Kings of Midnight (21 page)

When they were done, they compared figures. Both had the same amount: Two million, three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.

“I don't believe it,” Benny said.

“We'll count it again.”

“How much is there?” Marta said. She'd come out of the kitchen to stand behind him.

“A lot, baby,” he said. “A whole lot.”

They counted it a second time, came up with the same figure. Crissa did the math. Even split down the middle, expenses off the top, it was the most she'd ever taken down in one shot. It would buy the beginnings of a future for her and Wayne. Maybe one for Maddie, too.

Benny wiped sweat from his forehead. He was pale.

“Are you okay?” Marta said. “You need your medicine?”

He looked at her, not speaking, then shook his head. “No, I don't think so, angel. I think I'm fine.” Then he began to laugh.

Crissa looked at the cash, felt a weight lift from her shoulders. For a while at least, there would be no struggle, no financial stresses, no ripping and running.

“What do we do with it?” he said.

She looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Do we just keep it? Like this? Should we transfer it somewhere? Get a bank in the Cayman Islands, what?”

“You're just thinking about that now?”

“To be honest, I never thought we'd get to this point.”

“If it's as untraceable as everybody says, you're probably safe,” she said. “You can bank some of it, open accounts, as long as you keep the deposits low. You can salt some more away in safe boxes. You'll be surprised how quickly it goes.”

He laughed again. “I can't believe this.”

“I might be able to put you in touch with someone who'll take it all, put it into investments,” she said. “Out of state and overseas. Cents on the dollar, so you'll take a hit. But what you get back will be clean. You won't have to worry about it.”

“No. I don't think I'll do that. I think I like it just the way it is.”

She stood, knees and hip aching, felt the tension of the last twenty-four hours. Couldn't remember the last time she'd slept.

“Somebody will come looking for that money, won't they?” Marta said.

“Probably,” Crissa said. “Which is why you two need to decide where you're going. Don't hang around. If I were you, I'd think Central or South America, Costa Rica maybe.”

Marta was staring at the bills. “Is that what all this has been about? The money?”

“That's what everything's about, honey,” he said.

“No, it's not,” she said. She went into the bedroom, shut the door.

“You can stay here as long as it takes you to get organized,” Crissa said. “Then you need to be gone. Safer that way.”

“All right.”

“We'll do the split now. A thousand off the top for expenses. That goes to me.”

“You have receipts?”

She looked at him.

“Just kidding,” he said. “A thousand is fine.”

“And another fifty grand to Jimmy. His finder's fee.”

“Why so much?”

“Because that's how much we're giving him. And that's the way it's going to be.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. The rest we split down the middle, as agreed. That's still a million and change for both of us. Be happy with that.”

“I am, believe me. What about the jewelry?”

“I have no idea what it's worth,” she said. “I'd have to find out.”

“You'd have a better chance of moving it than me. Keep it.”

For the first time, she noticed the rust-colored spots on one of the bags. They were still wet to the touch. Blood. The woman's or Prez's, or both.

“At the house,” she said, “there was a man that Taliferro called Sal. He wasn't at the motel. You know who he is?”

“Older guy? Scary eyes? Kind of blank?”

“That's him.”

“Sal Bruno. He and Danny go back a long way. He's a bad guy.”

“As opposed to the others?”

“He's worse. He was Danny's cleanup man. They called him ‘The Magician,' because he made people disappear. He was the one came up with the suitcase trick. If they brought him along, they weren't planning on leaving anybody alive.”

“So how did they find her?”

“Who knows? Maybe someone else knew about her, about the house. Maybe they just put two and two together, same way we did, decided to give it a shot, go talk to her.”

“Then why go all the way out to Indiana to brace you?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Maybe he didn't know at first. Maybe somebody she knew sold her out. A lot of people would do a lot of crazy things for a piece of that money.”

“They already have,” she said. “Us, too.”

*   *   *

They counted out Jimmy's money first, hundreds bound in five-thousand-dollar packs. She took twenty fifties for the expenses, then divided the rest equally, split it between the duffel bags. It came to one million, one hundred and fifty-nine thousand each.

She'd drawn the blinds over the sliding glass door, but light still filled the room. Benny was taking individual bills from his banded packs, holding them up.

“What are you looking for?' she said.

“Fugazies. Counterfeit. I wouldn't put it past Joey, his last joke on everybody.”

“Find any?”

“Not yet.”

She went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of Medoc, poured a full glass.

“This bother you?” she said. She touched the bottle.

“No, go ahead, enjoy. Almost wish I was still drinking, today at least. This is something worth celebrating.”

She thought of the three people she'd seen die that night. “Not feeling that way myself.”

“You should be. This is a once-in-a-lifetime score, the kind people like us dream about, right?”

She took the glass into the living room, nodded at the bedroom door. “She going to be all right?”

“She'll be better when we're away from here. We've got a stake now at least. Something that'll last her even after I'm gone. She deserves it, all I've put her through.”

She sat on the couch. “You going to get married?”

“We've talked about it, but I don't know. Sometimes I think she doesn't know what she's gotten into, with the age difference and the health thing. But she'll realize it sooner or later. She's young, she'll want to have kids at some point. And I'm too old for that.”

“Maybe not.”

“No? I remember when I turned forty. I can tell you exactly what I did that night, where I went, what I drank. Twenty-two years ago, but it feels like yesterday. Twenty-two years from now, though, I'll be eighty-four, if I make it that long. You get to be my age, the math works against you.”

“You're no different from anybody else.” She drank wine.

“And there's this heart thing, too. It's been okay for a while. I take my meds, watch my blood pressure and all that. But that could change tomorrow. I don't know how much time I have left.”

