Marty Harmon was wealthy by Ferrington standards, but his company was a start-up and had yet to make a profit. Since the products he was making were intended mostly to improve Third World living conditions, Shaw had signed on. Also, he liked the challenge of the job.
He said nothing.
“Tell you what I give you. Fifty thousand. You want gold, you want Bitcoin, you want Doge? Mix and match, you want. Even green money. But what bastards want that today?” He frowned. “Rubles? Oh, I make you millionaire with rubles. How about Gazprom stock? Always good.” A bright smile, then back to the serious visage. “One. Hundred. Thousand.” His index finger rose and fell with each number.
So, his employer was in Moscow, probably, rather than Minsk or Kiev. Given the rubles.
“What’s your name?” Shaw asked.
“Name? Name?” A roaring laugh. “My name is John F. Kennedy. No, I am lying. It’s Abraham Lincoln. There. That’s my name! One fifty. Cannot be more.”
“Well, listen, Abe,” Shaw said. “It’s not for sale.”
“I was thinking that would be answer. I was sure. Well, don’t worry, no, no.” He held his hands up. “No shoot-out at high noon. I know you have gun. I saw, I peeked. A little one — malen’kiy pistolet.”
Yes, Russian.
The man said, “Okay. Two hundred.”
So it could be more.
“No.”
“Fuckish.”
Not a word that Shaw was familiar with and in his reward business he’d collected a sizable vocabulary of street terms.
The Slav could see the discussions were winding down. His eyes narrowed. “Too bad. Too bad for you. Lose all that money.” He tapped his head. “I’ll have to think of something more cleverer.”
Delivered not with the tone of threat, though threat it was.
Shaw reciprocated, less subtly. “For your own sake, Abe, don’t follow me. We’re not alone.”
The man’s eyes narrowed further, then he looked around. Finally grinned. “Me? Why would I do that? I’m just tourist here! Hey, you see famous Water Clock?”
“No.”
“Oh, not to be missed, Mr. Colter Shaw. Not. To. Be. Missed.”
Shaw walked past him, continuing up the street, assessing the odds that the Slav would, despite what he’d said, draw his gun and play High Noon after all.
He put it around five percent. Abe Lincoln wasn’t stupid.
But he was desperate.
Fuckish...
Okay, maybe ten.
5
At last. His custom-made work shoes...
Jon Merritt closed his eyes at the relief of slipping his feet into what he’d worn on the job — when he had a job. Black leather, insets, lace-up. Steel-tipped toes. Occasionally necessary.
He was inside the tiny unit of U-Store, looking over his things, in plastic bins that had been filled haphazardly. Everything just dumped.
Into a backpack bearing the faded logo of a faded pro football team he placed clothing, some toiletries, the cardboard box containing the project from the metal shop — his chosen rehab activity in County.
He continued rag picking. Anything meaningful? Anything sentimental?
No.
Here was a trash bag of items from his former job. And trash bag it literally was, containing in addition a crushed soda can, an empty nail-polish bottle, a year-old slice of hard bread, long past mold. He dug through it and extracted a few things that might come in helpful.
After he pulled down the corrugated metal door, he relocked it and left the facility. Then he bused it across town, head against the glass, feeling the vibrations of the engine and the protest of the suspension on the weather-abused streets. The potholes and cracks were the same as when he went in. Ferrington’s infrastructure budget wasn’t going to miraculously improve in that short period of time. And even if it had, how much cash would have been siphoned off to flow into officials’ pockets?
Quite a bit, Jon Merritt knew very well.
Disembarking and walking three blocks, he entered the small oil-sweet-scented office of the rambling garage.
“Ebb.”
The owner blinked and froze. He was a troll of a man, with rolls of flesh below and pelts of hair above. Surprise filled his face. He stepped away from the engine of a large red Peterbilt. The wrench in his hand lowered. “Well. Jon. You’re...”
Merritt nodded outside. “Didn’t do much in the detailing department.” The white F-150 pickup was grimy and dusty and the windshield opaque yellow from last spring’s pollen. Branches and leaves crowned the hood and roof and lay thick in the bed, where the wind would not have swept them away.
Merritt believed they’d talked about storing the truck inside the garage, though he wasn’t positive. He’d been drunk when the conversation occurred. It was the day of his sentencing.
Maybe Ebb believed, or hoped, Merritt would die inside and somehow he could keep the truck. Only 154,000 miles on the odometer. Nothing.
The man took in Merritt’s unsmiling face. He was somewhat afraid now, knowing why Merritt had gone to prison. “Really, Jon. I’d known, she woulda been spic-and-span...” A new tack: “You’re paid up for two more years. I’ll get you a refund check. Pronto. Gimme an address.”
“Don’t have one. Where’s the hose?”
“I’d help you out, but Tom Ehrlich needs his rig.”
“Hose?” Merritt had learned long ago that a soft voice is scarier than loud.
“Sure, Jon. There, outside. You want soap and polish? You give me a day, I’ll have her like new.”
“Keys.”
Merritt took the offered chain.
When the Ford was clean enough so as not to draw attention, he fired up the engine. It knocked but was no knockier than it had been a year ago.
He sped into the street and cruised for fifteen minutes, pulling to the curb near an electronics store. Inside he bought a burner phone. Getting one set up wasn’t as easy as it seemed in the movies. He knew this from his prior life. Yes, you could buy one without a credit card or a real address. But an email was necessary. The clerk, a beefy kid with impressive, meaningless tats, helped him out, and they got the thing activated.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, he stared at the phone for a long time. He placed a call. He heard three ascending tones, then the announcement that the number was no longer in service.
Not surprising, considering that the woman whose number it once had been was his ex-wife, the complaining witness — that is, victim — in the case that led to his arrest for attempted murder and assault with a deadly, resulting in, as the indictment reported with a drama you didn’t expect in legal pleadings, “grievous bodily harm.”
6
As he approached Harmon Energy Products’ campus, Colter Shaw looked back at the riverwalk.
No sign of Abe Lincoln.
A dark gray Mercedes Metris was approaching. The van pulled to the curb and out climbed a slim man in a black jacket, collar turned up, and black slacks. The outfit had many pockets, as tactical attire often did. The man was of a skin shade only slightly lighter than the clothing and his head was shaved. His wing-tip shoes were polished to dark mirrors.
Shaw stopped and nodded to Lenny Caster, the private eye who’d helped with the trap.
“Lenny.”
“Colter. Went okay?”
“Aside from my visitor.”
Caster had been tailing Shaw from the factory in case the three men had learned of the switch and returned for him.
We’re not alone...
Shaw continued, “Could you make him?”