Taking Stock (31 page)

“Vinny,” Jean-Claude blurted in a low whisper.

Vincent didn’t slow. He stopped only to pull open the door to the bank and by then, he was a full five yards ahead.

The man on the bench sneered menacingly. This was the man from the airport tunnel. The skinny guy who’d grabbed his hands while his buddy banged him up. Herman had sent him. Maybe Herman knew about the deal with Marcus. Maybe he knew all along and he’d waited until now to get even. The big guy who threw the punches could be idling the car, ready to speed away from the hit.

Jean-Claude cut in front of Vincent and headed inside behind the protection of the bank’s brick walls.

The lobby of Banca di Turino was small by American standards. It mainly serviced the farmers and other small businesses in the mountain villages. The lone guard faced the patrons with his back to the wall, where the open lobby afforded him an excellent view, but nowhere to hide during a shootout. Jean-Claude noticed his grey hair and the glasses in his shirt pocket. He wondered how fast the old man could pull the gun and whether he could hit anything once he did.

Ahead and to the right, three cameras captured activity at the teller windows and the vault entrance. Jean-Claude had arrived precisely on time, but the manager’s door was closed. He veered left to avoid being filmed and settled in a seat with his back to the tellers, the cameras, and the line of customers. Several paintings reflected bits of the lobby behind him. His eyes shifted back and forth, watching the manager’s door to his right and the guard to his left.

Marcus had never kept him waiting. Three minutes in the lobby seemed endless as images of running police played over and over in his mind. When he subdued thoughts of arrest, he imagined the big guy and his partner rigging explosives under Vincent’s car. Vincent would turn the ignition and a loud click would sound. The flames would rip up through the seats sending body parts flying, blood spattering and thousands of torn green bills fluttering through the alley.

Jean-Claude shook himself back into the moment.

Vincent sat opposite watching the patrons transact their business, his face in full view of the cameras. The nervousness from the farmhouse was replaced by a cheery fascination with the other customers. He hummed an unfamiliar tune and tapped a rhythm on his chair.

When the Manager’s door creaked open, Vincent slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and rose. Jean-Claude stayed fast, watching the man in the manager’s doorway from the corner of his eye. The big guy from the tunnel was talking to Marcus. They shook hands heartily and the big guy walked behind Jean-Claude, across the lobby, and out the front door. Vincent stutter stepped toward the manager’s office, glancing back at Jean-Claude often enough for anyone to know they were together.

Marcus, the bank’s manager, turned sideways to step through the doorway. His massive round torso brushed the frame on both sides as he passed, his swollen arms hung limp, resting against his sides. He breathed heavily as he met Vincent and Jean-Claude with a broad smile.

“Ciao, gentlemen,” he said. He gave a reverent nod and labored back into his office. He side-stepped around his desk and squeezed into his chair, his thighs pushing the arms several inches further apart than they were designed to go. Jean-Claude sat across the desk, and Vincent stood beside the window watching the lobby.

“What was that about
?
”

“An acquaintance of yours I believe, checking our progress.”

“I trust you didn’t overestimate our good fortune.”

“I may have overlooked two million for you and a small sum for my services.”

Jean-Claude hadn’t trusted Marcus since he suggested skimming from the account. Marcus took an extra cut, but Jean-Claude always suspected he’d be looking for more. He wouldn’t be above blackmail if he learned Jean-Claude worked for BFS. Hopefully, the goon hadn’t given him any clues.

“Let’s start with the balance.”

Jean-Claude scribbled the account number, checked it with his notebook, and slid the slip of paper across the worn desk. Marcus clicked on his computer terminal, wrote a number below Jean-Claude’s, and passed it back. 36,475,058.

“Dollars, correct
?
” Jean-Claude asked.

Marcus nodded.

“Excellent. Wire ten million to this account number in the
United States
.” Jean-Claude carefully copied the number and handed it across.

“This is unusual.”

“A surprise for a dear friend who’s helping us.”

“Quite generous compared to my meager stipend.”

“Not the type of help you’d want to give.”

Marcus banged each key as he entered the transfer information into his terminal. His face soured, jealously longing after the huge sum he saw passing through his hands. Certainly he felt the risks he took were worth more, but that was between him and Herman.

When he was done, he turned the computer screen toward Jean-Claude.

Jean-Claude verified the numbers and nodded his approval.

Marcus reclaimed the screen and Jean-Claude sat back, while the machine delivered the money to an unsuspecting recipient. Vincent turned a coin in his fingers and peered through the thick glass into the lobby.

“Ok, what’s next
?
” Marcus asked.

“My two million in cash. Make it tight. Last time it barely fit in the case. I’ll take the rest in two checks – seventy-thirty.”

“How much do you want to leave
?
”

“Ten thousand.” Jean-Claude would have taken it all, but that would signal Marcus that he was losing his most profitable client. Better if he learned the news when Jean-Claude was safely out of the country. Marcus could keep the extra ten thousand.

Marcus made some calculations and disappeared through the heavy door at the rear of his office. When he did, Jean-Claude rose to watch the lobby. Several customers had left the bank. Vincent walked to the bookshelf and examined the photos displayed on top.

