by Ben Sanders
Keller. She could get him to Keller—
He said, “What’s going on?”
“I’ve decided to separate from my husband. Put it that way.” Like it was just a routine parting of ways. She said, “Irreconcilable differences. But I’m trying to reconcile the difference in our net worth.”
Bobby said, “Frank Garcia said you tried to rip him off in L.A.”
“He tell you that himself?”
“He knew I saved you.” He’d never put it that baldly to anyone, but why not? She’d be dead if it wasn’t for him.
Nina said, “The rip-off shouldn’t be news. Why do you think I almost ended up dead at sea?”
He said, “What are Luka and Marko doing?”
“They’re not looking at you. But there’s about a three-second delay on the feed, so if I see them heading over, it’s probably too late.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I left that place three days ago. What did my husband tell you?”
“He said he sent you for some time out.”
“My husband lied to you. He didn’t send me anywhere. I came up here on my own volition.”
Bobby didn’t answer.
She said, “We’re forever entwined by what happened on that boat. Everything plays out by the light of history. It would feel wrong if you didn’t save my life again.”
“Are you running?”
Nina said, “My husband’s a fiend and I should have left him years ago. But I don’t want to be gone without inflicting damage.”
Bobby didn’t answer. He risked a look back and saw Luka watching him. Marko was still on his call, but he had eyes on him, too. Bobby said, “I need to wrap this up.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Where are you?”
She said, “I’m going to be interested to see how this goes, Bobby. I’m sure my husband pays well for a good result, but there’s another side to it, as well. Saving me on the boat was one thing, but doing it twice would be quite a feat. So keep that in mind. Taking me back to Charles wouldn’t do me a favor. But I’m going to have to trust you to decide what’s best. Right now I need you to help me.”
“Where are you?”
She said, “They’re both watching you now.”
He couldn’t keep it up. He turned and made a V sign with his fingers below his eyes, and then pointed to a camera above the window. They both turned and looked straight at the lens.
Nina said, “Look at that. I thought these guys were pros. What happened to pretending you’re talking to your mother?”
Bobby said, “I think they’d twigged.”
“So how are you going to explain the ‘hey sweetheart’? Or are we on sweetheart terms?”
Bobby said, “I’ll say I got another call.”
“Or you could just leave them in the apartment. There’s a lot of space in that bathroom. Whatever you do, it’ll have to be good-bye at some stage.”
He glanced back and saw Luka watching him, Marko on the phone and pacing faster now.
Bobby said, “Where are you?”
“I’m at a hotel. There are people watching the building. I can’t leave without your help.”
“I can’t help until I know where you are.”
She said, “I’m at the Tribeca Gardens on Canal Street. Are you going to take me back to L.A., or do we ride off into the sunset?”
Bobby didn’t answer.
Nina said, “There has to be a New York version of the last outing: blood in the water, making a clean break with the wind in your hair. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
SIXTEEN
KINGS POINT, NY
Miles Keller
He’d been up to Kings Point a few times now, and he thought it would be a nice place to retire if he had a spare five million dollars and wasn’t a fugitive. The streets were wide and quiet, plenty of trees along the verge, and people seemed to take their lawn care seriously. He mentioned that to his driver—the fact that people had nice grass—wanting to reinforce the sense that all was copacetic.
They came south down the western side of the point, and then had to join the main road again just south of the cemetery. The driver was extra cautious with his gap selection, and it paid off for him: waited a full two minutes to merge, and then slipped in ahead of two state police cruisers.
Miles got that feeling like hitting bad air in a plane, his stomach dropping out for a second or two. The cars had probably just come off the Covey scene. He didn’t look back though, knew he wouldn’t do himself any favors by seeming worried. He said, “Police can do first aid, but it’s not quite like being in a hospital, you know what I mean?”
The driver didn’t answer, seemed to think there was potential in this arrangement, having the law in pursuit. Miles saw him watching his side mirror as they rounded a bend on Middle Neck Road, a rural stretch south of town that was still wooded on both sides, trees tall and turning to gray wicker in the late autumn.
Miles said, “Should’ve told you I got X-ray vision. I can see your gears turning.”
The guy looked over—slow enough to convey a challenge—but he kept quiet. Miles was quarter-profile to him, a shoulder against his door and the gun upright in his lap, frame propped across his thigh.
Miles said, “Have to admit, wouldn’t be ideal shooting you while we’re moving—I mean just in terms of my safety. But I’ll do it if I have to. Take some explaining, but if it boils down to your word against mine, and I’m a cop, and you’re dead, you know…”
He shrugged and let his voice trail off. This would be a long exercise in deadpan, but it was hard sticking to a cool tempo, his heart rate up and his breath coming short and a little fast. He wasn’t sure how he’d actually handle things, given there were probably two cops in each car. There was no way he’d shoot them.
He said, “Take the next right and go around the block.”
The guy’s phone buzzed.
Miles felt it on his chest and brought it out of his coat, slightly awkward, left hand in his left inside pocket. He entered the passcode and saw a message from the mystery number, getting back to him about his Rockefeller request: “Somewhere closer?”
