Shares

by A. W. Gray

  Tiny drops of saliva fell on Frank’s cheeks as Dale struggled to get away. “The fuck you talking?” Dale said. “I don’t tell anybody’s business to nobody.”

  Frank bunched Dale’s shirtfront up and drew back a balled fist.

  Dale squawked, “Goddammit, it was Bern called me.”

  Frank’s arm relaxed and dropped to his side. He released Dale’s shirtfront. “She what?” Frank said.

  “I swear to God.” Dale raised a hand as if he was about to take the witness stand. “Mindin’ my own business, she calls up one day. It was her idea for me to drop by and check on you. So I give her the girl’s name. Meg, right?”

  Frank relaxed against the table. “Carpenter, yeah.”

  “That’s her. Darla told me to find out where you worked, and I knew we was reporting to the same probation office and wouldn’t have no trouble finding out. I was a little short, so Darla mailed me some cash. So what?”

  “So now you give her Meg’s name.” It was a statement, not a question, Frank’s brain in a whirl as he tried to sort things out. “What next? The only way you’ll get hurt is to lie to me.”

  “No use to hurt me, I done nothing to you. She told me to investigate your woman, is all.”

  “And she paid you for that, too?”

  “Shit, Frank, I. don’t do nothing for free.”

  Frank watched him.

  “I followed you a couple of days, seen you and the girl going to the movies. Then I followed her. Couple of days later she goes to lunch with this older guy. At first I thought she might be screwing around on you, Frank.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t come back and try to sell me that information,” Frank said.

  Dale grinned, the crafty con eyes relaxing now, a man in his element, wanting to brag a little. “I thought about that, but I didn’t have to. Darla paid me more, sent it express. She wanted to know about the older guy, so then I checked him out.”

  “Darla’s father, right? Morgan Carpenter.”

  Withered lips turned up at the corners. “How’d you know them rich people, Frank? I could get me a rich woman like that, I’d never hit another lick.”

  “I don’t suppose you would. Okay. What about Randolph Money? When’s he enter the picture?”

  “He come later, just a few weeks ago. There some connection between him and Darla Bern?”

  Frank’s chin tilted. Dale’s eyes were widened slightly and his lips were relaxed. Frank decided the guy was telling the truth. “You don’t know the connection?” Frank said.

  “Naw, just, Randolph come around wanting to buy something. He never mentioned no Darla Bern. I ‘as surprised he come to town, tell you the truth.”

  Frank’s mouth tightened in thought. “Wanting to buy what?”

  Dale lifted skinny fingers. “I don’t tell no—”

  “Wanting to buy what, Wilbur?” Frank stood away from the table and took a menacing step forward.

  “Now hold,” Dale said, then dropped his hand and looked at the floor. “Some, you know, some money.”

  Frank tapped the stack of fresh-printed twenties still in sheets. “Some of this?”

  “Different denominations. Hey, Frank, anybody finds out I’m telling this shit…”

  Frank studied the skinny man, understanding the code, knowing that the Wilbur Dales of the world would say anything if they thought they were in a crack. For these people, there were no friendships. Only survival. “Bigger bills?” Frank said.

  Dale reached up and adjusted his collar. “Hundreds.”

  “A lot?”

  Dale shrugged. “A bunch. Gimme a penny on the dollar. Smaller shipments I wouldn’t fuck with at that price. It wasn’t even good stuff, tell you the truth. It’ll fool the shopping-mall clerks, but nobody that knows their ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “So that I’ve got this,” Frank said. “Darla called you and told you to find out if I was seeing anybody, which you did. That makes sense, because Darla’d been bugging me and I’d been ducking her. Later she had you follow Meg, and that’s how you found out who her father is. Then later, a lot later, you hear from Randolph.”

  “You got it, bro,” Dale said.

  Frank stepped back and relaxed against the edge of the table. Jesus, the whole thing had started because he’d tuned Darla out when she’d made all those long-distance phone calls. Miffed, she’d had Wilbur Dale check up on him, then check up on Meg. When Darla had discovered that Meg’s family was wealthy, she’d run straight to Randolph Money, who’d taken it from there. Any way Frank sliced it, Meg was now in danger because Frank White couldn’t keep his fly buttoned while he was in prison. “What did Randolph want the counterfeit money for? Don’t bullshit me, Wilbur. I got too much in this.”

