Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “Greg will want us to help somehow—to do something—but I don’t know what it’ll be.”

  “No, he won’t,” Lacey said. “At the Grand Bahama airport, he just about had kittens when, you, unarmed, chased Larry Rubens, who had a gun, down the taxiway. He won’t let us get anywhere near those two, and that’s Jake with me.”

  “‘That’s Jake with me’? What are you, a throwback to the fifties? Listen, Lacey, I have an idea. The bike path next to the café only goes so far. I doubt BJ and Amiti were out for a stroll, so they had to be on their way to a place between the café and the end of Giselakai. What’s up there? Do you have any idea?”

  Lacey shook her head. She didn’t know the area any better than he did.

  “Me neither,” Wainwright said. “But we can find out faster than the Sacramento FBI office can. And we should do that while we’re waiting for Greg or Stacy to call back. We could have a lead for Greg by the time he calls. What say you, partner?”

  “I say, how did I fall for a madman with a death wish? BJ and Amiti are killers. He murdered four of your business partners, plus that working girl in Chicago. Your former girlfriend helped Amiti escape from jail. Then they disappeared off the face of the earth for four years. These aren’t nice people, and you want to interrupt our honeymoon to chase after killers? You’re a lunatic!”

  “Do you have a better use for our time while we wait for the FBI to swing into action?”

  Lacey crossed her arms over her chest and blew hair from her eyes with a sideways puff. Her eyes rolled up and to the right, toward the bedroom behind her. “Cute, Wainwright, but what I meant was, it isn’t worth the risk just to have a lead for Greg by the time he calls.”

  “That’s what I told you a few minutes ago. What? Are you at a loss for original statements? Bad sign for a litigator, Lacey. If you’re going to plagiarize my lines, I want a screenwriter’s credit and a big stack of dough. —Have your people call my people!”

  Lacey stood, acceptance of the inevitable overcoming her. With her hands resting on her hips, she looked at Wainwright. “Need any help getting to the front door, old man?”

  They left the hotel and set out for Café Amadeus.

  THE COUPLE ON THE SIDEWALK of Old Town Salzburg walked fast. Lacey took Wainwright’s hand. She liked holding it; it made her feel safe and secure. His hands weren’t overly large, as men’s hands go, but they were always warm and firm.

  “You don’t think BJ and Amiti are here because we are, do you? I mean, like, stalking us?” she said.

  “How could they know we’re here? We didn’t even decide on Austria until a week before the wedding, and we told very few people where we planned to go. No, baby, it’s just a coincidence we’re in the same city at the same time. They disappeared from the Bahamas after BJ broke Amiti out of jail while we were at the airport, and somehow they ended up here.”

  When Lacey and Wainwright reached Café Amadeus, the patio had filled since Wainwright had left earlier. He moved to the patio railing, and with one hand on the top rail, he vaulted over. A few diners sitting nearby gave him polite applause. He turned to help Lacey cross the barrier, and then they set out to track down the fugitives on the Giselakai.

  Neither of them had been on this path before. They didn’t know the length or exactly where it would lead. As they followed the Giselakai, as well as the river on their left, Wainwright studied the properties for a clue to where the fugitives might have been going. The businesses along the Giselakai all seemed to be hotels and restaurants. If they’re hiding in a private home, Wainwright thought, there’s no way we’ll find them.

  Lacey nudged him and pointed. “Let’s check out this place, the Monkey Bar. Maybe they went in there for lunch.”

  “I don’t think so. BJ wouldn’t be sitting around swilling beer dressed as a nun. Let’s keep moving, okay?” Since BJ was dressed as a nun, they could be holed up in a church, he thought.

  Lacey called their hotel from a phone booth. “Stacy left a message for us with the front desk,” she told Wainwright after she hung up. “She gave our room number to Greg, and he’ll call soon. We should grab something to eat. There must be a restaurant around the Mozartplatz Square.”

  They had passed a dozen buildings before a larger structure came into view. The sign identified the building as the Hotel Stein. Lacey and Wainwright entered to find the fugitives or a menu.

  Smiling, Wainwright approached the desk clerk. “Guten tag. Kann ich Ihnen eine frag stellen? (Good day. May I ask you a question?)” The woman nodded. “Kamen in den letzten Stunden eine katholische Schwester ins Hotel? (Did a Catholic sister come into the hotel in the last few hours?)”

