by Rob Byrnes
“Smart but mean.” Chase took another sip. “Okay, whatever. The fact is that she could be an asset to our team.”
Grant was noncommittal. “Maybe.”
Chase decided to leave that track, since there was no way he’d be able to change Grant’s mind about Mary Beth. Certainly not that night; maybe not ever. So he tried another approach: grim acceptance of the reality of the situation.
“Beyond everything else, we can’t really stop them, can we? Not if we want Lisa to bankroll the job.”
“Okay.” Grant sighed and tried to shake his concern away. “We still have the same game plan, just with two more players.”
“Exactly.” Chase nodded, encouraging Grant down that path of acceptance. “Think of them as backup. Just in case.”
Lost in thought, Grant stared at the battered surface of the kitchen table. “Now what I need to do is figure out who to get on the inside of the church.”
“I just assumed I’d be going in,” said Chase.
“You, yeah,” Grant agreed. “But we’ll need someone else. Maybe even two more people. We’re looking at a long-term project, and we need to do it right.”
Chase sipped his drink. “Not you or Farraday.”
Grant scoffed. “Of course not. People look at us and the first thing they think is ‘guilty.’ Even if we ain’t done anything.”
“Lisa?”
Grant thought about that, and then thought better of it. “Nah. She’s got a big mouth.” Another very good reason popped into his head. “Not to mention she’s our banker. If something goes wrong and she gets arrested, we’re screwed.”
“Yeah. The bank’s not much good when the bank’s in jail.”
“Exactly.”
Chase tried to think of a name from their loose association of confederates who might prove helpful. “What about Nick Donovan?”
“No. We bring him in, we get that mother of his, too.”
“Chrissy Alton?”
“No. She’s great at working the department store scam, but she’s not right for this kind of thing. If we ever hit Bloomingdale’s again, we’ll call her.”
“Michael May?”
“In jail.”
“Really?”
“Seven to ten.”
“Hadn’t heard that.” Chase shrugged. It was an occupational hazard. “Jamie Brock?”
“Hell no.” Grant shook his head forcefully to emphasize the point. “He’s the last person I ever want to work with again.”
Chase looked up at the flaking paint on the ceiling. “We’ve gone through the roster. Except…nah.”
“Except nah who?”
“Except Mary Beth.”
Grant planted his elbows on the table hard enough to make Chase’s vodka-cranberry jump and stiffened his jaw. “I take back what I said about Jamie Brock. Mary Beth is the last person I ever want to work with again.”
Chase was prepared for his reaction. “I know, I know. You don’t like her and she doesn’t like you. But think about it. She did a great job for us on that job we pulled in the Hamptons a few years ago.”
“The job that went down the toilet?”
“That’s the one,” Chase agreed. “But that wasn’t her fault. That was just…circumstances. Bad circumstances. And remember, if it hadn’t been for Mary Beth, we would have walked away with nothing.”
“Why do you keep pushing for her?”
“Because she’s already in, whether you like it or not. And she’s good…when she wants to be.”
Grant thought about it. “But she’s…she’s…she’s Mary Beth!”
It was hard for Chase to argue with that. She was indeed Mary Beth. “True, maybe she’s not the nicest person we’ve ever worked with. But when she commits, she commits. Quick on her feet, too. She’d be perfect on the inside.”
“I’ll think about it,” Grant said, even though he doubted that.
It was only hours later, when they were pressed against each other in bed, that a new thought occurred to him.
“I’ve got it!” Grant flipped the switch to the lamp on his nightstand.
Chase, who’d almost fallen asleep, rolled away from the light. “Got what?”
“Hand me your cell.”
Chase took the phone off the charger on his own nightstand and started to pass it across the bed before he faltered. He looked at Grant as if he’d just asked for a colonoscopy.
“You want my phone?”
“Yeah.”
Chase wondered if maybe he was dreaming. That would make more sense than this. “But you never use the phone.”
Grant took the unit from his wavering hand. “This is the exception that proves the rule.”
He punched a number into the keypad from memory.
7
The last time Grant Lambert had crossed paths with Constance Price, she was working a scam out of a down-market real estate office on the up-market Upper East Side of Manhattan. Besides picking up a regular paycheck, she also passed the keys to vacant units to her girlfriend, and occasionally, the girlfriend’s brothers, who’d then strip them of small—and sometimes not-so-small—appliances and fixtures. It wasn’t going to make anyone rich, but it was a nice supplement to an honest living. Not to mention it kept them in practice, and there was nothing worse in that occupation than getting rusty. In a way, it was sort of like baseball, except instead of getting sent to the minors if you were off your game, you got sent to Riker’s Island.
Eventually, though, the boss started to figure out that his apartments were being ransacked at an alarming rate, and she’d put an end to the scam before he traced it back to her. A few weeks after that, she realized that merely working for a living was boring without the extracurricular fringe benefits, so she gave her notice.
Some people were made for honest nine-to-five wages; Constance Price wasn’t.
In any event, the scam had dried up. There were only so many microwaves a person could fence or sell on eBay. It was time for something new.
