by Rob Byrnes
While Grant poured, Chase remembered one name Grant had forgotten. “We also have an insider on the job.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Austin Peebles. The candidate himself.”
Farraday stared at him. “How’d you manage that?”
“Mary Beth brought him on board.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She can be very convincing when she wants to be.”
That night, the gang sat in Lisa and Mary Beth’s well-appointed apartment in Long Island City and drank coffee—except Farraday, who drank something amber and strong—while they went over details of the following day’s game plan. This was the time to ask questions and make sure everything was clear; tomorrow would be too late.
“We start the first job at six thirty in the morning,” said Grant, who’d commandeered Lisa’s favorite chair. “Farraday, you’re gonna get a truck and drive over to June Forteene’s office on Eighth Avenue. Nick and Jamie will meet you there.”
Jamie scrunched his face. “Six thirty in the morning? Can’t you put me on one of the later jobs? I’m not really a morning person.”
“Just be there,” growled Farraday, shutting Jamie up before turning his attention to Grant. “What kind of truck you want?”
“I don’t know. Just a pickup, I guess. We’ll need something big enough to hold all the computers and other crap we’ve gotta collect. But nothing too obvious. I figure something like a moving van would look obvious.”
Farraday nodded. “I know what we need, and it’s not a pickup. It’s a garbage truck.”
“A garbage truck?” Over several decades of criminal activity, that was one form of transportation Grant had never considered. Leave it to Farraday…
“We can mash everything we collect.” Their wheelman sounded a little too enthusiastic. “Grind it to a pulp.”
Grant didn’t think that was a bad idea. “Okay, then, grab a garbage truck. Nick’s already been to June’s office and knows the layout. Plus, he can fit through the transom.”
Farraday nodded toward Jamie. “Why him?”
“’Cause I make it for a three-man job. Also it’s the place he can do the least amount of damage.”
“Hey!”
“No offense.” Grant continued, “You guys clean out her office, toss it in the back of Farraday’s garbage truck, and drive over to Peebles’s campaign headquarters on Lex. Any questions?”
Nick raised his hand. “I can be a supervillain, right?”
“Knock yourself out, kid.”
Chase, who’d been leaning against a wall, stood forward. “Just to clarify, he means you should wear your supervillain attitude.”
“Right,” Grant agreed. “Attitude.”
Nick ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair and nodded his agreement. If anyone thought he didn’t fully grasp what they meant by “attitude,” they might have been correct.
“Any other questions?”
“Do I have to—” Jamie started to ask before Grant cut him off and pointed to Mary Beth and Lisa.
“You two are gonna meet Peebles at his campaign headquarters at seven.” The women nodded in unison. “You’ve confirmed he’s got the keys?”
“He texted me an hour ago.” Mary Beth held up her phone. “He’s got the keys and he’s psyched.”
“Great. By the time Farraday gets there, you should have everything packed up and ready to throw into the truck. Any questions?”
Angelina raised one hand and pointed at Mary Beth with the other. “I’ve got a question. How come she gets to spend all this time with Austin Peebles? Maybe some of the rest of us would like to…”
Grant brushed her comment off. “We don’t have time for this now. If you ladies want to fight over Peebles after the jobs are over, go right ahead.” He looked at the list in his hand. “Next up is Chrissy.”
“Here!”
“You’re gonna meet me and Chase around the corner from June’s apartment on Second Avenue near the UN. Be there at seven twenty and bring a big empty handbag.”
“Got it.”
“We’re gonna have to grab her cell and laptop out on the street. It’ll be a little tricky, ’cause the General Assembly’s going on and there’s a lot of cops in the area, but we’ll work it out. Worst-case scenario is we make it look like a mugging, hand her stuff off to you, and keep running. If there are cops, they’ll chase us, not you. All you’ll have to do is disappear into the crowd.”
“Got it,” she said. “Disappearing into crowds is my specialty. But I’m not crazy about the thought of you guys playing cop bait.”