  The clerk smiled at the awkward German but clearly appreciated Wainwright’s effort with her language. She shook her head. “Nain, tut mir leid (No, I’m sorry).”

  “Vielen dank (Thank you very much).”

  He turned and found Lacey in the bar. “Anybody you know in here?”

  “No, but then I don’t speak like a native. For a guy who thinks there’s a Brazilian language, you Sprechen sehr gut Deutsch.”

  “Thank Grandma Steinhauser for that. She wasn’t my actual grandmother, but neither of us would ever admit that. She was Mrs. Baker’s mother. Grandma Steinhauser made me learn German as a kid when I lived with the Bakers. Some of it stuck, I guess. How about an imbiss von bier und wurst?”

  Lacey cocked an eyebrow. “Did you just make an erotic proposal, you beast?”

  “Don’t play hard to get with me, babe. My rings on your finger.” Wainwright laughed. “Actually, I was asking you to join me for a beer and a snack.”

  “Now I’m disappointed. Beer and a snack, huh? That’s all?” Lacey grinned. “Okay, I think we burned off our lunch at Krimpelstätter with the adrenaline rush, so whatever you’re having works for me. We should fortify ourselves before speaking with the Bundespolizei. That could be a long, drawn-out conversation.”

  “It might be prudent to speak with Greg before we talk to the police here. Let’s wait on that.”

  They took a table in the bar near a window overlooking the bike path. Wainwright ordered sourdough and sausages with a pint of the local brew for each of them. He smiled as his beautiful wife got up to use the pay phone to check for messages. The desk clerk told her she had received an international call five minutes ago. It was Assistant Supervising Agent in Charge Greg Mulholland of the FBI. Lacey dialed her calling card number, then Greg’s direct line, and waved Wainwright over.

  “Hi, Greg. Thanks for following up. I’ll put Garth on so you can get the information firsthand.” She handed the handset to Wainwright. “Here, honey.”

  Covering the mouthpiece with his palm, he whispered to Lacey, “Very lawyerly.” Then, to his good friend, he said, “My man, how’s it going? No, I’m sure it was BJ and Amiti. Yes, that’s true, but I saw him for a long time while you interrogated him. I recognized BJ”—he looked down at Lacey’s expectant face— “even wearing a nun’s habit.”

  They spoke for several minutes. Wainwright hung up and summarized the call for Lacey. “Greg explained how Amiti got away from the Bahamas. Amiti’s passport with the name Gambol Schwartz was a forgery. The local police knew Amiti was a criminal but didn’t know he was the infamous Assassin.”

  “So what does the FBI want us to do?”

  “Greg said not to contact the local police. He’ll do that through the proper channels. He said with two federal police forces on the case, they’d get them.”

  “Okay, so what’s next?”

  “He has FBI agents from the US embassy in Vienna coming here. He says they’ll probably arrive around six o’clock. After we eat, we’d better go straight back to the hotel. They’ll want the photos and an interview. “Let’s see. What in the world can we do to while away the next hour and a half? Any ideas, sweetheart?”

  THE HONEYMOONERS DELAYED the planned romantic coupling. A telegram awaited them at the front desk. Wainwright read the cable as he stood in th
e lobby. “Oh, my God.”

  “What is it? Bad news?”

  In a shaky, tiny voice, he said, “It’s my brother, Bobby. He died...um...a few days ago, in a construction accident.” Wainwright paused, sniffing back a runny nose.

  The words lashed Lacey as cruelly as they did her husband. She reached out and pulled him tightly to her. As he slumped into her, Lacey gasped, “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” Sobbing, she pressed her forehead to his chest.

  Wainwright swallowed; a tear formed, then grew larger, falling into Lacey’s hair. He embraced her with his free arm. “Auntie Emma has arranged for the services to take place in a couple of days. My attorney said he’ll notify Bobby’s wife and Emma if we can’t attend.”

  Wainwright tried to compose himself as best he could. He took Lacey by the hand and led her to a sitting area in the lobby, away from the desk clerk and others. They sat, holding on to each other for physical and emotional support. Neither spoke for several minutes.

  Lacey finally broke the silence. “Of course we’ll attend Bobby’s services, won’t we?”