Over the next year or so she’d pulled a few jobs—nothing elaborate, just enough to keep food on the table—but was starting to feel the need for a more substantial income. Those good old days of cheap Harlem rents were a thing of the past. She’d even considered going back into the real estate business. But then Grant Lambert had called around midnight, mumbling something cryptic about a job she might be interested in and saying he had to see her right away, and she put that consideration right out of her head.
After all, if Lambert was on a phone, it had to be big. Everyone in their business knew Grant Lambert hated the phone.
“So why me?” she asked a few hours later, after he outlined his plans as they sat in the living room of her small one-bedroom on West 133rd Street in Harlem. “Sounds like you’ve already put together a big enough gang.”
“Maybe too big,” he acknowledged. “But I’m missing one key element. I need someone who’ll be a natural on the inside.”
“Again, why me? What about your boyfriend?”
“He’ll be going in. But this job is gonna take time, and the only way it goes down the right way is if we have the right people on the inside. Chase is good, but he won’t be able to do it alone.” He cleared his throat. He always had a tough time complimenting another crook’s work, which was what he was about to do. “And you’re the best inside-scam artist I know.”
She nodded, but said nothing. He was right, after all.
She’d worked jobs from Al Sharpton headliners to Rockefeller Foundation fund-raisers, and no one had looked twice. They probably didn’t even figure it out after their coats went missing from the coat-check, meaning they couldn’t give their car-checks to the valet because the car-checks were in their coats. Not that it mattered, because their cars had left the lot hours earlier, along with their keys and wallets, if they were among the usual minority who checked those with their coats.
And God help ’em if Constance got their wallets and keys, because their wallets and keys meant their
home addresses and access, which in turn meant she’d have their television, DVD player, jewelry, and whatever else she could grab before they were done arguing with the coat-check attendant about their missing claim ticket.
She was that good, and she knew it. But it was nice of Grant Lambert to acknowledge it.
“So the real estate office scam you were pulling,” said Grant, when it was clear Constance had accepted the compliment. “Did you keep the books?”
She nodded. “I know how to keep books, Grant Lambert. I knew how to do that long before the real estate job. A girl’s got to have skills to fall back on, after all. But I still want to know…”
“Why you?”
“Why me.”
He swallowed hard and looked at his shoes. “Because this is a Southern church we’re gonna rob. In Virginia. You don’t have a problem robbing a church, do you?”
Her voice was soft, almost hurt. “It’s like you don’t know me at all. So where in Virginia? It’s a big state.”
“Less than an hour outside Washington.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re talkin’ Northern Virginia? Why, Northern Virginia’s about as Southern as Long Island. So, again, why me?”
“Most of the members are real Southerners. Like ‘Deep South’ Southern, so…”
Constance threw back her head and laughed. “I’m just giving you a hard time, Lambert. You want me on this job because I’m black, right?”
He snapped his head up so quickly they both heard a crack that maybe they shouldn’t have heard.
“Damn, you’re getting old, Grant.”
Nothing hurt, so he ignored it. “I told you, I want you because you’re the best.”
“And…I’m black.”
His eyes returned to his shoes. “That probably helps.”
She laughed again. “You’re an idiot. I thought we were friends, Lambert. It’s okay to notice I’m black. You look damn white to me.” He started to say something, but she stopped him. “And I get what you’re thinking. I am good, but a bunch of dumb crackers aren’t gonna think some pious black woman’s a threat. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. Piece of cake. You meet my price and I’m in.” She started to stand, figuring they’d negotiate her fee on the walk to the door.
He cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing you should know. The church is a place called the Virginia Cathedral of Love.”
All thoughts of a quick negotiation stopped, and Constance dropped back onto the couch. “You shitting me?”
“You heard of it, I take it. Seems like everyone has but me.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot. That’s Oscar Hurley’s church. The guy who blamed the wildfires on Ellen and Portia.” Constance stared at nothing as she contemplated whether or not this fools’ errand was worth it, until she knew how to determine the answer. “So instead of telling me you want to rob a mega-church, give me some details.”
He shrugged. “Big church. Big congregation. I’ve gotten through better security before…”
She wagged a finger in front of his face. “Not that. How much money we talking about, and where are they hiding it?”
“Oh, that.” He didn’t want to lowball, because then she wouldn’t think it was worth her while. If he told her the truth, her cut might bleed him, but it’d be better to negotiate in good faith. He could always try to shortchange her later, if he had to. “We think maybe seven million.”
She didn’t spend a lot of time thinking it over. “In that case, my fee is five hundred.”
The numbers ran through his head: roughly two-three to Lisa; one-five to Leonard; a hundred grand to Farraday; and now five hundred Gs to Constance. It was, perhaps, the only time in his life a possible two million dollar-plus payday left him feeling poor.
But Constance Price was the woman he needed on the inside. No doubt about it.
“Okay. I’ll meet your price.”
Now she stood again and took Grant’s hand as he also stood. “Good. It’s been a long time, and I’m really looking forward to working with you again, Grant Lambert.”
