Thick as Thieves (16 page)

He opens the door slowly and cringes like a vampire in the midday sun. Lamp looks Howie up and down and shakes his head. Howie leans against the Jeep and starts talking, and Carr curses another conversation he isn’t going to hear.

Whatever Howie’s saying, he’s saying it fast, and Lamp holds up a hand and looks irritated. Howie pauses, rubs a hand over his face, and starts again, more slowly this time. Lamp listens and begins to shake his head, and the look of irritation is replaced by one of vague disgust. Carr’s phone vibrates.

“Me and Mike are in the van,” Bobby says. “You see this?”

“I see it,” Carr answers, “but I have no idea what he’s saying.”

“Whatever it is, Lamp’s not crazy for it. You’d figure a guy like him has heard it all before.”

Lamp is still shaking his head, and Bessemer is still talking, leaning more heavily now against the Jeep. Finally Lamp holds up a hand and points at Howie’s car. Howie begins to speak again, but Lamp points once more and pulls a cell phone from the pocket of his shorts. He waits until Howie is back in his car, and then he makes his call.

“Who do you think he’s calling?” Bobby asks.

“Wish I knew,” Carr says.

Lamp talks for a while, glancing now and then at Bessemer. Then he nods his head and punches off. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, and punches in another number.

This conversation is longer, and Lamp walks around while he has it. He circles his Jeep slowly, inspecting bumpers and kicking tires. Finally Lamp pockets his phone and walks over to Bessemer’s car. He raps on the window and Bessemer runs it down. Lamp leans over, props his forearms on the sill, and starts talking.

“Put this on speaker,” Carr says into his phone.

And Bobby does. Lamp’s voice comes on, hollow, choppy, but the New Orleans accent clear.

“You on for Friday night,” Lamp says, “but don’t let’s make this a regular thing. This kinda product’s not for me—too many problems. Too much fucking risk. Your pal want something like this again, you gotta go elsewhere, you get me, bro?”

Howie nods.

“And the folks that bring her, you pay them up front—in cash—or she don’t get out of the car.”

Howie nods again.

“And best not to fuck with these folks, Howie, you know? Or even talk to them too much.”

Lamp doesn’t wait for another nod, but climbs into his Jeep and drives away. A cloud of dust hangs over the asphalt, and Bessemer rests his forehead on his steering wheel. He sits this way for five minutes, and then he too leaves.

Bobby and Mike follow Bessemer from the Brazilian restaurant, and when it’s clear he’s headed home, they call Carr, who drives with Dennis to the workhouse. They open one of Dennis’s laptops and bring up the mics and cameras in Bessemer’s cottage. They watch Bessemer fumble ice into a glass, hold a bottle above the tumbler, and pour for a long time. Then they watch him wander to his office and drop heavily into a chair.

They both start when Bessemer’s landline rings. Howie doesn’t move, but lets the machine answer. It’s Willis Stearn, nervous but excited.

“Just calling to see if you’d worked things out—if we’re on for Friday, and if she’s … if everything is per our discussion. Call me back.”

Howie mutters to himself after Stearn hangs up, and finally he speaks out loud. “
Fuck
!”

Then he hauls himself from his chair, digs in a desk drawer, and comes out with a cell phone. He finds a number in its memory, presses a key, and sets the phone on the desk. A woman answers, her voice thin through the phone speaker, and Bessemer asks for Curtis Prager. And gets him.

It is the first time Carr has heard Prager’s voice, and it’s deeper than he expects, and calmer. It’s an oddly denatured voice too, lacking any regional accent or twang—an anchorman’s voice, but without the practiced affability. His pleasantries are mechanical and distracted, lacking any actual warmth—a sociable shell over an icy core.

“What can I do you for, Bess? I understand you’ve been burning up the phone lines.”

Bessemer hems and haws for a while, and Carr hears him swallow hard. Finally, he comes out with it. “It’s my money, Curt—I need my money back.”

There is a long pause from Prager. “Where are you calling from?” he asks.

“Don’t worry, I follow the rules—I’m on a prepaid cell, just like you said. It’s been a very long time, Curt—years, for chrissakes—and I really need my money.”

Prager chuckles patronizingly. “I heard you the first time. We’ve talked about this before, Bess. Often. You know it’s not a simple matter.”

Bessemer’s voice is nervous but determined. “I know you always make it sound complicated, but I’m still not clear why that should be.”

