The Lazarus Trap

by Davis Bunn

  Don wheeled about. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Again, the wrong answer.”

  “What, you’re making the rules now?”

  Loupe slipped his hand beneath the jacket of his nearest man. He came out holding a pistol. Terrance was trapped in the amber of helpless foreknowledge.

  Loupe brought up the pistol, cushioning the muzzle with the pillow.

  And shot Don Winslow in the chest.

  The bang was a sharp punch to the air, no louder than a single bass drumbeat. Everybody save Loupe jerked, knowing the next shot could just as easily be aimed at them.

  Terrance watched his own life fall to the carpet with his former partner.

  Loupe stood over Don and replied, “That is correct. I now make all the rules.”

  The boss nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. Then he handed back the gun, returned to the table, and reached for his cigar. He puffed long enough to get the cigar drawing fully, then said with the smoke, “Get rid of this filth.”

  The two men who had been awaiting judgment leapt to obey. Loupe watched them roll the body into a pair of blankets and toss it over one man’s shoulder. “Don’t either of you for a minute think I’m done yet.”

  A tremor went through both their frames. The driver opened the door, scouted the hallway, then pointed them toward the service elevator.

  When the door shut behind them, the boss turned to Wally and said, “You know a gentleman by the name of Gennaro, I believe.”

  Wally might have nodded. But Terrance thought more than likely it was merely a shudder.

  “Of course you do. He owns you, doesn’t he?” Loupe tapped off the ash. “He and I had a little chat last night. I think it’s time you went back and reported in, don’t you?”

  Wally struggled to her feet. She did not glance in Terrance’s direction as she headed for the door.

  As she opened it, Loupe added, “I don’t need to say a thing to you, do I? About all that must remain between us and such as that.”

  Wally stared down at the hand holding the doorknob. She shook her head and murmured, “No. You don’t.”

  “The first time I set eyes on you, I knew you for a smart lady. Be sure and give Gennaro my best, now, will you?”

  Loupe waited until the door shut behind her to say, “I do so hope these new arrangements meet with your approval.”

  Terrance did not respond. Of course, he was not expected to.

  Loupe dragged a chair over to Terrance’s corner and seated himself. He patted Terrance on the knee with the hand holding the cigar. The smoke clogged Terrance’s every pore.

  The boss said in his mild tone, “Now perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell your new partner just exactly what the stakes are in this little game.”

  AS FAR AS JOCKO WAS CONCERNED, THE ISLAND OF JERSEY WAS A wee tight place. Especially for two men who’d shared a berth in Wormwood Scrubs, as cramped a set of quarters as ever there were. The walls here might be liquid, the food a ruddy sight better than inside the grey-bar hotel. But the sentence Jocko served out was the same. Forever and a day.

  They were set up in a hotel across the street from the bank’s only entrance. The room Jocko shared with Matt was almost as small as their cell. The hotel was a glorified boarding house, not even deserving its single star. But it was the only one they could find with a clear view of the place. When Matt had complained, Loupe had offered to fit them out with something smaller. A barrel, perhaps.

  So there they sat, day in and day out, one or the other of them staring at the ruddy entrance until their eyes were ready to fall out of their heads. They even did it all night long, which was the stupidest thing going, according to Matt. The bank had these great steel doors that wheeled out at five every afternoon, locking the place up like a street-side vault. They made no sense, as orders went. Jocko’s mate, the brains of the pair, was given to complaining more with every passing hour. Jocko, though, he found the alternative a ruddy sight less appealing. He had been around long enough to hear the tales of what Loupe did to those who disappointed him. Jocko had no interest in finding out if the tales were true. No, mate. Not him. He’d sit by the ruddy window until he fused with the chair, he would.

  Which had almost happened. Jocko had been at it for five poxy hours. Sitting by the window, watching the grey light strengthen and the rain fall and smoking his head off. The noisy bedside clock taunted him all night with how slowly time moved. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore.