“You won’t even have to get your hands dirty,” he said. “Just work your way into the good graces of Hurley, get into the office, and leave a door open on the night we come to collect it. In fact, you’ll probably even show up the day after we crack the safe like nothing is wrong. Because for all they’ll know, you’re just an earnest volunteer.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “How are you on your Bible?”
“I could use some brushing up,” she admitted. “But that isn’t going to be a problem. It doesn’t matter what I know. It only matters I know the talking points.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
She took his elbow and began leading him to the door. “These people don’t know—or care, really—about what’s in the Bible. They pick and choose. That’s how they can justify hating the gays but loving the shellfish.”
“Shellfish?”
“Hell, yeah. The same part of the Bible that tells you not to be gay also tells you not to eat shellfish. Now, how many of these Bible Belt types do you see passing up a shrimp cocktail?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “See, here’s the thing: the guys that wrote the Bible made up most of those stories to fit whatever was going on at the time. People getting sick from shellfish? Just tell ’em that God says not to eat it.”
“Huh,” said Grant. “The things you learn…”
Constance opened the door but stopped him at the threshold. “You wait here and I’ll get you a car.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Trust me, white boy. Four a.m. in this neighborhood, you want me to get you a car.” She smiled. “See? I notice skin color. Nothing wrong with that. So get over your white self and let me find you a ride.”
$ $ $
It took ninety minutes for him to get home. Chase was waiting expectantly when Grant finally walked through the front door of their apartment in Jackson Heights.
Chase tried to read his poker face. “Do we have a gang?”
Grant slumped onto the couch without answering. “How come whenever I try to put together a gang, they take all our money?”
“Uh…so we don’t have a gang?”
“No, we’ve got a gang.”
Chase started to let out a whoop, but Grant stopped him. “She wants a half million.”
“Leaving us with…” Chase tried to calculate.
Grant already had the number. “Two million plus. We might end up making less than Lisa.”
“But,” Chase reminded him, “you pulled it all together. And two million ain’t exactly nothing.”
“I guess not. But no more people.”
Chase agreed. “Everything is in place. Now it’s time to go to the Virginia Cathedral of Love and make some real money.”
Grant grunted and slumped back onto the couch.
8
Lisa Cochrane worked fast, especially when she had more than two million dollars on the line. Which was why just two days later, on another swelteringly hot morning, Paul Farraday was driving a stolen ’98 Cadillac with Connecticut plates down Old Stone Fence Post Road in Nash Bog, Virginia, looking for the house numbered 455.
The owner—a corporate lawyer—had been sent to Hong Kong for three months to negotiate some sort of deal none of them would ever be able to understand. All that mattered was that Lisa had rented it for the duration, reasoning that Grant’s track record wasn’t always perfect on the first attempt.
Or the second or third, for that matter. Meaning it might take them a little bit of time, but the payoff would be worth it. In any event, any extra money out of pocket would come back on top of her twenty thousand dollar investment, so she didn’t care.
As Farraday followed the winding road, Grant looked out from the passenger seat at a succession of houses, each one remarkably, if not exactly, like the others. There were slight variations in exteriors and landscaping, but it was apparent the homebuilder of this sub
division gave buyers only a handful of options, all virtually identical to the naked eye.
From the backseat, Chase said, “McMansions.”
“What’s that?” asked Grant.
“Big houses. Small lots. All kinda the same. McMansions.”
“If you say so.”
“Like burgers at McDonald’s. One in New York’s the same as one in San Diego.”
“Yeah, I figured that’s where you were going. Now…”
“Actually,” said Farraday, “the New York McDonald’s ain’t that good. You want good fast food, go to Jersey.”
“Really?” said Chase. “There’s that big a difference?”
Farraday nodded knowingly. “Oh, yeah. If you take Route 46 off the George Washington Bridge…”
Grant interrupted. “I’d like you both to shut up now.”
Chase leaned forward, straining against his seat belt. “See, if these houses looked a bit different and had bigger lots, you’d consider them regular mansions. Or at least, uh, big houses. But they’re built close to each other, which makes them—”
“McMansions,” Grant said. “I got that.”
“Exactly.”
“And now I’ve said the word, so we can all stop saying the word.”
“Why?” asked Chase.
“I dunno. The word just annoys me, and I don’t wanna hear it anymore.”
“And all I know,” said Farraday, behind the wheel, “is it’s good I’m driving, ’cause no one else could find this place in the daylight, let alone after dark. Not unless they live here already.”
“I thought you could drive anywhere,” said Grant.
“Drive anywhere, yeah. Asphalt, I know. But there ain’t any landmarks around here. All these McMansions look the same.”
“Don’t say that word.”
A squirrel darted across the road and Farraday muttered an expletive. “I’m worried about pulling into the wrong driveway and having someone take a shot at me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Chase. “This subdivision is full of doctors and lawyers, not gun-slingers.”
“This neighborhood,” Farraday reminded him, “is in Virginia. Need I say more?”