  Wainwright nodded. “It’s such a shock. I can’t believe it. But yes, we need to be there. I’ll arrange for us to get on the next flight back. While I do that, how about you get our stuff together upstairs? Then we can check out and head to the airport.”

  “Sure, of course, but the FBI is on their way to interview us. What about that?”

  “I’ll deal with that after I take care of the plane reservations and make a few calls. Let me get to the travel desk and get the changes started. I’ll be up to help you as soon as I finish. Okay?”

  Wainwright and Lacey went in separate directions, each to their assigned tasks. Wainwright’s world had drastically changed in the last few minutes. A romantic honeymoon fused with the excitement of tracking down long-sought fugitives had been cut short with the devastating news of Bobby’s death. The logistics of leaving faded as Wainwright’s thoughts turned to long-ago memories of his brother. Oh, God, Bobby, I’m so sorry.

  His mind was full of flashed memories. One memory followed another. In his mind’s eye, he saw Auntie Emma’s broad, sloping lawn. He and his younger brother were contorting into tight boy balls and rolling down the hill. Wainwright saw Bobby stand, dizzy and disoriented. He winced at the trick he had played on him by diving onto the backs of his legs, knocking him to the ground. Wainwright envisioned his younger self laughing hard. Now that same memory made him tear up with regret. He blinked back his tears to attend to the job of leaving Austria.

  He and Lacey had less than two hours to board the flight to LAX. He phoned Greg to tell him they were leaving Salzburg. So much to do and so little heart to face any of it. All Wainwright wanted was a dark place to crawl into where he could grieve for his brother.

  “On our way to the airport, we can record an interview for the benefit of the Vienna agents, if you’ll loan me your microcassette recorder,” Lacey said in the cab. “As a former assistant district attorney, I’m qualified to question you. We’ll get everything about Amiti and BJ on tape and into the agents’ hands. All the relevant facts: time, location, et cetera. You can describe the events leading up to and following your taking the photos of BJ and Amiti.”

  Although Wainwright’s mind was on Bobby’s death, he knew this was important. “Fire away, counselor,” he said with a feigned smile. “I’m all yours.”

  Lufthansa’s arrangements for a quick boarding worked like a Swiss clock. Lacey and Wainwright entrusted the envelope with the interview cassette and the three slides of the fugitives to the Lufthansa ticket agent. In his call to Greg, Wainwright explained where the FBI agents would find the envelope. Then the Wainwrights boarded their plane for the fifteen-hour flight to LAX

  SISTER BEATRICE AND Vincent left the Giselakai and turned right onto a small avenue in the oldest part of Old Town Salzburg. Their destination was St. Leopold, a small Catholic church serving the religious needs of the poor and those unwelcomed at the grand Salzburg Cathedral. St. Leopold was where Sister Beatrice and Vincent had worked and lived for more than a year. Now that they’d been spotted, however, that had to change.

  The archbishop of Salzburg had never set foot in the church’s small sanctuary. This was the same archbishop who had parked Father Hohenems there several years earlier. The archdiocese thought the old, often forgetful priest was an embarrassment. At St. Leopold, he wasn’t in the way.

  Parishioners seldom saw Father Hohenems, as a parade of young priests tended his flock. One by one, they were promoted to another parish, replaced by yet another young priest. Father Hohenems appreciated the benefits this allowed, as books and wine were solaces for his banishment from Salzburg Cathedral. A few older nuns cared for him, preparing his meals and cleaning his quarters.

  One day, the arrival of a new sister blessed the good padre. She was much younger and more beautiful than any of the nuns he had worked with before, although he never mentioned this to anyone. Sister Beatrice said she had come from a parish in America. For reasons unknown, the archdiocese saw fit to send her to St. Leopold. Although she spoke rudimentary German, she seemed to be studious and hardworking—a welcome addition to the parish.

  A few weeks after Sister Beatrice arrived, a handyman named Vincent arrived at the parish. He spoke excellent German; in fact, Vincent spoke several languages quite well. Although Father Hohenems thought it strange that a handyman should be so well educated, the archdiocese had decided he should work at St. Leopold. Father Hohenems didn’t question his good fortune.

