by Ben Sanders
“Shit, why you still down there?”
Miles said, “You got time or not? I want to draw a line under this.”
He held the phone with his shoulder, leaned against the edge of the booth so he could watch the bar area at the back of the lobby. There were two guys his age, and a woman slightly younger, late thirties maybe. It was a nice composition: the three of them side by side on stools, holding wineglasses by the stem as they flicked through text on their phones, the wall beyond just shelves of liquor and the light a honeyed amber.
Stanton said, “I’m on another job right now. Hang on—Kenny, Jesus, you don’t need to slow down on a yellow. Less it’s red, you give it gas the whole way.” Then to Miles: “Can you make it up to Fourteenth Street? I’m seeing a guy afterward.”
He didn’t want to be walking around Manhattan with six figures in a briefcase, but he didn’t want to say that to Stanton on the phone. He said, “You come down here, that’d be ideal.” Dropping his voice on the last word to get the point across, but Stanton wasn’t having it.
“No, what’d be ideal, we do this in a couple days when I got time.”
“Thanks for being so understanding.”
“Yeah, maybe this is news, I actually got more than one client. You know the Coffee Shop? Up at Union Square?”
“Yeah.”
“See you there in forty minutes. I think I got more work for you, too.”
Miles said, “I don’t want more work.”
* * *
He scanned his access card in the elevator and rode up to his room. He’d been here three weeks now, and he couldn’t wait to leave. He hated the austerity, coming home to a space devoid of character. All he had was his luggage and a photo from his honeymoon—he and Caitlyn in Hawaii. He figured he could go another week maybe, and then he’d have to hang a picture, or hang himself.
The gloves he’d worn at the Coveys’ were leather, and therefore safe enough to keep: they had a smooth finish, nonadhesive, and wouldn’t have caught any stray fibers. But the suit and shoes would have to go. Hard as it was to part with polished loafers and a nice two-button from Hugo Boss, they could have picked up hair, soil from the yard, all kinds of forensic giveaways he couldn’t afford.
He folded the suit and put it in a duffel bag he’d bought earlier—a cheap tourist item with a low-res impression of the Statue of Liberty stitched on one side. He dressed again in jeans and his trench coat, hit play on his iPod, and left the room heading for the elevator: briefcase full of cash in one hand, bag of mothballed heist gear in the other.
* * *
He walked a block up Broadway, and donated the duffel to a homeless man sitting outside American Apparel. Back at Canal Street, he caught a 6 train uptown and got off at Fourteenth, followed the exit crowd to the upper level. Even at night the station was armpit-hot, the smell somewhere between train fumes and trash, and tonight the iron squeals had competition: sax music from a dwarf in a wheelchair, the guy hunched forward red-faced as he cradled his instrument, blasting out a jazzy tune Miles didn’t know. He came out into Union Square and a late-night crowd that seemed silent by comparison: an army of mimes composed of tourists and kids walking hand-in-hand. He walked across to Union Square West and went into the Coffee Shop, on the corner of Sixteenth. Wynn Stanton was already there, sitting by himself in the corner booth just past the waitress station. He raised a hand in what looked more like sad farewell than greeting. Miles went over and put the briefcase on the seat and slid in behind it, saw his motion in duplicate in the lenses of Stanton’s aviators. He had a grilled cheese sandwich and a coffee.
Miles said, “Midnight snack?”
Stanton shook his head and chewed patiently. The aviators bounced in a small amplitude. “This is lunch.” He made a C shape with his thumb and first finger, waggled them back and forth. “Flipped my day around. Everyone I deal with’s a nighthawk, so I’m giving it a try.” He wiped his mouth. “How was Kings Point?”
Miles shrugged. “Tidy.”
Stanton aimed a finger at him. “We should go back sometime: they got a new restaurant at the golf club there—public as well. Me and Ken checked it out when we were running the prep. Had this miso eggplant thing with this kind of paste on the side…” He shook his head, eyes closed, like trying to channel the taste through his cheese sandwich. “Shit it was nice. Ken had this snapper, came out under one of those big domes, real slick.”
