The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1)

by Lisa Henry

  “Why the hell didn’t you notice when you went in?” Mac demanded.

  “The FBI is launching a state-of-the-art biometrics identification system. I assumed you had toilet paper.”

  For the love of fuck. He should have been wrapping up Henry’s interview by now. Val was going to chew him into subatomic particles.

  “Agent McGuinness?” Henry sounded tentative.

  “Hold on!” Mac went to the door. He opened it and leaned out. Spotted another agent on his way to his cubicle. “Hey, Dwayne?”

  “Yeah?”

  “TP shortage.” He tried to keep his tone as businesslike as possible. “Little help?”

  Dwayne looked him up and down, then glanced from side to side, as though checking to see if anyone was watching. “Uh, yeah. Hold on.”

  Mac let the door fall shut.

  “Sorry, Agent McGuinness.” Henry’s voice was muffled from the stall. “I know you really want to be interviewing me.”

  “Shut up.”

  Dwayne knocked a few minutes later and gave him two rolls of toilet paper. He thanked him and passed one of the rolls under the stall door to Henry. He placed the other one in the second stall.

  “Thanks,” Henry said.

  Mac didn’t answer.

  After several more long minutes, Henry flushed, exited the stall, and washed his hands. He followed Mac to the interview room. Mac even uncuffed him to make him feel less like a prisoner and more like a witness.

  They were five minutes into Henry’s interview—five minutes Henry had spent giving them useless information about Gloria Maxfield’s smoothie machine—when he smelled shit again. A second later, Calvin knocked on the door, then opened it.

  Mac turned off the recorder. “What?”

  Calvin had a hand over his nose. “There’s backflow in the men’s room. There’s flooding, and there’s—there’s bad stuff. We have to evacuate.”

  “For fuck’s sake! I’m in the middle of an interview.”

  “Security says the, uh, fecal matter presents a serious health hazard.”

  Mac closed his eyes. Please, please don’t let that sentence end up in a report.

  “We gotta go, Mac,” Calvin urged.

  Mac thought he deserved some recognition for how calmly he walked over to Henry and said, “Get up.”

  Henry stood, hands pressed to his nose. “Boy, that is potent, isn’t it?”

  “Hands out.”

  Mac cuffed his hands in front of him, took him by the shoulder and steered him out of the room.

  The office was crowded with people heading for the door, all with their hands over their noses. The elevator alcove was packed, so he followed a group to the stairwell.

  “Wow,” Henry said as they hurried side by side down the stairs. “Maybe that’s why there was no toilet paper. Maybe whoever was in there before me used a whole roll and clogged the—”

  Mac turned suddenly and drew his fist back, knocking Henry’s glasses askew with his elbow as he did.

  Henry blinked rapidly.

  Shit. Had to learn to control his temper. Val would have his head if she could see him now. He unfurled his fist and jabbed a finger at Henry instead. “When I figure out what you did,” he said, his voice low, “I will make you chew and swallow those fucking fake eyeglasses. Then I’ll break both of your scrawny legs so you can’t run, stick a bow on you, and deliver you to Dean Maxfield’s doorstep personally.” He yanked Henry in front of him and gave him a shove. “Now move.”

  Outside there was chaos. Nothing got a group of federal agents excited like a shit flood, apparently.

  “You don’t leave my side.” Mac dug his fingers into Henry’s arm. A fire truck was pulling in. What the hell was the fire department planning to do? Hose the shit up the wall and out the bathroom window?

  “Mac!” He turned to see Dwayne coming toward him, holding out a white surgical mask. “I don’t know what you did in there, man, but it’s a mess.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Naw, it’s all right. Fire department says if we wear masks, we can go in and get stuff we need.”

  He took a mask. If he could grab the recorder from the interview room, maybe he and Henry could finish the interview somewhere else.

  They squeezed past Jeff and Alex, then came to a sudden halt. Dennis was throwing up on the sidewalk. Mac stepped back, letting go of Henry’s arm as he collided with Jeff.

  “Whoa,” Jeff said.

  Mac looked down. One of his shoes was splattered with vomit.

