Kings of Midnight

by Wallace Stroby

  Perry got out of the SUV, opened the back hatch. Longo carried one of the bags out, straining with the weight. He tossed it in, stood aside while Sal came out with the other one. He slid it in beside the first, set the shotgun on top.

  “We’re all set, skip,” Perry said, and shut the hatch. Taliferro came out, and Longo opened the front passenger side door for him. He climbed in, pulled the door shut. Longo and Sal went in the side door. She heard laughter from inside, then the door slid shut. Perry got behind the wheel.

  She moved quickly to the back of the house, up onto the deck. With the Glock up, she went into the dark kitchen, toward the light beyond.

  The bodies were side by side on the living room floor. She saw the head wounds, knew there was no use in checking pulses or calling 911. Nothing you could have done to prevent it, she told herself. They never had a chance.

  She went to the curtains, looked out. The SUV’s parking lights were on. It was turning a slow circuit in the yard, headed back to the driveway.

  It was over. Whatever money had been in here was theirs now. The whole thing had fallen apart, gotten away from her. Everything gone to hell.

  The Escalade keys were on the kitchen table. She grabbed them, went into the garage. She climbed up behind the wheel, started the engine, put the Glock on the seat beside her.

  The garage door opener was clipped to the visor. She pushed the button, and the door began to roll up. She hit the gas just as the door cleared head height, felt it scrape along the Escalade’s roof.

  * * *

  Benny had his window open, heard faint noises from the house, knew they were gunshots. So it had all gone bad up there. He waited, listening. Two more shots, and then a final two. Drive away, he thought. She’s dead, most likely, and you need to get out of here.

  He started the engine, felt pressure in his chest, wished he’d brought his pills with him. He was sweating. He rubbed his palms on his pants, gripped the wheel again, waiting for the pain to ease.

  Be smart, he thought. Get out of here while you can. Take the car. Leave her.

  * * *

  Crissa swung the Escalade into the driveway, lights off. The SUV was taking it slow, brake lights glowing every time it reached a bend. She swept the Escalade into the first curve, heard branches scrape the passenger side. She pulled the wheel hard, narrowly missed a tree that loomed up out of nowhere. The seat-belt alert was beeping. She pulled the shoulder harness on, clicked it in place.

  Then she was around the last bend, rocks kicking up against the undercarriage, and the SUV was there, at the end of the driveway, ready to turn. She aimed the Escalade at it, floored the gas pedal. The SUV’s headlights went on, twin beams springing out into darkness, lighting up trees across the road. It began to turn left.

  The Escalade was doing thirty-five when it reached the end of the driveway. She hit the brakes at the last moment, heard them lock and squeal, and the Escalade surged into the road, the steel pushbar clipping the SUV on its left rear corner, exploding glass and plastic, sending it spinning away.

  The SUV went into the trees nose-first, and she stayed with it, hands gripping the wheel. She butted the back end hard, drove the SUV deeper into the trees, bulling it forward with the Escalade’s weight. The front end of the SUV thudded into a tree trunk, the hood buckling back, windshield spiderwebbing. The airbag bloomed in the front seat.

  She backed up, pulled away, switched her high beams on. They lit up the SUV sitting at an angle in the trees, one side higher than the other. One headlight pointed crazily into the woods, the other was dark. Broken plastic and glass littered the ground between the two vehicles.

  She got the Glock from the floor, opened the door, climbed down. She pointed the gun at the SUV in a two-handed grip. There was no movement inside.

  Closer, she could see Perry and Taliferro slumped in the front seat, the deflated airbag in their laps. The only sounds were the hissing of steam, the tick of cooling metal. She took careful aim, put two shots high through the left rear window, a warning. The glass starred and collapsed.

  She went to the hatch—the glass there was gone, the door dented deep from the pushbar. Sal was facedown on the floor by the bench seat; Longo was against the wall, one of the duffel bags across his legs, cubes of safety glass in his hair.

  She pulled up on the latch. The hatch opened slowly, the bent metal squealing. Longo was moving in slow motion, pushing the duffel away to free himself. Up front, Taliferro was beginning to stir. None of them had been wearing seat belts.

  She pointed the Glock in. Longo looked at her, said, “You.” Sal groaned, but didn’t move.

  With her left hand, she caught the strap of the duffel bag, dragged it out onto the ground, surprised at its weight. Longo cut a glance at Sal’s shotgun, which lay against the wall just out of his reach.

  She pointed the Glock at his face, picked up the shotgun. New headlights fell across her. She turned, saw the Honda pull up on the shoulder.

  She set the shotgun on the ground, pulled out the other bag, dropped it atop the first one, Longo watching her.

  Benny was out of the car now. When he saw the wreck, the duffel bags on the ground, he said, “Holy Christ.”

  “Get these in the trunk,” she said.

  He stood there for a moment, not moving. She kept the Glock trained on Longo. “Now. Do it quick.”

  He grabbed one of the duffels, dragged it across the dirt. Sal groaned again.

  Maybe this is where you should end it, she thought. A bullet for each of them. The only way to make sure.

  Then Benny was beside her, breathing heavy. “I saw headlights down the road. We need to go.”

