away, there wasn't a damn thing you could do about it. Who you gonna complain to about being ripped off? The cops? Excuse me, officer, but this bad man stole the money I took from the bank. Uh-huh. Right.
No, what you did with a big score was, you took your money and you set up some kind of small business, or you lived the middle-class life of a retiree, drove a car a couple of years old, lived in a nice middle-class house. You didn't send Christmas cards to your ex-wife. You didn't go to your mother's funeral. You didn't call your nephew to congratulate him on getting into college. You cut your ties with your past clean and you never looked back.
If you wanted to take a flier on the tables or the ponies, or roll around in a waterbed with a lady of the evening, you did these things quietly. You didn't go off to Las Vegas or the Gulf Coast or Atlantic City and start betting stacks of hundreds on the dice or wheels. You didn't rent the suite at the Trump or the Hard Rock Hotel and parade showgirls in and out, buying Moet & Chandon by the case either, because the cops weren't stupid and neither were the wolves. If you stuck your head up too high, somebody was gonna spot it, and come running to lop it off.
Old Jamal didn't have the brains to know this. Oh, yeah, he could slip into an on-line bank and back out again with a couple hundred million dollars in his pocket slick as a greasy snake on a marble floor, but old Jamal didn't have any street smarts.
So, even if Platt didn't give the guy up to the cops — which he fully intended to do — somebody would catch up to old Jamal pretty quick. And the dimbulb didn't
So the bank would get a few million of its swiped money back pretty quick once they collected Peterson. Hughes would do whatever he was gonna do over in Booga-land with his one-forty. And Platt?
That was simple. Platt was gonna buy a hard-core gym in Kona, on the big island of Hawaii, a place he'd had his eye on for a couple of years. The gym was ten thousand square feet, had all kinds of gear — free weights, machines, the whole nine yards. It got world-class bodybuilders coming through now and then, there were fitness models who dropped by during photo shoots, and enough tourists so it was practically a license to steal. The place was well-managed, so Platt wouldn't have to do anything. He would rent a little house or a condo, work out when he wanted, maybe do a little personal training, and take things easy. The climate was perfect, you didn't need to own a heater or an air conditioner, and he'd be hanging out with the kind of people he liked: fit, healthy, strong folks. The place was his for a million-two, and that would leave
Sure, Hughes had big plans, he was gonna be master of the world, but what was the point? You could only sleep in one bed at a time, only drive one car at a time, only eat so much a day. Playing power games didn't appeal to Platt at all. He could raise a little hell now and then, kick some ass, but that was personal, in-your-face stuff. Deciding somebody's future from halfway around the world? Forget it.
A few more weeks and he'd be out there in the warm sunshine, smiling at the tanned tourists and being a respectable businessman. It couldn't get much better than that.
So old Jamal wasn't lying, the transfer had been made. Time to get the heat down on the boy. He had already recorded the message giving Jamal up. All he had to do was dial a number and hang up, and the remote would give the feds a ring and deliver a big-time bank robber on a platter.
Adios, Jamal.
And now, one more call:
'Yes?'
'It's a done deal, hoss.'
He could almost hear Hughes grin from ten thousand miles away. 'Good. Everything else okay?'
'No problems at all. Keep the light on, I'm gonna see you real soon.'
Breaking the connection, Platt fired up his portable computer and sent one brief signal winging its way into the aethernet. He'd learned Jimmy Tee's lesson well and had prepared for success. But he'd also prepared for failure. He didn't trust Net Force, he didn't trust the jig president of that backwater country, and he especially didn't trust good ol' Mr. Hughes. So he'd set up a fail-safe or two as insurance—‘cause you never knew when a little insurance just might come in handy.
Naked, Fernandez rolled over in bed and marveled at his good fortune.
Naked next to him, Joanna blinked sleepily. 'What time is it?'
'Around seven. Ask me if I care.'
He lifted the covers and looked at her.
'What are you doing?' she asked.
'Looking at you. I know it bothers you to hear it, but you are beautiful.'
'It doesn't always bother me. It depends on who says it and when.' She smiled at him. 'You're a little too scarred up to be called beautiful, but I'm not complaining.'
He reached out, touched her face. 'You know, nobody even comes in a close second to last night.'
'I bet you say that to all the girls.'
'No. Just you, Jo.'
She sat up, the covers falling away to reveal her breasts. She reached out and hugged him. 'Thank you. You can say that all you want too. And I can't remember ever having a better time with my clothes off either.'
'I told you I had hidden talents.'
'You want to shower?'
'No, ma'am, what I want to do is lie here in this bed with you until they come and haul us away to the nursing home. But I stink pretty good, so probably a shower is a good idea.'
'Go start it. Holler when you want me to come in.'
'I'll holler now then.'
'No, first you warm it up. What's the point in having a lover if he won't heat the shower up for you?'
'I hadn't thought of it that way,' he said. He slid out from under the covers and started for the bathroom.
'Julio?'
He stopped. 'Yeah?'
'Turn around for me, would you?'
He grinned and did a three-sixty, hands held out. 'Like so?'
'Yes. Okay, you'll do. Start the shower, please.'
'Yes, ma'am. On the double.'
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jay Gridley was still tired, having managed only an hour or so of sleep, but he felt good, the tiredness notwithstanding. Contrary to what the boss had said, he had camped out on his office couch, then gotten up and hit the nets early. Platt was the key to this whole thing, and while he had vanished, not leaving any real trail under that name, he might not be as smart as he thought he was. Few people ever were as smart as they thought they were, and Platt had made one giant mistake, no matter what — he had dared face off with Net Force.
There are some basic mistakes you want to avoid. You don't piss into the wind, you don't eat at a place called 'Mom's,' and you don't pull your program on Lonesome Jay Gridley. Bad idea.
The inside of the telegraph office smelled of must and pipe tobacco. A cast-iron potbellied coal stove and steel chimney in the center of the room glowed with warmth that kept the hardest of the chill off, but the place was still cool. Behind a counter sat a small man puffing on a corncob pipe. The man wore a long wool coat and gold wire-rimmed spectacles.
