by Ben Sanders
He managed all that as well, and didn’t try anything. He thought later that it must have appeared quite surreal: the three women sitting in the living room, Kevin Spacey on the TV yelling at someone, and then the gun-toting hat man walking in backward and his captive doing likewise.
Lucy had the first line. She said, “I wondered if I’d see you again.”
It struck him as a strange opener. But then he got the reference, and he knew he’d have to play this differently.
He turned around and lowered his hands slowly and saw the four of them watching him. The hat man standing with his gun, and the three ladies on couches: Lucy and Caitlyn on one, and Nina on another, facing them. She had a gun of her own and one leg pulled up under her, as if settled in for a cozy night.
The hat man said, “He doesn’t have the money.”
Miles said, “I thought you’d probably kill us once you had it.”
Nina said, “Now we can just shoot everyone except you.”
Miles said, “You fire a gun, you need to be on the road thirty seconds later. Won’t have time for a treasure hunt.”
Nina was enjoying the repartee, hitting lines back and forth. She looked over at Kevin Spacey—poor Kev still quite worked up about something—and said to Caitlyn, “Would you mind?”
Caitlyn used the remote and killed the sound. Kev ranted on mutely.
Nina turned to Miles and said, “What do you have in mind?”
Miles said, “I’ll take the hat man to the money. It’s about thirty minutes up the road. He can call you when he has it, and you can be on your way.”
“You need to be more specific than that. Where’s the money?”
Miles said, “The golf club.”
“How civilized. Where at the golf club?”
“If I tell you where it is, you’ll just kill us all and collect it yourself.”
Nina didn’t answer. She watched Kevin on the TV. He’d finally chilled out a bit. Nina looked at the hat man and said, “All right. Off you go, then.”
Bobby Deen
The guy had dressed up sharp, wearing a gray suit that actually looked quite good on him. He’d cut his hair, too, and Bobby almost asked was he going to a funeral. He kept that to himself, though—too easy for the guy to put it back on him: Bobby all in black was way more funereal than gray Keller. Nina would’ve had a comeback. Something ice cold, too slick to turn around.
He let the guy walk ahead of him out to the stolen SUV and made him get in the driver’s seat. Bobby kept the gun on him and walked around the hood, only tossed him the keys once he was in the passenger seat with his belt on.
But the cop had been right about a couple of things: people would be edgy after last night’s killing, so once he’d drilled Keller, he couldn’t hang around. He’d have to get the money, go back for Nina, and then pop Keller on the way to the freeway. Yeah, that’s the way: walk him out into the trees somewhere and put one through the back of his head. He saw himself on that boat again, giving Lenny Burke his farewell Magnum. Giving one to Keller would be even better. And what would Nina say? Maybe just the same as last time: “You mind if I drive?”
The two of them, the open road, and a car full of money.
He wondered if he could ever tell her no.
Miles Keller
It took a second to catch what Lucy was telling him. But she’d given the line enough weight to set his memory working:
“I wondered if I’d see you again.”
It took him back three weeks, and put him on the front step of her house in Queens: the first time he’d seen her in years, and those were her first words. It was repetition, and it wasn’t idle. The phrase implied a link. He’d gone to her house because Jack Deen was watching her. So was this something Deen-related? If so, then this was payback. He doubted he’d get a thank-you for setting the boy straight. He almost smiled at that. Far more likely, he figured, that the hat man planned to kill him.
How had Nina set it up, or found the center of it all? It didn’t really matter. It was happening.
God, he felt the whole thing coming full-circle on all these different levels, karma having its way with him: up in Kings Point, captive in a car, the Jack Deen fiasco rearing its ugly head.
He kept to thirty-five and followed his headlights through the dark streets. Every now and then they passed another car: a white diamond up ahead, then it split in two, and then a stream of light came rushing past, chased by shadow.
How would it happen? The hat man wouldn’t shoot him before he had the money. So maybe he planned to get the cash and then do it somewhere quiet. Maybe pick up Nina and kill him on the way out of town.
Miles looked across at the guy, but couldn’t see his face under the shadow of the hat. The headlights had killed his night vision.
The guy said, “What?”
Miles turned back to the road, the centerline paint going dash-dash-dash, counting him down to something.
Bobby Deen
The guy gave him a long, blank look for maybe five seconds, finally turned back to the road when Bobby said, “What?”
He wondered how many close scrapes the guy had been through. There was the shoot-out earlier, now he was hostage in a car, and he’d obviously seen some action in Kings Point yesterday. So was it a bad patch, or was the Reaper always peering in his window?
The golf club was coming up on their left, and Keller signaled for the turn. There was a low sign with writing you could barely read—fancy script, like a grandma’s diary. They went down a short driveway and emerged into a parking lot, very tidy with no one around. That suited Bobby fine.
He said, “Don’t tell me you buried it in a sand trap?”
Keller let the SUV coast. There were a few cars over by the clubhouse, picked out by the headlights. He said, “It’s in the bathroom of the restaurant,” and nodded over at a building Bobby hadn’t noticed—just its lit windows showing through the trees.
Bobby said, “Oh, that’s nice. So you go in, come back out with a gun, shoot me while I’m sitting in the car?”