  She backed away, the gun still up. Benny got the second bag in the trunk, shut the lid, leaned on it for a moment, out of breath.

  She picked up the shotgun. The barrel had been sawn off even with the pump, the stock cut back to a pistol grip, sanded smooth. She put the Glock in her jacket.

  “Come on,” Benny said. He got back behind the wheel, leaned over, and opened the passenger door.

  She racked the shotgun four times in quick succession, emptying the magazine. Shells flew from the breach onto the ground, Longo still watching her. Then she reversed the gun, held it by the barrel, swung it hard into a tree, twisting her hips into it. The stock cracked, fell away. She tossed what was left of the gun into the woods.

  With a last glance at Longo, she got in the Honda, and said, “Drive.”

  Benny pulled out onto the road, spraying dirt. “What happened up there?” His face was slick with sweat.

  “Nothing good. They’re all dead. The woman, the boyfriend, the other one we saw, too. Money’s in the duffel bags. What’s left of it at least. Slow down. You’re going to get us pulled over.”

  “Jesus.”

  She still felt calm, focused. Knew it wouldn’t last. The adrenaline crash would hit her before long, as soon as they were somewhere safe.

  “There’s a turnaround up here,” she said. “Pull in. I’ll drive.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To the motel, get the other car, the rest of our things.”

  “And then?”

  “Home,” she said.

  EIGHTEEN

  It was almost six when they got back to Avon, dawn a blue glow over the ocean.

  Crissa laid the two duffels out on the living room floor. Marta was in the bedroom doorway, hair loose, face still soft from sleep.

  “Benny, what are those?” she said. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Everything’s fine, baby.”

  Crissa knelt and unzipped one of the bags, saw the money inside. Most of it was banded, but some of the packs had split, spilling out loose bills.

  “Now do you believe me?” he said.

  She took out a pack, riffled through it. All hundreds. She snapped one out. It was a Series 1977. In the lower right-hand corner, the Secretary of the Treasury’s signature read WERNER BLUMENTHAL.
r />   She held out the bill. Benny took it, looked at it. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Where did all that money come from?” Marta said. “Who does it belong to?”

  Crissa unzipped the other bag. It was just as full. Benny whistled softly.

  “Come on,” Crissa said. She sat on the couch, pulled the first bag closer. “Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  It took them an hour to count it. They lined the packs up on the coffee table, used rubber bands on the loose bills. Benny had pulled up a chair. Marta watched from the kitchen.

  At the bottom of the second duffel was a black velvet bag with a red drawstring. Inside was a thick necklace laced with diamonds, a matching bracelet.

  “Nice stones,” he said. “Probably worth a lot.”

  She set the bag aside. They’d divided the money into two piles, counted each separately. None of the bills was newer than 1977. A third were fifties. There were packs of twenties, but nothing smaller.

  When they were done, they compared figures. Both had the same amount: Two million, three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.

  “I don’t believe it,” Benny said.

  “We’ll count it again.”

  “How much is there?” Marta said. She’d come out of the kitchen to stand behind him.

  “A lot, baby,” he said. “A whole lot.”

  They counted it a second time, came up with the same figure. Crissa did the math. Even split down the middle, expenses off the top, it was the most she’d ever taken down in one shot. It would buy the beginnings of a future for her and Wayne. Maybe one for Maddie, too.

  Benny wiped sweat from his forehead. He was pale.

  “Are you okay?” Marta said. “You need your medicine?”

  He looked at her, not speaking, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, angel. I think I’m fine.” Then he began to laugh.

  Crissa looked at the cash, felt a weight lift from her shoulders. For a while at least, there would be no struggle, no financial stresses, no ripping and running.

  “What do we do with it?” he said.

  She looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “Do we just keep it? Like this? Should we transfer it somewhere? Get a bank in the Cayman Islands, what?”

  “You’re just thinking about that now?”

  “To be honest, I never thought we’d get to this point.”

  “If it’s as untraceable as everybody says, you’re probably safe,” she said. “You can bank some of it, open accounts, as long as you keep the deposits low. You can salt some more away in safe boxes. You’ll be surprised how quickly it goes.”

  He laughed again. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I might be able to put you in touch with someone who’ll take it all, put it into investments,” she said. “Out of state and overseas. Cents on the dollar, so you’ll take a hit. But what you get back will be clean. You won’t have to worry about it.”

  “No. I don’t think I’ll do that. I think I like it just the way it is.”

  She stood, knees and hip aching, felt the tension of the last twenty-four hours. Couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept.

  “Somebody will come looking for that money, won’t they?” Marta said.

  “Probably,” Crissa said. “Which is why you two need to decide where you’re going. Don’t hang around. If I were you, I’d think Central or South America, Costa Rica maybe.”

  Marta was staring at the bills. “Is that what all this has been about? The money?”

  “That’s what everything’s about, honey,” he said.

  “No, it’s not,” she said. She went into the bedroom, shut the door.

  “You can stay here as long as it takes you to get organized,” Crissa said. “Then you need to be gone. Safer that way.”

  “All right.”