  The corners of Dale’s mouth bunched. “Shit, look around you, Frank. You see where I’m living. If somebody wants to buy something from me, I ask no questions. I need the cash too bad.”

  Frank’s gaze softened as he looked around. Out in the front room was a cloth sofa with cotton stuffing poking out. “I guess you do. You’re probably pretty flush now, with what you just sold Randolph.”

  Dale looked down. “I still got the habit. No amount, it’s never enough. Why you think I’m in here, printing this?”

  “Your probation officer doesn’t have you giving urine tests?”

  “Sure. They’re easy to beat, you know how. Poke a little Comet cleanser up the end of your dick, it neutralizes the test.”

  Frank thought of something. “There’s more I want from you.”

  “Jesus Christ, Frank, I already told you too much.”

  “This is different,” Frank said. “You got a gun, don’t you? Sure, more than one.”

  “I ain’t supposed to. I’m a felon.”

  “I want a gun, Wilbur. I think I’m going to need one.”

  Dale squinched one eye closed. “You’re a felon, too, Frank.

  You don’t need to be getting mixed up in that kind of shit.” Frank reached for his wallet. “I’ll buy it, Wilbur.”

  Dale’s mouth relaxed. His eyebrows lifted. “Well, sure, Frank, you know that. Anything I got’s for sale.”

  28

  Randolph Money ate calamari for lunch in a seafood restaurant next door to the Ballpark in Arlington. The squid was flown in frozen from the coast and made him long for California. He shared a table with a woman from Big Spring, Texas, who, Money figured, baked about four thousand cakes each year for the Big Spring charity bazaar, knew everybody in the whole jerkwater town, and looked down her nose at the guys who hung out down at the domino hall. Came to the big city once a year, saw the sights, and hoped to run into somebody would fuck her silly. Which most times, Money thought, would likely be me, but not today, I got business. Focus, Money thought, focus, focus, focus. He bade the woman a friendly goodbye, paid his tab, and strolled into the parking lot.

  He stood underneath the huge overhead sign reading, “Pappadeaux,” with “Cajun Seafood” underneath in smaller letters, giving the impression that he wasn’t in a hurry, no way. He wore a pale blue blazer, navy blue Dockers, and a white knit golf shirt open at the neck. He glanced up at the window to make certain the woman wasn’t watching him from the table they’d shared. Wasn’t likely she would be, a woman like that would run across someone else tonight, and tomorrow wouldn’t remember Randolph Money from Ned in the First.

  Money relaxed and gazed over toward the Ballpark. The stadium was the ultimate state-of-the-art, tall brick arches around its outer perimeter, 450 in the power alleys to left- and right-center fields, and an inning-by-inning Scoreboard operated by a real live guy in a booth, just like the old days at Ebbets Field or Yankee Stadium. Showplace of the American League, a wonder-of-the-world spot for the Texas Rangers to get their butts kicked night after night. The springtime temperature was in the seventies, cars already p
arking over at the Ballpark, people coming out early to watch batting practice, the pitchers warming up, the manager standing around seeing if the left-hander or the righthander had the most stuff on the ball, and whether the opposition’s lineup was batting a lot of southpaws. He withdrew one hand from his pocket and inserted a toothpick in his mouth, thinking it safe to pick his teeth with nobody watching him. As he did, a dark green four-door Buick left the interstate and cruised into the parking lot. Money put the toothpick away and stepped further from the sign pole; he’d say this for the guy, he was right on time.

  The Buick cruised up slowly, the driver invisible behind tinted windows, brake lights flashing to accompany a faint hydraulic hiss, the passenger window sliding down, a panicky male voice saying, “Get in, Randy. Dammit, hurry.”

  Which Money couldn’t stand, anyone calling him Randy, which no one had in his entire life except this one particular guy. Money opened the door and slid in, doing a double take as his gaze rested on the suitcase, alligator with red leather inserts, on its side in the middle of the backseat. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Money said. “That ought to be in the trunk. Come on, let’s get someplace.” He studied the guy, short sandy hair with more gray in the sideburns than Money remembered, mouth ready to twist into a panicked expression, wearing a dark blue banker’s suit with a pin stuck to the lapel. Money squinted. “They let you in the Kiwanis, huh? Lot of wasted time, eating lunches and listening to speeches.”

