Strange Bedfellows

by Rob Byrnes

  The cocker spaniel barked. Grant kept moving.

  The cop tried again. “You with the trash! I said to stop right there!”

  Grant finally stopped, and then he turned very slowly. “Can I help you?”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Uh…trash?”

  While the cop jogged up to him, Grant undid the twist-tie and hoped the man in the hallway wasn’t the best-disguised heroin dealer in the neighborhood. The cop hovered over the bag and sifted inside for a few seconds with his nightstick before motioning for Grant to close it.

  “One word of advice,” the cop said. “Ease up on those frozen éclairs.”

  “I’ll do that, officer.”

  “Trust me on that, my friend. See this gut?” The cop patted his own stomach. “Two years ago I couldn’t see my feet. I was hooked on those things. But I gave ’em up, and now I’m a new man. Understand?”

  Grant nodded. “Absolutely. Consider these my last frozen éclairs.”

  The cop patted Grant on the shoulder. “I know they’re creamy and chocolaty and just about the best-tasting treat ever, but—”

  “Got it.”

  The cop felt his stomach one more time, then half turned until he could see both Grant and Chase. “Okay, then. In that case, please call nine-one-one if you see anything suspicious.”

  “Come to think of it,” said Chase, “there are some gangstas on the roof right now.”

  “Gangstas?”

  “Yeah. They’re on the roof. With a rope ladder.”

  The cops looked at each other in wonder that this crime-solving tip had just fallen into their laps. Seconds later they were bounding up the staircase.

  Although the one cop did have to stop and lecture the old guy with the fussily curly white hair when he passed the third-floor landing and caught him eating a frozen éclair.

  The good news with trying to pull a job so close to home was that they could walk back to their apartment, so even though they’d gotten out of there with nothing, at least they weren’t out the cost of a couple of subway fares. And Chase kept trying to convince Grant that their flight up and down stairs and across rooftops even counted as getting fresh air and exercise, a fine point Grant didn’t seem to appreciate. He didn’t much care for fresh air and exercise.

  But there really was something to be said about not getting caught. They both tried to keep that in mind. It not only kept their perfect record of not getting caught intact after almost twenty years together—and a few more than twenty for Grant in this particular business—it also meant they wouldn’t be going to The Tombs that night.

  They were approaching their apartment building and Grant had almost worked himself into a normal mood—meaning not happy, but not as unhappy as he’d been when the cops had interrupted their job—when Chase again announced, “I’m vibrating.”

  Grant sighed. “Jamie Brock again?”

  Chase fished the phone from his pocket. “Jamie Brock again. Should I answer it?”

  “No,” said Grant.

  “Yes,” said a voice that wasn’t Grant’s.

  They turned, and there stood Jamie Brock. In the flesh.

  Chapter Two

  Jamie Brock smiled and ran a hand through his tousled hair, no doubt recently cut at an expensive Manhattan salon and, knowing Jamie, no doubt paid for in something other than cash. He wasn’t much younger than they were, but there was something annoyingly boyish about him that could always be counted on to set Grant off. And it did.

  Yeah, Jamie had a weathered look to his face. But it was the weathered look of someone who’d spent too much time in the sun and wind—in other words, the weather—as opposed to the OTB parlor or corner bar. And he more than overcompensated for his lived-in complexion with the trendiest hair and clothing styles, which—coupled with that annoyingly boyish demeanor—made his real age indecipherable to most people.

  But Grant Lambert could decipher it, and while it was bad enough that Chase, Grant’s partner of eighteen years, looked much younger than him, Jamie’s ability to pass almost as his son—or at least much younger brother, and at least in very bad lighting—was almost too much to bear at times. Especially times like this, when Grant’s mad dash across rooftops only to return home with empty pockets contrasted so unfavorably to Jamie’s facile charm and mysterious sources of income.

  So Grant did what Grant tended to do and pretended he didn’t have a problem, although—when dealing with Jamie—that was always easier said than done.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” His tone wasn’t really a clue that he had a problem with Jamie; he talked to most people that way. “Last I remember, you couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag, let alone Manhattan.”

