by Mike Cooper
That girl did love to talk.
So he’d bought a large-format street atlas, razored out the pages he was interested in, and taped them together into a sort of field survey. This ungainly compilation of paper was now unfolded on the pickup’s bench seat beside him.
Today he was working out the best driving routes for their getaway.
The first stop was easy. A half mile from their warehouse, and there were effectively only two choices. Caleb Street was too busy, not to mention in plain view of anyone looking out from the rail yard. So: out the back, down the side roads, and into a narrow way between two industrial buildings. Finn had come to a short-term agreement with the owner of the complex—it used to be a large factory operation, but now just ran trucks and rented out container storage. They had their own temporary spot in the rear.
Good.
The second transfer point was only somewhat more complicated. Corman tried different alternatives, taking his time, backing up and going around the blocks. Distribution centers, heavily fenced lots, old brick industrial buildings, and small, blue-collar businesses. Busy during the day, trucks and diesel clouds everywhere. Hopefully deserted at night, especially during the predawn hours of New Year’s Day.
In the end, the most direct road seemed best. Corman idled his truck and studied the spot Finn identified. It was a short access alley behind a utility substation, a squat brick building surrounded by chain link and barbed wire. absolutely no parking threatened several signs affixed to the fence, along with towing information and legal threats.
PSEG really didn’t want their access blocked.
All the better for them.
From there, a short, straight drive took him to the ramp onto I-78. If they made it that far, they’d be free, driving into America with a truckful of metal more valuable than gold. And if not …
Corman didn’t believe in thinking about if not. What was the point?
He went back and drove the routes he’d selected again, then a third time, memorizing every turn and stop sign and driveway. Finally satisfied, he stopped at Karl’s for a take-out cheese steak. No reason to eat inside, let more people get a look at him. He sat in his truck, in a corner of the lot, trying not to drip grease while he studied the map again.
He had one other route to survey.
“Do you want to do it, or me?” Nicola pushed over a piece of paper with some names and numbers scribbled on it.
Finn, sitting across from her at the folding table in the warehouse, looked at the sheet. “You’re sure these are right?”
“Nothing’s one hundred percent.” She shrugged. “But Lenape is the only current vendor that seems to have anything to do with linen supply. Stormwall’s been paying invoices from them regularly, like at least once per month. And the budget code matches to a category called ‘uniforms.’”
“Hard to argue that last point. And this is Stormwall’s HR manager? Daisy Vanderweil?”
“One of several, according to the internal company directory. But her name is on the invoices.”
“Okay.” Finn considered. “You do it. I’m sure you’re better at this sort of thing.”
Nicola nodded—no false modesty for her—and picked up her phone. Finn hollered over to Asher to keep it quiet for a few minutes, then settled back in his chair to watch.
“Hi, this is Jen Fairmont at Stormwall? We have a rush order?” She pitched her voice higher, its usual edges gone. “Can I talk to whoever is in charge of the account? Oh, thank you.” Pause. “Hi, Paula, thanks for— Yes, I work for Daisy, she’d normally be handling this, but she’s so busy today, she asked me to just call it in if that’s okay? Yes, you know, everything has to be done yesterday.” She laughed brightly. “Three new hires, and of course they’re starting next week, and there’s barely enough time for the background check let alone the orientation … Right, exactly. Oh, I know. Isn’t that how it always is?” Pause. “Okay, so what they need is the standard money-room jumpsuit. Yes … right, blue, the usual insignia? Really, just the same as all the others … Three. One large, one medium-tall, and one XXL.” She laughed again. “Yes, exactly like ordering at Starbucks!”
Nicola rolled her eyes at Finn.
“Listen, Daisy asked me to send someone over to pick them up? Is that okay? Oh, wonderful, they need them for the orientation first thing tomorrow morning, that’s excellent … Shall I have Chip ask for you?” Pause. “Chip Relleno, do you know him? He’s in the cubicle next to me, but he gets to drive the company car, you know how that goes … Right, the usual billing.” Nicola squinted at her notes. “Code it ‘34-STAFFUNI,’ like always … Thank you, Paula, that is so helpful. One more thing off Daisy’s plate … and onto mine, you’re so right!” Laughter. “Okay, so Chip will be there late this afternoon. How late? Gosh, I don’t know. Six or six thirty? Is that a problem? . . . Well, how about this, could you just leave them at the desk, and he can sign them out from the security guard?”
By this point, Finn was shaking his head with admiration. Another minute, then Nicola clicked off and set the phone on the table.
“You’re all set, Chip,” she said.
“Maybe we should put you on the phone to Penn Southern’s vault,” he said. “See if you can talk them into packing up all the rhodium and leaving it on the dock. Save us the trouble.”
“People generally want to be helpful.” Nicola tucked the paper away. “It’s not so hard to take advantage.”
“Helpful?” Finn looked over at Asher, who was sprawled in the excavator’s padded seat, head back, eyes shut, mouth hanging open. “Maybe we travel in different circles.”
