Deal with the Dead (3 page)

Halliday nodded, as if the line of discussion bored him. He glanced down at the darkened field below. Except for Frank and Basil Wheatley, who had gone off to inspect the now quiet mechanism of the Fire Shower of the Apocalypse, the grounds appeared deserted. Frank was poking about the controls of the converted front-end loader, while Basil had climbed into the cage itself. He stood with his hands grasping the bars in parody of the desperate inmate. The two were familiar with heavy equipment, being the sons of a New Jersey scrap-metal dealer, a man who’d made a comfortable living buying and selling surplus materials of dubious origin. Halliday turned his gaze back to Babescu, who might have seen some inquiry in his eyes.

“We have made history here tonight,” Babescu said. “I have afforded these inventors opportunities they would never have found elsewhere.”

“Babescu, the cultured thief,” Halliday said. “You’ve watched
The Mal
tese Falcon
too many times, I think.”

Babescu gave Halliday a glance, uncertain of his tone. An engine kicked to life in the distance and Halliday saw that Frank Wheatley had started the engine of the machine that maneuvered the Fire Shower of the Apocalypse.

“Those two had best be careful,” Babescu observed. “It’s a delicate apparatus. The owner is fastidious.”

Halliday watched as the machine swiveled toward the platform, Basil grinning out at them from behind the bars of the swaying cage. “You couldn’t have picked a more appropriate audience,” Halliday said. “These men appreciate what heavy equipment can do.”

Babescu glanced doubtfully at the growling machine, then turned back to Halliday. “You didn’t come here just for the spectacle, Michael.”

“True,” Halliday said, watching the machine inch its way toward them.

“And this physical transformation,” Babescu added. “Just what scheme have you cooked up now?”

“No more schemes, Babescu,” Halliday said. “I’m coming back to life, that’s all.”

Babescu seemed to read something into his tone. He stared levelly back, ignoring the advancing machine. “You understand that I control everything in this part of Turkey, don’t you?”

Halliday nodded. “Of course. Money talks, Babescu.”

Babescu seemed mollified. He settled back in his chair. “Then why not get to the point,” he said.

There was a grinding noise from the machine, and Babescu glanced away. “If they damage that device, they’ll be required to pay.”

Halliday stood and walked to the end of the platform, watching as Frank nudged at the controls of the machine, sending the cage into a wobbling arc. “Asswipe!” called Basil to his brother.

“Asswipe in a gilded cage,” Frank called back. Their insults echoed off the nearby hillside.

“There are men who find themselves drawn to return to prison,” Babescu said after a moment. “They find themselves uncomfortable, walking around free.”

“I’m not one of them,” Halliday said.

“And what is it you want from me?” Babescu put his brandy glass down on a nearby copper table and laced his fingers over his gut.

“Just what’s due me, Babescu.” Halliday gave him a meaningful look. “I want my money, now.”

Babescu drew a breath that sounded something like a sigh. “There is no money, Michael. I sent word to you—”

Halliday dismissed the words with a wave of his hand. “Of course you did. Had the tables been turned, I might have done the same.”

Babescu shook his head. “I assure you—”

“We’ll forget about the trading accounts that you had access to—”

“What wasn’t seized by the U.S. government was worthless,” Babescu protested.

“I’ll settle for the proceeds of my father’s trust. If you passed along a quarter million a year to me, it probably paid twice as much. We’ll figure the equity at ten million even, and let the interest go.”

“The trust was seized as well.” Babescu’s eyes were glittering, perhaps from anger, perhaps from fear.

Halliday nodded as if he expected all this. He leaned forward, his hands braced on his knees. “Ten million dollars, Babescu. I want it now.”

Babescu shook his head. “You’re being unreasonable.” The fat man glanced down the stairway behind him, perhaps looking for one of the mustachioed Turks Halliday had dealt with earlier: half a dozen dark-skinned men, all of them with stares that could shatter glass.

“You’ve spent every cent, the truth be told. Money I entrusted to you. Money my father entrusted to you…”

Babescu’s eyes widened. “We’re partners, Michael. As were your father and I before you. I’ve made investments on your behalf, that’s all—”

Halliday shook his head. The fact that his father had trusted Babescu all those years had allowed Halliday to do the same.
Honor among thieves,
he thought, shaking his head bitterly. Stupidity seemed the true currency.