Miles just smiled, wanting a quick segue into shoptalk. Stanton leaned back and drank some coffee. He was from Venice Beach originally, a surfer and marijuana enthusiast who had a late-twenties epiphany, or so he said, and decided to put himself through law school. Miles didn’t think the legal education had ever been used for legal ends, but for this kind of work, deceit was a virtue. These days, he wasn’t an attorney so much as a talent agent—that was Stanton’s description, anyway. He called himself The Man Who Makes Shit Happen. If you brought him talent—a driver, a safe man—he’d find them a project. And if you brought him a project, he’d find you the talent to get it done.
He wore Hawaiian shirts most of the time—maybe an homage to the coast life—but the surfing was forty years behind him now, and it was obvious: his autumn physique was dangle and bone.
Miles said, “You might have to take Stokes off your books.”
“Oh yeah?”
Miles told him what happened.
Stanton said, “Oh, Christ.” He looked down at his sandwich, a fat weld of cheese sealing the edge, looked up at Miles from under his brow. “You cleaned up okay though?”
Miles shrugged. “There was nothing to clean up. We went our separate ways with no injuries.”
“So what was his deal?”
“Debts, apparently.”
“You should’ve just drilled him.”
Miles didn’t answer.
Stanton chomped deep and said thickly, “So what, you just let him walk?”
Miles nodded. “Gave him twenty grand, said see you later.”
Stanton’s head came forward maybe three inches, a quick shunt. “What, he needed bus money or something?”
Miles didn’t answer. He could’ve said he had a nose for honesty, and that Stokes seemed to ring true, and that he didn’t want to be liable if the man hit bad luck farther up the road. But he didn’t think Stanton would understand that. Stanton’s law was dog-eat-dog. So he just said, “It was nothing in the scheme of things.”
Stanton had a contemplative chew. He nudged his glasses. “Yeah, but you can say that about anything. Everything’s nothing in the scheme of things, you break it down small enough.” He wiped his mouth with his wrist, leaned forward with his mouth ajar, still casual as he said, “I can send him a visitor, no big deal.”
Miles shook his head. “I don’t want him clipped. I just don’t want you sending him more work.”
Stanton grinned. “Well, you gave him twenty grand, imagine he’s set for a little while.”
“I saw it as a preventative measure.”
“Yeah, nice. Should go back down the subway, give all the homeless guys twenty grand, fix them right up, I’m sure.”
A waitress came by. Miles ordered a cappuccino. He waited for her to move on and said, “I don’t think I’m going to get my job back. I think Force Investigation will push charges.”
Admissions were meant to be cathartic, but it didn’t feel good, saying that. It had already done the rounds in his daydreams, but it was a new frontier when you formed the words aloud.
Stanton watched him flatly from behind his lenses and said, “Someone tell you that, or you going off a hunch?”
Miles laid his palms on the table, looked down at hand and mirror-hand. He said, “You know you wake up in the dark at two A.M., and you just know something for a fact?”
Stanton nodded. “Yeah. That’s called a hunch.” He looked past Miles to the waitress station. “You ever notice all the girls in here, they’re like an eight or nine out of ten, minimum?”
Miles
clicked his fingers. Stanton looked toward the noise and then looked him in the eye.
Miles said, “If I get a murder charge, I got two options: I either blow the money on attorneys, or I blow the money on a getaway.”
“Getaways are cheap. It’s the new life that can get pricey. How much you got right now?”
“Including this”—he tapped a finger on the briefcase—“four hundred, maybe.”
“It’s workable. Wouldn’t call it a shitload, though, would you?”
Miles shrugged. “Depends where I go. Probably get a place in shitsville for a hundred grand, have three hundred K walking-around money.”
