Naked Greed (27 page)

“It went exactly as it was supposed to, up to a point: we got the driver and two of the other three. The third guy tried to fire his shotgun, but we gave him bad ammo. He pulled a gun we didn’t know he had and fired, hitting one of ours. It’s an in-and-out, he’ll be okay, but your third guy jacked a cab out front and disappeared. A patrol car found the cab in an alley, ditched and wiped. The guy’s in the wind.”

“Which one is he?”

“I don’t know. There was Charlie, then a young guy, maybe early twenties. It was the other guy made it out.”

“Did you find anything on the other two that might help us find the guy?”

“Charlie was carrying a throwaway phone.”

“What was the last number he called?” Frank wrote it down. “Can you trace it?”

“We’re taking it to the station to see if we can trace it.”

“Call me if you find it.”

“Sure.” The man hung up.

Frank stared at the number. Gene Ryan had made it out. Just for the hell of it, he dialed the number. It rang three times, then made a funny noise and stopped ringing. Frank tried it again, but he got a message saying the number was not in use. The phone had been disabled. Oh, what the hell, he thought, Gene Ryan was not important.

His phone rang again. “Yes?”

“The same guy,” his secretary said.

Once again, he pressed the flashing button. “Hello?”

“I forgot to tell you: the guy who got away took nearly half of the money with him—about two hundred thousand. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I can’t help it if your people fucked up,” Frank said, and hung up. He reached into his desk drawer for some Rolaids. Gene Ryan had just become a lot more important.

—

R
yan dozed for a while, and when he woke up it was dark outside, and he was hungry. He opened his bag for some fresh clothes, and the sight of the money made him jump. He’d have to do a count at some point. He peeled a dozen hundreds off a stack for pocket money and put them into his wallet, then he changed into fresh clothes. He was about to stow the luggage again, but the sight of the money had made him not want to leave it. Then he had an idea; he unlatched the top berth and let it down, then put the suitcase on the bed and closed it again. There, that was better. If a thief wanted to rummage through his luggage, he could try the smaller case and steal his dirty laundry.

He locked the cabin door behind him and made his way to the dining car. The headwaiter seated him at a table for two, took his drink order, and left him with a menu. A moment later, a Chivas Regal on the rocks appeared before him, a double, as he had requested. A moment after that, as he was poring over the menu, a voice broke his train of thought.

“Excuse me, may I join you?” she asked.

Ryan looked up into a very large pair of eyes and his gaze dropped to her cleavage. She was bending over him slightly.

“Sure,” he said, half rising, “please do.”

She lowered herself into the chair and gazed at him with Mediterranean eyes. Italian? Jewish? he wondered.

“I’m Sylvia Mays,” she said, extending a hand.

“Gene Ryan,” he replied. The hand was soft and warm. She was wearing a tailored business suit that swelled to accommodate her breasts, which seemed to be fighting to get out. He wanted to help.

“You have a nice tan,” she said. “You must have gotten in some beach time.”

“A couple of days,” he said. “I was down on business, but that didn’t work out, so I thought I’d take the train home.”

“New York?”

“New Jersey, formerly of New York. You?”

“Oh, I’m a Manhattanite, born and bred,” she replied, smiling. Great teeth, or maybe just a great dentist.

“Will you have some dinner with me?” he asked, offering her the menu.

She accepted it and glanced through it. “I just want a steak,” she said.

“I was thinking the same.” The waiter came and they both ordered the New York strip, medium rare, and Ryan ordered a bottle of Cabernet. She declined a drink, and he poured her a glass of wine. “So what brought you to Miami?”

“A trade show. I’m a handbag designer. I specialize in alligator,” she said, holding up her own bag.

“That’s very beautiful. Did your show go well?”

“Very well—my order book is full.”

“Tell me, what does an alligator bag go for on Madison Avenue?”

“They start at fifteen thousand. This one is forty-two five, at Bergdorf’s.”

