Kings of Midnight (8 page)

“I called the Galaxy, tried to reach Leo Bloomgold. Didn't have any luck.”

“Try a Ouija board.”

“What's that mean?”

“Heart attack. Last year, down in Boca. That's where he was living. It's a different world here now, Benny. You could walk down Lefferts Boulevard with a sign that said,
I RATTED OUT JIMMY THE GENT
and no one would give a shit.”

Benny thought that over. Jimmy, Patsy, Joey, and now Leo. All of them gone.

“I thought you'd be happy to hear all this,” Hersh said. “You know, almost ten years now, I've been running this business, haven't had to pay a dime protection to anyone? And no-show jobs? At one point, when I had the big shop up on Pelham Parkway, half my staff were gonifs I never even met. Someone would come by every week, pick up their checks. You think I miss that?”

“Is there anyone else around I would know?”

Hersh gave that a moment, shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”

“What about over in Jersey?”

“Those were your friends, not mine.”

“Jimmy Peaches?”

“Jimmy Falcone? Yeah, I think he's still around. Not doing so well, though, from what I hear. He's down in some retirement place on the Shore.”

“Jimmy Junior?”

“In Marion, last I heard. Not coming home.”

Benny nodded, stood. “I'll be around for a little bit. Couple, three days at least. Is it okay if I call you again?”

“Why?”

“So we can stay in touch.”

“And I can tell you if I hear anything? If anyone comes around asking about you? That the idea?”

“That, too.”

“If I did tell you,” Hersh said, “it would be because I don't want those kids to be orphans, that's all. It wouldn't be about you.”

“I understand.” Benny put out his hand.

Hersh looked at it, then at Benny's eyes. Benny left his hand out. After a moment, Hersh sat forward, reached up, shook it.

“I'm sorry,” Benny said. “For everything.”

When Benny was at the door, Hersh said, “Do you?”

Benny turned. “What?”

“Know where Joey Dio stashed his money?”

“No. Why would I? He was no friend of mine.”

“You wouldn't tell me if you did, would you?”

“Forget it, Hersh. Like you said, it was a long time ago.”

*   *   *

Marta stayed in the car. He walked along the damp grass, following the directions the caretaker had given, reading the headstones set flush in the ground. They seemed to go on forever.

To his right, behind a high, ivy-choked iron fence, was the steady drone of traffic on the Long Island Expressway. The air smelled of exhaust.

It took him ten minutes to find her. It was a simple granite headstone, the grass overgrown around it.
RACHEL ROTH, NEE BRONFMAN, LOVING MOTHER
1949–2009. Someone had left two small stones on the marker. Hersh maybe, or the kids, Hersh lying about where they were.

He knelt, set down the bouquet of yellow roses he'd brought. Her favorite. He tugged at some of the grass around the headstone, tossed it away. The wind took it.

Years ago, when Rachel had first suggested buying plots, he'd refused. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. So this one had been bought after she'd left him, by her or Hersh maybe, when the end seemed near. But it was a single plot. There was no room for him, in the ground or on the headstone.

He stood, his bad knee aching, wiped wet dirt from his pants. I'm sorry, girl, he thought. You were too good for me, always were. Why you put up with me so long, I don't know.

He couldn't remember the last time they'd spoken. The day she'd left, he'd been too drunk or stoned—he wasn't even sure which—to process it. He'd come home late to a silent house, a note on the kitchen table. In a haze, he'd walked the empty rooms, looking for signs of them. Then he'd gone out and sat on the front steps in the cold, looked up at the starry sky over the cornfields, too numb to feel much of anything.

He found a flat stone near the fence, carried it back. He tucked the roses against the side of the marker, laid the stone atop it.

Finally got the chance to say good-bye, honey, he thought. Sorry it took so long.

The wind blowing around him, he limped back to the car.