  Jamie smiled, and damn if he didn’t rub it in again—by now Grant was convinced he was doing it on purpose—by rumpling his hair. “I’m getting around a lot more. Spreading my wings! Moving all over this big, beautiful city without a care!”

  Grant ran his eyes up and down the street until he spotted the bright yellow car parked with its lights out a few buildings away. “You took that cab, right?”

  “Uh…Yeah, okay. Anyway, I’ve been trying to reach you guys.”

  “We know,” said Grant. “You kept bothering us while we were working.”

  “You were on a job tonight? Sorry. I didn’t know. How did it go?”

  “Perfect.” Anyone who wasn’t Jamie Brock could have seen through that lie by reading the sour expression on Grant’s face, but Jamie would never be that perceptive.

  Chase, sensing an eruption was coming if he didn’t defuse the situation, diplomatically stepped between them. “So what’s the problem, Jamie? You seem sort of desperate.”

  Jamie looked perplexed. “Do I?”

  “Uh…yeah, a little.” Chase pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through the list of missed calls. “You tried to call me fourteen times.”

  “And you showed up here,” added Grant. “In front of our house. In the middle of the night.” He looked back down the street. “In a cab.”

  Jamie glanced at his watch. Grant noticed it looked like a Rolex and was sure it wasn’t a real Rolex. “It’s not the middle of the night. It’s only 1:00 a.m.” He tossed a smile at Grant. “You sure are getting old, Grant.”

  “Shuddup.”

  Chase tried to get the conversation back on track. “So, you’re here because…?”

  Jamie glanced up and down the almost-treeless street. “Can we go up to your apartment and talk in private?”

  “No.” There was a firmness in Grant’s voice. Which wasn’t unusual.

  “Okay, then.” Jamie shrugged. “I think I have a job for you.”

  Grant’s head dropped. “When you bring us jobs, they don’t seem to turn out all that good. So I’m gonna say no.”

  “But…”

  “No.”

  “But…”

  “No!”

  Chase, again the peacemaker, stepped up to his partner. “Grant, let’s hear this out. And then we can say no. Jamie? Please continue.”

  Jamie scuffed his loafers against a crack in the sidewalk. “Well…okay, I know some things have gone a little bit wrong in the past, but this one can’t miss.” Seeing they remained unconvinced, he hurried to continue before the definitive refusal came. “This is a simple breaking-and-entering job. Get in, get the goods, bring them back to the guy who’s hiring us—”

  Grant cleared his throat. “Us?”

  “Us.”

  “You mean you’re going on the job with me and Chase?”

  “Well, no. Of course not. But I’m bringing you the job, so I’m a part of it. Anyway, you steal this thing, bring it to the guy, and collect our money. Maybe three or four hours out of your life, and we’ll make ten grand.”

  Grant raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s paying ten thousand dollars for a few hours to do a simple retrieval operation? In that case, it don’t sound so simple.”

  Jamie dropped his v
oice and kicked again at the sidewalk. “It’s a simple job. But it’s important. See, there’s this congresswoman I’ve become friends with—”

  “Huh?”

  Chase was going to try to stop Grant’s cynicism, but let it go. Because he was wondering the same thing.

  “And how does someone like you become friends with a congresswoman?”

  Jamie shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “We travel in the same circle of friends out in the Hamptons.”

  Grant shook his head. “I think I get it. You and your fellow Hamptons bloodsuckers met a little old lady with a lot of money who happens to be a congresswoman—”

  “No!” Jamie thought for a moment. “Well…okay, yes. But you’re making it sound really tawdry.”

  “It is really tawdry.”

  Again, Jamie ran his fingers through his hair. The highlights picked up a glow from the one working streetlight on the block, and Grant thought he might scream.

  “Whatever. Anyway, she’s retiring when her term is up at the end of this year, and her son-in-law is running in the election to replace her. Follow?” Grant nodded noncommittally. “Triple-C just loves him, but there’s a little problem. You see—”

  Grant held up a hand to silence Jamie. “Wait a minute. What’s a Triple-C?”