  “You’re sure nobody followed you?” Davis Boyle said. “What about that guy?”

  Money followed the banker’s direction, watched a portly man in a jogging suit exit from a Mercedes and stroll toward the restaurant. “No, I missed that guy,” Money said. “Looks suspicious, doesn’t he? Come on, Davis, get this fucker in gear.”

  Boyle slipped the lever into drive and headed out of the lot, his thin lips twisting in fear, shooting anxious looks both ways, adjusting the rearview mirror, winding around onto a bridge over I-30, the sign pointing to Highway 360 North and Six Flags over Texas. “Christ, I thought I’d never get away from the office. My secretary, even my secretary, for Christ’s sake, she’s giving me these looks.”

  “Maybe she just wants you to fuck her,” Money said.

  “And the board of directors,” Boyle said. “Jesus, every time I run into one of those guys…”

  “I took off some gut while I was at Pleasanton,” Money said. “You can do a lot of walking. I’ve kept it off, watch my diet. What do you think?” He patted his midsection, which was still overhanging some but not near as much as before, before he went to the joint, Money trying to say anything to keep this jumpy asshole from having a wreck or a heart attack.

  “Those FBI people,” Boyle said, “when our security gal spotted the counterfeit. Jesus, I was just waiting for one of them to remember it was me that delivered the suitcase out in that alley.” He steered onto a three-lane expressway, hugging the stripe between lanes, a pickup truck careening to its left and honking like, fuck you, as they passed underneath a sign reading, “Six Flags Drive, Exit 3/4 mile.”

  “Davis,” Money said. “Davis, listen to me. I’m going to knock the shit out of you and take the wheel, if you don’t straighten up.”

  Boyle’s lips continued to twist like those of a man watching a horror movie, but he did slow down and move the car over between the stripes.

  “What goes down comes around.” Money said. “Anything I ever told you failed to happen? Anything?”

  “Well, no. But…”

  “But nothing. Ten years ago I told you, you get me the loans, the money, if it all blows up in our face I’m taking the heat. Did I tell you that or not?”

  “Christ, I got those loans approved without any credit reports.”

  “They’d never have traced it to you, the money coming from your correspondent bank in California. Only way was for me to finger you, and I wasn’t about to do that. That kind of shit comes back to haunt you. I did time I could have transferred to you, Davis, you and some other guys still in the banking business. Suppose I’d done that. Then when this Carpenter thing became a real possibility, you think I could have called you? Hell no, you would’ve blown the whistle on me in a minute, if you weren’t sure you could trust me. I told you then and I’m telling you now. Things happen the way I say they’re going to.” Money reached over the seat and patted the suitcase. “You have any problems?”

  “Not with the loan, with Morg’s credit. The switch, either, those two suitcases you had made, I wasn’t sure which was which myself. Had to check the contents before we delivered to the federal guys in the alley.”

  “It’s how I had ‘em made,” Money said. “Fucking identical.”

  “I spent the night holding my breath,” Boyle said, “worrying about those federal people checking that money out. It’s shitty counterfeit, Randy.”

  Money grimaced at the name, Randy, and looked to his left as they passed the Six Flags amusement park, the Texas Chute-Out and the Shock Wave roller coaster with its loop-de-loops. “Where we going?”

  “Golf course up here. Private club, closed on Wednesdays. Nobody around there now.”

  “Way I had it figured,” Money said, “it didn’t make any difference if it was good counterfeit or bad. If the feds were expecting phony money, they’d spot it if it was the best stuff made. Thing was, counterfeit money in the suitcase was the last thing they’d look for, coming from Lone Star Bank & Trust. I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “You should have seen those guys when our security gal spotted the counterfeit.” Boyle relaxing some now, showing the barest hint of a smile.

  “What I’d really like to have seen,” Money said, “was those assholes staking out that sunken suitcase, waiting for somebody in a diving suit. Stupid fuckers.”