  “Sorry,” Dennis panted. “I have a . . . sensitive . . . stomach. And that smell . . .”

  “Oh Christ.” Mac grabbed Henry’s arm again and shoved him at Jeff. “Hold on to him a minute, Jeff.” He kneeled to wipe his shoe with his mask.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dennis said again.

  “Never mind.” Mac straightened. “Where’s Val?”

  “Uh, Mac?” said a voice behind him.

  Mac turned. Jeff was tentatively gripping Alex’s arm. “Why do you want me to hold him?” Jeff asked.

  Mac looked back and forth between the two of them, his mouth open, but no words coming out. The person he’d grabbed and thrust at Jeff was Alex, not Henry.

  Henry was gone.

  Henry wasn’t sure what he’d do if he got to the visitor’s lot and Stacy wasn’t there. But then he saw her Buick, wedged between a pickup and a little silver Chevy just like the one he had test-driven. The Buick had been painted more times than he could count, and the license plates changed regularly. But Stacy wouldn’t consider driving anything else.

  “Hey, chico,” she said as he climbed into the backseat well, his cuffs jingling.

  “Hey yourself.”

  She didn’t sound as pissed as she had on the phone, at least. She kept one tattooed arm propped on the back of her seat as she looked over her shoulder and reversed out of the parking spot. She showed her ticket to the guard. A moment later the gate lifted, and they were on the road.

  He climbed over the console and slid into the passenger seat. Fairly gracefully, he thought, considering his limited range of arm movement. “Amazin’ Glazin’ Cakes and More? Really?”

  “I didn’t recognize your number. What happened to your glasses? Someone try to take your lunch money?”

  He removed his glasses and examined the bent frames. “They’ll be all right.” He put them back on and fastened his seat belt. “Wasn’t sure you’d show.”

  “’Course I showed.”

  “I just remember you saying no more big-time bailouts.”

  She signaled left and took a side street. “Getting you out of Leavenworth would be a big-time bailout. This is . . . a favor. I owed you one.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, well. Now you owe me a phone.”

  “Aw, come on. You love throwing burners in the river.”

  “I fed this one to Doorbell.”

  He turned sharply. “Tell me you weren’t at the Court when you answered.” He’d called from the FBI’s fucking phone, which meant they’d have a record of the number he’d dialed. They wouldn’t be able to figure out who owned the phone he’d called, but they might be able to peg the cell tower Stacy had been closest to when she’d answered.

  “Nah. I was in the square. I just got my nails done. Look.” She showed him her seafoam polish.

  “Nice.” Henry settled back. Tried to relax and reacquaint himself with fresh air. “I didn’t make it to Richmond.”

  “No shit. I checked in last night and my girls told me they hadn’t heard from you. I was worried.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I look after myself pretty well.”

  “I remember an eighteen-year-old Littlest Con Artist in the Midwest who needed his neck saved on more than one occasion.”

  He rolled his eyes. Sometimes Stacy was like a grandma who remembered every embarrassing story about you. Fifty-six and tattooed all over, she was probably the closest thing he had to a best frien
d. Which would have been sad, except she was cooler than anyone his own age. And smarter. “I’m all grown up now, aren’t I?”

  “Hardly. What was that disaster back there? Don’t tell me you pulled the fire alarm?”

  “Backed up a toilet in the men’s room.”

  Stacy wrinkled her nose. “Boys love to get their hands dirty. Where am I taking you? The Court?”

  Shit, that sounded nice. Go somewhere familiar. See the old gang. Talk to Remy. Years ago, someone had nicknamed Stacy’s place the Court of Miracles, since apparently Henry wasn’t the only con artist in Indianapolis to appreciate a good literary reference. It had become the hangout spot for their band of small-time criminals. He wouldn’t have called them all friends, exactly. But they looked out for one another.

  Stacy lived in a basement apartment accessible via a discreet side door. The neighbors had a fenced backyard and a pit bull the gang called Doorbell. For some reason, the dog loved Stacy and anyone she brought around. But at the first sign of someone unrelated to Stacy, Doorbell would start barking furiously. It was a convenient alert system.

