Bertolli and his money have come home.”
Carr was slow on the uptake. He’d been working on the Prager job all day-peering at floor plans and wiring diagrams. His eyes were gritty and his head full of numbers, and he didn’t get the point right away. Declan was annoyed.
“Wake up, Carr-it’s the feckin’ expenses. The up-front costs on the Prager job are running twice what we expected, and they’ll run higher still. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be paying such a big chunk of my take in finance fees to the grand Mr. Boyce. It’s usury what he’s chargin’! This deal is lovely-a quick in and out, three bucks easy, and then we don’t need his feckin’ financing.”
That was all he’d had to say to convince Mike and Bobby and Ray-Ray, who were already antsy from too much planning, and who were never happy paying anyone for anything. Some part of Carr had known right there that it was a losing battle, but still he spent the next week in increasingly heated, increasingly pointless argument with Declan. He and Valerie both-though that night, in the Hyatt bar, she’d just stared into her drink and said nothing at all.
Carr’s head drops, and he realizes he’s been dozing. Bobby is watching him. “Up late?” he asks.
Carr wipes his chin. “Anything from Bessemer?”
“His car hasn’t moved, and there’s nothing on the mic but seagulls.”
Bobby has a cooler in the back, and Carr pulls a bottle of water from it. He takes a long pull and looks at Bobby. He doesn’t want to ask about it-doesn’t have the energy today-and besides, he knows what the answer will be. But still… Bertolli was short almost two million euro. He clears his throat.
“At Bertolli’s place that night,” Carr begins, and at the mention of the name Bobby’s face colors with surprise and anger.
“You’re fucking kidding me with this!” he says, and then the laptop pings twice, loudly.
Bobby sits up fast. “Bessemer’s moving,” he says, and he throws the car into gear and guns it through the dirt lot. There’s a curtain of dust around them; the laptop slides from the console and Carr catches it mid-flight. Bobby pushes through the side streets and they hit South Ocean Boulevard in time to see Bessemer’s convertible pull out of Stearn’s place. His top is still down and his thin hair is flying as they pass him going north.
“Fast lunch,” Bobby says, and he slides the car through an easy U-turn and into the northbound lane.
“I’m not surprised,” Carr says. “Did you see Bessemer’s face? He looked like he was about to throw up.”
Two miles up South Ocean Boulevard they watch him do just that, in a garbage can by the side of the road.
14
“A lot of phone time for Howie tonight,” Dennis says, “and he didn’t sound good.”
They’re at the workhouse-Carr, Bobby, Dennis, and Latin Mike-and the pent-up heat of the day is suffocating. Mike is tilted back in a kitchen chair, clean-shaven, hair slick from a shower. The half-smile on his face sets Carr’s teeth on edge.
“He called the Caymans a few times,” Dennis continues, “his pal Prager’s number, but he never got past the help. Then he called his pimp. Took him four tries to go through with it. First three times, he hung up before anyone answered.”
“Prager didn’t take his call?” Carr asks.
Dennis shrugs. “The secretary said he wasn’t in, but she had to go away and check before she said it. The second time, she told him Prager would get back to him.”
“Has he?”
“Not yet.”
Mike grins nastily. “I thought Prager was his friend,” he says. “That’s not so friendly, jefe. ”
“And the pimp?” Carr asks. “What was going on with the three hangups?”
“He didn’t want to pull the trigger,” Bobby says.
Carr squints at him. “Pull the trigger on what?”
Dennis shakes his head. “He didn’t say on the phone.”
“Who’s the pimp?” Carr asks.
“Calls himself Lamp. Works for the Russian brothers.”
Mike dangles a cigarette from his lip, but doesn’t light it. “Howie’s gotten whores for his friends before. How come he’s nervous now?”
Bobby shakes his head. “The guy is freaked about something. The way he blew his lunch this afternoon-I thought his socks were gonna come up.”
Carr looks at Dennis. “You find out more about Bessemer’s friends?”
Dennis taps at one of his keyboards. “Plenty,” he says, “though I’m not sure it amounts to anything. Brunt and Moyer are retired money guys, like Stearn. Moyer was a bond trader; Brunt was an investment manager.”
“They all work at the same place?”
“Different companies, different places. Stearn was in London, Moyer in New York, and Brunt was in Chicago.”
“And the other two guys?”
“Tandy is also retired. He was a partner in a law firm up in New York. He got downsized a few years back- him and half the firm. As far as I can tell, Scoville has never worked. Lives in the guesthouse on his mother’s property, a few miles down the road from Stearn. Besides sailing and heroin, lying around the pool seems to be the only job he’s ever had.”
“Married?”
“Not Scoville, but the rest of them are.”
“Any of them have records?”
“Scoville took a couple of possession busts in New York, one with intent to sell. He got probation and rehab.”
“Any of them friends with Bessemer before he came down here?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“So Howie is what to them-the only guy they know who knows the rough trade?”
Mike lights his cigarette and chuckles derisively. “We trying to get inside their heads now too? Who gives a fuck?”
Carr ignores him. “And we think Howie’s doing this… why?”
Bobby sighs. “Same reason people do most things,” he says, “for the money.” He looks at Dennis.
“The guy’s chronically short,” Dennis says. “The divorce cleaned him out pretty good. His house is paid for, but his grandmother’s trust throws off barely enough income to cover the taxes and his liquor bills, and she set it up so he can’t get at the principal.”
“My abuela was a bitch too,” Mike mutters.
“I thought Prager was hiding money for him,” Carr says. “What happened to that?”
Dennis shrugs. “It’s not in any of the accounts I can see, though I can’t see into Isla Privada.”
Carr shakes his head. “When’s Howie meeting the pimp?” he asks.
“Monday,” Bobby says, “outside the Brazilian place. I’ll be there.”
Carr looks at Latin Mike. “We’ll all be there.”
“Sure, jefe,” Mike says, smiling. “All of us.”
The night is close and the airport throws sheets of flashing light against the low clouds. The smell of the jet fuel, of the house, of Mike’s cigarettes, and of his own sweat are caught in Carr’s clothing, and he walks the long way around the block to get to his car. He’s halfway there when he hears footsteps behind him and whirls.
Latin Mike chuckles from behind the glowing end of a cigarette. “That’s slow, man. I want to hurt you, you be all the way hurt by now.”
He steps from the shadows and Carr takes a slow, deep breath to quiet his pulse. “You going out again?” Carr says.
“Just for some air. Not enough in that dump tonight. And you?”