Again, the chuckle. “We’ve been over it again and again.”

“A simple wire transfer—I’m not sure why it’s more involved than that.”

Another sigh, longer, more impatient. “How many ways can I say it?” Prager asks. “Transferring the money is the easy part. Provenance is the problem.”

“But that’s … isn’t that
my
problem?”

“The hell it is,” Prager says brusquely. “Who do you think will be the second person the feds want to talk to, as soon as they’ve eaten you for lunch?”

“We could break it into several transfers, in smaller amounts. I know you know how to—”

Prager’s voice turns colder. “That’s called
structuring
, Bess, or maybe you’ve forgotten. And the feds are always thrilled to find it. It tells them they’re on the right track. I know they’d especially love to see it in your bank account.”

“They’re not still watching me,” Bessemer says, with more hope than conviction.

“Really? Is that what all
your
security people tell you? Because
my
security people tell me something different. They say that the feds are still fascinated by what flows through your accounts, and that Tracy and her fucking lawyers do their best to keep them interested.”

Dennis looks at Carr, puzzled. Carr shakes his head. When Bessemer speaks again, his voice is a white flag. “I need money, Curt,” he says softly.

“I know,” Prager says. “And believe me, I’m working on getting it to you. In the meantime, if you need something to tide you over, I’m sure we can work it out. We can do what we’ve done before: package it as a consulting fee, for client referrals. As long as we give it documentation, and keep it to small amounts, it should be fine.”

Prager’s reassurances are met with silence. A skeptical silence, Carr thinks, and maybe Prager thinks so too, because his next words are lower and somehow more threatening. “What’s the matter, Bess—after everything we’ve been through, you suddenly decide you don’t trust me? All these years, and I still haven’t proven I can keep my word?”

Bessemer coughs and sputters, but his declarations of trust come too late: Prager has already hung up.

“What was all that about the feds?” Dennis asks. “We’re the only ones following Howie around. And who the hell is Tracy?”

“She’s Bessemer’s ex,” Carr says. “I don’t know what the rest of that shit was about.” Carr is still rubbing his chin when Bessemer makes a second call—this one to Willis Stearn.

“Friday night, at nine,” Howie says when Stearn picks up. His voice is clipped, almost angry.

“At your house?”

“That’s what you asked for.”

“And she’s—”

“It’s what you asked for, Willis.”

“How old is—”

“For chrissakes, Willis, she’s what you fucking ordered!”

Bessemer hangs up, and Dennis stares at Carr, his Adam’s apple twitching. They watch on the laptop screen for a while, while Howie drinks in silence

“Tell Bobby and Mike to come back,” Carr says finally. “He’s not going anywhere.”

Bobby and Mike bring a lot of beer with them. They all sit around the folding tables in the workhouse, in the glow of the laptop screens. An oily, late-day rain beats at the windows.

“How much gin you think Howie’s gonna put away tonight?” Bobby asks between swallows of beer. “I bet he makes it through the bottle, but doesn’t hold it down. How about it—anybody want to start a pool?”

Mike drags on a cigarette. “Howie’s delivering the goods to Stearn on Friday,” he says. “We get video of that, we can put whatever kind of leash we want on him. What do you say,
jefe
—we ready to roll on this?”

Dennis slams his bottle down and some beer sloshes out the top. His face is red, and his reedy voice is trembling. “Video? Are you saying we’re just going to sit there and watch while this shit happens?”

They all look at him, surprised. In the time they’ve known him, they’ve never heard Dennis raise his voice beyond a goofy laugh. Latin Mike shakes his head, and Carr leans back in his chair.

Bobby looks into his beer. His voice is quiet. “C’mon, Denny—we’ve seen bad shit before. Most of what we do is watch scumbags, and if they’re not doing boring shit, they’re doing bad shit. We’ve seen people get knifed, get shot, get the crap kicked out of ’em. Get killed. We’ve done a little of that ourselves.”

“This is different. Those people were scumbags too, and they were all adults. Bessemer is talking about a
kid
here.”

Mike laughs bitterly. “Jesus,” he says, and looks at Carr. “Why don’t you talk to him? Tell him to grow up or something.” Carr doesn’t answer, and Mike shakes his head. He turns back to Dennis. “We don’t even know for sure what Stearn ordered, bro.”

