“Forty-five seconds to go!” came the shout from inside the bank.
Charlie raked faster. The third bag was nearly full when fifteen seconds was called. There were a few stacks left, and he filled the last bag. “You,” he said to the manager, “grab two bags and lead me to the rear door. Ten seconds,” he yelled, when they reached the door. “Open it,” he said.
The man produced a key and unlocked the door.
“Toss all three bags out the door. You stay inside. Time!” he yelled. His two cohorts joined him. “Lock the door when we’re gone,” Charlie said to the manager. “That way, we can’t come back.” He stepped out the door and listened as the lock turned. “We’re done!” he yelled. The duffels were already in the rear of the van. The three men hopped in. “Drive normal,” Charlie said. “Don’t attract attention.” All the men began getting out of their coveralls and tossing them into the back on top of the money. The driver was already wearing his own clothes.
Charlie took a small GPS unit from his pocket and switched it on. Their destination was already programmed in.
“Take your next left,” the recorded voice said. “We change cars in ten minutes,” Charlie said. “A block short, stop, and we’ll take the carpet cleaning signs off the van.”
—
Frank was waiting at the end of the alley when he saw the black Toyota turn in and stop behind the closed restaurant. He waited until the four men were inside before he drove in, parked behind the Toyota, and hammered on the rear door. Charlie opened it. “Come on in,” he said.
The three duffel bags were sitting on a dusty pool table. “How much?” Frank asked quietly.
“A lot,” Charlie replied. “Okay, guys, I promised you twenty-five grand each. You’re going to get fifty.” He opened the bag that contained the hundreds and counted out five piles of five stacks of hundreds each. “There you go,” he said. “Take it, and remember, don’t spend it for three months, even if your mortgage gets foreclosed.”
“Listen,” one of the men said, “there’s a lot more than we counted on. We should get more.”
Charlie put a .45 against the man’s cheek. “You’re getting double what I promised,” he said. “Be happy or be dead.”
“Right,” the man said, and picked up his money. So did the others.
“Now, take the Toyota and scatter,” Charlie said, and the three men went out the back door.
“Give ’em five minutes,” Frank said, “then check and be sure they went. We don’t want to be bushwhacked.”
“There’s at least three million here,” Charlie said. “You want to divvy it now?”
“No, let’s get it into my car.”
They checked the alley carefully, then put the three duffels into the trunk and closed it.
“Where do you want to do this?” Frank asked.
“Drop me off near the beach,” Charlie said. “I’ll trust you to take the money and count it. I’ll come for my share later today, when I’m sure there’s no tail.
—
Frank and Jimmy sat at the conference table in the law office and completed their tally. The money was stacked in three roughly equal piles. Frank hit the last button on the calculator. “We net a million two, plus our twenty-five grand,” he said. “Charlie gets the rest.”
“Unless we remove Charlie from the equation,” Jimmy said.
“That would be a bad decision—word gets around if Charlie disappears. It would come back to bite us in the ass, so let’s don’t get greedy.”
Jimmy shrugged. “I guess you’re right.” He started dividing their stack into two, while Frank packed Charlie’s share into two duffels. Jimmy went and got a catalog case and raked his half of the third of the take into it, then left. Frank put his half into his safe, then took the two duffels down to his car. He called Charlie on his throwaway cell.
“Yeah?”
“I’m ready to deliver. I want to get this off my hands, so you tell me where.”
“There’s a Walmart on the western edge of town.”
“I know where it is.”
“I’ll park in their lot, as far as possible from the store. Half an hour.”
“Go.”
Frank drove into the lot and picked his spot; Charlie pulled up five minutes later and put his car alongside Frank’s. Frank rolled down the window and pressed the trunk button.
“There you go,” he said. “Your two-thirds is a little over two million. Nice day’s work.”
Charlie moved the two duffels to his car, gave Frank a wave, and drove away.
Frank drove back to his office, relieved to have the money off his hands and the event behind him. It was very clean, he thought—nobody got hurt, everybody got paid.
And he had six hundred grand in the safe; he was set for at least a year.
Forty thousand feet above Frank and Charlie in the Walmart parking lot, Stone got the first clearance for his long descent into Key West. Half an hour later, he greased his landing into Key West International.
“Nicely done,” Pat said. She had been sitting in the rear of the airplane, working, for the last hour of their flight. “How do you like your new airplane?”
“It’s wonderful. Look at all the fuel we’ve got left!” He pointed at the gauges.
“And now you can fly the Atlantic from Newfoundland, nonstop.”
“And I will.” Stone taxied into Island City Air Services and went through his shut-down checklist. Half an hour later they pulled up at the Marquesa’s loading zone, and someone came for the luggage. Another twenty minutes, and they were sipping piña coladas on the front porch of their comfortable cottage. “I love general aviation,” Stone said.
“Me too, since it’s how I’m making my living,” Pat replied.
“You know that your old boyfriend—what’s his name?”
“You know his name.”
“Oh, yeah. He goes on trial next week.”
“I guess he does.”
“Has he been harassing you?”
“I get a call from him about once a week, demanding money.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I did not.”
“So you’re finally done with him?”
“Completely.”
“I’m glad.”
“So am I.”
“Are you feeling like a New Yorker yet?”
“A little. I’ve been working so hard that I haven’t gotten around much—just to the grocery and back, mostly.”
“You need to hire more help.”
“I’ve got a new woman starting next week.”
“How many does that make?”
“Three, plus me, and we’re all pilots.”
“That would make a good ad.”
“We’ve already booked a page in Flying and AOPA Monthly.”
“I’ll look for it.”
Stone’s cell rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino. Where are you?”
“Key West.”
“At the Marquesa?”
“Yep.”
“You bastard.”
“I invited you, but you were busy.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“I like rubbing it in.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Dino hung up.
“That was Dino.”
“I figured,” she said. “How is he?”
“Busy.”
—
Gene Ryan tossed his bags onto the bed in his new place. He looked around: seedy, but adequate. He had abandoned the house; everything he now owned was in the car. The motorcycle had been at the bottom of the East River since the day of the shooting.
This was all Barrington’s fault, he remembered. He was unemployed and had run through most of the five grand he’d been given by Jerry Brubeck. He had a few grand more saved up, but he needed to get some cash flowing before he got around to killing Barrington. He would plan it well next time, take no chances, give him two in the head, the way he’d been taught. But right now, he needed to get laid.