“Who does?” she said.

He put the money back in the duffel, zipped it up. “What about your daughter? You going to try to fix that situation?”

“I will. Someday.”

“And there's a man somewhere, I'd guess. Maybe that little girl's father.”

“There's a man, but not her father.”

“Someone you have a future with, though.”

“I hope so.”

“There you go,” he said. “What else can you ask for? Sometimes God hands you gifts, and you have to hold on to them with everything you've got, or lose them forever. It took me a long time to learn that.”

He stood. “But enough preaching. I'm wiped out. I'm going to try to get some sleep.”

He looked down at the bag.

“Take it in with you, if it'll make you feel better,” she said. “I won't be offended.”

He exhaled, then shook his head. “I guess it's safe out here. If you wanted the whole thing, I never would have gotten back here alive anyway, right?”

“That's right.”

“Try to get some sleep yourself. You look like you could use it.” He went into the bedroom, closed the door softly behind him.

She brought the bottle in from the kitchen, refilled the glass, went to the radio and turned it on low. It was still set to QXR. Something calming and quiet she didn't recognize. Mozart maybe. Brahms.

She sat back on the couch, drank wine, looked at the bedroom door. This is your celebration, she thought. Drinking alone. Remembering the faces of a man and woman seconds before their lives ended, their blood on the bag at your feet. There wasn't enough wine in the bottle to block that out. There wasn't enough wine in the world.

She stretched out on the couch, too tired to get a pillow or blanket from the closet. She pulled her duffel bag closer, set the Glock atop it, in easy reach.

She drank wine, looked up at the ceiling, letting the music take her. She closed her eyes.

NINETEEN

She woke all at once, with a moment of panic, not knowing where she was. The Glock was in her hand. She looked down at the duffel bag, and it all came back to her.

Benny was standing in the bedroom doorway. He had his coat on. Marta was behind him.

“We were thinking we'd get going,” he said.

She set the Glock back on the duffel, sat up. “What time is it?”

“Three o'clock.”

More than twelve hours since she'd gone up that hill. Only four hours' sleep. Her hips ached, and her neck was sore. The bottle on the table was half empty.

“Stay right there,” she said. She went into the bathroom, ran the faucet, palmed water in her face, drank some and spit it out. Her mouth was dry, her lips chapped.

“Marta and I decided the best thing to do would be to get on the move,” he said. “Put in as many miles as we can today.”

She wiped her face with a towel, looked at him. They'd brought their suitcases into the living room. “What's your plan?”

“We'll take the Honda, if that's okay with you. We'll leave it at a train station, airport maybe, call you and tell you where it is.”

She nodded at the duffel. “You think you're going to get that on a plane?”

“No. Safer on a train. Not sure where we're headed yet. We'll figure that out on the way. I want to get clear of here, though.”

“Good idea.”

“What about you?”

“I've got some things to do first.”

“I'm worried about all this coming back on you.”

“Don't. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, I've seen.”

He looked around the living room, then back at her. “Then I guess this is it.”

“It is.”

“Thanks for looking out for us. Thanks for everything.”

Marta said, “Benny, we should go.”

He lifted the duffel. “Heavier than I thought it'd be.”

“Way it is sometimes,” Crissa said.

“I don't imagine we'll be coming back this way, for any reason,” Benny said. “Maybe ever.”

“Don't.”

“Give my regards to Jimmy. Thank him for me.”

“I will.”

Marta said, “Benny.” She had the suitcases.

He hefted the duffel, the carry strap over his shoulder. Crissa went past them to the door, unlocked and opened it. The Honda and the Taurus were parked on the concrete apron outside.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks.” He stopped at the door, put out his hand. She took it.

“I wish I'd known you thirty years ago,” he said. “We could have run our own crew. No one could have touched us.”

“I don't want to run anything,” she said. “Never did.”

“Benny, we need to go,” Marta said.

“Be safe,” Crissa said. “And be careful with that money.”

“I will,” he said.

She watched them load the car, back out. As they pulled away, Benny powered down his window, put out a hand, raised it high.

Back inside, she made coffee, took the cup out on the deck. The sky was clear, no clouds in sight. A charter fishing boat chugged up the inlet, headed for open water. Water slapped against the bulkhead as it went past.

She'd sit out here for a while, finish her coffee, then do what had to be done. First she'd call Anthony Falcone, tell him what she had for his grandfather. Then Rathka, to ask him what he thought she should do with a million dollars in cash.

*   *   *

They got on the Garden State Parkway, headed north. He was exhausted from the night before, but wanted to keep moving. They'd decided to drive to New Haven tonight, leave the car at the Amtrak station, pick a train. Head south maybe, live in a hotel for a while, figure out what to do next.

Crossing the Driscoll Bridge, he saw the first signs for Staten Island. He chewed a lip.

“What's wrong?” she said.

He shook his head. Keep going, he thought. Get clear of here. Run. It's what you do best.

“There's a service area coming up,” he said. “I'm going to stop.”

“Why?”

“There's something I need to do.”

“What?”

“Something important.”

He signaled, guided the Honda into the lot.

“We shouldn't be doing this, Benny. We should be getting away from here.”

“We will,” he said.

He backed into a spot on the far side of the parking area, near a grove of trees.

“What's this about?”

“It won't take long, I promise.”

There was a gift shop in the plaza, and he found what he wanted—a cheap, green zippered tote bag that read
NEW JERSEY AND YOU: PERFECT TOGETHER
in yellow type against a silhouette of the state.

He carried it back to the Honda, opened the trunk. With the woods at his back, he unzipped the duffel, counted out $75,000 in packs of hundreds. She got out of the car, watched him.