Kings of Midnight (11 page)

Romero lay on his side, right hand outstretched, still holding the dark automatic. She brought a boot heel down hard on his wrist, then kicked the gun from his grip, took a step and kicked it again. It slid across the carpet and under the couch.

The noise of the plane died away. Cavanaugh hadn't moved. Jorge was on his knees now, a hand over his eye, breathing hard. The smell of alcohol drifted up from the carpet.

Wayne's voice in her head:
Keep the momentum. Take control of the situation. Don't let it fall apart on you.

She pointed the Ruger at Cavanaugh's face. “Kneel.”

“Listen,” he said. “I don't…”

She thumbed back the hammer for effect. He looked into her eyes and she knew what he saw there. He raised his hands to shoulder height, lowered himself to his knees.

Romero was trying to sit up, a hand over his shoulder. His eyes fluttered. Slipping into shock, she thought. No exit wound. At that range, the bullet would have punched through tissue, bone and muscle, mushroomed somewhere inside.

She looked at the door, wondered how long it would take before someone came knocking.

Cavanaugh sensed her uncertainty. “What do you think you're going to do?” he said. “Kill us? In here? How far you think you'll get?”

She looked at him, knowing then what she would do, no anger in it. He saw her expression, her shift in balance, tried to pull back out of the way. She took two steps, raised her right foot, drove her boot heel into his face, all her weight behind it. She felt the nose give way, and he went over backward, body limp. He fell onto his side and lay still.

She went to Jorge, pointed the Ruger at his head. When he took his hand away, his left eye was red, already swelling shut. He raised a hand to ward her off.

“Get up,” she said. “Keep your hands away from your body.”

He got slowly to his feet. “You fucked up my eye.”

“Pick up the money,” she said.

He did as he was told. Romero was on his back now, eyes closed, but still breathing. She stayed clear of him, watched as Jorge shoveled bills back into the envelope.

“My gun, too,” she said. “And the magazine.”

“The what?”

“The clip.”

He got the Tomcat from the couch.

“In the envelope,” she said.

He dropped it in, the magazine after it.

“Put it on the chair,” she said. “Then back up, face the wall.”

He set the envelope down, raised his left hand back to his eye, didn't move.

“The wall. Or I'll shoot you where you stand.”

“I don't think you will,
chica.
”

Cavanaugh moaned, trembled. They both looked at him. The carpet around his face was red with blood.

“You're in deep now,
puta,
” Jorge said. “That was my brother you shot. You better kill me, too. Because you know we're gonna find you.”

“Turn around.”

When he did, she decocked the Ruger, reversed it. No easy thing, knocking a man out with a gun. Just as likely to cause brain damage or death. But it couldn't be helped.

“I'm telling you,
chica
…” he started, and she stepped forward, brought the butt of the Ruger down in a hard arc. He staggered, reached back to cover his head, but she got the second blow between his hands, drove him forward. With the third he lost his legs, fell against the wall, and slid down into a pile.

Time to move. She stepped around Cavanaugh, turned the briefcase over on the table. The bundle of dope. A .25 automatic with pearl grips. A small mirror and razor blade, to sample the coke if they'd gotten that far. But no more money.

She dropped the .25 into her right coat pocket, pushed the couch aside until she saw Romero's gun, a Smith & Wesson automatic. She put it in the other pocket, felt its weight.

No time to check the rest of the suite. And no use, more than likely. Cavanaugh hadn't come to pay what he'd owed, he'd come to deal.

She put the Ruger in with the .25, tucked the envelope under her arm. She went out into the empty hallway, pockets heavy with guns. The elevator was humming, the display numbers rising:
EIGHT, NINE, TEN
. The rattle of the car coming up.

She was calmer than she thought she'd be. She took the fire stairs to the eighth floor, went down the hall. Halfway along the corridor was a nook with a soda machine, icemaker, and a white flip-top trash can. She unloaded the .25, dropped it in the bin, did the same with Romero's S&W and the Ruger. She kept the magazines, took an elevator down to the lobby.