  Jocko walked over and kicked the bed. Again. A third time, and finally his mate was up and complaining again. The rain, the day, the stink from Jocko’s cigarettes even with the window wide open. Matt’s voice was persistent as a drill. But at least Jocko heard some other noise now besides the drip-drip-drip of this rain.

  Soon as Matt was dressed and moaning by the window about another day lost to nothing, Jocko left. The hotel manager was already at his desk. The old geezer didn’t think much of two men sharing one of his cramped front rooms. Jocko left the hotel and walked through the cold rain and wondered why anybody would ever want to live in such a place. Stone the crows, but this was a miserable excuse for a town. Cramped rooms and tiny streets and small-minded people, surrounded by miles and miles of empty water and rain. Jocko stopped by the newsagents’ and bought a Sun. He rounded the corner and entered the steamy café. He took his regular place in the booth by the window and ordered his regular breakfast. He opened his paper and almost moaned over that first sip of tea. Breakfast was the one thing this place had not managed to ruin.

  Jocko was about midway through the morning feast when something caught his eye.

  At first he wasn’t sure what it was he’d seen, what with the window so misted over and the rain falling in sheets. Jocko rubbed the pane clean. Yes. Stepping away from a shop connected to a church. Walking there on the main road. Headed for the bank. A man who looked a lot like . . .

  Jocko sprang from the booth and barged out the door. He raced around the corner in time to watch the bloke walk up the front steps and enter the bank. It might have been their man. Only Jocko was looking at this bloke from the rear. And it had been a while. And the wind was rising and blowing this pelting rain straight into his eyes. Jocko swiped angrily at his face and started forward.

  Then he stopped. Because there were two men stationed at the front of the bank. One of them was a bloke big as himself. Definitely someone who knew how to handle himself.

  Jocko took another step. This one took him over by the corner of the hotel. He squinted against the driving rain.

  He’d seen that man before.

  Jocko turned up his collar and sauntered along the lane. He took the hotel stairs easy as you please. Once through the hotel entrance, though, Jocko hurtled across the lobby and thundered up the stairs.

  Jocko flung open the door to their room, only to discover his mate seated by the window, his head in his arms, dead asleep.

  Jocko kicked the chair out from under him.

  Matt fell to the floor, picked himself up, and cuffed Jocko. The blow was about as potent as a fleabite. Cross and sour, Matt picked up the chair, slammed it back down, and started complaining about how Jocko didn’t even bother to bring him a cup of tea and something hot—

  “He’s here.”

  Matt paled. “The boss? Here?”

  “No. Our target.”

  Matt almost fell out the window in his panic. “Where?”

  “The bank. Maybe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, maybe? Either he’s in the bank or he’s not.”

  “Only saw the bloke from behind, didn’t I. And look there. See the muscle? They showed up with him.”

  His mate was seriously alarmed. “Are they ours?”

  “Have a look at the bloke on the right. I’ve seen him before.”

  “With Loupe?”

  “No. Inside. He was in another section. Somebody pointed him out. Savage. Yeah, that’s the bloke’s name. Bert Savage.”

 
; “The boss didn’t say anything about heavies.”

  Jocko squinted out the window, wanting to tighten down his gaze and pierce the stone wall. “Maybe it wasn’t him.”

  “But what if it is?”

  “Think we should call it in?”

  “Have you gone totally round the bend? What if you’re wrong? You want to give Loupe another reason to bring us in for a little chat?”

  Jocko did not need to answer that one. “What do we do, then?”

  “I’m going over.”

  “Wait, the boss, he said we weren’t supposed to show our faces.”

  “We’ve got to know, right? You heard the boss same as me. The second that bloke shows up, we’re to phone it in. Not thirty seconds later. Not even two.” Matt grabbed his jacket. “Wait here.”