He held the phone high to keep the driver in his line of sight and typed “Where?”
His finger hovered by the send button, but didn’t drop. He could see the driver watching him, eyes on the road’s shoulder to keep Miles in the corner of his vision. If he was going to try something, now was the time, backup right there behind them if he went for the gun. Miles lowered the phone and waited for the guy’s eyes to settle on their lane. There was a turnoff coming up and he didn’t signal, went straight past with the needle holding steady on thirty-five.
Miles didn’t move. Any sign of worry would be a huge concession. He said, “I really can’t afford to go more than two strikes here. So you can take the next turn, or I can shoot you.”
That sounded okay, but the guy could probably hear his heart thumping.
He forced himself to look at the phone, hit backspace to erase his message. He didn’t want to change location for the meeting. He needed crowds and multiple exits, and he wanted an area he knew well. Not that he was even sure yet what he’d do—whether he’d just see who showed up, and then revisit the matter at a later date, or if he’d draw a line under the whole thing today. He could see the latter scenario playing out, putting a bullet in someone and the crowd all ducking in unison. He could look shocked with the rest of them and then walk out in any direction he liked. Maybe straight west across Sixth Avenue, and he’d be on the subway in two minutes—
He saw movement that killed the thought, but it was just a car on a cross street, an SUV pulling out behind the cops. He let a long breath out quietly, trying to slow himself down, focus on what had to happen right now. He still had the phone in his hand, the cursor flashing patiently and two police cars not far off their rear fender, the whole of his world in the most fragile equilibrium.
He looked in his
side mirror and said, “Don’t go playing Morse code or something with your brake lights, that’d be real irritating.”
He wondered if he sounded too laid-back, whether he’d come across as overcompensating. He gestured at the windshield with the phone and said, “There’s another right just up here. Make sure you use your turn signal.”
It was actually another quarter-mile, but the road looked no different, curving back and forth through woods. The turn finally emerged in his periphery, and his heart pounded even harder: the effort of feigned indifference, and the stress of getting through the next few seconds. If the guy didn’t turn, Miles would have to make good on his threat, at least to some extent. He saw the driver’s knuckles white on the wheel, eyes switching between the mirror and the road, and finally Miles’s belt tugged him as the car slowed, and the turn signal went tick-tock with an idleness that didn’t suit the tension of the moment.
Miles felt his pulse drop with the turn, and he had to stop himself from sighing. He leaned forward to see the cop cars in his side mirror going past on the main road. He said, “You going to tell me your real name, or will I have to think of you as just ‘the guy’?” Trying to cover his relief by talking.
The driver shrugged, knuckles still white, a gloss along the top of the wheel. He said, “I’m thinking of you as just the guy, so you might as well do the same.”
Miles nodded, like that seemed fair enough. There were houses set back among the trees, big stately looking manors that would have been perfect on a Georgia plantation two hundred years ago. He said, “I’ll probably give you a made-up name when I write my memoirs. Maybe call you the tracksuit man.”
He felt his adrenaline fading, making room for clearer thoughts. He looked back at the phone and typed, “Rockefeller is best. I have another meet-up beforehand.”
He pressed send and dropped the phone in his pocket, checked his mirror again to see the SUV that had pulled out behind them a minute ago. It was only a hundred feet back now, and he could see that it was DeSean’s Lincoln Navigator—Lucy was following them.
Miles breathed, “Oh shit.”
The driver said, “You want me to find another block to go around?” Smiling a little, enjoying himself.
Miles said, “Take us back to the main road and go right again.”
He dug his burner phone out of his trouser pocket and dialed Lucy’s cell.
When she picked up she said, “I wondered how long you’d take to notice.”
He said, “This isn’t what I told you to do, is it?”
“You should’ve done a better job of acting normal. Disappear somewhere with a gun, I figured you’d need help.”
“I’m doing fine, thanks.”
“So where are you going?”
They were back at the main road, slowing for the turn. Miles watched his mirror as the SUV grew nearer, tree reflections sliding upward on its glass. He said, “I’m going to see someone, and then I’m getting out of town.”
The tracksuit man made the turn—very sedate, like a hearse or a royal motorcade—and Miles tensed for something to happen. He wondered how long he could keep this up, his time span for total vigilance. He watched Lucy pull out behind them, and she said, “Does the getting out of town bit still include me?”
He wondered how he’d actually manage that: staying hidden and caring for an emphysema patient, too. She’d need tank refills obviously, and he guessed she had other medication as well. Maybe you just told Medicaid and that was it, but it defeated the point of staying off the grid. But he couldn’t just leave her here and wait for retribution to show up. And he couldn’t keep paying protection money, either. Two grand a week would hollow him out pretty fast.
Miles said, “You’re not doing me any favors by following me.”
“I’m your backup.”
“Yeah? What have you got in mind if it gets rough?”
“I don’t know. Run someone over. You going to tell me what the fuck you’re doing?” She didn’t sound wound up about it—like she was annoyed at being out of the loop, but not fearing for his safety.
