'You hear anything from the house?'
'I thought I heard the phone ringing.'
'See any movement?'
'No, sir. It's quiet as a clam.'
Talley wondered why Rooney was refusing to answer the phone. He had seemed agreeable enough during their first contact. Talley keyed his radio again.
'Who's on with the CHiPs?'
The California Highway Patrol officers had been used to supplement his own people on the perimeter of the house. They worked off their own communication frequency, distinct from the Bristo freq.
'I am.'
'Tell them to advance to the property lines. I don't want them exposed to fire, but I want Rooney to see them. Put them at the east and west walls, and at the back wall.'
'Rog. I'll take care of it.'
If Rooney wouldn't answer the phone, Talley would force Rooney to call him.
The money changed things. Dennis couldn't stop thinking about the money. It no longer was enough to escape; he was frantic to take the money with him. Dennis brought Mars to the closet, letting him see the boxes of cash that crowded the closet floor. Dennis laid his hands on the cash to savor the velvety feel. He lifted a pack of hundred-dollar bills to his nose and riffled the bills, smelling the paper and ink and the sweet human smell of cash. He tried to guess the number of bills in the pack. Fifty, at least; maybe a hundred. Five thousand dollars. Maybe ten thousand. Dennis couldn't stop touching the money, feeling it; softer than any breast, silkier than a woman's thigh, sexier than the finest ass.
He grinned up at Mars so wide that his cheeks cramped.
'There's gotta be a million dollars here. Maybe more. Look at it, Mars! This place is a bank!'
Mars barely glanced at the money. He went to the back of the little room, looking at the ceiling and the floor, tapping the walls, then studied the monitors. He pushed the boxes aside with his feet.
'It's a safety room. Steel door, reinforced walls, all the security; it's like a bunker. If anyone breaks into your house, you can hide. I wonder if they have sex in here?'
Dennis was irritated that Mars showed so little interest in the cash. Dennis wanted to dump the cash into a huge pile and dive in naked.
'Who gives a shit, Mars? Check out this cash. We're rich.'
'We're trapped in a house.'
Dennis was getting pissed off. This was the life-altering event that Dennis had always known was waiting for him: This house, this money, here and now – this was his destiny and his fate; the moment that had drawn him all the years of his life, plucked at him to take chances and commit outrageous acts, made him the star in the movie of his own life – all along it had been pulling him forward to the here and now, and Mars was harshing his mellow. He shoved a pack of cash into his pocket and stood.
'Mars, listen, we're going to take this with us. We'll put it in something. They must have suitcases or plastic bags.'
'You can't run with a suitcase.'
'We'll figure it out.'
'It's going to be heavy.'
Dennis was getting more pissed off. He slapped Mars in the chest. It was like slapping a wall, but Mars averted his eyes. Dennis had learned that Mars would go along if you knocked the shit out of him.
'We can carry it, we can even stuff it up our asses, but we're not leaving here without it.'
Mars nodded, rolling over just as Dennis knew he would.
'I'm glad you found the money, Dennis. You can have my share.'
Mars was depressing him. Dennis told Mars to go back to the office to make sure Kevin wasn't fucking up. When Mars left, Dennis felt relieved; Mars was fucking weird and getting weirder. If he didn't want the money, Dennis would keep it all for himself.
He searched through the other closets in the bedroom until he found a black Tumi suitcase, the kind with a handle and wheels. Dennis filled it with packs of hundreds; worn bills that had seen a lot of use, not a crisp new note among them. When the suitcase was full, Dennis wheeled it into the bedroom and parked it on the bed. Mars was right: He didn't know how he was going to get out of here lugging that big-ass case. He wouldn't be able to sneak out a window and run through backyards, but they had two cars and three hostages. Dennis refused to believe that he had come this close to his destiny to let it slip away.
Dennis returned to the office and found Mars watching the television. Mars turned up the volume.
'It's on every channel, dude. You're a star.'
Dennis saw himself on television. The newspeople had cut one of Dennis's old booking photos into the upper right corner of the screen. It was a shot that made him look like Charles Manson.
The picture changed to an aerial view of the house they were in. Dennis saw police cars parked in the street and two cops hunkered behind the wheels. A hot newschick was saying how Dennis had recently been released from the Ant Farm. Dennis found himself grinning again. Something smoky rushed through Dennis's veins just as it did when he got away with stealing a car: Part anger and rage, part rush, part a groovy feeling like the whole fucking world was giving him high fives. Here he was with a million bucks for the taking, here he was on television. It was the big FUCK YOU to his parents, to his teachers, to the cops, to all the shitbirds who had kept him down. FUCK! YOU! He had arrived. He felt real. It was better than sex.
'Yeah! Fuckin' YEAH!'
He went to the door.
'Kevin! Come see this!'
The phone rang, spoiling the magic of the television. That would be Talley. Dennis ignored it, and returned to the television. The helicopters, the cops, the reporters – everyone was here because of him. It was The Dennis Rooney Show, and he had just figured out the ending: They would use the kids as hostages and boogie to the border in that big flashy Jaguar with the helicopters broadcasting every moment of the trip on live TV.
Dennis slapped Mars on the arm.
'I got it, dude. We'll use the Jaguar. We'll take the cash and the two kids, and leave their father here. The cops won't mess with us if we have those kids. We can boogie straight down to TJ.'
Mars shrugged blandly, his voice as quiet as a whisper.
'That won't work, Dennis.'
Dennis grew irritated again.
'Why not?'
'They'll shoot out the tires, and then a police sniper will put a bullet in your head from a hundred yards away.'
'Bullshit, Mars. O. J. Simpson drove around for hours.'
'O. J. Simpson didn't have hostages. They won't let us leave with these children. They'll kill us, and we won't even see it coming.'
The picture shifted again to an aerial view of the minimart surrounded by Highway Patrol cars. The view slowly orbited the cars. The movement made Dennis feel sick, like riding in the backseat of a car. He watched the cops crouched behind their cars, and worried that Mars was right about the snipers. That was just the kind of chickenshit double cross the cops would pull.
Dennis was still thinking about it when Kevin screamed from his position by the French doors.
'Dennis! There's cops all over the place out here! They're coming!'
Dennis forgot the snipers and ran to his brother.
Talley was in the cul-de-sac, waiting behind his car, when Dennis began shouting from the house. Talley let him rant, then opened his phone and called.
Dennis answered on the first ring.
'You fuck! You tell those fuckin' cops to move back! I don't like'm this close!'
'Take it easy, Dennis. Are you saying that you don't like seeing the officers on the perimeter?'
'Stop saying whatever I say back to me! You know what I mean!'
'I do that to make sure I understand you. We can't afford to misunderstand each other.'