Grant wasn’t crazy about that, either. “Let’s hope things run smoothly so it doesn’t come to that.” He glanced back down at his outline. “After you’ve got June’s stuff, head up to Kevin Wunder’s apartment on East Eighty-first Street.”
Angelina smiled at Constance. “Here comes our part!”
“Right,” said Grant. “And here’s an opportunity for some improvisation. Wunder leaves for work on the early side, so we don’t want to just steal his stuff, we have to slow him down. You’re gonna have to interrupt his routine somehow. Create a diversion or whatever.”
Constance nodded. “You want a big show, I’ll give you a big show.”
“Whatever it takes. You and Angelina get the ball rolling, and Chrissy can help when she gets there.”
“Help?” Constance was offended. “I don’t need any help. I’ve been in this business longer than you have, Grant Lambert.”
He sighed. He hated it when criminals got their backs up at an inappropriate moment. “That’s not what I meant. It won’t do us any good if he gets to work while we’re robbing the place. We wanna make sure we have a lot of people in his way.”
She still wasn’t happy—she preferred to work alone—but got it. “I’ll make sure he has a lot to clean up after we’re done with him. Police reports and all that jazz.”
“Good, good.” There was only one more item on his list. “And then, no later than eight o’clock, we’re all gonna meet outside Congresswoman Concannon’s office on the Upper East Side. Wunder’s the only one who gets there before eight thirty, but he’s gonna be delayed. All we have to do is go up the elevator, pick a few locks, and steal some computers. Farraday will meet us with the garbage truck, we’ll throw everything inside, and we should be out of there in fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”
“A piece of cake,” said Chase.
“As long as no one drops the ball.”
Farraday shook his head. “If you can pull off five jobs in an hour and a half, you’ll be legendary, Lambert. The delinquents down in Juvie will all know your name.”
Grant slumped a bit in Lisa’s favorite chair. “Let’s worry about the work, not the legends.” He looked around the room. “Any last questions?”
No one piped up.
“Are we good on this?”
The gang nodded their assent, keeping any private doubts to themselves.
“Okay, then…” Grant Lambert took one last look around the room. “Get some sleep and be ready to roll out very early tomorrow morning.”
Fifteen minutes later, Grant and Chase were the last people to leave Lisa and Mary Beth’s apartment. As the elevator descended, Chase smiled.
“I feel really good about this job.”
“You do?” Grant frowned. “’Cause I feel terrible. Someone’s going to screw this up.”
“Stop being such a pessimist. Everyone seems to be on the same page.”
“I hope you’re right.” He stared at the descending numbers on the panel above the door. “I just don’t trust people.”
It was still on the early side and Jamie Brock saw no reason to rush home. Fortunately, when he found his way back to Manhattan he realized he was only a few blocks away from the Penthouse, one of his favorite East Side gay bars.
But he knew he had to be responsible. He would have two drinks and go home. Just enough to unwind; not enough to disrupt his life.
What
could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Sixteen
Grant Lambert hadn’t slept all night. Neither had Chase LaMarca. Some members of their gang had managed an hour or two of slumber, but—with one exception—that was all.
They were getting their game on, keyed up from the exciting anticipation of The Job. They were practicing their skills, memorizing their timing, and making mental contingency plans for that inevitable moment when something threatened to disrupt the script.
There was no alcohol involved, with two exceptions. One was Farraday, which was to be expected. But even Farraday was drunkenly slumbering and dreaming about the job. He was a professional; like the rest of them, he knew how to work in his sleep.
The other was Jamie. But when he stopped at the bar after leaving Lisa’s place, he’d been very controlled about shutting himself off after two vodka-sodas.
Unfortunately, that was where his self-control had ended.
Grant looked out the kitchen window into the pre-dawn darkness, then at his watch.
It was finally 5:30.
He turned to Chase, who sat quietly at the table, huddled over a cup of very black coffee.
“It’s time.”
Chase looked at the clock on the wall. “So it is.”