  “Can’t risk the feds tracking me there,” he said. “Dump me at the shittiest motel we can find.”

  Stacy pulled onto the interstate. “So tell me what happened.”

  He filled her in on the incident with Dean Maxfield.

  “You gave up a shot at witness protection to flood the FBI’s bathroom and run away?”

  “Oh, come on. Like you would’ve stayed.”

  Stacy didn’t answer.

  He rubbed at a smear on the Buick’s window. “They’re not gonna protect me. And I can’t go into hiding. How the fuck would I be any use to anyone if I was stuck under the feds’ thumb?”

  “Least I’d have one less chicken to worry about.”

  “You like worrying about us. We’re the kids you never had.”

  “Or wanted.”

  “Or wanted.” He was silent a moment, watching the sun dip lower over the acres of flat farmland. Okay, there wasn’t much you could do to romanticize Indiana. But Henry had been a lot of places, and flat farmland felt as close to a home as he was gonna get.

  He used to tell his mother he wanted to live on a farm. Just to get under her skin, since she wanted to move to New York City, where she could get more acting work. He’d never known if he’d meant it or not. He hadn’t ever been able to imagine settling anywhere. That was what had seemed so glamorous about the idea of being an actor. Hooking up with a touring company and going everywhere, all expenses paid. Each night a new town. Another stage.

  Stacy pulled off at an exit near Plainfield to scope out a place called the Man Inn the Moon—two stained-brick stories with spidery, fire escape–style stairs and a leering moon on the sign. “This what you had in mind?”

  “Everything I dreamed and more.” Henry paused. “I don’t have much cash right now, because the shooting happened before Gloria could give me my check.”

  Stacy wordlessly took a roll of fifties from the console and handed it to him.

  “Thanks. Um . . .” He looked at her hopefully and jingled his cuffs.

  She sighed. “Glove compartment.”

  He opened it. Beamed as he removed a set of picks disguised to look like a glasses case. He handed them to her. “How would I survive without you?”

  “You wouldn’t.” She had the cuffs off in under a minute.

  He hesitated. “You think Rem would come out here and help me with a disguise?”

  She fumbled lighting her cigarette. Took a drag and exhaled. “I think Remy would do anything you asked him to.” It was hard to figure out what her tone meant. Definitely disapproving, he decided.

  “Don’t say it like that. He’s good with disguises.”

  “Jo’s good with disguises.”

  “Jo won’t wanna come out here.”

  “You ask Remy, then. I’m not your middlewoman.”

  The front seat filled with smoke, and Stacy finally opened the window.

  “The suits confiscated my phone. I need his number.”

  Stacy checked her contacts and scribbled Remy’s number on a piece of paper. “I’ll get you a phone. Gimme a day or so.”

  “I said the FBI confiscated my phone. I didn’t say I didn’t have a phone.”

  “Okay,” Stacy said as he got out of the car. “Then I expect you to keep in touch. Let me know where you are. Or if you need me to set up a place for you.”

  He leaned back into the car. “Thanks, Stace.”

  She scowled around her cigarette, then plucked it from her lips and blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “You’re welcome.”

  He shut the door.

  She rattled out of the gravel parking lot and took off down the road, leaving Henry alone.

  A new town. Another stage.

  “Anyone want to tell me how the hell this happened?” Mac demanded. They were holding an impromptu meeting in an auxiliary building. Mac swore he could still smell shit from across the street, mixed with the scent of stale coffee from the machine in the corner of the room. “Want to tell me how Henry Page would have gotten off the premises without help? Or how he might have gotten help?”

  Jeff and Lina had been exchanging glances for the last few minutes.

  “Something you want to share?” Mac leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table.

  Lina looked pointedly at Jeff, who sighed and said, “I let Henry make a call.”

  Mac’s eyebrows shot up. Maybe this wasn’t all his fault after all. Maybe there was another person in this room even stupider than he was. “Why would you do that, Jeff?”

  “He needed to call his mother.”

  Mac rubbed his head. “Let me make sure I’m hearing this correctly. Uh, Henry wanted to call his mother. So you . . . you let him use your phone to do so. That sound right?”