“Bullshit,” Dennis says. “You
know
this girl they’re talking about is a kid. Why else would Howie’s pimp be so nervous—not to mention Howie shitting his pants?”

“And what do you want to do about it—call the
policía
? Or maybe you’re gonna ride to the rescue yourself—go snatch her from Bessemer’s place and leave her on the church steps, wrapped in a blanket.”

Dennis stares at nothing. “I … I don’t know what to do about it,” he says softly. “I just don’t want to sit there watching—
recording
—while shit like that goes down.”

Mike snorts. “You want somebody else to work the video, so you don’t have to see?”

“That’s not the point.”

“You sure about that, junior? Maybe your conscience just needs a little wiggle room.”

“Fuck you,” Dennis says to Latin Mike, and then he turns to Carr. “If we’re going to roll Howie up,” he asks, “what are we waiting for? Let’s do it now—tonight.”

“Which does what,
cabrón
—besides save you from seeing something
you don’t want to see? The kid they’re pimping out would be in the same shit regardless, on top of which we give up some leverage on Bessemer.”

Bobby runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “We’re not cops, Denny.”

Dennis pushes his chair back from the table. “I’m not saying we are. I’m just saying … Fuck—I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Mike blows a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “So what are we doing,
jefe
?”

Carr studies his beer, thinking about Prager, recalling the threat heavy in the anchorman voice.
What’s the matter, Bess—after everything we’ve been through, you suddenly decide you don’t trust me? All these years, and
I
still haven’t proven I can keep my word
? It had left Bessemer scared, but scared of what?

“There’s something we’re still not seeing,” Carr says softly.

“
Hijo de puta
!” Mike shouts. “What else is there to know? And why the
fuck
do we need to know it?”

Bobby puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder, but Mike shakes it off. Bobby looks at Carr. “He has a point: we’ve got video and sound of the guy buying and selling drugs, arranging hookers for his buddies, and come Friday we’ll have him in the middle of who knows what kind of sick shit. What else do we need?”

Carr shakes his head. His voice is low and raspy. “The feds offered to let him walk away from eighteen months in prison if he rolled on Prager, and Bessemer turned them down. Prager’s got a grip on him, and I want to know what it is. We get only one shot with Bessemer, and I want to go in holding all the cards.”

“I thought he kept his mouth shut because Prager helped him hide money from his wife,” Bobby says. “What else—”

Mike cuts him off. “We got the fucking cards already. We got Bessemer with his dick hanging out, and this time he won’t be looking at some bullshit Wall Street summer-camp jail. He’ll be looking at real prison for the shit we’ve got on him. There’s no way he has the balls for that.”

“There’s something we’re not seeing,” Carr says again.

“You’re saying you want to wait?” Bobby asks.

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m saying between now and Friday, I want to know what’s going on.”

“And how the hell we gonna find out?” Mike asks, disgusted.

“That’s not your problem,” Carr says.

*    *   *

On his apartment’s balcony, Carr switches to rum. He puts his bare feet on the railing and tilts back in his chair, and his thoughts skid like bad tires. He thinks about the rain and the heat, and sees Bessemer, slumped over the wheel of his BMW, and wonders again what hold Prager has on him. He sees a light on the water, bobbing and blinking in the dark, and he wonders who might be out there—so far out—on a night like this. He leans forward and squints, but loses sight of it.

The wind shifts, and the smells of wet earth and decaying vegetation come in. He thinks about his father’s house, the gray light, his father’s eyes, the list of nursing homes Eleanor Calvin has given him, and the messages from her that he’s continued to ignore. The light reappears on the water and vanishes again when he tries to fix on it—like a dust mote, he thinks, almost imaginary.

The wind shifts again and a sweet smell—some night-blooming flower—washes across the balcony. He thinks about Valerie—Jill—and Amy Chun leaning close, and wonders how they’re spending this rainy evening. He thinks about Tina, curled like a cat on his sofa, about Bobby and Mike, and Bertolli’s missing money. He thinks about the wreckage of the van, and Ray-Ray and Declan, and the morgue smell that still rises sometimes from his clothes.

And he thinks again and again about Dennis—his red face, his reedy voice, his disgust.
Are you saying we’re just going to sit there and watch while this shit happens
? It seems to Carr he’s been doing that for a while now, one way or another. With Declan, and before that with Integral Risk.