  VAL, BERT, AND GERALD SHARED A TAXI INTO ST. HELIER, THE CAPITAL of both Jersey and the Channel Islands. The town was fairy-tale clean and laced with sea salt and safe mysteries. Not even the pelting rain could wash away the island’s romantic feel. Early morning tourists clambered about the cobblestone lanes, so enchanted they accepted the windswept chill as part of the magic. The wealth on display was very discreet, like a lady’s subtle hint of silk.

  The taxi let them off by a church tea shop down the block from the Syntec Bank of Jersey. By the time they’d settled at a table with their tea and scones, a numbness had invaded Val’s bones. He felt enveloped within an altered state somewhere between exhaustion and an electric high. Val was no longer angry. The day held no space for such mundane elements as personal feelings. The three of them shared a rapidly cooling pot of tea and waited for the clock to crawl once around the dial.

  At nine sharp they watched through the tea shop’s front window as two uniformed guards rolled back the curved steel gates sealing the bank’s entrance. Silently, Val and the others left by the shop’s side exit.

  When they arrived at the bank, Bert took up station under the front awning. “You get yourself in there and save the day, lad. We’ll camp out here and wait your word.”

  “You both know what to do?”

  “We’ve been over it a dozen times, mate. More.”

  Gerald almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. “I don’t suppose it would help to say the fate of the world rests in your arms.”

  “No. It wouldn’t.” Val entered the bank alone.

  Syntec bank’s public chamber was a long, narrow hall with brass-caged teller’s windows down the right-hand wall. Brass footrails ringed the oval marble writing stand. Brass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. The floor was marble, the front windows high and arched. The back of the room was given over to executive stalls with waist-level mahogany partitions. The woodwork gleamed. The entire chamber smelled of centuries of money and polish and the subtle terrors Val carried in with him.

  Val took off the raincoat and shook it. His clothes were borrowed from Gerald. They consisted of a grey flannel suit, Oxford shirt, and a silk tie printed with the emblem from Gerald’s college. He felt only marginally better dressed than when he wore the bellhop’s uniform. Then again, it probably was not the clothes that constricted his gut and made it hard to draw a decent breath.

  A guard approached. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Francis Richards.”

  “Is Sir Francis expecting you?” The guard gave gentle emphasis to the title.

  “I called earlier this morning and left a message on the bank’s answering machine.”

  “Certainly, sir. May I have your name?”

  “Jeffrey Adams.”

  “Very good, sir. If you’ll just come this way.” The sentry guided Val to the rear of the chamber, where a receptionist was already on her feet. “A Mr. Jeffrey Adams to see Sir Francis.”

  “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Adams?”

  “My visit came up at the last moment. I called before you were open and asked for this meeting.”

  “Are you a client of Sir Francis?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But we’ve never met.”

  “Might I trouble you for some form of ID?” When Val handed over his fake passport, she said, “If you’ll just wait here a moment, I will see if Sir Francis is available.”

  When the receptionist cupped the phone to her ear and turned slightly away, Val asked the guard, “What is Sir Francis’s position?”

  “Senior account executive, sir.”

  The receptionist swiftly returned. “If you’ll just come this way, sir.”

  Val was ushered upstairs and into an antechamber of rosewood paneling. Cigar smoke hung vaguely in the air, like a lingering fragrance of the previous day’s millions. Val found the odor faintly nauseous and breathed through his mouth. His heart sounded loud as gunfire.

  A slender man approached with outstretched hand. “Mr.

  Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Francis Richards. What a delight. Received your message first thing this morning. Shame about the weather, don’t you agree? Tragic spring we’re having. Lashes of rain and cold and no end in sight. Won’t you come this way?”

  Richards wore a double-breasted navy jacket with gold-embossed buttons. A scarf matching his overloud tie dangled slightly from his breast pocket. An ornate family crest was woven into this same pocket. His hair was long and foppishly styled. His teeth were huge as he smiled Val into his office. “I believe you’ll find that chair quite comfortable.”