“Wow, you can get a decent car for that kind of money.”

“You can get a very decent handbag, too.”

“And how many do you sell every year?”

“This year, I expect to ship about four hundred.”

Ryan’s math failed him. He wanted to get out his iPhone and use the calculator but restrained himself.

They had a good dinner, and Ryan got out his wallet and paid cash, spilling hundreds all over the table.

“I’d love an after-dinner drink,” she said, “but they’re looking like they want their table.”

“I don’t think there’s a bar car. I’d invite you back to my suite, but I don’t have anything to drink.”

She held up her handbag. “There’s a flask of some very good cognac in here.”

They walked back to his cabin, and he let them in. As they entered, the train lurched, and the top berth opened, revealing his suitcase. He quickly closed it.

“My, carrying valuables, are we?” she said.

“Just a couple of Rolexes,” he replied. He found some glasses and she poured them generous drinks.

“It’s warm in here,” she said. “Feel free to take off your jacket and tie.” He did so, hanging them on a hook on the door. As he sat down, the train lurched again, and he spilled brandy on his trousers.

“You should take a damp cloth to that,” she said, “or it’ll stain.”

“Excuse me.” He went into the little john, wet a facecloth and dabbed at it, then returned. She had refilled his glass, and he noticed that the top button of her blouse had come undone.

She came closer as he sat down and wrapped her arm around his. “This is how we should toast,” she said, and they drank, then kissed lightly. “I must be careful not to let you get me drunk,” she said. “I might do something unforgivable.”

“Nothing could be unforgivable,” he said.

She rested a hand on his thigh and raised her glass again. “To the forgivable,” she said, squeezing his thigh.

He kissed her, then had an overwhelming urge to belch. “Excuse me!” he said. “Steak doesn’t normally do that to me.”

Her hand moved up his thigh, and he ran a finger down her cleavage. “Mmm,” she said, and he reached for a nipple. He had just found it when a wave of nausea swept over him. He stood up. “Excuse me for a minute.” He went into the john and threw up into the toilet. In a moment, he was on his knees, retching again.

“You all right in there?” she called.

“Just give me a minute,” he said. He needed more than a minute before he could stand. The train was slowing as it came into a station, and he bounced off the walls. Finally, he got hold of the doorknob and turned it, but the door wouldn’t open. “Hey,” he called, “can you open the door from that side? It’s stuck.”

No reply. It was getting hot in the tiny room and he began to sweat heavily. He put his shoulder against the door, and it gave a little. He put more weight behind it and it burst open, spilling him into the little cabin. The door had been tied with his necktie. She was gone. “Goddamnit!” he muttered. “Just when I was about to get lucky.” He mopped his forehead with his sleeve and reached for his jacket to get a handkerchief. He dropped the jacket, and as he picked it up, his wallet fell onto the floor. It was empty.

“Shit!” he yelled. Then he looked out the window and saw Sylvia Mays walk quickly past on the platform in the company of a porter, who was carrying Ryan’s suitcase. He couldn’t believe it. He reached up and unlatched the upper berth, and as it fell open he saw that it was empty. He grabbed the doorknob and pushed, but the door wouldn’t open. He turned and tried to open the window, but it opened only about ten inches.

“Conductor!” he yelled, over and over. Then the door behind him opened.

“Mr. Ryan,” the conductor said, “someone jammed your door with a wedge. Are you all right?” The train began moving again, gaining speed quickly.

Ryan started to tell him, then stopped. What if they caught her? How could he explain what was in the suitcase?

“What station was that?” he asked.

“Charleston, South Carolina,” the conductor replied.

“What’s the next stop?”

“Norfolk, Virginia.”

“Thank you, I’m fine.” As soon as the conductor was gone, he went into the john and vomited again.

Stone got a call from Dino on Wednesday morning.

“Hey,” Dino said.

“You sound better.”

“I’m fine, pal, and the best part is that Viv never knew I wasn’t.”

“Are you at home?”