  “It was soaked to the bone. Left a puddle on my desk,” Boyle said in admiring, you’re-the-greatest fashion, always the flatterer, another thing that Randolph Money didn’t particularly like about the guy. A man had confidence in himself, Money thought, he didn’t need any pumping up. Boyle left the freeway, turned right beside some redstone apartments, cruised alongside a golf course on the left, a grassy fairway rolling off into the distance, a water hazard maybe fifty yards in front of a green. On the green a man in sleeveless overalls operated a gang mower. A half block further down was a brick clubhouse, a sign on the front reading, “Great Southwest Golf Club—Members Only.” Across the street was a driving range, four or five golfers limbering up, making jerky passes at the ball, scratching their heads as they hit big slices or screaming duckhooks. “Looks like a convention,” Money said. “You sure we’re going to have some privacy?”

  “The members can practice even when the course is closed. Far end of the parking lot, take my word. If we see anybody down there, they’ve gotten lost.” Boyle turned the wheel to the left, the Buick passing through a slot in the median and bouncing into an asphalt parking lot, not a car in sight, new yellow stripes for slant-in parking. Boyle cruised to the far end, nosed in and cut the engine, the Buick facing a grove of trees, wide open spaces in the distance, more workmen on mowers cutting greens or rolling fairways. Boyle’s grin faded, replaced by the look of mouthtwisting panic once more. “My sweet Christ, if anybody should find out I’m doing this…”

  Money rolled his eyes. “Goddammit, Davis, how often do I have to tell you? If you do things right, you don’t have to worry.”

  “But the other people with you…”

  “Don’t even know your name, Davis. Don’t even know your fucking name. All they know you as, they think you’re just the…fringe guy, okay? The only one taking any heat right now is poor Frank White, who you don’t even know. I sort of hate that. Believe it or not, I always liked that guy. I really did, for an ex-cop he was more than all right. It’s just business, though—he’s the best available decoy. I’m even pulling for him, you know? I’m hoping the feds figure out t
hey’ve got the wrong man, as long as they don’t catch on before I’m the hell out of this part of the country.” Money reached into the back, tugging the handle, hauling the suitcase into the front seat as Davis Boyle bent sideways to keep from getting conked. “Let’s have a look at this now,” Money said.

  Boyle glanced fearfully over his shoulder as Money snapped the catches, then drew an admiring breath as both men gazed at nine million-plus dollars against a background of cushioned velour, all encased in red-tinted leather and alligator hide. Money whistled under his breath. “Where you want to put yours, Davis? In the trunk?”

  “Probably be best,” Boyle said, staring at the money like an Israelite before the Ark of the Covenant.

  “How far is it,” Money said, looking up the twisty road in the direction from which they’d just come, “back to that freeway? Not over a half mile, right?”

  Boyle followed Money’s gaze, looking confused.

  “We’ve got to part company, Davis. For life, not that that’s going to bother you. I’m going to put your share in your trunk, then I’m taking the suitcase and walking to the highway, finding a phone where I can call a cab. Never darken your door again. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “I could give you a ride.”

  “The less time we’re together, the better.” Money opened his door and stood outside the car, bending from the waist to pick up four packets of money, bending even further to look past Boyle through the driver’s window, Money’s eyes widening in surprise as he said, “Who the fuck is that coming, Davis?”

  Boyle’s eyes bugged, his head snapping around to look, his jaw dropping, then his mouth closing as he gazed on an empty parking lot. He turned back to Money as if to say, What is this, a joke?

  Money extended the palm-sized .22 automatic pistol he’d drawn from inside his coat, extended the pistol, and pulled the trigger once with a noise like a muffled firecracker, his hand jumping slightly from the recoil as the bullet entered Davis Boyle’s cheek and exited from the back of his head; the window suddenly covered in red ooze as Boyle’s chin slumped down to his chest, his eyes wide and staring, likely dead before he even realized what the fuck was going on. Money put the gun away, dropped the cash back into the suitcase and closed the lid, lifted the suitcase out by the handle. Then he closed the door and walked away whistling, looking left and right, headed for the street, his right shoulder lowered under his load like Willie Loman in Death of a Salesman.