*   *   *

Driving back to the motel, Marta said, “We shouldn't stay out here.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's not good for you being here, getting mixed up in all this again. We should go somewhere. Florida, maybe. California. Someplace you've never been, where nobody knows you.”

Light rain was spotting the windshield. He turned the wipers on.

“Angel, I don't have enough money to get us anywhere. Not to live, anyway.”

“You can get a job again, cooking. I can always waitress. God knows I did it long enough. We'll make it work.”

“We will. Soon. There's something else I need to look into first.”

“What? What's more important than you and me?”

“Those guys in Indiana,” he said. “They were after me because of some money that was hidden away a long time ago. A lot of money. They thought I knew where it was.”

“Another reason we shouldn't be here.”

“Well, that's the thing…”

“What?”

“The money. Knowing where it is.”

“What about it?”

“I think I do.”

SEVEN

She didn't like it. Here was this big BMW, smoked windows, rims, cruising up Lexington Avenue in the middle of the afternoon, slowing as the driver looked for her. She was where she was supposed to be, the corner of Sixtieth, but now she was getting nervous. It all felt too exposed, too open.

She wore thin black leather gloves. In her left hand was the cup of coffee she'd gotten from a street cart. In her right was the .32, deep in her coat pocket.

The BMW steered to the curb, rear window powering down. The man inside gestured to her.

She sipped coffee, looked up and down the street. Lots of people, but no one watching her. The rear door opened. She dropped her cup in a trash basket, stepped off the curb, got in.

New car smell, shiny leather. As she shut the door, the driver pulled back into traffic. The window slid up silently, the doors locked with a click.

Cavanaugh was in his midthirties. Hair cut short, neatly trimmed soul patch. He wore a black leather duster over a white shirt, a skinny black tie. He slid over to give her room. His cologne was musky, strong.

“I thought that was you,” he said. “But the description you gave was a little off. You're much more attractive in person.”

She let that pass. “This car a good idea?”

“Better we talk here than the office. Carlita, my secretary, gets a little nosy. Jealous, too. I'd get rid of her, but she has other talents.”

The driver laughed. She looked at him. He was big, Hispanic. She could see tattoos on the fingers of his right hand as he drove—a crucifix, ace of spades. On the back of his wrist, the letters
MS
in gothic script.

“Romero,” Cavanaugh said. “Let's go uptown. Take your time.”

To her, he said, “It's Lisa, right?” That was the name she'd given him on the phone. “Good enough for purposes of conversation, I guess. I won't ask your last name. That was too bad about Hector Suarez. I heard what happened. How long did you know him?”

When they'd first spoken, he'd wanted a contact, someone she'd known. She given him Hector's name, but then regretted it. It had felt like a betrayal.

“Long enough.”

“Our paths crossed every once in a while, but he never mentioned you. You're a pleasant surprise.”

“I made a mistake,” she said. Then to the driver, “Pull over here. I'm getting out.”

“Hold on,” Cavanaugh said. “Romero, keep going, it's all right.” He turned to her. “Sorry. But hey, we don't really know each other. You can't blame me for trying to sound you out a little. How do I know you're not a law enforcement officer?”

“I could ask the same.”

“Fair enough.” They turned into Central Park on the transverse road, Romero watching her in the rearview.

“So, let's talk,” Cavanaugh said. “You implied you had some funds you're looking to invest, short term.”

“That's right.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Six figures.”

“Low six or high?”

“Low.”

He thumbed his soul patch. “This isn't my main line of the work, you know. I just do it as a sideline sometimes, for friends.”

“We're not friends.”

“No, but that could change. How temporary an investment are we talking about?”

“Short as possible. I need a quick turnover.”

“That's always a problem. It'll affect the exchange rate.”

She didn't respond. She was liking it less every minute.

“What's the heat level?” he said.

“Bills are untraceable for the most part. Unsequenced. But the majority of them are new.”

“Acquired where?”

“Does that matter?”

“If it was around here, it does.”

“It wasn't.”