“Can you believe his family is this big
?
” Vincent asked.

The round happy faces all had thick dark hair. All were enormous. He wondered if Vincent referred to their numbers or their size. “Who cares
?
I just want to get my money and get out of here,” Jean-Claude said.

For all his earlier nervousness, Vincent seemed inattentive.

Marcus returned ten minutes later pushing a small cart piled with tightly bound stacks of hundred dollar bills wrapped in plastic. Jean-Claude packed his briefcase to capacity. The two million made the case as heavy as he could manage on the long trip back through the woods. He tucked the two checks deep inside his front pants pocket where they’d be safe.

Marcus was a risk. He knew the account numbers here and the ones in the states that the money came from. If he ever discovered Jean-Claude’s real name, blackmail was a definite possibility. If he told Herman about the millions they’d siphoned off, Jean-Claude would turn up dead in
Boston
. Marcus could do a lot of damage. Jean-Claude would be much better off if he disappeared. There was no one to stop him from shooting Marcus right here except the feeble guard in the lobby.

Marcus was so fat he could barely move. A quick clean shot would kill him in his chair before he could lift his flabby arms. Jean-Claude could swing the door open and fire off six or seven shots at the guard before he could draw his gun. He wasn’t sure he could he hit him across the lobby, but the street was a greater risk. The alarm would be blaring when he stepped outside and he could get nabbed by a passing cop. He eyed Marcus as he buckled the briefcase then glanced at Vincent. Vincent would be too stunned to help. He’d probably wet himself when the first shot went off.

Jean-Claude shoved a stack of bills to Marcus, twenty thousand dollars for his silence. Marcus swept the stack into his top drawer, unaware how close he’d come to a sudden, violent death.

“Don’t lose those checks now. They’re hard to replace,” Marcus joked, reveling in Jean-Claude’s nervousness.

“I haven’t lost one yet.”

The huge man stood up behind his desk. “Take my advice: spende il denaro velocemente,” he said in an eerie voice.

Jean-Claude’s Italian was poor, but he knew sarcasm when he heard it. He squeezed the meaty hand and shook it deliberately. “Thanks. That goes double for you.”

The words had no effect on Marcus, but Jean-Claude didn’t care. He was halfway home. He walked through the lobby and out onto the street, swinging the forty pound case back and forth to make it appear lighter than when he entered. The men weren’t on the bench across the street nor were they around the fountain or the lawn. He scanned for their faces in every window and car. Nothing. Halfway down the alley, he left Vincent alone with the briefcase and doubled back. No one moved in their direction.

He trotted to the car and craned his neck underneath before they got in. Nothing suspicious had been added. Vincent looked at him as if he were crazy, but he didn’t explain. He told Vincent to get them out of town anywhere but toward the farm. They meandered through open country roads where no one could follow without being seen. Jean-Claude had never been this afraid for his life. He’d worried endlessly about going to prison, but after today he was as expendable as Marcus. These men would kill him with precision and dump his body without a second thought. The handgun was little comfort against professionals.

A dozen miles from the bank he remembered what Marcus had said. “Vinny, what is velociminty
?
”

“Velocemente means fast or quick. He said spend the money quickly. Does he know something
?
”

Jean-Claude wondered what Marcus had said to Herman’s henchman back at the bank. He doubted the two were scheming against him. Marcus was a bit player in this scam. If anyone should have been worried it was Marcus. “He’s just a greedy, fat man taking everything he can get his hands on. He’s nobody,” Jean-Claude said, almost believing it himself.

“He doesn’t think he’s nobody. He was cocky, like he knew something was going to happen and he wished he could watch.”

Jean-Claude was taken aback by Vincent’s insight. It was no coincidence that the thugs from
Boston
appeared for this last withdrawal. This would be the most dangerous trip. Jean-Claude searched the fields in silence wondering if he’d make it back to
Boston
.

“I don’t think he liked the transfer,” Vincent said.

“Next time, he’ll ask for more money.”

Marcus might not wait that long.

They made a wide arc around the town and back to the farm, intently surveying every car and face they passed.

Back at the farm, it was Jean-Claude’s turn to pace. He spent the afternoon and most of the night traveling from window to window, waiting and watching. The fields were dark again and although he was anxious to get started, he needed some light to navigate through the mountains. The sun would rise soon, followed a few hours later by hikers and campers and other tree huggers who’d see him fly overhead. He collected his briefcase and overnight bag, thanked Vincent for his help, and started for the door. Vincent stirred, patted the thick envelope in his jacket and smiled as Jean-Claude quietly opened the back door and hiked across the open field. He climbed up the slope and settled into a thick stand of trees to observe the woods before climbing the rest of the way to the old dirt road.

The minutes passed slowly as he listened to the rush of leaves under each bird and squirrel stirred by the coming dawn. He rose to leave, then froze, hunched-over, half-standing. Two figures were barely visible in the pre-dawn light as they trotted across the field and spread out. Jean-Claude’s chest sank as he watched one of the men stop just inches from the outer wall, duck under the windows and sneak toward the front of the house. The other man moved toward the back door.