“Everybody has more money than God,” Tony’d said once at the poker table, where he sat in with the guys going on and the guys coming off while he waited for his call. He lifted his glasses theatrically and squinted at his cards, like they might look different that way. “God don’t need money. He just points a finger at you. Zap! You’re rich. Or you’re toast.”
Today was pretty much the same as always. Tony played okay. He wasn’t a hustler at the poker table, mostly playing the cards he had, bluffing just often enough so they’d know he sometimes bluffed, so he could sucker them in when he did have cards. Some days he came out ahead, some days behind. It was like anything.
None of the other rich guys’ drivers were there today, though, so Tony got all the rich-guy ribbing. Happened like that sometimes.
“HEY, TONY, WHAT’S with your boss? I hear he flies kites on his roof; the guy don’t have nothing to do?”
“That so? Then I was you, I’d invest in kites.” Tony swept in the pot he’d won.
“Hey, Tony, Derring really dating Joy Jones, that actress? Papers keep seeing her going up to the penthouse.”
“How would I know? You ever see me going up to the penthouse?”
“You’d think he could get himself some hot young broad. Jones has gotta be forty.”
“And she’s got, what, three Oscars? Maybe he don’t like ’em young and stupid. You in or out?”
“Hey, Tony, what the hell you mean, you’re folding? You work for the richest guy in America.”
“Yeah, well, funny, he don’t let me play with his money.”
“What do he let you play with?”
With a satisfied grin, Tony nodded at the Lexus. “Lots of his other toys.”
CLOSE TO TWO hours after Tony arrived—he was up about forty dollars—the dispatcher wandered back to the poker table. “Any you jokers want lunch?”
“Pizza.”
“Curry.”
“Chinese.”
They argued, agreed, threw their money in. The dispatcher went back to the booth to make the call. Usually he didn’t come back again until the food arrived, but today he did.
“Tony? Someone wants you up front.”
Tony looked around the table. None of the other guys had any light to shed. “What the—Okay, these suck anyhow.” He threw in his hand. “Keep your paws off,” he said, pointing to the pile of chips at his chair. Not the biggest pile on the table but probably second. Three of the guys made as if to reach for them. Tony snorted and walked away.
No one was waiting at the booth, but a skinny guy in a leather jacket stood in the shadows at the top of the ramp. Tony strolled up to meet him. “This better be important, pal, because I got a hot streak going.”
“It’s important.” The guy was young, pale, with a nasty grin.
“I’m waiting.”
“Andy Traynor. From Scoop.”
Without a word, Tony turned and walked back down the ramp.
“I wouldn’t,” Traynor called after him.
“I don’t give a shit what you wouldn’t.”
“It’s not about your boss.”
Tony turned back. “What?” he said sardonically. “It’s about me? You guys at Scoop so out of ideas you gonna run a profile on Ray Derring’s driver? Buzz off, kid.”
“It’s not about Derring’s driver. But it’s not about your boss.”
“What the—”
“Ray Derring,” Traynor said, “will be pissed off if you don’t hear me out.”
“I doubt it.”
“I guarantee it.”
Tony gave him a long look, then a grin. “Okay, kid. Twenty bucks says whatever you got to say, Derring won’t give a shit.”
“There’s a lot more money involved than that. But if that’s what it takes to get you to listen, you’re on.” Traynor pulled a twenty from his wallet, waved it in the air.
Tony walked back up the ramp. “Go ahead.”
“Good move.”
The kid’s smarmy grin almost spun Tony around again, but instead he looked at his watch and folded his arms.
“It’s not about Derring’s driver and it’s not about your boss, because nobody gives a damn about Derring’s driver and you’re the boss.”
“You wanna say it in English?”