Miles said, “I’m going for a ride, and then I’m going to meet someone.”
She said, “You think you’re being real clever not telling me anything, but all the bits you don’t say, I fill them in with something bad.”
He didn’t answer. He wondered at what point people deserved an explanation, how long you had to know them for.
She said, “Look. I owe you—”
Miles said, “Yeah, I know. But tagging along now doesn’t count as repaying me.”
Lucy said, “You got that guy there at gunpoint or something?”
He was too slow coming back and she said, “I waited on a side street and saw you go past. I thought: Why are you sitting side-on like that, unless you got a real good-looking driver?”
Miles said, “I’m trying to solve some murders.”
He’d had it in his head all morning, but it sounded like a long shot now, saying it aloud.
Lucy said, “Right, okay. And you’re expecting a shoot-out along the way? The hell are you doing?”
They were midway down Great Neck now, passing through a little shopping district, brick stores done Tudor style. He felt the phone buzz in his jacket again.
Lucy said, “Whatever, you don’t have to tell me. But you can get used to having me as a shadow. Never know, you might end up pleased I had your back.”
He brought out the other phone and checked the message: “Who are you meeting?” He dropped it in his pocket again and put his back to the window a little more, wanting to be square to the driver if he tried something.
He said to Lucy, “Actually, there is something you can do.”
“Uh-huh?”
“There’s some stuff at my hotel that I need.”
“Is this your technique for getting rid of me?”
Miles said, “No, it’s a technique for not leaving any money behind.”
That did the trick: silence for a whole three seconds. Then she said, “How much?”
Miles said, “Enough to be comfy for a little while. It’s in a bag in the safe.”
“Where’s the hotel?”
“Canal Street. It’s the Tribeca Gardens. I’ll call the desk and have them leave a swipe card out.”
“What’s the safe code?”
“I’ll text it to you.”
She said, “We’re not splitting up. I’ll follow you there.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d do after that. He couldn’t have her following him up to Rockefeller Center, but he could handle that as it happened. He said, “Okay, fine.”
Lucy said, “We’ll take the Long Island Expressway to the BQE to the Manhattan Bridge.”
He didn’t hear a question mark at the end, but he said, “Yeah, that’s right.”
Lucy said, “This time tomorrow, we’ll be rich and in the wind.”
SEVENTEEN
NEW YORK, NY
Bobby Deen
Heading downtown on Seventh, they caught a string of green lights and sailed through three blocks without stopping, pedestrians at crosswalks standing in the lane as if the traffic was some great spectacle, people close enough you could run them down with just a flick of the wheel. It was funny really, how people put it all on the line: death at touching distance for the sake of a head start across a street.
Marko had Charles on the phone as he drove, giving the old man the latest, telling him that Nina was at a Tribeca hotel on Canal Street and that they were heading there now. He shut up awhile as he listened to instructions, Charles talking loud enough Bobby could almost catch the words, even with New York at midday volume in the background. Eventually Marko said, “Yeah, here you go,” and passed the phone back to Bobby without looking.
Bobby came in midsentence: “… the cost of keeping a jet on standby at Kennedy. So do it fast—I don’t have the blackmail power to hold a plane there overnight. I’m running light on leverage as it is.”
Bobby
said, “We’re looking for her,” wanting something active but nonspecific. He still didn’t know what he was going to do. He was hung up on opposing stories: Nina told him she was here on her own volition, but Charles had said the trip was his bidding. Maybe it didn’t matter. Charles could have lied to save face, make Bobby think he kept his wife on a tight leash. And if Nina lied, it was benign—somehow. It had to be. The thing on the boat entwined them, or however she’d put it. She knew he’d saved her life.
Right now though, it felt like he’d just done cocaine:
Sensory overload with the street blurring past; Nina in his head telling him he could save her again; that image of blood in the water that he thought he’d never shake; Charles still talking at him; Bobby thinking he should have killed the pair of them in the apartment, that this would be easier to handle on his own.
Charles was shouting at him now: “Who’s watching?”
“What?”
“She said people are watching the hotel—who’s watching the hotel?”
“She didn’t say.”
“You mean like she didn’t know, or she just didn’t want to tell you? There’s a big fucking difference.”
Bobby said, “Could be Garcia’s people up from L.A., I don’t know. She was cagey.”
Charles said, “She thinks she can still play some kind of angle. She’ll tell you just enough to get her out of it, and then take off on me.”
There: he was being upfront now. He knew she was running.
Charles still in his ear: “She thinks because you saved her once, you’ll do it again.” Crackle on the line, probably spit hitting the mouthpiece.
Bobby said, “That’s the intention.”
“Yeah, but it’s all about what happens afterward: she wants to be in the wind, and I want her on my plane. Only one of those outcomes gets you paid. You understand what I mean?”
Bobby didn’t answer. They reached Greenwich Avenue and slowed, traffic bottlenecked to get past a barricaded steam vent: this white-and-orange tube standing ten feet high in the middle of the road.