“He’s squirting Grecian Formula on his hair, working out five times a week at the health club, maybe even hired his own exercise guru. Low-fat diet, lots of veggies, nice tan, new wardrobe. Cruising around in his Porsche or his red Beemer. All for one purpose, and one purpose only.”
“To feel young?”
“To get laid. Specifically, to get laid by some twenty-five-year-old potential trophy wife. It’s what makes the world go around.”
“It already sounds ennobling. What’s the gimmick?”
“I’m getting there. Got our guy in mind? Dyed hair, body whipped into shape, lots of dough, fancy car, great clothes. Everything’s perfect—with one exception.”
“His scrotum?” I asked incredulously, caught up in Benny’s goofy scheme even as I laughed.
“Do you have any idea what happens to a man’s balls when he gets old?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“It’s pathetic. Worse, it’s an irrefutable sign of old age. That’s the key, Rachel. Our sixty-year-old stud finds himself a twenty-five-year-old babe, squires her back to his newly decorated bachelor pad, pours her a glass of Dom Pérignon, pops a CD into his $50,000 sound system with speakers roughly the size of the ones the Stones used at Soldier’s Field.”
“What’s the album?” I asked. “Frank Sinatra?”
“Nah. Our hero’s too savvy for that. He’d have asked some younger guy in his office what the chicks love these days. Probably Dire Straits. Sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard to him, but he’d never let on. Anyway, at some point in the evening, he’s going to have to take off his clothes. And things have sure as hell changed in that jurisdiction since the time he was married. These days the lights stay on. So when he takes off his underwear, there they are, lo and behold, dangling down around his knees.”
“His balls?” I was giggling.
“He can practically play soccer with ’em.”
“My God, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m serious, Rachel. His balls are a dead giveaway. It’s like they’ve got the words ‘old fart’ branded on them, one word on each.”
“Let me get this straight: You see financial opportunities here?”
“A fucking gold mine.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“A scrotum lift.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m serious, Rachel. A scrotum lift. Like a face lift, or a tummy tuck. In a half-hour you can have the balls of a twenty-year-old.”
“For heaven’s sake, Benny.” I was laughing. “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Rachel. Women just don’t understand. Men are already obsessed with their dicks. With the right marketing pitch, I can make them obsessed with their balls, too. Then all I got to do is round up a bunch of plastic surgeons. Put together some franchises. Hire a spokesman. Someone like Johnny Carson. Or maybe Paul Newman. I could make a fortune.”
“Paul Newman?” I said, laughing so hard there were tears in my eyes.
“Sure. I bet his cojones are halfway down his thighs already.”
When I finally stopped laughing I said, “Have you got a name yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve been toying with Highballs—”
I burst into laughter again.
“—but maybe it’s a little too cute.”
“I’ve got your motto. ‘Highballs: For a Vas Deferens.’”
I was still laughing, staggering against Benny as we walked on, when the beam of his flashlight fell on something that stopped us cold.
We stared in silence.
“Jesus,” Benny finally said. “You think that’s from Stoddard?”
I stared down, and then glanced over at the passageway. “Yep,” I said. “We’re here.”
Chapter Thirty
What had caught our attention was a green plastic bucket and a brown grocery bag on the floor of the tunnel near the arched passageway—the thirty-ninth passageway from where we started, and thus the sixth passageway from the end.
The bucket had a small amount of hardened concrete in it, and one of those wood paint stirrers was stuck in the concrete. On the ground next to the bucket was a chisel that was six or seven inches long and looked like it was made out of a heavy metal. I peered into the grocery bag. It was one-fifth full of what looked like a mixture of sand and gravel.
“Is this concrete?” I asked, pointing the flashlight beam at the grocery bag.
Benny leaned over to see. “Yep. It’s the ready-mix stuff. You just add water. Stoddard must have brought it in with him. There’s certainly plenty of water for mixing.”
I stepped up into the arched passageway and shined the flashlight into the ceiling. Right in the center was a corroded light fixture. You could see traces of fresh concrete around the edges. I reached up and tugged on the light fixture. I could move it back and forth. Benny joined me.
“Let me,” he said, grasping hold of the light fixture with both hands. “Back up,” he said.
He gave three big pulls, and on the third one the fixture came loose in a shower of crumbling concrete and dust. As Benny brushed the junk out of his hair and off his face, I stepped in and shined the flashlight at what he had exposed.
“Bingo,” I said.
Anderson had chiseled out a large area above the light fixture. Set back in the archway and anchored in concrete was a metal lockbox, turned on its side so that whatever was in it would not fall out when the door was opened.
“That’s it,” Benny said. “Goddamn.”
I pulled the key out of the front pocket of my jeans. I stood on my tiptoes, but the lockbox was just barely out of my reach. “Give me that bucket,” I said to Benny.
“Here,” he said, bending down and wrapping his arms around my thighs. “I’ll pick you up.”
He lifted me high enough to insert the key.
“It fits!” I said in excitement as I turned the key in the lock. The door swung open and I reached inside. I pulled out something heavy wrapped in a plastic bag. “Okay,” I said, and Benny lowered me with a grunt.