“Let’s hope everyone is on the ball, ’cause if they aren’t, this day is not going to turn out well for us. Pulling five jobs in less than three hours…Ugh.”
“It’ll be fine,” said Chase. But in his head he was saying a silent prayer.
All around New York City, people were getting ready to go to work. Among those millions of people yawning and stretching and brewing and toasting were the members of the Lambert / LaMarca gang.
In Greenpoint, Paul Farraday turned a key in the ignition of a large blue garbage truck and was rewarded with the sound of a low rumble as the engine came to life.
In Harlem, Constance Price and Angelina Ortiz fed the cats before walking outside, taking care to triple-lock the front door before turning in the direction of the subway.
In Long Island City, Lisa Cochrane and Mary Beth Reuss carefully reviewed their assignments for the day before making their way to the elevator.
In St. George, Chrissy Alton fidgeted with an extra-large handbag that currently felt far too light on her shoulder and waited for the approaching Staten Island Ferry to dock.
In Hell’s Kitchen, Nick Donovan crept silently through the dark apartment, careful not to wake his mother or catch his cape on the furniture.
On the Upper East Side, Austin Peebles—not technically a member of Grant’s gang, but driven to associate membership by circumstances—got out of bed in the bedroom he did not share with Penelope and began the deliberate process of selecting that day’s tie. Austin didn’t quite get ties, so it wasn’t an easy process, but the Hermès showed promise.
And in the bedroom of a Financial District penthouse belonging to some guy he’d met the night before whose name he’d promptly and permanently forgotten, Jamie Brock, well…
Jamie had been the one member of the gang who’d managed to sleep soundly that night, mostly because he’d been up far too late getting to know that penthouse bedroom—and living room…and kitchen…and terrace—far too well.
So as New York City—and the gang—prepared to go to work, Jamie continued to dream sweet dreams that had absolutely nothing to do with a series of crimes depending on pinpoint precision timing.
There was inevitably a moment when something threatened to disrupt the script.
This would have been one of them.
At 6:25 a.m., Paul Farraday was in Manhattan, backing the stolen garbage truck into the narrow alley behind the Eighth Avenue building that housed June Forteene’s offices. A series of beeps warned pedestrians away as the truck slowly eased between the buildings, backing toward the Dumpsters. A patrol car passed, but Farraday wasn’t concerned. He’d stolen a lot of vehicles in his life—cars, tractor-trailers, delivery vans, and of course a plane or three—without breaking a sweat. He was even less concerned about this vehicle. He doubted there’d ever been an APB issued for a stolen garbage truck.
When the truck was perfectly positioned, he turned off the ignition and waited.
A few minutes later, Nick’s head popped up at the window.
“Are we ready?”
Farraday gazed out the grimy windshield. “Almost. As soon as Jamie gets here we’ll get moving.” He glanced at the clock in the dashboard. “And he’d better get here pretty damn soon, ’cause we got a full day ahead of…”
That was when Farraday took another look out the window at Nick. He’d missed it a few seconds earlier in the dim light of dawn, made dimmer because he was parked in an alley, but now his jaw dropped.
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?”
“What…? What…?” He swallowed and his voice came back. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Farraday had worked with a lot of oddballs before, but not this odd. Not on the surface, at least. The kid stood in the alley wearing something that looked like dark blue tights and black boots…and if that wasn’t unconventional enough, he also sported a blood-red cape and a black mask over his eyes.
“Like it?” Nick made a little twirl in the alley, quite pleased with himself. “It’s my supervillain costume!”
“Your…?” Farraday wondered for a brief moment if maybe he hadn’t woken up yet. Then he decided he was awake, which made it worse. “Kid, what the hell are you thinking? Didn’t anyone tell you you’re supposed to be discreet when you pull a job?”
“But I told Grant that I’d go into full supervillain mode for this job!”
“I’m pretty sure he thought you meant attitude. Not costume.” Farraday shook his head. “You’ve gotta go home and change your clothes. You look like…Oh, hell, I can’t even put it into words! You look ridiculous! Worse than that, you’re gonna get yourself arrested.” He thought about that. “And even worse than that, you’re gonna get me arrested!”