“It’ll be faster if you don’t bullshit, but okay. You’re Ray Derring. The disguise is good, the glasses and all, the brown contacts. And the accent, the stoop, the whole posture thing. You learned all that from Joy Jones, right? You’re not sleeping with her, you’re taking acting lessons. Or maybe you are sleeping with her. I couldn’t care less. The point is, I could write it up for Scoop, or you could give me five hundred thousand dollars. One way, all your friends here, and wherever else you go to be just a regular Joe, they all hate you; the rest of the world laughs at you; and your game’s over. The other way, you don’t even miss it.”
Tony stared, then busted out laughing. “Kid, you’re fucking nuts!”
Traynor, with the creepy smile, pulled out his phone. He showed Tony photos: the car pulling out, two figures behind the dark glass. Interesting but meaningless. But the photos kept going: a guy getting out of the shotgun seat at an Irish bar uptown or with a fishing rod at the north end of Central Park. Tony with a couple of the other rich guys’ drivers at a Knicks game, way up in the nosebleed seats. And then a couple of photos of bottles and cans.
“What the fuck?”
“Picked them up here and there, where you went, where he went,” Traynor said casually. “I had them tested for DNA. He’s Tony Aletto. You’re Ray Derring.”
“This is bullshit.”
“No. This is my meal ticket. I’ve been following you for months, racking this stuff up. Wouldn’t stand up in court, you were arrested for something, but it’s enough to spoil your game and get all your little friends mad at you. Look, Derring, I don’t know what the fuck is in your head, but you obviously get off on hanging with the common man and who am I to spoil your fun? Unless you make me.”
Tony started to say something, stopped. After a long moment, in another voice, he said, “You’re a cocksucker.”
“I know. That doesn’t solve your problem.”
“All right. Suppose I pay you off. What am I buying?”
“The photos. The DNA tests. The whole thing, it’s all here on the phone. You can buy the phone.”
“I’ll smash it.”
“You buy it, it’s yours; do what you want.”
“And then you’re back next week with the backups. And the week after and the next week, too.”
“Jesus Christ, you think I’m crazy? This is my one shot. You pay me, I disappear. Guy like you, obviously you could come after me if you wanted to. My goal is to make paying me off less trouble than anything else. Why do you think I only asked for half a mil?”
That grin again. Tony almost punched him, but Ray nodded. “I assume you want cash?”
“Damn right. Mixed bills, nothing bigger than a hundred. That just about fits in a briefcase.”
“You have it all worked out, don’t you, kid? Okay. The park on the west side by the river. Tonight at 2 a.m., second pier south.”
Traynor shook his head. “Awfully deserted and dark down there.”
“Fuck is the matter with you? You think Ray Derring’s going to hand a briefcase to a jerk-off at high noon in Starbucks? How about the middle of Times Square, that make you happy?”
“Come in disguise. Use your acting lessons.”
“Kid,” he said with exaggerated patience, “I got to be who I am by knowing exactly what I can do. Of course I’m going to come disguised, but it would be too big a risk, taking this act out in public. I’m not that good.”
“Well, doesn’t have to be you. Send someone. The real Tony how about?”
“I see that grin one more time, I’m gonna slam it down your fucking throat. Anyone I sent would wonder what’s going on, and even if you don’t tell them, which I doubt you could manage because you’re s
o fucking proud of yourself, even if, they’ll know someone got one over on Ray Derring. Then it would never end. You’re the one who said you want paying your ass off to be less trouble than anything else. Only one way that’ll be true. The pier at two, or I’ll take my chances. And you can take yours.”
Traynor went gratifyingly pale. A brief silence, then bravado: “You got it.”
“Bring the phone. And make sure you don’t use it between now and then.”
Traynor raised the phone, wagged it, and risked the grin. “No worries.”
Ray Derring nodded. He turned around, walked out of the shadows and down the ramp, and with a “Which one of you assholes stole my money in the meantime?” Tony Aletto returned to the poker table.
DESERTED AND DARK down here, that was the truth. Ray stood in the shadows by the railing. He was early. He was always early, even though he’d been told and told he was too important to let other people keep him waiting. He wasn’t interested in playing those games.
He played other games.