  This morning, Sister Beatrice had told Mother Superior she was going to run some errands and was taking Vincent with her. Having returned, Sister Beatrice went to her room and washed her face and hands; the Giselakai was so dirty. She assumed the other sisters would be at prayer; Father Hohenems would be reading and/or drinking in the parsonage; and no one would be in the sanctuary. She headed to Vincent’s cottage behind the church.

  Vincent’s hovel was a little more than a shed with a bed but without a head. He sat at a small table where he could eat or read under the only window the room offered. There was no plumbing of any kind, so he had to use the bathroom facilities in the parsonage—but only when Mother Superior allowed it.

  Sister Beatrice entered Vincent’s room and silently stood over him. He moved to give her the solitary chair. With her hands clasped as if in prayer, she looked about the room. Then she turned toward the phony handyman. “Amiti, I never dreamed you’d lavish me with all this extravagance and luxury. How could a little girl from Chicago ever acclimate to the lushness of this locale?”

  As she sat, crossing one leg over the other, she lifted the habit to show a lot of leg. It was a very un-nun-like gesture, Amiti thought. BJ wanted Vincent to see that she wasn’t wearing underwear. Such a tease.

  BJ often made sexual overtures toward Amiti. She liked sex, and often. They found few opportunities for intimacy, however, while hiding from the authorities. And here they had settled into a monastic lifestyle that forbade that kind of thing. So BJ just teased him a lot.

  “Amiti, we’ve gotta go. We both know that if Wainwright recognized us, he’ll have the local cops and the FBI on us faster than you can say, ‘Get out of town.’ Father Hohenems doesn’t even know we’re back yet, so now would be a good time to hit the road.”

  “Don’t sell the old pastor short. He’s not as senile as he seems. I’ve seen him give you the look—he always seems to have his eye on you and knows where you are. What do they say? ‘There might be snow on the roof, but there’s a fire in the basement’ or something like that. Anyway, if the cops question him, we’ll want a cover story to throw them off our trail.”

  BJ nodded. “You’re right—we’ll need a story. How about reversing what we told him when we came? The archdiocese is transferring us to a different parish. Someplace in...Spain or Africa. He didn’t question it before, so he won’t now.”

  Amiti sighed. “I take everything back about you being shrewd. That won’t work. D
on’t you think it would look suspicious if both of us got a new assignment? The archdiocese might move a nun, but no way would they bother with a handyman. How about you get the transfer to Spain, and I quit, a brokenhearted slob pining away for the beautiful sister?”

  BJ shrugged. “Whatever, but let’s hustle out of here. If the FBI shows up, we’re toast. We have to get new IDs too. The passports and entry visas we used coming in won’t work going out. The Feebies would track us in a heartbeat. Can you get us new papers?”

  “BJ, my love, is the pope a Catholic?”

  THEY DIDN’T GO TO ETHIOPIA, as Sister Beatrice had told the old priest. That would mean using commercial transportation. Instead, Amiti hotwired a dark-blue Mercedes 300SD parked on the street a few blocks from St. Leopold, and they drove out of the Alps and into northern Italy.

  Amiti hired a young pickpocket in Lugagnano, a small town outside of Verona, to drive the stolen car 145 kilometers south to the much larger city of Bologna. He told the kid to park the automobile in the slums and set it on fire. He emphasized that all identifying marks should be turned to ash. Amiti knew the thief would do no such thing. Instead he would try to sell the car on the black market. Amiti also knew the young entrepreneur would be arrested and charged with grand theft auto or whatever the Italian cops called it. They wouldn’t believe his story that a stranger had given him the car, and he’d spend years in an Italian prison. Amiti took pride in his dual role of taking a thief off the streets and rehabilitating a young man who had taken the wrong path in life. He was sure the phrase “Live and learn” had been coined in Italy.

  Outside of Verona, Amiti presented his business card to the charter air service’s vice president. His card identified him as “Gambol Schwartz, Farm Equipment Agent.” It included standard contact information, with a phone number and address in Oberstdorfer, Bavaria. The logo on the card wasn’t a piece of farm equipment, as one might expect, but a chess piece, the knight. Amiti had taken the logo from an old TV show he loved: Have Gun—Will Travel, starring Richard Boone. That’s how Amiti thought of himself, and he certainly did travel. So in his mind, the business-card logo, the connection to the TV series, even his absurd idolatry of Richard Boone was all part of his persona—a very serious part.