have you been up to?”

  Carr looks at her, at the security man at her side, and at Curtis Prager, approaching from the beach. Carr smiles and shrugs. “Enjoying the view, enjoying the hospitality, and wondering if that’s all I’m here for, or if somebody wants to do business.”

  Rink’s squint turns into a scowl. “Jury’s still out when it comes to business, but we want to talk more. And now’s the time.”

  “Great,” Carr says, smiling. The knot in his stomach tightens, and there’s a ticking sound in his head.

  41

  Curtis Prager grips Carr’s arm and steers him back toward the terrace bar. Rink and her security man fall in behind them. Prager’s face is flushed and shining and fixed in a wide smile. Rink’s scowl deepens.

  Prager sweeps his arm in the direction of the beach. “Not bad, eh? Raising how much today, Kathy?”

  “About two hundred thousand,” Rink says.

  “For who?” Prager says.

  “Hospital,” Rink answers. “Kids’ wing.”

  “Kids’ wing.” Prager chuckles. “I’m a hero. They ought to pay me to grip and grin with this crowd for so long. Be a relief to get on the plane tomorrow.”

&nb
sp; Carr nods appreciatively. Prager leans on the bar and orders a ginger ale from the barman, who pours it into a tall glass and disappears at some unseen signal from Rink.

  “Kathy spoke to your man in Singapore,” Prager says.

  Carr smiles and manages not to look at his watch. “How’d it go?”

  “It went fine,” Rink says. “He says you’re tough, and reliable, and discreet, and smart, and that you generally walk on water. Which I’m guessing doesn’t surprise you. It would’ve been pretty stupid to point us at someone who wasn’t gonna say good things.”

  Carr shrugs. “So besides learning I’m not stupid, it was a waste?”

  Rink starts to speak, but Prager shakes his head. “Not a complete waste,” he says, “but we don’t know this guy. We don’t know any of the names you’ve given us so far. The bottom line is, Greg, we need to talk to someone we know. Someone we know, who also knows you. You understand—we need a reference.”

  Carr hears an engine drone, and for a moment he thinks it’s Bobby and Mike, but it’s too fast and too far off—an airplane. Carr nods. “I get what you’re saying—I just don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know about you, but most of the people I deal with don’t want their names traded back and forth.”

  “So maybe there’s nothing else to talk about,” Rink says, and she drums her fingers impatiently on the bar. Carr appreciates the sentiment.

  Prager shakes his head. “Or maybe Greg can think about some of the people he buys stones from. Maybe we can talk to some of them.”

  Carr nods, as if he’s actually considering it, as if he’s thinking of anything besides getting to the house. And then he hears another engine drone.

  It’s two engines, this time—close, throaty, rough running, like dirt bikes—coming from the water. His three minutes are up. Prager glances toward the beach and knits his brows.

  Carr clears his throat. “I’ll think on it,” he says, nodding, and the engine sounds grow louder. And now the ambient chatter of the beach crowd changes. A collective chuckle rises, and then a gasp.

  Prager shakes his head and peers down at his bay, and his party guests, gathered on the sand. Carr leans left and catches a glimpse of two WaveRunners chasing each other through the whitecaps, rooster tails flying, engines stuttering and echoing across the bay. Bobby is on the red one, Mike the gray. Both of them wear flowered trunks, muscle tees, and aviators. They weave in close to shore—fifty yards or less—and Carr can hear their whooping and hollering and see the bottle of beer that Bobby is waving around. It’s a nice touch, but Prager doesn’t appreciate it.

  He turns to Rink, and his face has darkened. “What’s going on, Kathy? Who are those assholes in my backyard?”

  Rink is blushing, and already on the move. She waves to the security man at her side, pointing him to the shore, and she puts her cell phone to her ear, but it’s all too slow for Prager, who strides angrily toward a stairway that leads to the beach. Kathy Rink hurries behind, saying something into her phone. All Carr catches is “boat in the water,” and then she’s gone. He checks his watch and heads toward the main house.

  He tells himself not to run, but it’s hard to listen. On his way across the lawn, he sees a pair of security guys who have no such inhibitions: they’re in full sprint toward the beach, with their radios squawking. Carr sees the fieldstone patio ahead, and before he comes within range of the camera, he veers right.

  He is quick across the patch of lawn at the corner of the house, and quick into the stretch of heavy plantings. He keeps low as he moves between the greenery and the house, and stifles a yell when two red birds dart screaming from the bushes. He fights to keep his breathing under control, and when he reaches the dense hibiscus and kneels by the window whose latch he has broken from inside, he has to struggle to hear the buzzing of the WaveRunners over his own gasps. But there they are, along with exclamations from the crowd. Carr looks at his watch and figures that Mike and Bobby have begun their game of chicken.

  Carr peers into the laundry room, takes a last look around the grounds, and sees no one. He dries his hands on his sleeves, works his fingers around the frame, and swings the window open. He checks the flash drives in his pocket again and climbs quietly in.

  Carr closes the window and stands between the washing machine and the utility sink, listening. He hears the cycling of the air conditioner, the gurgle of water in pipes, the pounding of his heart, and nothing else. He looks at his watch again. Bobby and Mike have promised him a minimum of five minutes, of which two are gone. He crosses the room, drops to the floor, and looks through the gap beneath the door. There’s no one in the hall, and he stands and opens the door a crack. A blade of air slips in, and cools his face. Behind it come voices.

