Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

“I get it,” Potempa said. “You don’t like the Payroll Place case. It’s a hump job, a grinder. I’ll put you on something else …”

Now Behr’s surprise grew. “No, no,” he began.

“Didn’t expect it out of you is all,” Potempa said. “You’re not like most of those leather asses out there looking to do the minimum.”

“Well, I’m not,” Behr said.

“What is it, then?”

Behr took a moment, and then decided to speak to it.

“It’s not about a different case, Karl, it’s about the night in the garage.”

“Still that …” Potempa started, suddenly looking weary. “I heard you called Breslau and that you visited Kolodnik,” he said.

“Yes,” Behr answered. If Potempa wanted more by way of explanation, he was going to remain unsatisfied.

“All right, look, there’s shit about this you don’t know,” the older man finally said.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Shit you don’t need to know. Can’t.”

“Still, I’d like to,” Behr said, forcing himself not to lean forward in his seat.

Potempa paused and scratched his chin. “Well, one bit I can tell you is: we weren’t hired for security. It was just meant to be risk assessment, and an … advisory role.”

“The political thing.”

“That’s right. We’re not just steaming envelopes and running drivers’ licenses here.”

“I know that,” Behr said.

“That exec protection bullshit was just something we threw in for … it was loss leader for-” Potempa stopped himself.

Behr suddenly understood. “For when he goes to Washington. So he’d be happy with you when he became important.”

“And he is. He’s happy. Thanks to you.” Potempa smiled and put his hands out in a you-see gesture.

“Uh-huh,” Behr breathed. “But he went with another company as soon as he announced.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate, but I’ve seen it before. They’re looking for a little distance. We’re hoping it’s temporary. Look, Frank, this is a complicated situation. Caro is a sophisticated organization. Protecting people, property, that’s just the surface. There’s another layer-risk assessment, assets, digital proprietary-we’re like … Do you play the piano?”

“The piano? No.”

“Me neither. Well, I play a little. Not well. My daughter, now she …” There was a slight hitch in Potempa’s voice, then he gathered himself and continued. “She was a hell of a little player. I could’ve had a ski condo in Vail for what I paid in lessons for her.”

Potempa looked to Behr for the sympathetic laugh between well-to-do fathers. There was nothing there for him. “I picked up a few things coming in and out during her lessons, her practice.” Behr’s eyes went to the photos behind Potempa, to the pretty, dark-haired girl in them, who became a woman in the shots, and then went absent.

“Anyway, this place”-Potempa waved his hands toward the outer office and beyond-“is a grand piano. It runs on a complex set of levers and wires, various offices and pieces, all interconnected. And the personnel, we’re all the keys. We each have our role, our note to play. Without any one of us, things aren’t complete. But the A sharp doesn’t necessarily know what the D flat is doing, when it’s going to sound. And it doesn’t need to. The keys all just need to be ready when they’re called on to do their part. Like you were the other night. You performed, no question. And Kolodnik was goddamned lucky it was you there. But now it’s time to stop the inquiries and go back to position until you’re pressed into service again. The rest will work itself out. You know what I’m saying?”

Behr let the aria settle. “Maybe,” he finally said, standing.

“Maybe,” Potempa said, laughing to himself and pointing at Behr, who headed for the door and paused before leaving.

“What does she do with it now?” he asked.

“What’s that?” Potempa wondered.

“Your daughter. The piano. Does she still play?”

“No,” Potempa said, a new gravity joining the worn aspect. “She doesn’t do that anymore.”

Potempa turned his chair, picking his glass off the desk as he went, and faced the window. The room descended into a stony silence. Behr lingered for another moment and then left.

22

Spiker’s Tavern was a taproom near the American football stadium. It had sawdust on the floor; a worn wooden bar; and was in a roughish-or at least an industrial-looking-part of town, so Dwyer knew it would make Gantcher nervous. He was sitting on a corner barstool, thanking bloody Jehovah that the marketing department at Guinness had finally penetrated America as he was hunkered over a decently poured pint of the stuff when a man entered who could only be Gantcher. Dressed in khaki trousers, tasseled loafers, and a melon-colored polo shirt, the tosser was a half step away from a country club and bleeding madras. It also looked as if he hadn’t picked up a barbell in his life, and spent his time shielded from the sun in a sweet shop, pale and pudgy as he was. Dwyer watched him glance around the half-dark pub, struggling and nervous, and take a step in the wrong direction toward a punter in a Carhartt jacket before he rethought it and stopped. Finally he found Dwyer at the bar and Dwyer nodded, jumped off his barstool, and signaled to a secluded table, where they sat.

“If you want something you’re gonna have to get it from the barman. No waiters here,” Dwyer advised.

“No. I don’t really drink much. I mean, wine, but I doubt they have much of a list,” Gantcher said.

Dwyer said nothing.

“Never been here before, maybe I’ll come back later and become a regular,” Gantcher chattered uncomfortably to fill the silence.

“I’m sure you’ll be real popular in your poofter shirt,” Dwyer said, causing Gantcher to pull back as if he’d been slapped. It was clear he wasn’t used to chopsing like that.

Good, Dwyer thought, at least he’s listening now.

“We’ve had complications, obviously,” Dwyer said, using the silence. “This needs to be sanitized. Now. And I need more money.”

“More money?”

“Correct. For operational expenses and fee,” Dwyer said.

“How much?”

If word was going to get out and this was going to be the last job, then he needed the whole amount. “A million American.”

“A million!” Gantcher lunged forward. “The whole job didn’t cost that.”

“But it isn’t a job anymore. It’s an emergency override, like at a leaky nuclear plant. And the money’s necessary to buy safety,” Dwyer said, knowing the effect the threat of his words carried.

“I know it is,” Gantcher said, sounding forlorn, “but I don’t have it.”

Dwyer expected resistance. Rich blokes never wanted to pay. But when they were short of cash, they acted like they didn’t like the idea, rather than admitting they didn’t have the money. So the fact that Gantcher was sitting there actually volunteering he didn’t have the cash was problematic. “The bloody ’ell do you mean you don’t have it?” he demanded.

“I just … don’t.”

A beat. “How much do you have, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Fuck off, nothing.”

“Really. I’m tapped. I’ve broken T-bills. Drained retirement accounts, kids’ college funds. I’m drawing down