by Mike Cooper
A long beat. Asher, who’d been focused on Nicola and her equipment, looked up, grimacing.
“That’s bullshit.” Jake, speaking for everyone.
“I agree.”
“You can’t do something like this for free. The boring rig alone is going to cost thirteen grand.”
“Yup.”
“And even if we dug our way in with shovels, how do we get paid if he’s got no money?”
The complaints became general, except for Nicola, who frowned slightly and said nothing. Finn let them grouse awhile.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, when the muttering died down. “I got nothing else lined up. As you know.”
“I quit my job and drove all the way across the country!” Asher, aggrieved.
Corman looked at him. “You quit?”
But Jake’s expression eased. “Wait a minute. You’ve got an idea, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes.” Finn nodded.
“And?”
“We need front money. Takes money to make money, right? But Wes says he’s not liquid.”
“What?”
“Says he’s broke. Happy to pay us all we want when we’re done, once he gets over this cash-flow hump, but until then, we’re on our own.”
“Yeah …”
“So,” Finn shrugged, “we’re going to have to bootstrap.”
“Uh-huh.” Corman, unimpressed. “Bootstrap a hundred grand.”
“Plus or minus.”
“If we had that much, we might not need to do the damn job in the first place,” said Asher, pointing out the obvious.
A siren in the distance, maybe out on the Garden State, silenced them for a minute. When it faded away, Nicola raised her hand like a student at her desk.
“Uh, yes, Nicola?”
“You don’t seem to bothered by this development.”
“Well—”
“You know how to get the money we need, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Want to share?”
“Wes may not have any cash lying around.” Finn felt a small smile. “But he likes cars.”
“Cars?”
“Nice cars. Fast, expensive cars.” Pause. “In fact, he collects them.”
The mood changed.
“I like cars, too,” she said. “Especially the fast, expensive kind.”
“We’d have to work fast,” Finn said. “Schedule’s too damn tight already.”
Only Asher was unmoved.
“You’re talking about a whole second job,” he said. “Doubles the work, practically. Where are all these shiny roadsters? I assume Wes lives in some huge mansion. Electric fences, alarms, guard service, dogs, God knows what.”
“There are far too many to keep in the garage. He’s got a warehouse in Windham County. Outside Hartford somewhere.”
“Ah.” He looked a little more happy. “But still—”
“This one is easy,” Finn said. “What do you say? Want to do it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Their cash had gone, but the expenses weren’t going to disappear. From here on out, they had to be creative. So, bright and early the next morning, sunshine on the streets and an arepa from a pushcart in one hand, Finn dialed the broker.
“Hey, I was just thinking about you. How’s it going?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Corporate’s on board?”
“They just want to get this done.”
“Then we’re all the same page.” The broker laughed.
The streetlight changed, and a massive garbage hauler lurched into motion, engine roaring. Finn waited until the noise eased.
“I’m ready to sign the papers,” he said. “But there’s a hitch.”
“Oh?”
“We’re in the usual year-end cash-flow crunch.”
“Yes … ?”
“On the other hand, prospects are looking even better than I thought. So I tell you what—forget the short term, we’ll sign a five-year lease.”
“Excellent!”
“However …”
A long beat. “Yes?”
“You’ll have to abate the first quarter’s rent.”
Silence.
“But … I’m afraid … I don’t think that’s going to be possible.”
“Hey, I’m not asking for a discount. Just roll it into the next three quarters. Hell, you want to balloon it all at the end, that’s fine, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Like I said, this is just about cash flow.” Finn took a bite of arepa and spoke around it. “Our order book is solid. But I can’t talk anyone into paying in advance—you know how it goes.”
The broker laughed again, less convincingly. “Yeah, but—”
“So, okay, I’m asking for some help over the hurdle, but I know you can’t do this for free. Help me make this happen, and maybe I can help you out, okay? Throw a couple extra points in the back end, and I’ll make sure we pay them down first.”
“Uh …”
“We can get this done as soon as possible. That’s got to be good for your quota, am I wrong?”
“Well, ah, we—”
“And if it’ll help smooth the way, let’s see … I could make the bonus three points.” Finn paused, wondering if he was going to have to spell it out. “If necessary, on a separate invoice.”
“Oh. Okay. Okay!” The broker came back strong, finally catching on. “Got you, right. No, I don’t think we have to make the paperwork complicated.”
“Good.”
“In fact, we can probably handle that piece informally.”
Finn smiled. “Indeed.”
“On an accelerated schedule, though. To make things as expeditious as possible.”
The arepa was only half gone, but Finn tossed it into a trash can at the corner. “When were you thinking?” he said.
“No need to waste time.” The broker was back to his usual cheerful self. “How about this afternoon?”
Late in the day, David met Sean on the old bridge across the rails at the neck of the classification yard, where the incoming line branched into numerous parallel tracks, one after another. The span was ancient cast iron, as old as the yard itself, and Penn Southern maintained it out of nostalgia more than anything. The walkway had a few weathered milk crates and a heap of cigarette butts lying around—the switchies came up for breaks when the weather was good.