Keller took a long time to answer, and Bobby knew he was on to something. The cop didn’t quite know how to play it.
Bobby said, “All right.” A softer tone, going easier on the guy. “I tell you now. If we get in there and find there’s no money, I’m going to put your head down the toilet, pull the trigger, and then pull the chain.” That was great, and it really hit the spot. The cop still hadn’t said anything, and Bobby actually saw him swallow—subtle, like Bobby mightn’t notice.
Bobby said, “So let’s play this absolutely straight, no bullshit: is there money waiting, or do we need to drive somewhere else?”
The car had stopped now, alone in the middle of the empty parking lot.
The cop said, “No, it’s in there.”
“You’re pretty sure about that?”
No answer.
Bobby gave him some time and said, “I’m just a guy in a suit in a restaurant. No one’s going to know what I look like if I put a bullet in you and then walk out again. They’ll see a guy in a hat. That’s it. They don’t see past the accessories.”
Keller looked at him square and then looked out the windshield again. There was a little portico thing attached to one of the buildings up ahead, an SUV parked under it and two guys standing nearby, checking out a set of golf clubs.
Bobby said, “So what’s it going to be? Is the cash here or not?”
The cop said, “It’s here.”
Bobby gestured with an upturned hand. “Choose a slot, then.”
The cop chose a slot, and killed the lights and engine. Now it felt more private, just the two of them in the dark.
Bobby said, “Don’t think I’m new at this. You stay six feet ahead. You speed up, slow down, change direction, say anything that sounds off—I’ll put a bullet in you.”
Keller said, “I think I get it.”
The cabin light came on as Bobby opened his door. It cast the guy jaundice-yellow, sitting
with his hands in his lap, looking out at the Bible black of the woods ahead of them. Bobby backed out and shut his door, holstered the gun on his hip, and walked around the back of the SUV.
Keller got out without being asked and stood waiting, expressionless and motionless and his suit coat hanging open.
Bobby said, “Remember the rules: Six feet. We go in, get the cash, and then we’re on the road again.”
The cop didn’t answer. He started walking, and Bobby fell in behind. He followed the guy across the parking lot toward the building he’d pointed out earlier. There was a little path leading through the trees to reception, and either side of it a long row of windows showed off the dining areas.
Keller paused outside to button his jacket. A harried-looking Asian guy with dyed red hair asked if they were sixty-eight on the club raffle. Keller said no without even looking, and stepped up to the maître d’ station, even managing to smile.
The maître d’ said, “Hello, sir. Do you have a reservation?”
Classic: empty parking lot, but they had to imply high demand.
Keller seemed uncertain, glanced back at Bobby. He said to the maître d’, “We’re meeting some friends—maybe we could just have a drink at the bar until they get here?”
Nice.
The maître d’ said, “Of course, sir. Would you like pearl, or plains?”
Bobby didn’t know what he meant, but Keller gestured to their left, at twin glass doors with PEARL in frosted text.
The maître d’ said, “Of course, sir, excellent.” Faultlessly obliging.
The glass doors slid back as Keller approached, and he walked in looking like any other diner: glancing around as if lining up a good table. The long bank of windows was on their left, and on their right a big horseshoe bar protruded from the wall beside the door. Keller didn’t hurry, fixed a cuff button while he stood checking out the other guests, and then he walked up to the bar and claimed a stool. Bobby followed, took a seat two down on Keller’s left, perching sidesaddle with his gun-side leg toeing the ground and his elbow on the bar.
He said, “I thought we were going to the bathroom.”
Keller looked at him. He was leaning forward, forearms on the edge of the bar, fingers knitted, plates of food going past on one of those food-conveyor things—a sushi train. It was quiet in here, but he didn’t like Keller’s attitude. Something had changed between the car and the restaurant. Bobby told himself if anyone walked up looking funny, he’d pull the gun.
He gave Keller the bloody version, let him know he was serious: “If anyone walks up looking funny, I’ll give you the first round.”
Keller didn’t answer. The prick just sat there looking at him.
Bobby said, “Count of three, you’re taking me to the money.”
Keller didn’t answer.
Bobby said, “You won’t hear ‘four.’ There’ll just be a great big bang. One.”
And Keller, still looking straight at him, said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Bobby almost said “Two,” but held it, caught wrong-footed by the line.
Keller said, “When was the last time you took a shower?”
THIRTY-NINE
KINGS POINT, NY
Lucy Gates
The Nina woman wasn’t so relaxed without her backup man. The TV stayed muted, and she did a lot more glancing around.
Lucy said, “What do you want us to do if you have to check out a noise? Do we wait here, or shall we follow you?”
Nina didn’t answer. Thirty minutes ago, it might’ve got a smile out of her, but she wasn’t seeing the funny side now.
Lucy said, “You had an exit plan while Bobby was here, right? Like, if the cops showed up, you could have shot everyone, said he’d taken us hostage and you saved the day. But what’re you going to do if the police arrive while he’s gone?”
