the lower floor of the federal building. It was just past 7:30 p.m., and the streetlight above his car was burnt out, offering him an extra layer of darkness as protection.
“You sure you don’t want me along?” Waxman asked.
“I can manage.” It would be hours before the brass figured out what they were up to, but Donovan had decided it was best to err on the side of caution and handle the surveillance duties solo while Waxman played lead agent.
“What about the woman? You talk to her?”
“She’s on board,” Donovan said. “Not that she’s happy about it, but she’ll come through.”
“She’d better or we’re screwed.”
“We’re screwed no matter how you look at it,” Donovan said, then clicked off.
Once word got upstairs that Nemo had been released, about two tons of shit would hit the fan, but neither Donovan nor Waxman had bothered to think that far ahead. They’d weather that storm when it blew in.
Donovan tapped his fingers on the wheel, feeling the jumpiness in his legs, as if an alien life force had crawled into his body and was struggling to take control. His head had started to throb again and he wished he had a couple of Advil and a nice cold Coke to wash them down.
Ten long minutes later, the lobby doors of the federal building swung open and Bobby Nemo and a little guy with a goatee emerged. The Chameleon. Franky Garcia. And Waxman was right, he was barely recognizable.
Garcia handed Nemo a business card along with a few bucks in cash, then shook his hand and headed off toward the parking lot. Nemo kept his eyes on him a moment, then glanced around as if he suspected someone might be watching. Then, turning his attention to the street, he waved a hand at an approaching cab.
The cab sliced across a couple lanes of traffic and pulled to the curb. Nemo jumped in the back, made a gesture, and the cab took off again, tooting its horn as it merged back into traffic.
Here we go, Donovan thought, then started his engine and pulled out.
42
Nemo told the driver to drop him off near the alley behind the Pussy Palace, a narrow strip of urine-streaked asphalt that led to the backstage door. He’d been tempted to have the guy take him straight to the Greyhound station, but there were a couple of snags in that plan.
First, he was horny as all hell. As much as he’d like to save it up for the Mexican hotties, he’d never had a lot of willpower when it came to women. His five-year drought at Danville had been pure torture (he’d never fancied himself a butt pilot), and he’d been making up for it ever since. As far as Nemo was concerned, a day without tang was like a day without sunshine.
Second, the only cash he had on him was the twenty bucks Escalante had given him, and half of that went for the cab. With what was left, he could probably afford a decent sub sandwich and a soda. If he counted pennies.
That was where Carla came in.
Not only was she a Grade A piece of ass, the twenty or so grand he’d managed to pocket during the Northland First amp; Trust heist was stashed in her apartment.
She didn’t know this, of course. Nobody did. Nemo figured if the Feds had found it, either Donovan or the lawyer would’ve mentioned it, but neither had.
After Tina had crashed the news van, he’d always felt a little sick about leaving all that bank loot behind. But when you’re running from the cops, dragging a couple of fifty-pound duffel bags behind you is usually a bad idea. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to fill his pockets in the vault.
Luther had seen him, shaking his head in disgust. “When Alex finds out, he won’t like it.”
“He’s not gonna find out, is he?”
“Not from me,” Luther said. “But Alex has the power. Knows all, sees all. And I think maybe Sara’s got it, too.”
Nemo looked at him, continuing to stuff his pockets. Luther was definitely a dim bulb in a dark room. “What Alex has is a smooth line that only suckers like you fall for,” Nemo said. “As for Sara, don’t get me started. She’s got rich relatives and a nice ass. That’s about it.”
Luther scowled at him then. Nemo knew the dimwit had tapped Sara’s ass a couple times himself, knew that he and Alex and Sara had a freaky little threesome thing going on, but that had been more about control than anything else. Alex playing puppet master, Sara the willing apprentice. Luther was either too stupid or too horny to realize he was being managed.
Nemo was his own man, thank you, and Alex or no Alex, he figured it never hurt to carry some insurance. Unfortunately, his pockets could only fit so much.
Two days after he’d moved in with Carla, he had removed her toilet tank, punched a hole in the wall behind it, stuffed the cash inside, and replaced the tank. Nice and neat. His own personal bank vault.
Now all he had to do was make a withdrawal.
Escalante had told him that no charges had been brought against Carla, that the Feds had released her shortly after he was taken into custody. He supposed he could just head over to her apartment and grab his stash, but why not take a few minutes for a proper goodbye? After a couple days in stir, he figured he deserved it.
He stepped over a fresh stream of urine and crossed the alley to the backstage door. Faded letters across it read TALENT ONLY. He pounded on the door and waited. A moment later, it creaked open and music spilled out, a guy in leather pants frowning at him. “What the fuck you want?”
“I’m looking for Carla.”
Leather Boy nodded toward the door and started to pull it shut. “Read the sign, asshole.”
Nemo caught the door with his right hand. “I forgot my glasses.”
“Look, you wanna see the show, go around front like everybody el-”
Nemo swung his left hand up between the guy’s legs and grabbed his balls, applying just enough pressure to send a clear message.
“Carla,” he said. “She here or not?”
Leather Boy’s eyes bulged, his whole body going stiff. You could almost see his brain working, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this delicate situation without getting his nads crushed. “Uhhh,” he said involuntarily.
Nemo applied more pressure. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“S-she won’t be in tonight,” Leather Boy croaked. “Called and said something came up.”
“She say what that something was?”
Leather Boy’s face had lost all color. He looked and sounded like a guy passing a gallstone. “That’s all I know, man. I swear.”
Nemo released him and Leather Boy stumbled back, gasping, grabbing his package to make sure everything was still in one piece. “Asshole,” he muttered.
“Strike two,” Nemo said, then stepped inside, grabbing him by the shirt. An imitation-silk number.
He spun the guy around and slammed him against a wall, pinning him there. “Now give me twenty bucks. I need cab fare.”
When the knock came on the door, Carla Devito sucked in a breath and let it out again. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d turned her first trick.
Not that Bobby made her nervous. He had a temper, sure, but he could be tamed the way most men could, a lesson Carla had learned when she was thirteen years old.
It was the situation that was getting to her. The Fed showing up at her doorstep, telling her what a badass Bobby was-like that was news-saying she’d better cooperate or she’d be facing charges of obstruction and harboring a fugitive and God knows what else.
The Fed had looked sick, all pale and stuff, with dark, crazy-looking eyes. He was one of the ones who’d come busting in the day before, the one in charge, and Carla didn’t doubt he meant business.
He’d told her that Bobby was getting released from jail and would probably come knocking before the night