Here came Traynor. He was early, too, though probably not, like Ray, to get the lay of the land. Quick steps, hands in pockets, head swiveling—he was early because he couldn’t wait to get his hands on his half mil and outta here.
Outta here for sure.
Ray considered springing out screaming to see if the guy would poop his pants, but why add complications? In a soft voice, he said, “Kid. Over here.”
Traynor jerked around, then relaxed when he saw Ray. His nasty grin lit up the night. “Good disguise. You look just like Ray Derring in Harley gear.”
“Give me the fucking phone.”
“Give me the fucking money.”
The compromise: Traynor held the phone, screen lit to show one of the garage photos, while Ray, his leather-gloved hands gripping the briefcase, opened it to show Traynor the money. Traynor pawed through, picking up a couple of stacks and riffling them with his thumb as though he’d know real bills from phonies. When he nodded, Ray released the briefcase and Traynor handed over the phone. Ray dropped it and, staring into Traynor’s eyes, stomped it under his Doc Marten. Traynor shrugged and turned. He walked away.
Ray gave him two steps, then took a silent stride forward, yanked Traynor off balance, and slammed a six-inch hunting knife into his liver.
“What the—fuck! You son of a—!” Ray, holding Traynor hard, snaked the knife around to make sure the cut wasn’t so clean the blood would start clotting. Traynor was still howling when Ray tumbled him over the railing into the river. Ray wasn’t worried. Lacerated liver, internal bleeding, icy water—the kid wasn’t coming back. He heard him splashing around for a time, but not a long time, while he took off his own new, street fair, cash-bought leather jacket and tossed that into the river, too. From the phone debris, he carefully picked out the memory card and held it over the flame from a Bic, melting it into uselessness before he chucked that in along with the rest of the plastic shards. Using the Bic was probably overkill, but he hadn’t gotten to be Ray Derring by neglecting details.
Did Traynor think he was stupid? That he’d believe it would be only this one payoff, that a call wouldn’t come in six months from Cancún, from Ibiza, from Bali? And another, six months after that?
And how stupid, for that matter, was Traynor? He really believed keeping his mouth shut about Ray’s masquerades was worth half a million dollars?
Ray leaned over to pick up the briefcase. If Traynor’s death spasm had frozen his hand to it, Ray had been prepared to part with that, too, but the asshole had dropped it. Ray swung it, grinning, as he strode along the empty pier and back to the Lexus. He knew for a fact it was a better grin than the kid’s.
RAY PARKED THE Lexus, rode up in the private elevator, slipped into the skybox apartment. Well, slipped. He was the boss. He hadn’t told the security guys he was going out, hadn’t told Tony he was taking the car, but he didn’t have to, did he? He put the money back in the second safe, the one even Belinda didn’t know about. He’d have to get rid of the briefcase tomorrow. Not that he was worried about the kid’s prints being on it. He’d wiped it down with a damp cloth, just being belt-and-suspenders. But it was anomalous, Ray Derring with a bulky briefcase, and the cleaning people or Belinda or someone might see it sometime. If they did they might not care, but he didn’t like to leave even tiny details hanging. He hadn’t thought about the briefcase and he should have and he did now, considering ways to dispose of it.
As he undressed to shower, he discovered a couple of spots of the kid’s blood on his jeans. Damn. Not a problem: he’d rinse the jeans out now, let them dry overnight, then toss them in the laundry. But it shouldn’t have happened. Maybe he shouldn’t have wiggled the knife. But then how to make sure the wound was messy? A serrated knife? That might have worked better.
Ray showered, slept, woke when the sun snuck in past the blinds and jabbed him in the eye. He rolled over, yawned, and stretched. After he did all his morning bathroom stuff, the stuff any tabloid parasite would have creamed to have photos of, he tapped the screen and told the kitchen people to send him a pot of coffee. It arrived as he finished dressing. He took it out on the terrace, where he sat surveying the city and going over last night.