“I hope the sizes are right.”
“They’ll be close enough.” He stood up, pulling on his coat.
“You going to be back later?”
“No. I have to find somebody. Might take a while. I’ll go straight to Lenape from there.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Thanks, but probably not.” Finn zipped up and found his hat. “I don’t think these guys leave electronic trails.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
When the sweep came through, Kayo’s automatic instinct to run was so strong that he had spun around and started to jump down the stairs—until he remembered, Shit, I’m clean! He halted immediately, faked a sneeze, and turned casually back to the corridor.
No warrants. No bonds. No probation or parole. For once in his life, he was a straight-arrow motherfucker, absolutely no paper sitting out there whatsoever.
Millz, though, shit. Far as Kayo knew, there was at least a bench warrant out. For the most petty shit you could think of. Millz had been in court last summer after a stop-and-frisk, cops said he resisted—but they would, a guy as big and wide as Millz just standing there gonna count as resisting. Anyway, the judge dropped the case, eventually, but the court still charged Millz $135 for fees. Which he didn’t have after a week in holding. So, a warrant.
Which meant Millz had to disappear. The patrol was in no-fucking-around mode: five officers and a fucking dog spread across the station’s broad corridor in a shallow vee and moving steadily along.
Kayo didn’t even have to do anything. He just took one step forward, away from the wall, and looked at them. Motherfuckers converged on him like they’d coordinated it.
“Hands out.”
“Stop there. Don’t move.”
“Turn around!”
Kayo kept his head up, looked them straight in the eyes, one after another. “Don’t move, or turn around? Which one you want?”
Closer to home, that would have been more than enough for a beatdown. But here in the heart of Port Authority, surrounded by curious commuters, the officers of the law were more restrained.
“Turn around and face the wall, sir.”
The usual bullshit. They roughed him a little, discreetly, jabbing during the pat-
down and twisting his arm. Kayo stayed meek.
From the corner of his eye, definitely not looking, he saw Millz fade away across the concourse. Gone in seconds. Unless the NYPD had blocked every single entrance—unlikely without the mayor being in the neighborhood or some shit—Millz would make his escape without trouble. Kayo grinned.
“So what’s up, Officers?”
They took his name, flipped through his wallet, apparently unsurprised at the lack of ID.
“Traveling somewhere today? Waiting for a bus?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Which bus would that be?”
The dog was sniffing around his legs. Kayo frowned and tried to step back.
“Yo, back that fucking mutt off.”
Instead, the canine handler gave the German shepherd more slack. “This is a trained animal,” he said. “Trained to find illegal substances.”
“Ain’t nothing illegal in my fucking pants.”
“He seems interested.”
“You mind if we have a look?”
Millz should have been clear by now. Kayo didn’t have to distract them further. He shrugged and held out his hands. “People watching us, Officers.”
“Oh?”
“Watching you.” He glanced around—indeed, a few passersby had slowed, drawn by the confrontation.
Double take. One of the onlookers—shit, he knew him. Man just standing there, like it was the fucking zoo.
Caught his eye, the smallest shake of the man’s head.
The senior officer—he had a sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve—turned to examine the bystanders. “On your way, people,” he said loudly.
A few moved, a few didn’t. A frisson of tension ran through the group, police and civilians alike.
A phone came out, a young woman pointing it toward the confrontation. The police stiffened. The dog noticed the mood and turned away from Kayo to face the new threat. Pressure built, almost palpable.
Kayo sighed and closed his hands protectively over his stomach. He knew exactly who was going to catch the most shit, starting in about five seconds …
Except, no?
The man in the crowd suddenly turned peacemaker. He gestured at the woman with the camera—“No need for that, miss, I don’t think”—and nodded to the police. “They’re just doing their job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But look at them—!”
“Nothing’s happening.” Pause. “Right?”
A long moment, and then it ended. The tension dissipated. The handler pulled in his dog, and the crowd—never that large to start with—began to drift away.
Perhaps disappointed, the woman lowered her phone, made an irritated noise, and walked off. The police finished up with Kayo, finding nothing. Some face-saving bluster, and then they were on their way, continuing through the station. Five minutes later, it was like nothing had happened.
Kayo knew better than to hang around. He settled his K2 sherpa coat and headed for the exit. Enough of this shit.
Of course the man was waiting for him, across the street. Kayo let him catch up, thinking, Damn, what’s that motherfucker’s name?
“You’re welcome,” the man said. He’d gone clothes shopping, the cheap Giants windbreaker replaced by a serviceable canvas jacket.
“Ain’t nothing would have happened. Not there.”
“Whatever.”
“How was Bellevue?”
“The worst fucking place I ever slept.”
Kayo had to laugh. “You’re welcome.”
“I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
“How’s business?”
“What the fuck do you want?”
They started to walk.
“I’m working on something,” the man said. “Might be some opportunity in it.”
“Uh-huh.” They slowed at the corner, and Kayo glanced back at the station.
“Don’t think you should be going back there,” the man said. “Not today.”