  “We’ll do the split now. A thousand off the top for expenses. That goes to me.”

  “You have receipts?”

  She looked at him.

  “Just kidding,” he said. “A thousand is fine.”

  “And another fifty grand to Jimmy. His finder’s fee.”

  “Why so much?”

  “Because that’s how much we’re giving him. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. The rest we split down the middle, as agreed. That’s still a million and change for both of us. Be happy with that.”

  “I am, believe me. What about the jewelry?”

  “I have no idea what it’s worth,” she said. “I’d have to find out.”

  “You’d have a better chance of moving it than me. Keep it.”

  For the first time, she noticed the rust-colored spots on one of the bags. They were still wet to the touch. Blood. The woman’s or Prez’s, or both.

  “At the house,” she said, “there was a man that Taliferro called Sal. He wasn’t at the motel. You know who he is?”

  “Older guy? Scary eyes? Kind of blank?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Sal Bruno. He and Danny go back a long way. He’s a bad guy.”

  “As opposed to the others?”

  “He’s worse. He was Danny’s cleanup man. They called him ‘The Magician,’ because he made people disappear. He was the one came up with the suitcase trick. If they brought him along, they weren’t planning on leaving anybody alive.”

  “So how did they find her?”

  “Who knows? Maybe someone else knew about her, about the house. Maybe they just put two and two together, same way we did, decided to give it a shot, go talk to her.”

  “Then why go all the way out to Indiana to brace you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe he didn’t know at first. Maybe somebody she knew sold her out. A lot of people would do a lot of crazy things for a piece of that money.”

  “They already have,” she said. “Us, too.”

  * * *

  They counted out Jimmy’s money first, hundreds bound in five-thousand-dollar packs. She took twenty fifties for the expenses, then divided the rest equally, split it between the duffel bags. It came to one million, one hundred and fifty-nine thousand each.

  She’d drawn the blinds over the sliding glass door, but light still filled the room. Benny was taking individual bills from his banded packs, holding them up.

  “What are you looking for?’ she said.

  “Fugazies. Counterfeit. I wouldn’t put it past Joey, his last joke on everybody.”

  “Find any?”

  “Not yet.”

  She went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of Medoc, poured a full glass.

  “This bother you?” she said. She touched the bottle.

  “No, go ahead, enjoy. Almost wish I was still drinking, today at least. This is something worth celebrating.”

  She thought of the three people she’d seen die that night. “Not feeling that way myself.”

  “You should be. This is a once-in-a-lifetime score, the kind people like us dream about, right?”

  She took the glass into the living room, nodded at the bedroom door. “She going to be all right?”

  “She’ll be better when we’re away from here. We’ve got a stake now at least. Something that’ll last her even after I’m gone. She deserves it, all I’ve put her through.”

  She sat on the couch. “You going to get married?”

  “We’ve talked about it, but I don’t know. Sometimes I think she doesn’t know what she’s gotten into, with the age difference and the health thing. But she’ll realize it sooner or later. She’s young, she’ll want to have kids at some point. And I’m too old for that.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “No? I remember when I turned forty. I can tell you exactly what I did that night, where I went, what I drank. Twenty-two years ago, but it feels like yesterday. Twenty-two years from now, though, I’ll be eighty-four, if I make it that long. You get to be my age, the math works against you.”

  “You’re no d
ifferent from anybody else.” She drank wine.

  “And there’s this heart thing, too. It’s been okay for a while. I take my meds, watch my blood pressure and all that. But that could change tomorrow. I don’t know how much time I have left.”

  “Who does?” she said.

  He put the money back in the duffel, zipped it up. “What about your daughter? You going to try to fix that situation?”

  “I will. Someday.”

  “And there’s a man somewhere, I’d guess. Maybe that little girl’s father.”

  “There’s a man, but not her father.”

  “Someone you have a future with, though.”

  “I hope so.”

  “There you go,” he said. “What else can you ask for? Sometimes God hands you gifts, and you have to hold on to them with everything you’ve got, or lose them forever. It took me a long time to learn that.”

  He stood. “But enough preaching. I’m wiped out. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

  He looked down at the bag.

  “Take it in with you, if it’ll make you feel better,” she said. “I won’t be offended.”

  He exhaled, then shook his head. “I guess it’s safe out here. If you wanted the whole thing, I never would have gotten back here alive anyway, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Try to get some sleep yourself. You look like you could use it.” He went into the bedroom, closed the door softly behind him.

  She brought the bottle in from the kitchen, refilled the glass, went to the radio and turned it on low. It was still set to QXR. Something calming and quiet she didn’t recognize. Mozart maybe. Brahms.

  She sat back on the couch, drank wine, looked at the bedroom door. This is your celebration, she thought. Drinking alone. Remembering the faces of a man and woman seconds before their lives ended, their blood on the bag at your feet. There wasn’t enough wine in the bottle to block that out. There wasn’t enough wine in the world.

  She stretched out on the couch, too tired to get a pillow or blanket from the closet. She pulled her duffel bag closer, set the Glock atop it, in easy reach.

  She drank wine, looked up at the ceiling, letting the music take her. She closed her eyes.

  NINETEEN