Parsons saw their money.
It was waiting for them.
Then Parsons went into cardiac arrest, his breathing stopped, and only then did his dreams of the money vanish on the hot bright street in Los Angeles.
Long past their two minutes, Parsons and Marchenko had run out of time.
PART ONE
1
“YOU’RE NOT TOO OLD. Forty-six isn’t old, these days. You got a world of time to make a life for yourself.”
Holman didn’t answer. He was trying to decide how best to pack. Everything he owned was spread out on the bed, all neatly folded: four white T-shirts, three Hanes briefs, four pairs of white socks, two short-sleeved shirts (one beige, one plaid), one pair of khaki pants, plus the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested for bank robbery ten years, three months, and four days ago.
“Max, you listening?”
“I gotta get this stuff packed. Lemme ask you something-you think I should keep my old stuff, from before? I don’t know as I’ll ever get into those pants.”
Wally Figg, who ran the Community Correctional Center, which was kind of a halfway house for federal prisoners, stepped forward to eye the pants. He picked them up and held them next to Holman. The cream-colored slacks still bore scuff marks from when the police had wrestled Holman to the floor in the First United California Bank ten years plus three months ago. Wally admired the material.
“That’s a nice cut, man. What is it, Italian?”
“Armani.”
Wally nodded, impressed.
“I’d keep’m, I was you. Be a shame to lose something this nice.”
“I got four inches more in the waist now than back then.”
In the day, Holman had lived large. He stole cars, hijacked trucks, and robbed banks. Fat with fast cash, he hoovered up crystal meth for breakfast and Maker’s Mark for lunch, so jittery from dope and hung over from booze he rarely bothered to eat. He had gained weight in prison.
Wally refolded the pants.
“Was me, I’d keep’m. You’ll get yourself in shape again. Give yourself something to shoot for, gettin’ back in these pants.”
Holman tossed them to Wally. Wally was smaller.
“Better to leave the past behind.”
Wally admired the slacks, then looked sadly at Holman.
“You know I can’t. We can’t accept anything from the residents. I’ll pass’m along to one of the other guys, you want. Or give’m to Goodwill.”
“Whatever.”
“You got a preference, who I should give’m to?”
“No, whoever.”
“Okay. Sure.”
Holman went back to staring at his clothes. His suitcase was an Albertsons grocery bag. Technically, Max Holman was still incarcerated, but in another hour he would be a free man. You finish a federal stretch, they don’t just cross off the last X and cut you loose; being released from federal custody happened in stages. They started you off with six months in an Intensive Confinement Center where you got field trips into the outside world, behavioral counseling, additional drug counseling if you needed it, that kind of thing, after which you graduated to a Community Correctional Center where they let you live and work in a community with real live civilians. In the final stages of his release program, Holman had spent the past three months at the CCC in Venice, California, a beach community sandwiched between Santa Monica and Marina del Rey, preparing himself for his release. As of today, Holman would be released from full-time federal custody into what was known as supervised release-he would be a free man for the first time in ten years.
Wally said, “Well, okay, I’m gonna go get the papers together. I’m proud of you, Max. This is a big day. I’m really happy for you.”
Holman layered his clothes in the bag. With the help of his Bureau of Prisons release supervisor, Gail Manelli, he had secured a room in a resident motel and a job; the room would cost sixty dollars a week, the job would pay a hundred seventy-two fifty after taxes. A big day.
Wally clapped him on the back.
“I’ll be in the office whenever you’re ready to go. Hey, you know what I did, kind of a going-away present?”
Holman glanced at him.
“What?”
Wally slipped a business card from his pocket and gave it to Holman. The card showed a picture of an antique timepiece. Salvadore Jimenez, repairs, fine watches bought and sold, Culver City, California. Wally explained as Holman read the card.
“My wife’s cousin has this little place. He fixes watches. I figured maybe you havin’ a job and all, you’d want to get your old man’s watch fixed. You want to see Sally, you lemme know, I’ll make sure he gives you a price.”
Holman slipped the card into his pocket. He wore a cheap Timex with an expandable band that hadn’t worked in twenty years. In the day, Holman had worn an eighteen-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe he stole from a car fence named Oscar Reyes. Reyes had tried to short him on a stolen Carrera, so Holman had choked the sonofabitch until he passed out. But that was then. Now, Holman wore the Timex even though its hands were frozen. The Timex had belonged to his father.
“Thanks, Wally, thanks a lot. I was going to do that.”
“A watch that don’t keep time ain’t much good to you.”
“I have something in mind for it, so this will help.”
“You let me know. I’ll make sure he gives you a price.”
“Sure. Thanks. Let me get packed up here, okay?”
Wally left as Holman returned to his packing. He had the clothes, three hundred twelve dollars that he had earned during his incarceration, and his father’s watch. He did not have a car or a driver’s license or friends or family to pick him up upon his release. Wally was going to give him a ride to his motel. After that, Holman would be on his own with the Los Angeles public transportation system and a watch that didn’t work.
Holman went to his bureau for the picture of his son. Richie’s picture was the first thing he had put in the room here at the CCC, and it would be the last thing he packed when he left. It showed his son at the age of eight, a gap-toothed kid with a buzz cut, dark skin, and serious eyes; his child’s body already thickening with Holman’s neck and shoulders. The last time Holman actually saw the boy was his son’s twelfth birthday, Holman flush with cash from flipping two stolen Corvettes in San Diego, showing up blind drunk a day too late, the boy’s mother, Donna, taking the two thousand he offered too little too late by way of the child support he never paid and on which he was always behind. Donna had sent him the old picture during his second year of incarceration, a guilty spasm because she wouldn’t bring the boy to visit Holman in prison, wouldn’t let the boy speak to Holman on the phone, and wouldn’t pass on Holman’s letters, such as they were, however few and far between, keeping the boy out of Holman’s life. Holman no longer blamed her for that. She had done all right by the boy with no help from
