Cold Shot to the Heart (7 page)

Chance sat at the kitchen table. He smiled when he saw her, rocked back on his chair. “Hey, Red.”

“Hey, Bobby. Good to see you.”

“Same here. I feel better now.”

“You two know each other already,” Stimmer said. “I should have guessed.”

He set a dark automatic atop the refrigerator. The gun bothered her. There was no need for it.

“Who else?” she said.

“That's it,” Stimmer said. “Just three.”

It was as cold inside as out. Chance wore a blue down vest over a red flannel shirt buttoned at the wrists. He had full-sleeve tattoos beneath, she knew, elaborate designs he'd paid thousands for in Thailand. The last time she'd seen him, he'd had a ponytail. Now his dark hair was shorter, parted in the middle.

“Good thing you dressed warm,” he said.

She looked at Stimmer.

“Someone live here?”

“Not anymore.” He dragged a chair over to the table for her. “It's coming down soon. They're going to build condos or some shit here if the economy ever turns around. They left the power on, but no heat.”

He straddled a chair at the head of the table. Crissa sat to his right, Chance across from her.

“You're looking good,” Chance said.

“Thanks. I see you're keeping on.”

“Beats working, like Wayne used to say. What do you hear from him?”

“You know the way it is. One day at a time. Going down to see him soon.”

She and Chance had worked together twice, a diamond broker outside Jacksonville and an armored car in Cincinnati, both with teams Wayne led. Clean work, solid, with no blowback.

She ran a hand under the surface of the table, felt knots and bulges in the wood, no wires.

“Warmer where we're going,” Stimmer said.

“
If
we go,” Chance said.

“Tell it,” she said.

“It's a sweetheart,” Stimmer said. “Fort Lauderdale card game. High rollers. A million, maybe more, on the table.”

“That's hard to believe,” she said.

Chance smiled. “My first reaction, too.”

“But?”

“Game's new,” Stimmer said. “Unprotected. It started with some players from the Seminole casino over in Hollywood. They wanted a looser environment, higher stakes. Poker drawing amateurs the way it is these days, they set up the game to fleece the wannabe big-timers. That's why it's in a hotel.”

“The game's crooked?” she said.

“No, it's on the level, but there's a ringer or two, a couple pros to bleed the amateurs dry. It's a massacre in there some nights.”

“Why do they keep playing?” Chance said. “The amateurs, I mean.”

Stimmer shrugged. “Why do gamblers keep losing? For the thrill. It was too good to last, though. So they're doing one last big game, then shutting it down.”

“How do you know all this?” she said. With that level of information, there had to be an inside man. They were always the weakest link, the first to buckle under pressure, give up the rest of the crew in exchange for a deal.

“One of the players. He realized what was going on, got out after the first couple weeks. He told me about it.”

“He in this, too?”

“For a finder's fee, that's all. A few grand. I'll take care of that from my end.”

“Who are the players?”

“Changes every week, but two or three of them form the core. I have a rough list. I can give it to you, you can check them out yourself. Some old-time Florida guys, a couple Koreans. Every once in a while, some gangsta rapper sits in. All with money to burn, looking to have a little fun, too stupid to know what's going on. Or just don't give a fuck.”

“Unprotected?” she said.

“Unprotected, unauthorized, and wide open. No one will get pissed if it gets taken down.”

“Except the players,” Chance said.

“Most of them will lick their wounds, walk away, write it off,” Stimmer said. “The game's illegal anyway. They can't go to the police. And the rest of them … well, we'll be a thousand miles away before they even realize what happened.”

“Or,” Chance said, “if they already suspect the game's crooked, when they get taken off they'll think that's an inside job, too, get mad at the wrong people.”

“Could be,” Stimmer said and half-smiled. “That's the beauty of it.”

“A million plus on the table,” she said. “That doesn't sound right.”

“That's a best-case scenario. Still, between three people…”

“They have a banker there?” she said.

“Yeah. He brings the chips, watches over the money.”

“So they'll have some sort of security. Armed.”

“There's always a guy with the banker to keep an eye on him, settle any disputes among the players. But it's usually a quiet game. No women, no posses. Just room service food and booze. They come to play.”

“You got all this from your inside man?”

“Plus a sketch of the layout. That never changes. Always the same room.”

“How do we get in and out?”

“That's what I need you two to help me figure out.”

“Your insider,” Chance said. “He'll be conspicuously absent when all this goes down, won't he?”

“He hasn't played in a month. He's done with it. He wouldn't mind a little revenge too, for what he lost. He'll be happy with what I give him though. I'll make sure of that.”

“What do they play?” she said.

“Hold 'Em, mostly. No limit. Thirty-thousand-dollar buy-in. Sometimes they alternate. Hold 'Em, Omaha, Stud, and Stud Eight. They hire a private dealer for the night.”

“How many players?”

“Six to ten,” he said. “Since it's the last night, probably the full ten. Some of them will want a chance to win their money back.”

“So at least twelve people in there, maybe more.”

“Small space, though. Easy to control. We go in heavy, four, five minutes we're out of there.”

Chance laced his fingers behind his head, rocked back on his chair.

She thought it over. If Stimmer's information was accurate, three might be enough. A small crew, but she'd worked with both of them before, knew they were good. It improved the odds.

“You say they're only doing one more game?” she said.

Stimmer nodded. “That's the word.”

“When?”

“That's the complication.”

“How's that?”

“The timing. It's Sunday.”

“Shit,” Chance said. “That's just…”

“Five days,” Stimmer said. “That's all the time we've got.”

*   *   *

“I'm unconvinced,” she said.

They were in the bar at a Sheraton off the Garden State Parkway, a half hour's drive from the farmhouse. She and Chance had gotten a booth in the back. She had a glass of red wine in front of her, Chance a beer, steaks on the way.