  The office was rather cramped and narrow. But a royal crest matching the one on Richards’s jacket hung from the wall behind his desk. Val took the seat before the desk as directed and looked carefully about. The room’s only window overlooked the rainwashed street. A photograph of a grand estate hung from the right-hand wall. The manor looked enormous. But the photograph was in black and white, and the man standing upon the front steps was dressed in a bygone style.

  Richards crossed behind his desk. “I checked our records after hearing your message, Mr. Adams. I failed to find any record of your being a client of our bank. Not that you’re not welcome, of course. It’s just we do rather like to keep tabs of whose money we’re holding.”

  Val would normally have disliked the man and his upper-crust bray on sight. Today, however, he considered him ideal. No man, dressed like a titled duke and bearing his overarched accent, would be doing duty as a bank staffer unless he possessed more title than cash. He pointed to the photograph. “That’s some spread.”

  “Ah. Yes. It is rather nice. Or was, I suppose I should say. Lost in the Depression, along with far too much else. I really should dispose of the wretched photo.”

  Val nodded slowly. He could well understand why Terrance had chosen to do business with this man.

  Richards steepled his fingers. “Is there something I might do for you today, Mr. Adams? We are rather pressed for time, you see, and—”

  “My name is not Adams.”

  Richards froze. “Pardon me?”

  “It is Valentine Haines.”

  “Haines, Haines. Now that is a name I do recognize.” He slid his chair over and tapped into his computer terminal. “Of course. Mr. Haines.” Then a light dawned. “Did I not hear something of your recent demise?”

  “All false, I’m afraid.”

  “And how frightfully glad I am to hear it. I don’t suppose you happen to have any form of identification on you.”

  “No. But you have my photograph in your records.” Stored in advance, to ensure personal security and access to their funds. “Along with my fingerprints.”

  “Indeed we do.” Richards turned to his credenza and came up with an electronic pad. “If I might ask you to be so kind?”

  Val pressed his hand onto the glass screen. And waited.

  It did not take long. “Verified and confirmed.” Richards was now all smooth professional. “What might we do for you today, Mr. Haines? Or should we remain with Adams?”

  “I’m here to make a withdrawal.”

  “Certainly, sir. How mu
ch would you be after?”

  “Two million, two hundred and eighteen thousand dollars.”

  The banker tabbed the keyboard. “But that’s—”

  “All of it,” Val confirmed. “Plus any interest I’ve earned. And I want it in cash.”

  Matt did the innocent’s walk across the street to the bank entrance. Ambling along, collar up against the wet, not looking at anything really. Just minding his own business and headed inside. Going up the stairs, he slowed enough to give both the blokes a careful look. Up close the muscle to his left didn’t look any more familiar than from the window. Which didn’t mean Jocko was wrong. The two men gave Matt an inspection of their own, using the cold eye of blokes who know their way around a tight corner.

  For a moment Matt hesitated. He did the pocket-pat, like he belonged there at the bank if only he could find his papers. Thinking maybe he should go back for Jocko. But if they were there guarding the man Matt was after, leaving and coming back would only alert them. And what good would it do? Matt’s orders were to call in soon as they spotted the bloke. Nothing more. Having a dust-up on a dank street in the middle of this poxy town was not on the list.

  No, best just play the hand and act like he owned the place.

  Which might’ve worked, only one of the heavies decided to follow Matt into the bank.

  Inside, the bloke just stood there by the entrance. Hovering. Ready.

  Matt gave the place a quick look-round. The bank was almost empty. Three customers up front, all women. One old geezer in the back, talking soft like he’d spent years learning how to handle coin. Definitely not their man. Which meant either their bloke was upstairs somewhere, or Jocko was wrong.

  What to do?

  Matt sighted the guard sauntering over. Taking it slow. Not wanting a fuss.

  Matt turned and left. The muscle followed him out.

  Matt scampered down the stairs and across the street and into the hotel and up the stairs and into the room.

  Jocko was all over him in a flash. “What’d you see?”

  Matt collapsed into the chair. “Go bring me a tea and two fried-egg sandwiches.”