The sun was setting behind Newark, orange sky fading into dark purple. A few yard locomotives pushed cuts around below them, clanking here and there. Long rows of flatcars and tankers and gondolas stood silent, waiting their turns.
“I like it up here,” David said, ignoring the pain in his knees from the climb. “You don’t get nearly as good a view from the dispatch tower.”
“All those cars.” Sean leaned on the rail, looking over the acres of track and rolling stock. “Hard to imagine how they did it in the old days, keeping track of everything on paper and chalkboards.”
“They were smarter back then. Computers make us dumb.”
Sean looked at the phone in his hand, then put it away. “Sure thing, boss.”
“You sound like my grandkids. Right, Grandpa. Uh-huh, sure.”
A fully assembled train eased its way out through the north portal, the long row of autoracks and containers rattling beneath them. David gave the engineer a half salute, and the locomotive’s whistle sounded briefly.
“The shop is working on a flatbed for the excavator,” Sean said. “Welding on some new supports, adding tie-down points. Shouldn’t be a problem to shift it off the railcar.”
“What were you doing in there?”
“Naw, I wasn’t in the shop. I ran into the foreman in the cafeteria. He didn’t seem worried about it.”
“I’m sure they’ll move it in and move it out, no problem.” David gestured to the parking lot in front of the administration buildings. “The trouble’s going to be over there.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“They want to protest, where else can they go? The rest of the perimeter is just a big fence. The entrance is the logical gathering space.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
“If it were up to me? Absolutely nothing. So long as they’re not throwing themselves across the tracks, I don’t care. If we keep the doors and the yard gate locked, all they can do is stand around. We could have a few guys outside, offer them coffee.”
“So is it up to you?”
“Of course not.” David shrugged. “Boggs thinks the best response is to put a hundred paramilitaries in deep ranks with shields and beanbag shotguns. Maybe borrow that new sonic cannon the Newark police just got. You know, just to keep everyone calm.”
Sean laughed. “He really does want a riot, doesn’t he?”
The sun was low enough in the smoggy sky to clear the lowermost cloud cover, and its last rays illuminated the dispatch tower in a blaze of yellow light. David wished he had his camera.
“With any luck, it’ll be ten degrees and sleeting,” he said. “And everyone will go home after half an hour.”
“Could happen.”
“Boggs is going to be here himself, you know.”
“Really?” Sean was surprised.
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“But if he’s here, and something goes sideways …”
“I know. It’s all on Boggs. He can’t blame someone else.” David nodded. “Which is maybe why the battalion of riot troops.”
“Oh, man.” Sean grinned. “This is gonna be great.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Finn picked Emily up down the street from the Heart Pine offices, stopping in front of a hydrant. It was after six, streetlights on, the block seeming darker because of plastic-wrapped scaffolding looming up a tower under renovation. She didn’t see him or recognize the vehicle, so he got out and waved.
She walked up laughing.
“What is this thing? It’s so cute!” The microtruck had a tiny two-person cab and an open bed. A blunt front and round headlights that gave it a toddler’s toy-car look. It rode on tires much smaller than normal. The entire vehicle was barely over five feet tall, less than that wide, and about twelve feet long.
“It’s a Kei truck,” Finn said. “And we need it for the job. Hop in.”
Inside, he sat hunched, his head brushing the roof, knees bent under the wheel. Emily got in the other side.
“Where did this come from? A carnival ride?”
“Bought it from a community college over in Jersey. Their maintenance guys were trading up.”
“I thought you didn’t have any money left.”
“That was the last of it.”
The cab was still littered with old papers, fast-food debris, and dirt. As Finn shoved the gearshift and moved back into traffic, something clattered around in the bed behind them.
“They didn’t bother cleaning it up for you.” Emily kept her bag in her lap.
“It was kind of an informal transaction.”
“I hope you’re not planning to drive on the interstate.” The engine whined as Finn pushed it up to thirty-five. “Or even the parkways.”
Finn looked over at her. “Would you rather walk home?”
“Oh, no. This is fun.”
Crosstown rush hour was slow, pedestrian crowds dense at the corners. Finn kept to the smaller streets. Emily had her window open a few inches, and they drove past evening restaurant smells: smoke, fryer oil, a tang of spice. Illuminated signs glowed in the falling dusk.
“I checked the records,” Emily said, getting down to business. “On his estate.”
“Have to say I’m still surprised Wes keeps his personal bookkeeping in the office.”
“None of us actually work on it for him—he has an accountant come in.”
“Hmm.” Finn changed lanes, irritating a livery car driver. Horns blew. “What did you find out?”
“He’s insured, barely. Burn down his mansion, he could build one maybe half as big.”
“No need for that.”
“And I didn’t know he had a yacht.”