“Fuck them.”
“How about, at least hear me out?”
Kayo considered. Motherfucker was right. The day was gone. Millz was gone.
“Come to the big city to make your fortune,” he said. “How’s that working out?”
“Well.” The man grinned. “Why don’t I tell you about it?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Evening.
Finn showed up after dark with ears hurting from the cold, some paper-wrapped sausage, and a bottle of hard cider.
“Artisanal,” he said, handing the bottle to Emily. “Made right across the river in Brooklyn.”
Emily looked at it, faintly puzzled. “Cider?”
“I thought we could heat it up.” Ever since arriving in the city, he seemed unable to adapt to the cold. New Mexico might have ruined him for winter. “Sausage. Also from Brooklyn.”
“You want that warmed up, too?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
She’d apparently only just returned to the apartment herself. Finn could see a grocery bag half unpacked on the counter, eggs and milk sitting out.
“Kielbasa and potatoes,” she said. “Where’s the artisanal sauerkraut?”
“Missed that.” He stepped fully inside. “I used to think I was an artisan.”
He hadn’t seen her since the park. After the revelation that Wes had been gaming him, Finn started off angry, a deep and abiding fury. Slowly, it had transformed into determination. The planning adapted. Wes was jerking them around? Fuck him. They were going to take their money anyway.
When Emily called to check in, he surprised them both by suggesting meeting at her apartment—and she surprised him by saying yes. Takeout and a strategy update. It wasn’t quite a date.
But now that he was here, it felt like more than a business meeting.
“Have a seat.” Emily pulled out plates, put something in the microwave. Finn removed his coat and sat on the futon couch. There was a heavy wool blanket folded over the back, and after a minute, he pulled it over himself.
He was weary, and it had been a cold day.
“How’s Wes doing?” he asked.
“Holding it together.” Emily came in and sat next to him, placing a tray on the coffee table. She curled her legs beneath her. “Barely. Manic most of the time, phone calls, yelling at us, banging on his computer.”
“Still solvent, though.”
“For another few weeks.” She tore a piece of bread from a baguette—artisanal, Finn figured—and chewed slowly.
“That should be enough.”
They ate, drinking cider in mugs from the microwave. The apartment felt peaceful.
“What did you do today?” Emily asked.
“Well.” He hesitated, but only a moment. “I followed Asher around, actually.”
“Followed him?”
“Like some cheap private detective. Yeah. It’s harder than you might think.”
“Why?”
“In Manhattan traffic? Cabbies cutting you off everywhere, every light timed wrong?”
“No.” She smiled around a chunk of sausage. “Not what I meant.”
“I know.”
He couldn’t let go of New Mexico. Emily had dug further in the archives, even asking the auditors if they’d kept any copies from that year, but she’d come up empty. So what Wes did or didn’t do, possibly to profit off the botched robbery, remained unknown.
“Even if Wes had wanted to set us up, he couldn’t have,” Finn said. “I made damn sure never to tell him the details. I doubt he even knew which railroad we were targeting.”
“So you think … Asher?”
“Or Jake, or Corman.” He shook his head, frustrated. “But none of them makes sense.”
“And did Asher lead you
anywhere suspicious?”
“McDonald’s and a Newark strip club.”
“Uh-huh?”
He looked up, cheese in his hand. “I didn’t go in.”
They finished the dinner, such as it was, and the bottle, more slowly. Finn hadn’t really gotten used to alcohol again, either. Seven years effectively without—occasional pruno didn’t count—and his tolerance had gone back to nil. A mild buzz settled over him.
Emily had scrunched into herself, curled up at her end of the futon couch. Finn realized he’d wrapped himself in the blanket, leaving nothing for her.
“Hey, are you cold?” He lifted one corner of the blanket. “Here.”
Emily studied him for a moment. Belatedly, he realized his invitation might have meant more than that.
She scooted over and eased under the blanket.
It was the most natural thing in the world to settle his arm around her. To shift position slightly, fitting themselves together more neatly. To turn his head, starting to speak, and then to catch her gaze, so close.
The first kiss wasn’t even tentative, but long and slow and exploratory. Finn shifted his weight again, and Emily turned toward him, both arms all the way around now. He ran his hand along her side, under her shoulder blade, down between her back and the futon.
“Oh my,” Emily said, eyes opening.
He eased both hands around her, lifted her head gently toward him again. Her own hands slipped under the blanket, then under his shirt, pulling it from his waist. How had she kept them so warm? So soft? His own felt calloused and rough on her skin.
There was moaning.
Matters sped up. Emily found buttons to unbutton, a zipper to yank. Finn located a clasp. Muscle memory took over, opening it one-handed, no fumbling at all. Skin on skin, the blanket tangling around them, clothes half off and askew.
“Finn.”
He had one palm on an erect nipple, marveling at its tactile beauty, even as his mouth searched her face, her neck, her shoulder. He pressed her closer.
“Finn!” More insistently. With muddled reluctance, he pulled back, just enough to see her face.
