“Security in obscurity,” Carr recited-an old lesson that he knew was only sometimes true. “So what’s the downside of your business?”
“What you’d expect: people get cross, they brood over things, they have long memories, and if they catch you they’ll kill you all kinds of dead-by which time death will seem like a mercy. But like I said, we’re dead sneaky: never been pinched; never come close. We’re phantoms, Mr. Carr-black cats tippy-toeing in the black night.”
The smoke that swirled around the room seemed to fill Carr’s head. “I’ve got to have a talk with Teddy Voigt. I don’t know what he’s been telling you about me, but I-”
Declan laughed again. “Teddy said you might be just the ticket.”
“The ticket to what?”
“To bigger and better, Mr. Carr-a step up in the league tables.”
“I’m not following.”
“I’m running a nice enough carnival now. I’ve got a strongman, a fire-eater, a boy who bites the heads off chickens, and I’m the barker that keeps it all going. Our show does fine, Mr. Carr, a reliable money-spinner, but it’s still just a carnival, and I’ve got bigger plans. I want me a full-blown circus, with three feckin’ rings and a fat box office every show. But for that I need a ringmaster: someone to sort out the elephants and monkeys, and stuff the clowns in their wee cars. Someone to make sure the trapeze girl doesn’t land in the lion’s cage, you see? You understand, Mr. Carr, I need a planner, an organizer. Teddy says that’s you.”
Carr’s mind was stuttering, and organization was the last thing on it. He could muster no more than an adolescent shrug, but Declan had momentum enough for both of them.
“Teddy says you’ve got an engineer’s eye for operations-a talent for breaking big problems into bite-size ones, for finding the shortest paths and the points of failure, and coming up with contingencies and fallbacks. He says-”
“Teddy’s talking out of school. He should know better.”
The smile widened on Declan’s chipped red face, and he ran a hand over his thinning hair. His eyes were cold and probing through the smoke. “He says that you’re careful too-that you always pack the belt and the suspenders. Caution is a virtuous thing in a planner.”
Carr could never put his finger on just when he’d begun to take Declan seriously, to believe that his talk of robbers and ringmasters was more than just drunken digression, or the overture to some elaborate scam. Maybe it was in the long silence that followed Declan’s speech, as the smoke and sorrowful music pressed closer, or while Carr sipped at the coffee he’d ordered to replace his unfinished beer. Or maybe, on the heels of another failure, another firing, adrift once again, Carr had been a buyer from the start.
“Maybe you could do with a bit more caution yourself. How do you know I won’t go home and call the police?”
“And tell them what? My name? My phone number? You know as well as anyone how disposable those are. And besides, I do my sums, Mr. Carr-I think I know you better than that.”
Carr shook his head. “Fucking Teddy.”
“Don’t go blaming Teddy, either-not too much anyway. Yes, he tells me some things-I expect it for the fee I pay him-but I do my own leg-work besides. So I know about your unfortunate disagreement with your client, and the nice right cross that put an end to your career with Integral Risk. I know about your housing problem, as well. And I know about your brief period of service to your country-very noble that-and how they tossed you out on your arse after all that training. Decided you’re not the kind of glad-handing wanker Langley likes for their agent-runners. Imaginative bunch up there, eh?
“And I know how Teddy recruited you to IR after that, and bounced you around the region a bit, before setting you down in Mexico. And I know that you send a check once a month to your old dad up in Massachusetts. Stockbridge, is it? It’s not everything about you, I’m sure, but it’s enough to give me some comfort you won’t be running to the Garda. You’re too smart for that, Mr. Carr.”
The smile was there, and the furry, conspiratorial chuckle, and there was only the briefest gust of icy air-like walking past an open freezer-when he met Declan’s blue gaze. Carr found the implicit threat comforting somehow-a kind of corroboration.
“Many people get killed in your business?” Carr asked finally.
“I won’t say no eggs get broken, but we try to avoid it. And truth be told, these aren’t altar boys we’re dealing with. They’re dead-enders-hard boys, or so they fancy themselves-bad insurance risks on the best of days.”
“I was wondering more about your own guys.”
“When it comes to me and mine, safety first is my motto. I’m pleased to say I haven’t lost a man yet.”
“ Yet. ”
Declan shook his head. “If it’s risk you’re worried about, I can’t change that-it is what it is-but if it’s crime that gives you pause, then I’d ask you to think about who it is I’m robbing. They’re pricks, every one of ’em-none worse in the world. I’m no Robin Hood, but the fact is I hurt ’em where they live-square in the wallet-which might be more justice than they get from anyone else.” Declan smiled again, more broadly this time, impossibly charming, and then he drained his beer. “So what d’ya say, Mr. Carr, you want to run off with the circus?”
Safety first… haven’t lost a man yet. Carr shakes his head, banishing the echoes of Declan’s voice. No, Carr thinks, you hadn’t lost a man until four months ago, when you lost two-shot full of holes and burned to a crisp on the side of the Trans-Andean Highway. And too bad one of those rigid cinders was you.
Then Bobby is shaking him, whispering urgently. “The fuck’s the matter with you? You don’t hear that?” Bobby points toward the reception area, where the voices are coming from. Carr wipes a hand across his face and listens. They’re muffled and indistinct, but he can make out two men, talking and laughing.
“ Chingada!” Mike’s voice is low and harsh. He’s standing, clenched, in the door of Lucovic’s office, and he’s holding a Glock.
“What are you doing with that?” Carr whispers.
“Scratching my ass, cabron -what the fuck you think I’m doing?”
Carr shakes his head. “Stay here, both of you, and put that thing away.”
“Time to pack up?” Bobby asks.
“Just stay,” Carr says, and he crosses the office suite to a teak-paneled partition that reaches nearly to the ceiling and that on the other side forms the long curving back wall of Portrait Capital’s reception area.
The voices are louder here but still muffled, and Carr can tell they’re coming from outside the glass doors. Carr lies on the floor and peers through a gap between the corner of the partition and a potted tree. The reception area is still dark, the metal gate is still down, and the glass doors are still closed, but beyond them, in the dimly lit corridor near the elevators, there are two men sitting on the floor. Their T-shirts and baggy white pants are spattered with paint, and they are smoking a joint. The dope smell is cloying and powerful, and it reaches Carr quickly even across the still air. He rolls back around the corner and nearly collides with Bobby, who is holding a little Beretta.
Carr looks at the gun. “For chrissakes-you too?” he whispers.
“Is it the rent-a-cops from the lobby?”
“It’s the painters from downstairs, getting high. You want to shoot them?”
Bobby tucks the gun into his back pocket. “So are we fucked or not?”
“I don’t know yet,” Carr says. He stretches out on the floor again, peeks around the corner for another moment, and then sits up. “Give it a minute. They’re down to the roach-let’s see if they go back to work when they’re done.”
“Don’t know if Mike’s got a minute-he’s twitchy as hell.”
“He’s not alone,” Carr says, and he gets low and takes another look. “They’re done,” he whispers. “The one guy’s getting up. He’s pocketing the roach. Now the other guy’s up. They’re… fuck these assholes!” Carr turns the corner and stands quickly.