  They drift down the stairwell—men speaking and, through a screen of radio static, the voice of Kathy Rink. Carr can’t make out her words, but her anger is unmistakable. The men find it funny.

  One voice is Southern and deep: “Pine and Colley don’t get that fucking Zodiac going, the old broad’s gonna swim out there herself—turn those drunks into chum.”

  The other has a Midwestern twang: “Sounds like she’s gonna make chum out of Pine and Colley. For chrissakes, how hard is it to flip a fuckin’ starter switch?” Carr smiles to himself. They can flip all they want, he thinks, it won’t do much good with the battery unhooked.

  The laughing voices recede, and Carr opens the door wider. He touches the flash drive in his pocket again, like a charm, takes a deep breath, and climbs the stairs.

  He is in a wide, windowed hall with white paneled walls and a view onto a courtyard garden. Too much glass—not a place to pause. To the left is the game room, and Carr can see green felt—the corner of a pool table. To the right is the music room, and the gleaming lid of a grand piano. Carr goes right, the floor plans unfurling in his head—music room, hallway, office. His ears are straining; the muscles in his legs are quivering.

  The music room is an exercise in monochrome—black piano, white rugs, black leather chairs, white leather sofas—but still too much glass for Carr’s comfort. His footsteps are silent on the rugs, and he crosses quickly to the opposite door. And freezes.

  A maid comes from behind the curving staircase, and it is only the basket she carries, and its high pile of linens, that saves Carr. He drops beside a white leather settee, crams his heart back into his chest, and listens as she climbs the stairs. Sweat runs down his face and along his ribs, and when he stands again it’s like lifting a boulder. Somehow he manages to place one foot before the other.

  He cuts across a sunny atrium and makes it to the final hallway. He pauses, listens, and hears voices in the library. It’s at the end of this same hall, across from Prager’s office. Which means it’s on the ocean side of the house, and has an ocean view. The voices are low, and Carr is trying to decide whether they belong to the security staff when a radio squawks and answers the question.

  Carr checks his watch: his five minutes are gone—he’s in overtime now. So, wait or go? The radio chatter cuts in again—an angry, urgent blast: something’s happening on the water. Something worth watching, Carr hopes. And then, behind him, there are footsteps approaching. So much for waiting.

  Six paces down the hall. Six paces through quicksand. Through wet cement. Six paces without air or sound, and with his vision a narrow tunnel, the office door at the distant end. And then he’s in. He doesn’t bother to check if anyone else is there, but no one is. His shuddering sigh is almost sexual, and for an instant he’s giddy and light-headed. The windows are big and bright and full of palm trees and sky. The Rothkos rise above him like twin suns. He’s transfixed by them, and imagines lifting them from the wall, prying them from their frames, rolling the canvases. He takes a deep breath, laughs, and shakes his head.

  Carr reaches into his pocket for the flash drive and steps to the aluminum desk and stops. He stares at the desk, and at the flash drive in his palm. He squints and his eyes run over the desk, from end to en
d. He walks around it, and looks beneath it. He looks around the starkly furnished room for a drawer to search, or a cabinet, but there are none. He returns to the desk, thinking he must somehow have missed it. His gaze returns to the nearly bare surface. Phone, monitor, cable.

  “Fuck,” Carr whispers.

  Prager’s laptop is not there.

  “Fuck,” he says again. Only the voices in the library keep him from shouting it.

  He puts the flash drive in his pocket and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Where would Prager take the thing? Not to the Isla Privada offices—he doesn’t go there. So where else? He probably takes it on trips. Trips like the one he’s making tomorrow, to Asia, by way of Europe. Leaving tomorrow, so packing today. So he’s packed the laptop and left it … where? Where’s his fucking luggage?

  Two places jump off the floor plan: a cloakroom, just off the main entry hall, and Prager’s bedroom. Going to the cloakroom means crossing the entire main floor of the house; going to the bedroom—the master suite—means going upstairs. So, the bedroom first.

  Carr doesn’t remember the trip down the hall and back across the atrium to the curving staircase, but somehow he’s climbing the stairs. There are footsteps below, and voices, and radio chatter. Carr hurries to the top.

  Upstairs, the polished stone floors and raised white paneling give way to glossy wood and silk wallpaper. Carr passes a line of bedrooms, each one done in a different ocean color: sea foam, turquoise, aquamarine, and each with an ocean view. The maid is in the last one, a silhouette on a balcony, watching the action on the bay. Carr doesn’t realize she’s there until he’s already passed.

  “Shit,” he says to himself.

  The master is at the end of the hall, behind a pair of teak doors with gleaming brass hardware. The doors aren’t locked, and the mechanism is almost silent. Chest heaving, Carr closes them behind him.

  He’s in a sitting room, with a fireplace, a big ocean view, and none of the austere minimalism of Prager’s office. The sofa and chairs are fat and silk-covered, in blue and gray stripes, the rugs are Persian, the low tables are teak, and the pictures on the wall are tinted engravings of sailing ships. Outside, through glass doors and beneath a green awning, there is a large balcony that wraps around all three of the suite’s exposures. And in the corner, near the fireplace, there is luggage: two large leather suitcases and a leather duffel, open and half-packed on folding stands. Pressed shirts, balled socks, but no laptop.