It was all good in all the large parts. He couldn’t find any flaws here in the light of a beautiful day, except for the briefcase, and the jeans, which implied a problem with either the knife or his technique. It was also possible, on reflection, that he’d parked too far away; even that late, he might have been seen walking with the briefcase. Not very likely, but possible.
Drinking coffee that had been not only blended and roasted to his specs, but shade-grown to his standards on a Costa Rican estate he’d bought, he thought for a while. Not too long, because when decisions were obvious, why belabor them? He tapped the touch pad in the table side console.
“Yes, Ray?”
“Belinda? What’s on for today?”
She told him, with an unspoken warning in her voice: Don’t make me rearrange again. He could, of course, and of course she would, but he was feeling pretty laid-back. Why not? So sure, he’d meet today’s people, listen to their proposals and ideas, most of which were likely to be stupid; he’d get reports from his own people on things he’d set in motion himself, which were not stupid and didn’t need him to oversee them. “Okay, fine,” he said and smiled as he sensed Belinda’s relief. “And listen. Tell Amy: all those pain-in-the-ass reporters? Tell me which one’s the biggest pain. The most obnoxious. Don’t, for God’s sake, send him up or anything. Just his name.”
“That would have to be Traynor from Scoop.”
“No, not him,” Ray said. “The second-biggest pain, then.”
Belinda clicked off to go check with Amy, and Ray finished his coffee, got ready to go downstairs for his first meeting of the day. Amy would tell Belinda, Belinda would tell him, and there he’d be. Iterations, refining. Better and better each time, each bug that was removed revealing new ones. Then those removed, too, until all the bugs were gone, and the system was perfect.
RICHIE AND THE RICH BITCH
BY JONATHAN SANTLOFER
The first time I work for Marcos he has me steal this painting from a private home—snazzy place out in East Hampton. I don’t know how he got to me and I don’t want to brag, but long before I met Marcos, I had a reputation as an independent operator who could get anything in and out of anywhere, and he came to me, not the other way around. Anyways, Marcos gives me the address and describes the painting and says he don’t need to know the details of how I’m gonna get it, just says he doesn’t want anyone to get hurt.
So I go and watch the house. I learn the guy’s routine. He’s a bachelor, older guy, gray hair, distinguished, maybe a widower or something. I don’t know, don’t really care, but for three, four days I watch his house—not so easy—but I got a talent for being invisible. I keep a log of every move he makes—when he goes in, out, where he goes. Then I do a little test. I put on my workman’s
uniform, go up and knock on the door, say I gotta check the gas meter. The maid lets me in and I get a chance to look around, and there it is, the piece of art Marcos wants me to steal, about the size of a notebook, of the American flag painted in mushy gray, looks to me like finger painting. Stupid, I think, and wonder why this one and not the others because there’s art everywhere—on the walls, floor, even hanging from the ceiling. But I don’t think about it too much, because more important, the alarm system is in the basement right next to the gas meter (often the case), and convenient. I see it’s turned off, so I figure the guy only turns it on when no one’s in the house, logical. I know he runs on the beach every morning from 6 to 7 a.m., and the maid—I also know from watching the house—doesn’t come in till 8 a.m., and I’m wondering if he bothers to set the alarm when he goes for his run. So I wait till the next morning. I see him leave the house in his running gear with one of those little heart things strapped around his chest, like maybe he has a problem, though he looks pretty fit for a guy his age, fifty or so, and better than me, even though I’m ten years younger, but I’m not the exercising kind. I wait till he disappears over the dunes; then I creep around to the back of his house, which is huge, sixteen, seventeen rooms with an ocean view like out of a magazine, and there’s big glass doors and one’s not locked so I slide it open an inch then go back to my van that says “LILCO” on it—that’s Long Island Lighting Company, which I had hand painted to look just like the real LILCO vans. An expense, but every job has expenses. Now I wait to see if the cops are gonna show, but they don’t, so I know the alarm was off. Not only that, but the guy doesn’t even bother to lock the fucking door.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead Page 29
