“We’re just going to sit here?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. A few minutes passed. Then I heard the sound of another vehicle crunching over the ice. It drew closer. The next thing I knew, headlights were hitting the wall in front of us and a black SUV pulled up next to us. The driver got out. He didn’t look friendly. He was wearing a long coat, so I couldn’t make out his build; I couldn’t tell if he was fat or muscular or both, but he wasn’t small, and he wasn’t nice.
A door opened, off on one side of the garage. A man in a black leather jacket and jeans stepped out. I recognized him. He was the guy from Charlie’s club the first time I was there. That was back when they tested me. I’d left my clothes in an unlocked locker, and Leather Jacket here walked up to Charlie after we’d played racquetball and told him “everything was fine.” It had been a signal to Charlie that he’d searched my locker, my clothes and possessions, and I was clean. I wasn’t wearing a wire.
But I was wearing one now.
Charlie pushed open his door. “Let’s start that meeting,” he said.
55
When you’re in a role, you stay in that role to the end. You focus on it to the exclusion of all else. You try to avoid bluffing, but if you have to, you bluff, without fear of your bluff being called. If you’re going to go down, go down in role. Even if you’re caught, totally and completely. Because even then, there’s always a tiny chance at succeeding, and you’re no worse for trying.
I am the son of a con artist. My father didn’t teach me much in the way of ethics or set any kind of an example for me. But I learned a lot about deception. I learned by watching him, by listening to him, and by surviving around him. I learned it because, in many ways, I was playing a role my entire childhood.
You’re good at this, Lee Tucker had said to me more than once.
I had very limited options. I could run. I could open the car door and take off through the open garage. I didn’t know if Leather Jacket or the guys from the black SUV-or Charlie, for that matter-had weapons. I could wind up facedown, for good, with a few bullets in the back. But I could stay and meet that same fate.
I could do something similar to headlong flight-not run, but walk. I could pronounce this entire exercise offensive and insulting and walk away. The “real” me-Jason Kolarich, not wearing a wire-would do just that. But it could produce the same result as running. These goons would probably grab me, and I typically liked my chances when it came to physical confrontation, but it would be three on one, not counting Charlie. And not counting any weapons they might have.
Either way, if I left and survived doing so, the operation was over. Completely. No doubt. Charlie would close up shop and make every effort to cover his tracks. Presumably, the FBI would move in before he had that chance. The moment I got word to Lee Tucker, they’d probably arrest him. Surely, they had plenty of evidence against him. But I’d be looking over my shoulder, at least for a while.
And I wasn’t done. I was close, I thought. But I wasn’t fully satisfied I knew the truth behind Ernesto Ramirez’s murder. The moment I left this undercover operation, my access to the truth was gone.
Balance that curiosity against the likelihood that I was about to be exposed.
Curiosity killed the cat, I believe I heard once.
It was probably dumb of me. Probably smarter to run and take my chances. But it was dumb of me to step into that alley with Ernesto’s friend Scarface, and that turned out okay.
You’re good at this. I’d better be now. Nerves and fear are very difficult to conceal. They affect your movements, your speech, your actions. I had to stay in role. I had nothing to hide. I had to forget about the F-Bird. I had to be willing to hand my suit coat over to someone, to turn that pocket inside out if requested, without a care in the world. In fact, I might even volunteer to hand it over.
I got out of the Porsche and closed the door. I looked over at Charlie, to give him a hey-what’s-with-these-guys look, but the lighting was almost nonexistent in here, and anyway, he wasn’t making eye contact with me.
“Charlie, what’s the deal?” I said over the car to him. It was what an innocent person would say. Unfortunately for me, it’s also what a guilty person would say. At this stage, those two points of view would converge. Even an innocent person would be anxious at what was happening. Even someone with nothing to hide would be nervous about being interrogated and maybe roughed up.
Charlie, I had to concede, had been pretty smart up until now. He’d clearly been planning to confront me. But he didn’t come out and say that while we were driving. He slipped a little bit with the comment about Starlight, but otherwise he’d kept his powder dry. Smart, because I might have had an opportunity to escape. I could have made a move for him while he was driving. I could have jumped out of the car while it was stopped at a red light or, if necessary, while it was moving.
Instead, he’d waited until I was here, and three of his goons were basically surrounding me.
Leather Jacket was holding the door open over in the corner. One of the thugs was directly behind me, the other-the SUV’s passenger-was coming around the front end, and Charlie was coming around the back of the Porsche.
I still had the chance to abort. I could make it past these morons. I didn’t have to win a fight. I just had to make enough of a mess to get away.
“After you,” said the guy directly behind me.
I turned around, not too abruptly but not slowly, either. I stepped right up, face-to-face with this guy. My coat brushed against his. He had probably fifty pounds on me, but he was two inches shorter than me and had to look slightly upward to make eye contact.
His partner, the passenger, hadn’t made it around the SUV yet. Charlie was well back in the darkness. That gave me about two seconds alone with this ape in the relative darkness. Two seconds that might be the most important two seconds of my life. Almost nose-to-nose with the guy, I said, “Hey, Vito, you must have me confused with someone who takes orders from you.”
The thug I had named Vito was momentarily thrown by my comment, but then a wide, sick smile crossed his face. I would have preferred a scowl.
“Go inside, Jason,” Charlie said, pulling up the rear.
I paused. Then I stepped back from Vito, shook my head, trying to show indignation. “Let’s get this over with.”
I walked past Leather Jacket holding the door, into a facility that looked like abandoned office space, space that once had been open to the public. There was a large room with a coffeemaker and a small play area for children. There were several desk areas with chairs on each side. It reminded me of a showroom at a car dealership.
“I’ll check the Porsche,” Leather Jacket said to the others, but I thought he wanted me to hear it, too. He wanted me to know that if I had tried to dump off anything incriminating-say, an electronic bug-in the Porsche, he’d find it.
Vito took the lead. I was next, followed by the other moron and then Charlie. We were headed into interior offices, which was a smart move if you were concerned about people hearing what was transpiring.
Vito opened a door and walked into an otherwise empty room. It was about the size of two offices. There was a single chair in the center of the room. That was it. Floor, ceiling, walls, and a single chair.
“The Kinions aren’t going to have anywhere to sit,” I said.
Nobody thought I was funny. I found myself in the center of the room, near the single chair. The two goons, Vito and his pal, spread out at forty-five-degree angles. Charlie stood in the doorway.
“I’ll give you this one chance to make it easy,” Charlie said. “Just give it up and get it over with.”