'Where's the money?'
'In the backseat. In two Hefty bags, just like you said.'
'Good. Now I want you and your brother to walk upSixty-sixth Street to Avenue M.'
'You want us to walk there?'
'Yes.'
'With the money?'
'No, leave the money right where it is.'
'In the backseat of the car.'
'Yes. And leave the car unlocked.'
'We leave the money in an unlocked car and walk a block—'
'Two blocks, actually.'
'And then what?'
'Wait on the corner of Avenue M for five minutes. Then get in your car and go home.'
'What about my wife?'
'Your wife is fine.'
'How do I—'
'She'll be in the car waiting for you.'
'She better be.'
'What was that?'
'Nothing. Look, there's one thing bothers me, that's leaving the money unattended in an unlocked car.
What I'm worried, somebody grabbing it before you get to it.'
'Not to worry,' the man said. 'This is a good neighborhood.'
THEY left the car unlocked, left the money in it, walked one short block and one long block to Avenue M. They waited five minutes by Peter's watch. Then they headed back toward the Buick.
I don't think I ever described them, did I? They looked like brothers, Kenan and Peter. Kenan stood five-ten, which made him a scant inch taller than his brother. They were both built like rangy middleweights, although Peter was beginning to thicken just the least bit at the waist. Both had olive skin tones and straight dark hair, parted on the left and combed back neatly. At thirty-three, Kenan was starting to develop a slightly higher forehead as his hairline receded. Peter, two years older, still had all his hair.
They were handsome men, with long straight noses and dark eyes set deep under prominent brows.
Peter had a mustache, neatly trimmed. Kenan was cleanshaven.
If you were going by appearances, and if you were up against the two of them, you would take Kenan out first. Or try to, anyway. There was something about him that suggested he was the more dangerous of the two, that his responses would be more sudden and more certain.
That's how they looked, then, walking rapidly but not too rapidly back to the corner where Kenan's car was parked. It was still there, and still unlocked. The bags of money were no longer in the backseat.
Francine Khoury wasn't there, either.
Kenan said, 'Fuck this shit, man.'
'The trunk?'
He opened the glove box, triggered the trunk release. He went around and lifted the lid. There was nothing in the trunk but the spare tire and the jack. He had just closed the trunk lid when the pay phone rang a dozen yards away.
He ran to it, grabbed it.
'Go home,' the man said. 'She'll probably get there before you do.'
* * *
I WENT to my usual evening meeting around the corner from my hotel atSt. Paul the Apostle, but I left on the break. I returned to my room and called Elaine and told her about the conversation with Mick.
'I think you should go,' she said. 'I think that's a great idea.'
'Suppose we both go.'
'Oh, I don't know, Matt. It would mean missing classes.'
She was taking a course Thursday evenings at Hunter, in fact she'd just got back from it when I called.
'Indian Art and Architecture Under the Moghuls.' 'We'd just go for a week or ten days,' I said. 'You'd miss one class.'
'One class isn't such a big deal.'
'Exactly, so—'