  Jeff cleared his throat quietly. “Yeah.”

  Mac studied Jeff’s earnest face. All right. So the wheel was spinning, but the hamster was dead. But this wasn’t necessarily a complete disaster. “What did he say to his ‘mother’?”

  “Um . . .” Jeff shifted. “It was her birthday. He said he wouldn’t be able to make it. He said, like, ‘Hi, Mom. Sorry I’ll miss your birthday.’”

  “What?” Calvin asked with exaggerated confusion. Calvin really liked to see Jeff fail. It was a pissing contest that had been going on for nearly two years now, and Mac couldn’t wait until one or the other ran dry.

  “Well, he told me afterward that his mom and her friends were gonna have drinks and see a show at the Belle. It was her fiftieth. I remember that.”

  Mac stared at Jeff. “The Belle is no longer in operation. The Belle is condemned, and it’s going to be torn down in a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sounds like you and Henry both need to start reading the Around Town section of the Star. What exactly did he say?”

  Mac listened to Jeff recount what he remembered of the conversation. Stopped when Jeff quoted, “‘Fiftieth birthday. I . . .’” and trailed off in an imitation of Henry.

  Mac shook his head. “There. So he told someone he was in FBI custody. One of you—I don’t care who—can talk to the gate guard and get a list of everyone who came onto the premises today. Someone else will pull the phone record. Look at who he called.”

  “The fire department won’t let us back in the office,” Jeff said.

  Mac stared around the room. “Everyone know the game Rock, Paper, Scissors?”

  Wary nods.

  Mac straightened. “I want to teach you a version called Donut, Siren, Bureau. Okay?” He made a fist. “This? Represents the Bureau.” He twirled one finger in the air. “Wee-oo, wee-oo. This is siren. Represents the fire department.” He formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “And this is donut. It’s the local PD.” He turned to Jeff. “Now, Agent Cavill, on the count of three, I’d like you to make the donut. Hold out your hand; don’t be shy. Just like Rock, Paper, Scissors.”
/>   Jeff tentatively put his fist next to Mac’s as Mac counted.

  “One, two, three—” Jeff made the donut. Mac kept his hand in a fist. “Look at that.” He struck Jeff’s donut with his fist. “Bureau crushes donut. Now this time, Jeff, make the siren.” Jeff closed his eyes briefly, but did as he was told on Mac’s three count. “Uh-oh, Jeff.” Mac used his fist to knock down Jeff’s siren. “Looks like Bureau crushes siren too. So if Bureau wants something from siren, Bureau tells siren to get the fuck out of the way. Are we clear?” He braced his hands on the table again. “Wade through shit if you have to, but find the number Henry dialed and figure out what tower was used to receive his call. That gonna be a problem?”

  Jeff’s mouth worked. “There’s—uh—one more thing.”

  Mac leaned forward, his voice deadly. “What do you mean?”

  “My cell’s gone. I don’t know if Henry . . . He was admiring it earlier. Maybe when you guys squeezed past me in the parking lot . . .”

  Mac expelled a long, slow breath. He’d spent weeks trying to eliminate coffee, sugar, and alcohol from his diet, trying to exercise more, trying to meditate—and he was still going to die early of a stress aneurysm. Might as well treat himself to a whole fucking box of donuts. “If we get Henry back and get him to tell us what he saw, we stand a chance of arresting Maxfield again—presuming he hasn’t fled the country.” Mac took his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on.

  “Mac?” Calvin asked.

  “I’m going for a run. My doctor’s been encouraging me to run every day. I haven’t done it because I’ve had a lot on my plate. But today, I think I’ll give it a shot.” He tugged his sleeves down. “I want someone to trace Jeff’s phone, in case Henry does have it. I want the teams currently sweeping the area to continue sweeping—though fat lot of good it’ll do, I’m sure. Someone else can track the number Henry dialed.” He yanked the front of his jacket straight. “I’ll keep my phone on me. Call me the second we have a lead. Got it?”

  “Uh, where will you be running?” Lina asked. “In case we—”