“Will, my boy,” he said into the fire, “you’re never gonna know what hit you.”
25
Zeke Tennant got down from the pickup truck at the dark crossroad, then turned to his son. “You take care of things, now. I don’t want to have to worry about anything, and you won’t be hearing from me for a while.”
“Don’t you worry, Daddy; we’ll all be fine, and we’ll wait to hear from you.”
“Might be weeks or months; don’t you worry.”
“I’d never worry about you, Daddy.”
Zeke got his duffel out of the pickup, then handed the boy his wallet. “Keep this for me.” He leaned over and let his son kiss him on his cheek, then closed the truck door and watched as the boy made a U-turn and drove away into the early-morning hours. That was a good boy, he thought; he’d die defending their homestead, if necessary. He looked east; there was the faint glow of dawn.
Half an hour later, with the sun peeking over the horizon, the bus stopped in response to the flashlight Zeke was waving, and he got on and bought a ticket from the driver. You didn’t have to show a picture ID to buy a bus ticket; all you needed was the cash. Zeke stowed his duffel in the overhead rack, then settled into his seat and tried to get some sleep.
Fifteen hours later, Zeke disembarked at the Las Vegas bus terminal and found a cab. Ten minutes later he got out at a modest apartment complex and walked through the parking lot to the building nearest the street. He let himself into the ground-level apartment, kicked the accumulated junk mail out of the way, and looked around. It seemed to be as he had left it: a furnished two-bedroom unit, with one bedroom set up as an office. He took his duffel into the bedroom, unlocked the closet with his key, and pushed the hanging clothes aside to reveal a wall safe with an electronic keypad. He punched in the code, opened the safe, took out a wallet and a checkbook, and put them into his hip pocket. Then he opened the duffel, dug to the bottom, and began stacking bundles of bound U.S. currency into the safe, keeping a couple of bundles for immediate use.
Zeke took a shower, shaved off his beard, leaving only the moustache, then packed the clothes he wore into a garbage bag for disposal later. He got dressed in garments he had left in the apartment, then poured himself a bourbon and turned on the TV. He was now Harry Grant.
Eight months before, Zeke had taken the same bus to Las Vegas, carrying only what he wore and his duffel, which concealed a hundred thousand dollars. His first stop had been at a barbershop, where he had gotten a haircut and shave, leaving his handlebar moustache. This was important. He had then rented this apartment, paying a year’s rent in advance. He had bought some nice, middle-of-the-road businessman’s clothes, then had taken himself to a casino, where he had bought five thousand dollars in chips from one window, then more from another. Carrying the chips in a tray, he had sat down at a blackjack table and started to play.
Zeke was a card counter, and a good one. Playing carefully, never winning too much, he had nearly doubled his stake before he attracted the attention of a pit boss, who watched from a discreet distance. Zeke was untroubled by this attention; he lost some, then won some more. When he tired of blackjack, he headed for the backroom poker games, buying still more chips along the way.
He played until the wee hours, and when he had accumulated a little over fifty thousand dollars in chips, both bought and won, he cashed in everything, asking for a casino check. He had just laundered some money.
The following morning, he had taken the casino check and opened a bank account. Even in Vegas, a bank looked at you askance if you came in with that much cash. Over the time he had spent in Vegas, he had made other deposits, always in cash and always under five thousand dollars, to avoid filling out any federal forms.
Now, back in Vegas, he had a healthy bank balance, plus what he had brought with him. He ordered in a pizza, had a six-pack of beer delivered, and spent the evening watching TV.
The following morning he began running errands. He already had a Nevada driver’s license and a Visa card from his earlier visit; now he had some business cards printed — Harry Grant, computer consultant, hardware and software. He bought a decent computer and a telephone-answering machine and had them sent to the apartment, then he went car shopping. He liked cars, and he was going to enjoy this. He visited half a dozen dealerships, then he found a two-year-old Lexus ES300, the smallest model. It had less than twenty thousand miles on it and was still under warranty, not that it mattered. He bargained hard, then wrote the man a check and waited while he called the bank. He drove away, pleased with his purchase. The car was luxurious and comfortable, but it didn’t look all that different from a Toyota, so it was fairly anonymous.
That night, he gambled, losing a little this time, then picked up a prostitute at the casino bar and took her back to the apartment. She called herself Cherry. She looked around carefully.
“You’re not going to give me any problems, are you, Harry?” she asked.
She remembered the name; good. “Of course not, baby; we’re just going to have a drink and ball. Nothing weird about Harry Grant.” She was compliant, even enthusiastic, and Zeke enjoyed himself.
When they were both spent, and she was getting dressed, Harry led her into the office. “I want you to do a little favor for me,” he said.
“I thought I already did that,” she replied.
“Don’t worry, there’s no work involved, and it’s worth another twenty.”
“What do I have to do?” She sighed.
“Just a minute,” he said. He wrote some words on a sheet of paper and handed them to her. “I just want you to record an answering-machine message for me. You’ve got a very nice voice.”
“Okay.” Zeke pressed the button, and she read, “You’ve reached Harry Grant computer consultants,” she breathed. “We’re on the line with other customers, but if you’ll leave a message, someone will get right back to you.”
“Very good,” Zeke said. “Now it sounds like I’m a company, instead of just one guy.”
“Glad to help. You going to give me cab fare?”
He handed her a fifty. “Here, baby; you’ve been great.”
“You want to do it again, I’m available,” she said, handing him a card.
Zeke waved good-bye to her and went to bed. Before he left Vegas, Harry Grant was going to be a real guy, known to lots of people.
26
Will let himself into the Georgetown house. A Secret Service man stuck his head out of the bedroom under the stairs and waved hello. Will waved back and tiptoed up the stairs, carrying his luggage. Although he had become accustomed to the constant presence of the agents on the road, he had not yet gotten used to having them in the house, but then, he hadn’t been at home much the past few months.
Light showed from under the bedroom door, and he opened it.
His wife looked up from her book. “Hello, sailor,” she said. “Like to give a girl a good time?” She let a strap of her nightgown fall off a shoulder.
Will dropped his bags, shucked off his clothes, and climbed, naked, into bed with her, while she slipped the nightgown over her head. There was no talk, just immediate lovemaking. When they were finished, he lay with his head on her breast. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said. “A politician can’t get laid on the campaign trail anymore, you know. Bill Clinton screwed it up for all of us.”