Nick puffed out his lower lip. “Mr. Farraday, I wish you wouldn’t worry about things like that. You’re in the presence of…The Conundrum!”
Farraday, stunned into a stupor, could only mutter, “Holy shit, what a fuckin’ disaster.”
“Anyway, I can’t go home to change clothes. My mom will be up by now, and if she figures out I’m working with you guys, she won’t let me go on the job.”
“A real fuckin’ disaster,” he muttered again, and he slumped behind the wheel of the garbage truck that was almost the color of The Conundrum’s dark blue tights.
Constance Price, dressed very conservatively and holding a clipboard, looked over the list of names next to the door buzzer. First, she found Kevin Wunder’s name; next, she found the building superintendent’s name. That was the buzzer she finally pushed.
“What?” was the gruff reply several minutes—and pushes on the buzzer—later.
“Mr. Robles?”
The gruff voice wasn’t happy. “What?”
Her own voice mimicked every bureaucrat who’d ever worked for every government agency. Ever. “This is Constance Brown from the New York City Department of Health. If I have reached Mr. Robles, I need to speak to you right away about this building.”
There was silence from the intercom, and Constance was afraid Robles had seen through her ruse until the voice returned. “Lady, you got any idea what time it is?”
“I do indeed, Mr. Robles. It’s six forty-five in the morning for me, too. But you have a very serious building condition, and I must speak to you. Right away.”
She heard him sigh through the intercom. “Give me a few minutes to put some clothes on.”
“Take your time, Mr. Robles.” Then, to keep it real, she added, “I’ll give you five minutes.”
Farraday flipped open his phone and punched in Chase’s number. He would have called Grant, but knew that even on a day when a series of jobs depended on heightened coordination, Grant wasn’t the man you wanted to tr
y to get on the phone.
Chase answered on the first ring. “What’s up, Farraday?”
“We’ve got a few big problems. Brock ain’t here, and Donovan is…” He glanced out the window and saw Nick delivering karate kicks to imaginary foes, no doubt fracturing their imaginary eye sockets and saving the world. “I can’t even begin to describe it. Let’s just say we got a few big problems.”
Chase dialed, and Jamie’s cell phone began buzzing.
Unfortunately, Jamie’s cell phone was buzzing inside Jamie’s pants pocket, which was in the living room of that Financial District apartment belonging to the guy whose name Jamie had forgotten, which was one room and a long hallway away from the bedroom where Jamie still slept soundly, dreaming contentedly of warm breezes and soft sand and a marriage proposal from David Geffen.
In other words, it was a moment that passed the “threatened to disrupt the script” stage.
At 6:50, Mary Beth and Lisa met Austin Peebles at the front door of PEEBLES FOR THE PEOPLE headquarters on Lexington Avenue. His hair had been carefully arranged to make it look as if he’d just crawled out of bed. If he hadn’t spent forty minutes on it and had come straight from bed, it would have looked exactly the same.
They grunted barely awake hellos at each other as he unlocked the front door and went inside.
“Nice tie,” said Lisa through a yawn, although her limited knowledge of men’s accessories wouldn’t allow her to put a price tag on it.
He smiled; only Mary Beth smiled back. “Thanks. Hermès.”
That—even more than Austin Peebles’s smile that dimpled his cheeks—drew Mary Beth’s attention. She, too, couldn’t put a price tag on men’s accessories. But she could put a price tag on Hermès.
“We should grab the tie when we grab the rest of the stuff,” she whispered to Lisa, who responded with a nod.
Austin stood near the front window of the darkened headquarters, looking out over rows of tables covered with posters, phones, computers, and voter enrollment printouts. It made him nostalgic for a simpler past, one which he suspected was now gone forever, and all because he had allowed himself to follow the Peebles and Concannon call to public service. But he managed to shake off the nostalgia for the good old days, when he could get away with whatever he wanted, and got down to business.