She could sense Caitlyn getting more and more anxious, willing her not to push it. Too much strain, and the poor woman might crack in half. Her knuckles were so white, Lucy worried she was almost at breaking point. But she was getting under Nina’s skin, no question. And Nina wouldn’t just sit there and not answer. She’d have to say something to maintain her vibe—that air of easy control. Finally she said, “I guess I could shoot you both now and lock myself in the bathroom.” Head on a tilt as she said it, like she was really thinking it over.
And it was half-plausible, actually. She could tell them Bobby had two guns, left one behind when he went off with Miles …
She looked back at Nina and saw her smiling, like she’d read her mind.
Lucy smiled right back, feeling sick but knowing she had to match it.
Bobby Deen.
She still wasn’t sure if it meant something—the man being a Deen. It was a common enough name, so there was every chance he had no link to Dead Jack. In fact, he was probably a Dean, not a Deen. And they didn’t seem to realize that Lucy was part of it.
But it was Miles who got the credit for the killing—if that was the right way to put it—so maybe they just wanted him. And however the hell you spelled it, two Deens in three weeks seemed like too big a fluke. She hoped her tip-off hadn’t been too cryptic. Maybe she should’ve just said straight out that Bobby was going to kill him, but that might have been a fast way to a room full of dead people. Same as if she’d told him on the phone. She almost did, but she was scared what would happen: cut off midsentence by the bang …
The more she thought about it, the more this seemed like a two-for-one opportunity: they wanted to make a bit of money, and seek penance for Dead Jack. Take Miles’s money, and then get rid of him.
All very well knowing their plan, but she didn’t know how she was getting out of it.
She could sit and wait for the phone to ring, and Nina to leave. But the risk with that was it might never happen—or not happen until she and Caitlyn were dead.
So option two was to try what Miles had told her.…
Bobby Deen
He said, “Did you lose your mind on the drive over?”
Keller was still sitting with his fingers linked, thumbs bouncing lightly off each other. He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Bobby knew he should shoot him, but the cop seemed too calm and self-assured, and Bobby thought maybe this shower issue—weird as it seemed—was worth staying with for a moment.
He said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
The man from the foyer—the raffle guy with the red hair—took a seat at the bar on the far side of the horseshoe, almost opposite them. There was a woman drinking alone over to their left, right on the tip of the curve. Between her and the raffle guy were a couple eating sushi.
Keller scanned the lineup and then looked at the shelved liquor over on their right. He said, “You took a shower about five thirty, right?”
Bobby didn’t answer, but something ran along his spine, and the cop must have sensed it: he was getting somewhere.
Keller said, “So the question is, How do I know that?”
The barman came over and asked if they wanted to order. Keller seemed to actually think it over. He said, “Can we order food here, too?”
Holy shit—that alone was worth a bullet.
The waiter said, “Yes, sir. I can serve you drinks immediately. Food orders will come out on the train.”
He gestured at the conveyor.
Bobby, still looking at Keller, said, “Maybe just give us a minute.”
“Certainly, sir.”
He withdrew with a little bow, went to tend to the raffle guy.
Keller said, “She’s playing both sides. She’s loyal to you while you have the upper hand. But if I get out of this, she wants to make me think she had my back all along.”
The cop was desperate to get out with his life and his money, and Bobby knew he should shoot him. But how did he know about the shower?
Keller was still bouncing his thumbs, as if pacing out his story. He said, “What did you think was going to hap
pen if the police showed up at the house?”
Bobby didn’t answer. The background noise was quiet chatter, and a low hum from the conveyor. Sushi and a silver food dome tracked past.
Keller said, “First she’d shoot you, and then she’d shoot the women. Tell the cops it was all your idea, but she nailed you at the last moment, saved the day.”
Bobby said, “We can ask her about that.”
Keller shook his head. “You don’t have to go back. You’re out of it now. And why would you want to go back anyway? She was prepared to sell you out.”
Bullshit: she was probably just getting in Keller’s head. But why hadn’t she told him?
Keller said, “You remember what she said just now, when Lucy had me on the phone? Something about how I should remember what she last told me—that she always gets her way.”
Yeah, that rang a bell—
Keller said, “She never told me that. I remember her saying she’d be in my corner—that might’ve been the parting sentiment. But she couldn’t repeat it with you listening, could she?”
He must have made that up—schemed it in the car on the drive over. And now a voice was saying, Kill him. The money wasn’t here.
Keller said, “You’ve got to pull out of this, Bobby. The stakes are too high. You’re in a restaurant, at a bar, with five witnesses right there.”
Bobby shook his head. “Time’s up. Good story, but you didn’t sell it to me.”
He knew he could kill him. He had Nina Stone, and bags full of money. No cop could touch him. There was nothing to worry about. The bang would have twofold meaning: Keller’s end, and the start of the good life.
Bobby said, “I’ll do you a favor, start the count again. One.”
Keller wasn’t chilled anymore: he had his hands off the bar, bouncing them slightly palms-down, like trying to soothe a pissed-off audience. He said, “Let’s not do this.”
“Get off the stool.”
Keller swung square to him, moving slow, palms up in a be-cool gesture. He said, “She’s played you. Let’s not wrap it up like this.”
Bobby thought, Fuck him, and said, “Two.”