  “I think it’s a bra size,” Chase guessed, but he wasn’t sure because he hadn’t seen a bra that wasn’t being worn by a drag queen in almost thirty years.

  Jamie set them straight. “No, Triple-C is the congresswoman. Catherine Cooper Concannon. Triple-C. Get it?” Grant snarled; Jamie either missed it or ignored it. “So she loves the idea that her son-in-law will replace her. See, there’s the whole family dynasty thing going on, and the son-in-law’s the last link. Still follow?”

  “Close enough. But why don’t you skip ahead to the part that has to do with me and Chase so I can say no, throw you off my stoop, and get some sleep.”

  Jamie tossed off a knowing smile that put Grant about twenty seconds away from punching him in his probably-courtesy-of-surgery-perfect nose.

  “Well, it is sort of important how all these people go together.”

  “Not to me.”

  Jamie sighed. Sometimes Grant Lambert had no appreciation for the narrative, which is why he’d always be a small-timer. Jamie was dealing with congresswomen, and Grant was dealing with fences and chop-shops. But if Grant wanted to know about the job, and only about the job, Jamie would jump ahead to the job.

  “So Austin—Austin Peebles; that’s Triple-C’s son-in-law—got himself in some trouble with his Twitter account.”

  While Grant tried to figure out what that meant, Chase—who understood exactly what that meant—stepped forward.

  “I think Jamie means this Peebles guy sent, uh, risqué pictures of himself to someone, Grant.”

  “Right,” Jamie confirmed. “Dick pics!”

  “I get that,” said Grant, who hadn’t the slightest clue until Chase sort of explained, and still hadn’t fully embraced the concept. One day he was going to have to learn to use that machine. “So this Triple-C is paying ten thousand dollars to get back this Twitter thing?”

  Jamie smiled and rolled his heavily lidded eyes in Chase’s direction, giving him a “your partner is so out of touch” look that decreased the time in which Grant wanted to punch him in the nose from twenty seconds to that immediate moment. But Chase stared him down—it wasn’t a Grant Lambert stare, but it did what it had to do—so he let it go.

  Chase’s words were calculated to rein in Jamie while minimizing any embarrassment Grant might feel for being trapped in the 1980s when it came to technology. And yes, there were still times when Grant said “telex” when he meant “fax,” and did anyone even fax anymore? Grant probably thought they did.

  “So let me see if I have this straight, Jamie. This Peebles fellow used his camera phone to take an inappropriate photo, then uploaded that photo to his online Twitter account, where other people could see it.”

  Jamie wondered why Chase was speaking so slowly and awkwardly. His own answer was quick and concise. “Right. He tweeted a dick pic to the world!”

  “What’s that?” Grant again felt as if he was learning a new language.

  “A picture of his penis.”

  Chase blocked them again. “I think Grant was wondering what a tweet is.” He patted his partner’s arm. “He already knows what a dick is.”

  “I sure do,” Grant said evenly as he stared at Jamie.

  Chase kept pretending everything was fine. “When you send a message on Twitter, it’s like an e-mail…sort of. But it’s out in public, and anyone can see it, and it’s called a tweet.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Chase closed his eyes and sighed. “Just punch Jamie and get this over with.”

  Which Grant considered while Chase reconsidered and turned back to Jamie to wrap up the situation as he understood it. “So this guy tweeted a dick shot and his mother-in-law wants it gone. Is that the story?”

  “Not her. I don’t know what she even knows. But there’s an intermediary—”

  “So this son-in-law—”

  “Peebles. Austin Peebles.”

  “He’s the intermediary?”

  “No, the intermediary is someone else.”

  “Whatever. Peebles is paying the ten grand?”

  “No,” said Jamie. “Austin doesn’t have that kind of cash lying around. His wife controls the purse strings. His wife controls everything.”

  Grant, having finally mostly figured out what the hell they were talking about, brought himself back into the conversation. “So do you want to tell me who’s paying up?”

  “The campaign committee.”