“Denominations?”

“Twenties mostly. Some tens.”

“If the heat's low, why exchange them?”

“I like to be careful.”

They'd come out on the other side of the park. Romero got on the West Side Highway north. They passed the Ninety-sixth Street exit, and she thought about her apartment at 108th and Broadway, where she'd lived as Roberta Summersfield only four months ago. It felt like years.

“As I said, this isn't my main line. And even though I believe everything you're saying, I can't be certain, you know? There might be an issue with the money you're not telling me.”

“There isn't.”

“And a rush job, too. It increases my risk, because—”

“Name the rate.”

He stroked his chin again. They passed Grant's Tomb, the George Washington Bridge looming in the distance.

“Well,” he said. “Quick turnaround, that amount, I'd say ten cents on the dollar. That's all I could give you.”

“Forget it.”

“You think you can get a better deal, go find it.”

“For ten cents on a dollar, I'll take my chance with the bills.”

“You could do that.” He looked out the window.

“You'll come out way ahead on this however it goes,” she said. “You know that. Fifty and we keep talking.”

“Fifty?” He looked back at her. “Forget that. No way I could do fifty in that time frame. Wouldn't if I could. Twenty, and that's generous.”

“Then we'll say thirty.”

“I can do it quick, if that's what you need. But not for more than twenty-five.”

Twenty-five cents on the dollar. That would be thirty-seven thousand to her, free and clear. Less than she wanted, but enough to stake her.

“That could work,” she said.

“Good. I can make the deal even better for you, though. A lot better.”

“How's that?”

“Let's say I give you half in cash, half in something you can sell yourself. You could double, triple your money.”

“No, thanks.”

“Don't dismiss the idea so quick.”

“Twenty-five on the dollar,” she said. “I've got a hundred and fifty on hand, that means thirty-seven five back to me.”

“You're quick with the math.”

“I'll need the money by the end of this week.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“No.” She looked at him. “Part of the deal.”

“I don't know if I can swing that.”

“You'll figure it out.”

To the driver, she said, “Take this exit. There's a subway stop at Broadway and One-fifty-seventh. Drop me there.”

“You're a tough bargainer,” Cavanaugh said. “You want everything on your own terms, don't you?”

“We already named the price. I'm taking a seventy-five percent loss. That's more than I ever would normally. You want to go through with it, or not?”

Romero turned down the exit ramp, stopped at a light.

“You put it that way, I've got no choice,” Cavanaugh said. He touched her leg. “You should think on that other offer, though. Trust me, it could be very lucrative for you.”

She looked at his hand. He took it away.

“Thanks, anyway,” she said. “But like you said, not my line.”

They turned right and headed back down Broadway, 157th coming up. Romero looked into the rearview. Cavanaugh nodded. The BMW pulled to the curb. Cars sounded their horns, veered around them.

Cavanaugh put out his hand. Crissa looked at it. When he didn't pull it back, she let go of the .32, shook his hand. She left the glove on.

“A deal, then,” he said. “Mutually beneficial, I hope.”

“I'll get the bills together. Then we can pick a place to meet. Somewhere outside the city.”

She opened the door, started to get out.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “How do I get in touch with you?”

She stepped onto the sidewalk.

“You don't,” she said. “I'll call you.”

She shut the door.

*   *   *

Belmar was a summer town, the tourists long gone now. From the window of her motel room, she could see a long stretch of empty boardwalk, gray waves pounding the desolate beach. She called Rathka.

It was almost five, but Monique answered on the second ring. When Rathka came on the line, Crissa said, “I don't like him.”

“I warned you. Normally, I wouldn't let somebody like that within a hundred miles of you. But you said—”

“I know. I'm not blaming you. But he makes me nervous. He acts like a wannabe. And his driver's a gangbanger, or at least was. MS-13. Salvadoran.”

“I wouldn't know anything about that. But if you don't like the way it feels, walk away.”