“I want my money, Babescu.”

“And you’ll have it back, ten times over…in time.”

Halliday stared at him for a moment, forcing himself to calm. He sat back in his chair, noting that Frank had raised the dangling cage to its fullest height, was dropping it back down in a series of jerking movements while Basil shouted threats from between the bars.

Halliday glanced over at him. “I’m taking over,” Halliday said evenly. “Everything you’re invested in. I’m taking back what’s mine.”

Babescu glanced up sharply, and in that unguarded moment, Halliday saw the cruelty that lay behind the carefully crafted façade. In an instant, though, the saturnine smile was back, and Babescu was rising to his feet as if he simply needed to stretch his legs. An unusually graceful move for a man so bloated, Halliday was thinking.

Babescu’s hand was going inside his coat. His other made a gesture toward the shadows, where earlier Halliday had seen the men stationed.

At the same moment, Frank Wheatley gave a yank on the controls of the Fire Shower of the Apocalypse, sending the steel cage hurtling toward the platform. The dangling cage, with Basil still inside, smashed through the flimsy railing like a wrecking ball, then drove itself into Babescu with a thud that vibrated the decking beneath Halliday’s feet.

The fat man went down with a groan, the pistol he’d intended to draw skittering across the deck to Halliday’s feet. Halliday glanced at the weapon, then kicked it over the side.

The fat man was struggling onto his hands and knees, his eyes glassy. Basil Wheatley had already jumped down from the dangling cage, steadying it with one meaty hand, while Frank played out cable until its floor rested solidly on the deck.

In an instant, Basil was across the reviewing stand to drive a fist into the fat man’s broad back, just above the kidney. He drew back quickly and sent another to the base of Babescu’s skull. There was a dull popping sound, and Babescu collapsed to the deck as if he’d been shot.

Basil snatched the fat man by the collar of his white coat and dragged him toward the cage. He jerked open the door of the cage with one hand, lifting Babescu inside as if he were stuffed with feathers.

Basil slammed the door to the cage, then gave his brother the thumbs-up. In moments the cage was dangling half a dozen feet in the air, Babescu’s corpulent face pressed into furrows by the steel bars.

“You stole from me,” Halliday said.

Babescu blinked down at him, then out into the darkness where he’d stationed his bodyguards. Bodyguards so recently retired. Indeed, Halliday thought, money did talk.

“For God’s sake, Michael,” Babescu managed.

“You took advantage when I was in a position of weakness,” Halliday replied.

“I’ll make calls,” Babescu said. He struggled to pull himself upright, but his legs seemed unwilling to obey. “I’ll see that you get everything that’s yours, and interest besides.”

“This isn’t a banking transaction,” Halliday said. He turned to Basil. “Give him the documents.”

Basil motioned to Frank, who cranked the cage down a foot or two. Basil stepped forward, thrust a sheet of paper and a pen between the bars.

“What is this?” Babescu asked blearily.

“The item requires your signature,” Halliday said.

“We could have reasoned out these matters, Michael,” Babescu said, a plaintive note in his voice.

“Sign,” said Basil Wheatley, rocking the cage with his hand.

Babescu scribbled his signature and handed the document out to Basil, who passed it along to Halliday. Halliday scanned the document, then folded it into his pocket.

“You want us to clean this mess up now?” Basil Wheatley said to Halliday, wrinkling his nose at a foul odor that had drifted over the stage.

Halliday nodded curtly, then started for the steps.

“Wait,” Babescu called. “If it’s money you want—”

Halliday kept moving.

“Your father’s trust, Michael…for God’s sake…”

Halliday paused, his hand on the railing that led down from the stage. The fat man reached out to grasp one of the blackened bars of the cage and was pulling himself forward. “It’s gone, Babescu. You told me so yourself.”

Babescu shook his head hastily. “More money than you’ve dreamed of,” the man said. “I know where it is.”

Frank and Basil exchanged glances, clearly impatient to get on with their business. Halliday froze the pair with a glance, then turned back to Babescu. “If there was cash to be had, you’d have spent it. I think we’ve learned that much.”

Halliday signaled to Frank, who threw a lever on the control panel before him. The machine groaned with Babescu’s weight, but the cable still began to coil, lifting the cage higher, inch by relentless inch.