  Grant didn’t like that. “I don’t like that. Plus, I don’t usually work for other people. I’m what you call an independent businessman.”

  “Are you sure? We’re talking ten grand—well, minus my finder’s fee, of course—for only a few hours of work. You’d be able to pay your rent on this place for the next year and never break a sweat.”

  “With you,” said Grant, “things are never as easy as they sound. And they always involve sweat.”

  “Sometimes that’s true,” Jamie agreed. “But this time, I’ve brought you a piece of cake.”

  Again, Chase took over the conversation. “Okay, Jamie, suppose we do take this job—”

  “We ain’t taking it.”

  “But suppose we do. What is there about it you aren’t telling us?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Everything I know, you know.”

  “That’s what scares me,” muttered Grant.

  “No, seriously.” Jamie again ran a hand through his hair; again, Grant resented it. “It should be an easy job. I’d do it myself, but I’m not really a b-and-e kind of guy.”

  “Which doesn’t mean your hands aren’t dirty,” snarled Grant.

  Jamie was agitated. “You know, Grant, I could just grab my cab over there, go back to Manhattan, and find a better crook. A more cooperative crook.”

  “But still you’re here. Bothering us.”

  “Well…” Jamie’s expression clouded over, and his foot started playing with the crack in the sidewalk again. He’d come without a Plan B and only now realized that was a mistake. He said “Well…” again and then shut up.

  After he’d let Jamie twist for an uncomfortably long period, Grant said, “Okay. Ten thousand dollars. You say a few hours’ work, but what makes you so sure?”

  Jamie rebounded quickly for a man with no Plan B. “Triple-C’s chief of staff is also her son-in-law’s campaign manager. He’s the intermediary. Follow?”

  “I not only follow, I’m already getting a headache.”

  “So this guy—Kevin; Kevin Wunder—well, I’ve gotten to know him on the Hamptons circuit, and—”

  Grant stopped him. “Is he gay?”

  “Kevin Wunder? No.”

  “Is this Peebles guy gay?”

  A smile crossed Jamie’s lips. “I wis
h! But no. Why?”

  “Just trying to figure out what you have on these people.”

  Jamie seemed to be offended. Almost. If he wasn’t so casually superficial, it might have worked.

  “Grant, I’m shocked!” One hand went to his chest; the other, of course, to his hair. “I’m friends with Kevin Wunder, and I’ve met Austin Peebles, but I have no interior motives!”

  Grant cocked an eyebrow. “Interior?”

  Jamie tried to stare him down and failed miserably. “Not the right word?”

  “Ulterior.”

  If Jamie had known the word “pedantic,” he’d have used it at that moment. But he didn’t, so he brushed it off.

  “Interior…ulterior…close enough. Anyway, I’m just helping Kevin—and Triple-C, and Austin Peebles—as a friend. That’s all. No sex. No drugs. No…no scams.” Grant and Chase both noticed that brief verbal stumble. “Nothing like that.”

  “Uh-huh.” Grant let his gaze drift down the row of beat-up brownstones lining the block before returning it to Jamie. “So this Wunder guy. Why’d he ask you?”

  “I guess he figured I knew people.”

  Grant allowed himself a smile. “That means he’s made you. Which means your latest Hamptons scam is almost over. Once you’ve helped them pull this job, you’d better find yourself a new carcass to feed on. Here’s some free advice: Keep a little something on these people. Don’t give it all up or you’ll be finished.” And that, he left unsaid, is the nicest I’ve ever been to you, and the nicest I ever will be.

  Jamie ignored him—Grant was so negative sometimes—and turned to Chase. “So I suppose you’re still good on a computer? Because I think we’ll need someone who’s good on a computer.”

  “I’m not ready to run an IT department, but I’ve got skills.”

  “Get to the point, Jamie,” said Grant before Jamie had a chance to ask what IT meant. Or before Grant could, for that matter.

  Jamie bit his lip. “It’d be easier if I let the guy explain it.”

  “The guy?”

  “The guy who wants to hire you. The intermediary! Kevin Wunder!”

  Grant scowled. “This Wunder better live up to his name.”