“No, I’m at the office—I told you I’m fine.”

“Not tired anymore?”

“I’m just fine, trust me!”

“Okay, you’re fine. Any news on Ryan?”

“Yeah, Harrigan finally figured out that he has a cell phone. We checked his calls, but he hasn’t made any for a while.”

“What’s the billing address?”

“His old place, in Queens.”

“I don’t know why it’s so hard to find a guy who doesn’t seem to be hiding.”

“Neither do I, believe me.”

“What’s his cell phone number?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I just want to know, okay? Maybe I’ll call him, and we’ll chat.”

Dino gave him the number. “Don’t call it,” he said, “you’ll just fuck things up, and Harrigan would love to have somebody to blame.”

Stone ignored that. “When are you going to feel like having dinner?”

“I feel like it right now!” Dino yelled. “Can’t you get it into your head that I’m fine?”

“Great, then call Viv, and let’s go to Patroon tonight.”

“Viv’s back in Chicago, this time overnight.”

“See you there at seven-thirty.”

“Right.” Dino hung up and so did Stone.

Stone called Bob Cantor, his general all-around tech guy.

“How you doing?” Bob asked.

“Just fine,” Stone replied. “I’ve got a little thing for you.”

“What do you need?”

Stone gave him Ryan’s cell number. “I need to find the owner of that cell number. His name is Gene Ryan. It’s still listed under his old address, but he’s moved to New Jersey.”

“I’ll see what I can do. You want to know about his calls?”

“Sure, anything you can learn about the guy.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

—

T
he Silver Meteor pulled into Pennsylvania Station on time. Ryan, out of an abundance of caution, didn’t get off until there were a lot of people on the platform. He’d managed to keep some soup down at lunch, and he was getting hungry, which he regarded as a good sign. What had that bitch put in his drink?

He joined the crowd on the platform, burdened only by his small suitcase. He was about to look for a cab when he realized he had no money. He found an ATM and got five hundred, then he succumbed to hunger and went into a fast-food restaurant and got a burger. He was standing at a tall table, taking his first bite, when he noticed two men walking quickly toward his train. They were clearly looking for somebody, and they didn’t act like cops. They were burly, wearing suits but no ties, and one of them had a bulge under his left armpit. They walked on toward the train.

Ryan began to wonder if he’d waited too long to throw away the throwaway cell phone. They’d have found Charlie’s, and his number would have been in that, and they might have traced it to the moving train before he pulled the SIM card and dumped it.

He reluctantly left the burger and began walking toward the exit where the cab stand was, still chewing. He was unarmed, not having taken anything to Florida, and he had dumped the bank guard’s Glock. He felt vulnerable.

There was a line at the cab stand, and he waited impatiently. He was almost at the front when the two men emerged from the station and began looking around. He turned his back to them and moved up one more place. He was almost into a cab when he heard somebody shout, “Hey, you!” A cab pulled up, and he dived into it. “Lincoln Tunnel!” he said to the cabbie. “I’ll direct you from there.” He looked over his shoulder and saw the two men standing in the road. One of them was writing down something, probably the cab’s plate number.

“Never mind the tunnel,” he said, “just drop me at the Port Authority bus terminal.”

“Make up your mind,” the driver muttered.

At the terminal, he found another cab. “Through the tunnel,” he said, “then take 3 West and 17 North.”

“Teterboro?”

“Near there. I’ll direct you.”

He had the driver drop him a block from his apartment house and walked the rest of the way, checking constantly for tails. He approached the building carefully but saw no threats. Once inside his apartment he called the neighborhood joint and ordered a pizza. He was still ravenous, and he unpacked and turned on the TV while he waited, sucking on a beer from the fridge.

He paid for the pizza and ate straight from the box, wolfing down two slices before he slowed down. Just when he was beginning to relax there was a hammering on his door. He put the pizza box aside and checked the peephole. UPS. He opened the door. “Mr. Ryan?”