by A. W. Gray
Turner wore his windbreaker with the bureau letters in gold across the back, and jeans. “This Randolph Money. Guy’s done a lot of shit.”
Tate wore loose-fitting jeans and a man’s white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her makeup was all in place, and Frank thought she looked nicer than he’d ever seen her. “You’re familiar enough with his voice,” she said, “that you can testify it was him on the phone, telling you where to take the money?”
Frank relaxed. He was so tired. “I’ll bet if I’m not,” he said, “you’ll see that I am before I take any witness stand. How much did Darla tell you?”
“Jesus,” Turner said, “who’d have thought the banker switched the suitcases? We’d have figured it out eventually.”
“I’ll just bet you would have,” Frank said. “All these financial, these swindler guys, there’s a network.”
“The board of directors at the bank never even saw the loan AP,” Tate said, leaning forward. “Boyle faked all that, carried the AP into the meeting with another couple of loans, then told everybody he’d gotten the loan approved. Faked the board’s signatures.”
“Boyle and Randolph Money go way back, to when the savings and loans were riding high,” Turner said. “Before Money went to the pen the first time. He’d kept Boyle’s chestnuts out of the fire once by keeping his mouth shut, so when he called with a new deal, Boyle couldn’t wait to get in on it.”
“Randolph didn’t plan to leave any witnesses,” Frank said. “The rifle he used on Basil Gershwin and the pistol he did the banker with, I doubt Darla can tell you where he dumped them. I suspect Money also had plans to kill Wilbur Dale, eventually, the guy who supplied the counterfeit money. When Wilbur finds that out, you’ll have yourself another witness. Wilbur loves to talk, I’ll warn you about him.” He bent his head to rub his eyes. “What about the warrant for me? I’ve got to get some sleep, and I’m so beat I don’t particularly care if I have to sleep in jail. I stole some New Mexico license plates, by the way.”
Tate and Turner exchanged a look. Turner said, “Sounds like a major felony to me. Get the fuck out of here, Frank, I’ve gotten tired of looking at you.” He rose to let Frank out of the booth, and Frank started to slide around.
Turner reached over and stopped him. “Hey, you get those receipts I was talking about?”
Frank stood up and grinned. “Naw. Guess I’m going to have to owe you, okay?”
She waited in the walkway halfway to the baggage claim, leaning on crutches, her right foot in a metal splint and suspended off the floor. As he approached she hobbled forward, threw her arms around his neck, and let the crutches fall. They kissed, their tongues meeting, held the kiss for a good ten seconds, held the embrace for even longer. Fine brown hair tickled his cheek. She smelled of lilac.
He grasped her shoulders and held her away. “You’re hurt.” She showed an impish grin. “My toe. No mo’.” He was suddenly sad. “I got you in trouble, not telling you about my past from the beginning. I deserve whatever I get for that.”
Her gaze was level. “I don’t suppose I was up front either, Frank. Should we start over with introductions?”
He felt a smile spreading his mouth. “Sure, I guess so. How about this?” He deepened his voice. “Hello, I’m Frank White, fresh from the pen and currently on parole. How’s that?”
She hugged his arm, and winked up at him. “And I’m Meg Carpenter, rich as all getout. I think that starts us off on the right foot, don’t you?”