We sat down on the edge of the passageway, our legs resting on the floor of the tunnel. Slowly, carefully, I unrolled the black plastic bag on my lap. Inside was a canvas bag, wrapped with three lengths of duct tape. My hands were shaking as I yanked off the last piece of duct tape, reached into the bag, and pulled out Montezuma’s Executor.
“My God,” I breathed as Benny shone the flashlight on it. “It’s incredible.”
I turned it slowly in my hands. Montezuma’s Executor was in the unmistakable shape of an erect penis. The gold column gleamed in the light, the emeralds and rubies sparkled. The craftsmanship was magnificent.
“Jesus Christ,” Benny said. “Look at the size of that thing. That fucking Indian was hung like a horse.”
I rested its base on my thigh. “Look,” I said, pointing at the slit in the head. “That’s where the knife blade went.”
“Jesus.”
I turned it over. There was a wider slit between the two little globes at the base of the column where the knife blade was inserted. As I sat there, holding that remarkable object in my hand, thinking back to who had originally wielded it, up there on the sacrificial pyramid, and for what specific purpose, I shivered—part in awe and part in revulsion.
I checked my watch.
“What time is it?” Benny asked.
“Ten-thirty.”
He shifted his weight from side to side. “Whew,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Not too long now, huh?”
“Turn around,” I said as I gently laid Montezuma’s Executor on the floor of the tunnel. “I need to get that white turtleneck out of your backpack.”
He did.
“Don’t look,” I said as I grasped hold of the dirty turtleneck I wa
s wearing and pulled it off over my head. “Ferd said his men were already in position, right?” I asked Benny as I unfolded the white turtleneck and pulled it over my head.
“He said they’re all set.”
“Did he tell you where all those sharpshooters are?”
“Let’s see,” Benny said, trying to recall. “He said most of them were up on the train trestle. A few were on the edge of the ditch. A couple on the rooftops, a couple on the water tower.”
“You can look,” I said as I tucked the turtleneck into my jeans. I stretched my neck, trying to relax. “Twenty-five minutes to go. It’ll take maybe ten minutes to walk down there, and then—wait a minute. He said most were on the train trestle?”
“Yeah. That’s what he—oh, shit. Where the fuck is that train trestle?”
“Oh, no. It’s at least half a mile from the tunnel opening. He told you he had a couple on the water tower, too? Benny, I don’t even remember a water tower.”
“It must be down there by that fucking train trestle. Jesus Christ, that pinhead’s got his men in the wrong goddamn place. They’re too far away.” Benny slipped off his backpack and pulled out the portable phone.
“Is it safe to call him?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said as he dialed the number. “Those knuckleheads are so far away Panzer won’t hear it ring.” He held the phone to his ear. “Oh, shit. This fucking phone won’t work in here. I can’t believe this.”
My mind was racing. “How far back was that last ladder?”
Benny shook his head helplessly. “I don’t remember. Quarter of a mile? Half a mile? Shit. Shit!”
“Go back there fast,” I said. “That ladder leads up to the surface. Call Ferd from there. Tell him to move his men closer to the tunnel.” I checked my watch. 10:35 p.m. “Tell him where you’re calling from, too. Tell him to send some of his men down that manhole.”
Benny was nodding his head. “Okay. Got it. You stay here, Rachel. Wait for me.” He reached down to pick up his backpack, but then he handed it to me. “I don’t need this. There’s an extra flashlight in there, and some batteries, too.”
“Go, Benny. Hurry.”
“Okay. I’ll be back. Just wait here.”
I watched Benny jog down the tunnel and out of sight. I turned toward the direction of the tunnel opening, which was out of view about six hundred yards further down. I checked my watch. 10:38 p.m. Panzer told me he would wait exactly five minutes and then he’d leave. Which meant I had no more than twenty minutes to figure out what to do, and do it.
I rifled through my options. I was probably safer meeting Panzer without Montezuma’s Executor than with it. He wouldn’t try anything funny if I didn’t have it with me. I could tell him some story, maybe have him follow me into the tunnel with his money, or see if he would wait there while I went back into the tunnel to retrieve it. By then, Benny would have gotten the feds back in position, with several coming down the tunnel from the opposite end. Ferd and his men couldn’t be that far away now. Maybe a few blocks.
Panzer was no bigger than me, I thought, trying to rationalize it. Without a weapon, he shouldn’t be that dangerous. If I could stall Panzer for a while, the feds would either descend on him out there or be waiting for him in here.
I thought of Rafe Salazar. When he finds out about the screw-up, he’s going to be furious, I told myself. The thought of his rage gave me some comfort.
I checked my watch again. 10:43 p.m.
What if everything’s screwed up? I said to myself. Don’t think that way, Rachel. Benny must be up that ladder by now. He’s probably moving them into position even as you stand here.
I looked down at the flashlight in my hand. The light was growing weaker. There was another flashlight in the backpack. I shined the beam on the Executor. Even in the dimmer light, the sparkling of the jewels made the Executor seem incandescent.
But what if Benny hadn’t reached the ladder? What if he’d dropped the phone? What if everything was screwed up?
