Dirty Money

/>

Parker said, “Drive over there.”

Sandra made the U-turn, and they pulled in to a stop behind the van. Just as McWhitney finished stowing the boxes and shutting the doors, Parker opened his window and called, “We’ll stop at a motel down by the Pike. This is enough for today.”

“More than enough,” McWhitney said, and stomped away to get behind the wheel.

Sandra didn’t wait for him. She pulled out onto the road and ran them south again, saying, “I’ll drop you at the motel, but then I’m done.”

“I know.”

“I’ll stay in touch with McWhitney, find out what’s happening with the money.”

“You can tell your friend to come back from her vacation now.”

Sandra laughed. “I already did.”

6

It was a chain motel with an attached restaurant and bar. Before dinner, Parker and McWhitney met for a drink in the bar, where Parker gave him cash to cover his room, since McWhitney had put the whole thing on his credit card. “It’s getting harder to operate without plastic,” McWhitney commented.

“I’m getting new when we’re done with this.”

The bar was mostly empty, a dim low-ceilinged place with square black tables and heavy chairs on dark carpet. A young waitress in a short black skirt brought them their drinks, and McWhitney signed the bill. When she left, Parker said, “I think I may know somebody who could take care of the money.”

“Somebody to take it off our hands?”

“He probably could,” Parker said. “But he might not want to. We had a disagreement the last time around. But he’s a businessman, he might go along with it.”

“Who and what is he?”

“A guy named Frank Meany. He works for a liquor import outfit in Jersey called Cosmopolitan Beverages. They’re mobbed up and they do a lot of under-the-counter stuff. Some of it is with Russia.”

“That sounds good. How come you didn’t say anything about him before?”

“We didn’t have the money before. Until I’ve got something to trade, I’ve got nothing to say.”

McWhitney nodded. “What was the disagreement?”

“They involved themselves in somebody else’s argument, somebody thought he had a beef with me.” Parker shrugged. “I convinced them to get uninvolved.”

McWhitney laughed. “Stuck their nose in somebody else’s business, and you gave it a little bop.”

“Something like that. I’ll try calling him tomorrow. If he tells me to go to hell, fine, I can’t blame him. If he says, sounds good, let’s meet, it could either mean it sounds good and he wants a meet, or he’s holding a grudge and wants another crack at me.”

“But you figure this is a better bet than Oscar Sidd.”

“Maybe. Worth a try anyway.”

“And I bet you want me along, if the guy says okay, no hard feelings, let’s meet.”

“That’s right.” Parker gestured over his shoulder. “Without the money.”

7

Around eleven Monday morning, Parker took Claire’s car, still the rental Toyota, to the gas station not far from her house where he usually made his phone calls, to avoid leaving records on Claire’s line. It was a process that required nothing more than patience and a lot of change. It was an exterior pay phone on a stick at the edge of the gas station property, unlikely to be observed or tapped. In this rural setting, there was little to draw anybody’s attention.

“Cosmopolitan Beverages, how may I direct your call?”

“Frank Meany.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Parker.”

There was a little pause. “Is that all?”

“He’ll know,” Parker said.

The operator was gone a long time, and when she came back she said, “Mr. Meany’s in confer—”

“Tell him we both know all about that.”

“Sir?”

“Tell him we talk now, or we don’t talk. I won’t call back.”

“Sir, I can’t—”

“Tell him.”

It was a shorter wait this time, and then the remembered voice of Frank Meany came on the line, a hard, fast, tough-guy voice. “I thought we were done with one another.”

“You mean the little trouble. That’s all over. Everything’s fine now.”

“But here you are on the phone.”

“With a business deal.”

There was a little shocked silence, and then: “A what?”

“I need expertise and a particular kind of access,” Parker said, “and I think you’re the guy has it.”

“Which expertise would that be?”

“Frank, do you really like long conversations on the phone?”

“I don’t like long conversations with you.”

“Up to you.”

Parker waited while Meany tried to work it out. Meany was a hard-nosed businessman in that gray area where the legal part of what he did, importing hard and soft drinks from various parts of the world, spread a protective blanket over the illegal part. He wasn’t his own boss, but worked for a man named Joseph Albert whom Parker had talked to on the phone that last time but had never met face-to-face. The conversation with Albert had been about how much of Albert’s business he was willing to lose before backing away from his confrontation with Parker. The first asset Parker had been offering to remove was Meany. Happily for everybody, Albert had seen there was no reason to be a romantic; cut your losses, and go.

Would Meany still resent that? Of course. Would he be ruled by his resentment? Parker was betting he was too realistic for that.

Finally Meany said, “You wanna come here again? I’m not sure I want you here.” Here being the corporate offices and warehouse of Cosmopolitan, in a bleak industrial area of the Jersey flats just south of where the New Jersey Turnpike Extension, a steel and concrete slab miles long, rose high and blunt over the industrial scree to the Holland Tunnel.

Parker said, “No, I don’t need to go there. Up in the northern part of the state, you know, off the Garden State