“This was pitched to me as high-end,” she said. “Not some half-assed card game.”

“I've heard worse.”

“You're liking it?”

“I want to know more,” he said, “but I didn't hear anything that made me rule it out. Three people, the logistics are simpler. Cut's better, too.”

“I don't know.” She looked around the bar, scanned faces. “That much money in play at a single game. Hard to buy.”

“Look at it this way. Even if it's only half that, it's a good return. If the setup's the way he says it is, all we have to do is go in and grab the bank and skedaddle. Hard to pass that up.”

“It always looks easy until you walk in the door.”

“Yeah. But like Wayne used to say, ‘Plan the work…' ”

“ ‘… and work the plan.' I remember.”

The waitress brought their food. For a while, they ate without speaking, comfortable in their silence. It was good to sit across from him, to know he was alive, still on the outside. He was another connection with Wayne, with the way their lives had once been, a reminder of better times. Despite the dangers, the risks of the work, her years with Wayne had been the happiest of her life.

“It made me feel good to see you there,” Chance said,

“You don't trust Stimmer?”

“I trust him fine. We've worked together. I value your judgment, though. Knowing you're in makes me feel better.”

“I might not be.”

“I know. Even if you bail, that tells me something.”

“If I do, it doesn't mean the work's wrong. Just that it's not right for me.”

“I know. But having you around … It's the next thing to having Wayne here, I guess.”

“I'm not Wayne.”

“No, but you're his partner,
were
his partner.”

“Still am.”

“That speaks for itself. So how is Daddy Cool?”

“Like I said, one day at a time. He's got a parole hearing coming up.”

“How's it look?”

“Hard to tell. We're working on it.”

“He was the one schooled me when I needed it,” he said. “Kept me out of the joint, out of a box. Taught me how to make it all work. He was good luck for me.”

“I know.”

“And you were good luck for him.”

“Not good enough.”

“He always did like to run those long odds. Did pretty well, too, for a long time. He wouldn't have gotten that far without you. Way it played out, nothing you could have done about it.”

“I wonder,” she said. “Maybe if I'd been with him on that last thing, it would have gone differently.”

“Maybe. Or more likely, you'd be inside, too. Some things are just fucked from the start. It's fate. All the planning in the world can't make them come out right.”

The waitress came back, and Chance pointed at his empty Sam Adams bottle. She brought another beer, and Chance thanked her with a smile, watched her hips as she walked away.

He looked back at Crissa. “Sorry.”

“You been working?” she said.

“Not as much as I'd like to. Nothing good. How about you?”

“On and off. Did something recently. Check-cashing store.”

“You slumming?”

“In that case, yeah, way it turned out.”

“You've been keeping busy, though.”

“Enough.”

“So you could bail on this if you wanted to. I might not have that luxury.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need it.”

“That's a bad way to go into something.”

“I know. But you don't always get to choose.”

“You're wrong,” she said. “You do.”

“It's not like I'm desperate. It's just that the last couple things fell apart before they happened. One goddamn thing or another. Bad luck. The kitty's getting hungry.”

“Happens.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Here's what I think,” she said. “We go down there, take a look.”

“Okay.”

“We get a feel for it. Check out the layout. If it looks good, we stay and do it. If not, we walk away.”

“That sounds right. When?”

“Soon,” she said. “There's something else I need to do first.”

EIGHT

The supermarket was closed for the night, metal shutters pulled down over the windows. Only 8:00
P.M.
, but all the stores on the street were dark.

“Go around back,” Eddie said.

Terry pulled the El Camino into the rear lot. There was a loading dock here, an overflowing Dumpster, a pile of flattened cardboard boxes. Three cars: a silver Lexus, a green four-door Mercury, and a white van that said
RICHFIELD CONTRACTING
on the side.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Eddie said.

“This the place? You sure?”

“Yeah, this is it. Pull up alongside the Dumpster, kill the lights. Leave the engine running.”

There was a single door by the loading dock, a light in a metal cage above it.

“Should I come in?” Terry said. He'd taken the ring from his eyebrow.

“Hang here. I won't be long. I'm not here to socialize.”

He took Casco's gun from his pocket, put it in the glove box, shut it.

“I don't come out in ten minutes,” he said, “take that and go in there and start blasting.”

Terry looked at him.

“It's a joke,” Eddie said. “Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

He got out of the El Camino. The air smelled of garbage. As he neared the door, a motion sensor floodlamp clicked on, bathing him in light. He frowned, tried the door with a gloved hand. It was unlocked.

Inside was a narrow cinder-block hall, tube lights hissing on the ceiling. The smell was in here, too, rotten fruit and vegetables. Voices came from an open door at the end of the hallway. As Eddie neared it, Nicky Conte stepped out.

“There he is, Eddie Santiago. A free man once again.”

“Hey, Nicky.”

“Good to see you. Come on in.”

Inside the cramped office were Tino and a man Eddie didn't know. Tino got up.

“Eddie. So good to see you.”

He was skinnier than Eddie remembered, tendons showing in his neck, loose flaps of skin under his jaw. There were liver spots on the backs of his hands.

Eddie took the hug.

“You look well,” Tino said. “Strong.”

Eddie looked around. A metal desk piled with papers, five dusty closed-circuit TV screens on a wall shelf. One view showed the corridor he'd just come down, another the back lot, the El Camino. The other three looked out on the market's empty aisles.

“Have a seat,” Tino said. He motioned to a folding chair. “You know Nick. You met Vincent Rio?”

“No.” Eddie nodded at the third man. He was big and blocky, his face pockmarked with acne scars. He wore heavy work boots.

Eddie took the chair. Nicky came in, leaned against the wall.

“How are you, my friend?” Tino said. He sat across from him. “How have you been?”