“I couldn’t get at it!” Babescu cried. “Damn it, man, listen to me!”

Halliday raised his hand and the rising cage creaked to a stop.

The fat man was slumped back against the bars like a hippo without a spine, his jowls gray and sagging, as if his flesh had begun to melt. “I can’t move my legs,” he said, as if he’d forgotten what he’d just been saying.

“The
trust
,
Babescu,” Halliday said, mimicking the fat man. “Or perhaps you’re lying,” he continued as Frank Wheatley gunned the engine of the heavy machine.

“I’m not,” Babescu said quickly. “It’s all there. I’m certain of it.”

“You can produce all this?”

Babescu stared down at him. The whites of his eyes were yellowed now, and spidered with lacy red. “The trust resides in Miami,” the fat man said. He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and came out with a wallet. He fumbled with the wallet for a moment, then produced a key. “In a vault,” he said, tossing the key toward Halliday.

Halliday snatched the key out of the air. He glanced at Basil Wheatley then back at Babescu, regarding him thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be there if you could have gotten at it. Tell me the story, Babescu. Quickly!”

The fat man’s mouth opened and closed twice before the words began to issue. “Your father and I…” he managed, “we had something of a falling out just before he died.” Babescu waved his hand as if it hardly mattered. “He revoked my right of trusteeship.”

Halliday’s nostrils flared. “Just a detail you’d neglected to pass along.”

“The last time you and I met, we hardly had time for a heart to heart,” Babescu said, his breathing ever more labored.

True enough, Halliday thought. He’d been tipped by informants within the Justice Department as to what was coming, but even so, he’d had less than a week to convert what assets he could and still make it out of the country. Eight years he’d been on the run, and no glittery residences for him, either. The glorious watering holes, those were the first places they came looking for you when they wanted their money back. Then the agonizing months of surgery, in and out of one clandestine clinic and another…And then the money had run out. And he’d had enough. He’d paid for what he’d done and more. He was going to live again, and nothing was going to keep him from it.

“Who has access to this vault?” Halliday said.

Babescu shook his head, staring down at the front of his trousers where a dark stain had spread. “I need medical attention, Michael. Immediate medical attention.”

“You’ll get it,” Halliday said. “Who has access? A Miami law firm? One of your dubious CPAs?”

Babescu shook his head. “Your father wasn’t one to trust organizations, Michael.”

“Tell me, Babescu. Tell me, and I’ll see that you’re attended to.”

Babescu stared back at him, the expression on the fat thief’s face perhaps the most candid Halliday had ever seen. “I’d have never stolen from your father,” he said, his voice a ruin.

“But you are willing to steal from me?” Halliday said. “Give me the name, Babescu. Let’s get this over with.”

Babescu hesitated, then turned away as he spoke. “Barton Deal,” the fat man said, defeat evident in his tone. “DealCo Construction. Your father’s old friend.”

Halliday paused. “Barton Deal is dead, Babescu. He shot himself years ago.”

Babescu turned back, defiant suddenly. “Barton Deal’s the man Grant Rhodes gave his money to. And I haven’t received a penny since he died. If you’re interested, go to Miami and look for it. Now get me out of here.”

Halliday stared at the fat man thoughtfully, then finally nodded. “That I will,” he said. He put the key in his pocket, then turned to Frank Wheatley and gestured. Frank grinned and pressed a button on the console before him. There came a faint popping noise, and tiny blue tongues of flame began to dance about the perimeter of the cage, a lacework of flame that quickly grew to red and gold, and finally to a white hot storm.

***

“You want us to put it out?” Basil Wheatley asked.

Halliday,
né
Rhodes, stared up at the swaying fireball and past it, noting that the tips of the ruined temple once again glowed red in the reflection of the Fire Shower’s flames. There had been no spinning cylinder of fire this time. Just the flames and the screaming and the eventual near-silence, as now.

“Let it take care of itself,” he said.

Basil nodded and motioned his brother down from the control panel of the machine. “He says to let it go.”

Frank nodded and clambered down from the seat of the machine. He glanced up at the glowing cage as he joined Halliday and his brother on the platform. “I’d have shot the fat fuck out of that cannon,” he said. “See what happens to one of those trucks when a tub of guts like that hits it.”