There was a police car outside the front door, the rollers on but no one inside. The clerk at the reception desk looked worried. So they'd already gone up. Someone had called in the shot.

She went past the desk, and out into the gray day. There was a shuttle bus waiting at the curb, engine running, people inside. The door started to hiss closed.

She walked fast, stepped off the curb in front of the bus, waved. The tired-looking black man behind the wheel nodded. The door folded open again and she went up, took a seat in the back. As they pulled away, she saw another police car approach, lights flashing. It parked behind the first one.

There were six other people on the bus, but no one made eye contact with her on the five-minute ride to the airport. She thanked the driver, walked to the lot and got her car, headed south on the Turnpike, the envelope with the money and the .32 tucked under her seat.

At the first rest stop she saw, she pulled in, got out her cell and called Rathka. When he came on the line, she said, “You need to be careful.”

“What's that mean?”

“That thing with your friend went wrong.”

“I knew it. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Is there any way they can tie you to me?”

“I don't think so. Christ, I should have talked you out of this.”

“Not your fault.”

“What happened?”

“He turned out to be triplets. Bad guys. They're down for a while, but it won't be long.” Maybe longer, she thought, if no one was awake enough to flush the coke before the police got up there.

“I'm sorry about this,” he said. “I feel like I'm to blame.”

“You're not. Just the way it went down. I should have listened to my instincts.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you leave it? Will they come after you?”

“Not anytime soon,” she said.

“What if they do?”

“I'll worry about that when it happens,” she said, and ended the call.

She went into the Arby's to use the bathroom, splashed water in her face, looked in the mirror.

Nothing's ever easy, she thought. No matter how much you plan, allow for every contingency. Things go bad, and then you have to work twice as hard just to get back to where you started.

She dried her face with paper towels, went out, pulled the gloves back on. There was a Dumpster near the car. She took out the three magazines, tossed them up and in. She kept the .32.

TEN

She was in the living room, sleet crackling against the sliding glass door, when Anthony Falcone called.

“I've got bad news for you,” he said. “About the money.”

She crossed to the stereo, turned the volume down. “Bad news is all I get lately.”

“Your hunch was right. I took a close look at all the bills that guy gave you, especially the watermarks and security strips. Ran them under blacklight, too. The tens are all good, but the twenties…”

“Tell me.”

“More than half are bad. Pretty decent work, though. A lot of these going around lately. I flagged a couple at the restaurant last month.”

Another of Cavanaugh's sidelines. And now something else he owed her.

“What's the damage?” she said.

“You could try to float the twenties somewhere, recoup a little of your loss, but I wouldn't recommend it.”

“How much in good bills?”

“Ten grand. Maybe.”

Ten grand, out of a hundred and fifty. All her work undone, the risk wasted.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I know it's not what you wanted to hear. Bad luck.”

More than that, she thought. Bad planning, bad moves. She'd walked right into all of it, like an amateur. And now her stake was down to almost nothing. She rubbed the tattoo on her wrist.

“Appreciate your help,” she said.

“Let me know where you want to meet, and I'll turn it all back over to you. I'm guessing you copied the serial numbers beforehand, so you'll know I didn't switch anything out.”

“I did. Nothing personal. No offense.”

“None taken. If I were you, though, I'd ditch these twenties as soon as possible. They're more trouble than they're worth.”

“I will.”

“One other thing. I'm not sure what it's about.”

“What's that?”

“My grandfather called today. There's someone he wants you to meet.”

She frowned. “Who?”

“Don't know. He didn't tell me. But you know my grandfather. If it wasn't important, he wouldn't mention it.”

“He give you any idea of the reason?”

“No. I have to call him back after I talk to you. He said if you were willing, he'd set it up. If not, forget about it. No problem. But that I should tell you it might be worth your while.”