I studied the Executor, my mind fully revved on adrenaline now. I couldn’t just leave it out there on the ground. I moved the flashlight beam slowly around. I held the beam first on the metal chisel on the ground by the bucket. I reached down and picked up the chisel. I moved the beam to the grocery bag, and then over to the backpack, and then back to the bucket.
I stared down at the flashlight, and then over at the Executor.
I checked my watch. I had exactly eight minutes before I had to start walking down the tunnel.
It might work.
Chapter Thirty-one
At precisely 11:05 p.m. I emerged from the tunnel and stepped out onto the concrete riverbed of the River Des Peres. One hundred feet in front of me, standing beneath the full moon, was Remy Panzer. He was alone and he was facing me. On the ground to his right was a large metal briefcase.
I walked toward him slowly, my eyes scanning back and forth. The concrete banks of the river sloped steeply up toward street level. We seemed to be alone down here. But because the riverbed was so far below street level, I had no way to tell who or what was up there. Don’t count on anyone else, I said to myself. Assume it’s just you and him.
I stopped ten yards from Panzer and turned off my flashlight.
“You’re late,” he said.
“My watch must be slow. Is that the money?”
“It is.”
“Let me see.”
“You let me see,” he said.
“You first.”
“Very well.” He bent down, his eyes never leaving mine, and turned the briefcase on its side. Clicking open the clasps, he raised the top. I stepped a few feet closer. In the bright moonlight I could see the neat stacks of green bills packed into the briefcase.
“How do I know it’s all there?” I asked, trying to stall for time.
“Because I say it is.”
“Maybe I should count it.”
He lowered the lid and locked the briefcase. Standing up, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Your turn. Where is the Executor?”
I gestured over my shoulder toward the tunnels. “Back there.”
“Then go get it,” he snapped. “And hurry.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” He said the words slowly, precisely, his anger starting to show.
I shrugged. “You’ll have to help me. I know where it is, Remy. But I can’t get at it.”
“I cannot believe my ears. We had a deal, young lady,” he snarled. “I bring the money, you bring the Executor. Here is the money. Now bring me the Executor.”
I was surprised by the force of his anger. “You don’t understand, Remy. I know where it is. I found the Executor. I just can’t get it out of where Stoddard hid it.”
Panzer ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair in furious exasperation. “I cannot believe this. I cannot believe this.”
“Listen to me,” I said. “I know where it is. Do you understand that? I found it. It’s in the tunnel. In a lockbox. In the ceiling of a passageway in the wall. It’s there. I’ve seen the lockbox. I just can’t get it open.”
Panzer put his hands on his hips, fists clenched. “AND WHY NOT?”
“Two problems. First, it’s just a little too high for me to reach. Second, the lockbox is anchored in cement. The only way to get the Executor out is to open the lockbox. I don’t have a key. You’re going to have to break the lock. When I called you this afternoon, all I had was Stoddard Anderson’s map. I didn’t find out about these problems until I went in there tonight to get it.”
Panzer stared at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching. And then he spun away, his back to me.
I quickly looked up both sides of the riverbank, straining to see any movement. To my immediate right was the stairway leading down from street level. Why weren’t there twenty
FBI agents charging down those stairs? What was taking them so long?
“Look, Remy, I’m sure we can get it if we work together. The lockbox doesn’t look that strong. You could probably break the lock with a crowbar. Remy?” He still had his back to me, shaking his head.
And then I heard the crunch of tires on loose concrete and the low-pitched rumbling of a car engine. A Pontiac Firebird with a dark-tinted windshield was slowly coming down the riverbed toward us, headlights off. It came to a halt in front of Remy Panzer, who now had his face raised toward the moon. A perfect mirror image of the moon was reflected in the tinted windshield.
Both of us stood there in silence for a moment, facing the car. The only noise was an occasional metallic thock from the cooling engine block.
And then both car doors opened simultaneously. A short, bearded man stepped out of the passenger side. He was wearing a baggy white dress shirt (sleeves rolled up), baggy khakis, and wire-rim glasses. A moment later, Rafe Salazar stepped out from the driver’s side. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. Both of them were carrying handguns. The bearded man’s handgun had a silencer screwed onto the end of the barrel.
Rafe stared at me. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice flat.
I smiled bravely. “Sure,” I said a little uncertainly, my mind shouting, What’s wrong with this picture? “I was kind of nervous there for a while,” I added.
He nodded curtly. No smile, no warmth.
The bearded man took a step toward Panzer. “Where is it?”
Panzer gestured angrily toward me. “She says it’s in the tunnel. In a lockbox. She says she couldn’t reach it, and she says she doesn’t have a key to open it.”
“Shit,” the bearded man said harshly. He turned to me, pointing the gun. “What kind of lock?”
I looked at Rafe. “What’s going on?”
Rafe’s eyes were cold. “Answer his question, Rachel.”
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked as the earth began to tilt. “Where’s Ferd? Where are his men?”
Rafe’s stare met mine. “Twenty miles north of here,” he said. “Staking out the playground behind an abandoned elementary school, which is precisely where I told him tonight’s rendezvous would take place. He and his men have been there since six o’clock.”
Death Benefits Page 29