“Oh?”
“Forty-seven feet long. Funny he never talks about it.”
Finn glanced at her. “These files are out in the open? Not locked up? Any of you could flip through them whenever you want?”
“There are keys.” She paused. “I need to know where they are, because I work with the auditors every year. Wes’s private cabinet happens to be there, too.”
“He didn’t notice?”
“Don’t worry about it. I went in early, before anyone else this morning.”
Finn didn’t want her getting caught. It would blow the plan, of course.
But he didn’t want her getting in trouble, either.
“So the cars …” he said.
“His insurance rates will go up.” Emily shrugged. “A lot, probably.”
They drove into the Midtown Tunnel, inching along in the homeward tide. In the tube, it was dim and claustrophobic, the walls stained and damp.
“I’m not sure how to put this,” Finn said, eyes on the endless taillights glowing ahead of them.
Emily waited. “Yes?”
“Have you switched sides?”
“Hmm.”
“Before you were, I don’t know, Wes’s right-hand woman. Or something. Now …”
“I haven’t switched sides.” She turned to face him. “But when you come out of the vault with all that metal? Wes starts to circle much, much closer to the drain.”
They’d been circling around the question themselves. Finn wanted it out in the open. “That insurance you mentioned isn’t going to help, I take it.”
She laughed. “Nope. And that’s also the point when I bail out.”
“Good.”
“Wes is going down that drain by himself.”
It eased Finn’s worries. In fact, the more he thought about it, the better he felt.
“Exactly,” he said.
They finally came out of the tunnel, into the scratchy night of Queens. Off the highway, the surface roads were no less crowded, taxis and commuters and the occasional bus jostling for lane space. Finn followed Emily’s directions, alongside train tracks and then down Forty-Seventh Street for blocks and blocks.
He slowed and double-parked where she indicated, in front of a narrow three-story tenement with a tiny yard enclosed in chain link. Finn looked up at it.
“Not what I expected,” he said.
“No?”
“A downtown loft? Tribeca penthouse? I don’t know, I thought all you one-percenters needed twenty thousand square feet and a helipad.”
“I’m an employee. If I had that kind of money … Fuck, I sure wouldn’t be working for Wes.”
Finn grimaced. “Me neither.”
“Thanks for the ride.” Emily’s hand was on the door release, but she didn’t open it.
“Sure.” He glanced over. “How about I take you out to dinner?”
“Now?”
“Yeah. But, um, the fact is …” He frowned.
“What?”
“I don’t have much money left. Buying this truck cleaned me out. So it’ll have to be cheap.”
Emily laughed. “I think I can cover it. This time.”
Jimena’s was small, bright, and cheerful. Yellow walls, dark wood. Finn eased his way into a narrow gap, jostling the table. That dislodged the candle in its center, a dim flame inside a sphere of red glass. The candle holder rolled off the table and Finn caught it just below the edge, one-hand
ed.
“Nice,” said Emily. The candle hadn’t even gone out.
Finn settled it, and himself, back in place. “Lucky.”
They didn’t spend much time on the menu, which was scrawled on a chalkboard behind the counter. “I usually get hilachas,” said Emily. “The chuchitos are good, too.”
“Sounds fine to me.”
The waiter appeared and agreed, taking their orders on a plain notepad, filling water glasses out of a plastic pitcher, and pointing out a list of beers they had in bottles. He wandered away, checked in with the two other occupied tables—half the room’s seating—and disappeared into the kitchen. Latin pop drifted from a radio in the back, along with banging pans and the hum of a blower fan.
The waiter dropped off two SingleCut beers—no glasses, but at least they’d been opened—and Finn raised his to Emily. “Cheers.”
“By the way,” she said, “did you know your girl Nicola is a climber?”
“Really?”
“We got to talking a bit at the diner.”
“Not about the job, I hope.”
“Just climbing.”
“She as strong as you?”
“Stronger, maybe. Not as good a climber.” No false modesty for Emily. “Just spends time on the wall now and then.”
“You looked really good.” He let it hang a moment. “On the wall.”
A brilliant smile. “Thanks.”
The chuchitos were smaller than regular tamales, sprinkled with a hard, salty cheese. Finn took his time, appreciating the flavors. Emily worked on her shredded beef.
“If you’re so broke you can’t buy me dinner,” she said, “how are you funding the, ah, project?”
“The cars, of course. We also got the warehouse for nothing—well, eighteen hundred bucks.” He described his dealings with the broker. “Actually, that was a bit much, but I didn’t want to argue with him.”
“Another informal transaction.”
“He gets some pocket money and a signed lease. We won’t default until the next calendar year, which is forever in broker time. Seems like a win-win to me.”
They both went for the recado sauce at the same time, bumping hands. He caught her eye, and the moment extended.
Emily broke it, returning to her meal and looking away with an amused expression Finn couldn’t interpret. Another few customers came in. The server bustled about.