She knew the phrase. It was the one Jimmy used when he was steering them to work back in the '90s, a decade's worth of scores with no drama, no blowback. Before the jewelry store in Houston, before everything went to hell.

“Tell him to set it up,” she said. “Then call me.”

*   *   *

She sat in the hard plastic chair, watching the man a few feet opposite her, not liking what she saw. Late fifties, early sixties. Balding, glasses. Nervous. Jimmy had introduced him as Leonard. He'd taken the chair near the window, sat half-facing her.

Jimmy wheeled into the space between them. The door was closed, Anthony out in the hall to make sure they weren't disturbed.

“Let me just say this first,” Jimmy said. “I've known you both a long time. You both have my trust, for what that's worth. And I'll leave it at that.”

Leonard fidgeted, looked out the window, then at his watch. Instinct told her to get up, walk out. The circle of people she dealt with was small, and this man was a stranger. But Jimmy had vouched for him. Leaving now would be an insult.

“I don't know about this,” Leonard said. He was mumbling, couldn't make eye contact, but she picked up the accent. New York. Brooklyn, maybe. Queens.

“About what?” Jimmy said.

“This place. Talking here. I don't know if it's a good idea.”

“It's as good as anywhere,” Jimmy said. “I just wanted to make the introduction. You two want to talk more, you can go off somewhere yourselves. If you don't, that's fine, too.”

“I don't know,” Leonard said again. He took off his glasses, fiddled with the frames, put them back on.

“Whatever,” Jimmy said. “We're here now.” He looked at Crissa. “B … uh, Leonard here came to me with something of a proposition. Might be up your alley, might not.”

“What kind of proposition?”

“Better he tells it. I heard it all, but it's your opinion that matters.”

Leonard picked lint off his pants, his right heel rubbed at the carpet. This is more than nerves, she thought. This is fear.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It threw me. I mean, no offense, but when Jimmy told me he knew someone that could help, I didn't expect a woman.”

She'd been waiting for that. She looked at Jimmy. “Maybe this is a good time for me to head out, before I hear any more of this.”

“Hold on,” Jimmy said. “Leonard, don't embarrass me. I brought you both here in good faith.”

She'd been hoping for an out, a way to cut this short without offending Jimmy. A cold meeting like this, with someone she didn't know, was an unnecessary risk. Jimmy would know that. She wondered if age and illness had taken their toll, warped his judgment.

Leonard rubbed a knee, squinted out the window, making a decision.

“No offense,” she said, “but I don't have a lot of time.”

He looked back at her. “I'm not sure how much Jimmy told you.”

“Nothing,” she said.

“What it is, I might have a line on some money that was stashed away years ago. A lot of money.”

“Might?”

“That's just it. I've been away awhile. Things may have changed.”

She was liking it even less now. “Away?”

“Not what you think. Just out of state. But I'm from back here originally, Queens. Problem is, I don't really know anyone around here anymore. Except Jimmy. Nobody I can trust, at least. So forgive me if I'm a little paranoid.”

“Where were you?” she said.

“Not the joint, if that's what you're worried about.”

She let that pass. He was playing it close, not giving more than he had to.

“Tell me about the money,” she said. Wanting him to move it along, bring them to a place she could say no.

“It's been out of circulation awhile. As far as I know, no one's found it. If they had, I would have heard.”

“Whose money?”

“It's from a robbery. A long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Thirty-five years.”

Jimmy held up a hand. “Hold on,” he said to her. “It's not as crazy as it sounds. I can back up part of the story, at least. I was around back then.”

Leonard shifted in his seat. “If she doesn't believe me, maybe it's better we don't get into it at all.”

“Fine with me.” She stood. “Sorry, Jimmy.”

“Stop,” he said. “No need for all this. Leonard, say your piece. If neither of you likes what you hear, you can both walk away, no hard feelings.”