Stanton finished off his sandwich, pushed the plate to one side. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“In the safe in the hotel room.”
“Holy shit. I thought you were a pro.”
“I am. Part of being a pro, you know what’s a risk and what isn’t.”
“Yeah, well.” Stanton watched a waitress as he formulated. “I think staying in the same hotel for weeks on end, keeping all your cash under the bed, that’s setting yourself up for disappointment. That’d be my lawyerly advice, anyway.”
Miles said, “Lucky you’re disbarred, then.”
Stanton looked at him a moment, sucking something off a molar, bottom jaw pushed to one side. He said, “Well here’s option three: you hang around, I feed you a couple more jobs, you make a few hundred K.” He spread his hands, like underlining the ease of getting rich. “Then if the DA lays charges, you can reassess.”
Miles didn’t answer.
Stanton turned slightly to observe the arrival of Miles’s coffee. He waited for the waitress to move on and then said, “And if you have to split, you got a bit more up your sleeve. Look, Christ, there’s nothing to worry about.” He leaned forward again. His nose bore capillaries so intricate they’d be a marvel if they were there on purpose. He said, “We got a guy on contract we talk with, used to be Force Investigation, out at LAPD? He read your file, emailed us back yesterday, all he said was, ‘Keller should walk.’”
“Right. And does that mean they won’t press charges, or does it mean I won’t get an indictment when it goes to a grand jury?”
“I don’t know. Look, cops shoot people all the time, no one charges them.”
“Depends what color they are.”
“Yeah, you should’ve shot a black guy, this’d be all wrapped up.”
Miles spooned fluffy milk off his coffee. He said, “Thing about splitting, it only works if it’s preemptive. Kinda late if they’re knocking at your door with cuffs and a warrant.”
“I’m running out of ways to say you did nothing wrong.”
Miles shrugged. “You can’t trust big institutions to have any kind of moral insight.”
Stanton watched him take a drink and then said, “So what do you want to do?” Saying it slow enough to make it cautionary.
Miles said, “I’m not staying put for a trial. I want to be able to run and not have to lug a bag full of cash around with me.”
Stanton nodded slowly. “What’s your time frame?”
“For leaving? I don’t know. Soon. Eventually.”
“Yeah, see, that makes me worry. If you said Tuesday, or two weeks from tomorrow, that’d be all right. But when it’s open-ended it makes me think you got something else going on.”
Miles shrugged.
Stanton said, “You wanted to leave, you could be gone tonight. So who you hanging round for?”
Miles said, “Tell me what my options are. How do you bank four-hundred-odd grand?”
Stanton blew cheese breath out his teeth. “We can send it offshore. Probably the safest.”
Miles waited.
Stanton said, “We got a partner firm down in New Zealand. Basically what they do, they set up a trust, and then they open a limited liability company owned by the trust. Or something like that. It’s pretty straightforward—their tax reporting is shit, so they don’t have to tell their IRS who benefits. But basically the end result is an offshore base for funds, with you as the secret owner.”
“Nice.”
“The law firm knows your name, but no one else does. They have to disclose upon request, but they never get requests.”
“What’s the setup cost?”
“Twenty percent.”
“Jesus. All right.”
Stanton said, “I told you I got other jobs.”
Miles didn’t answer.
Stanton said, “Had a call for you, too: lady from the Post. First time, I tell her—plain English, right—no fucking comment. Second time she calls up, I was just—bam, straight down.” He made a phone from a cocked thumb and pinkie, mimed a big hang-up.
Miles said, “That’ll teach her.”
“Yeah. Didn’t try a third time. One-nil, Stanton.”
“How’d she even get my name?”
Stanton shrugged. “Someone at FID probably put it out, picked up a sweet fee.” He sat back, rubbed his hands as he looked at the window, slits of night-light showing in the metal blind. He said, “Look, I’m serious, you wait around a little longer”—he spread his hands to imply freedom of choice, scale of possibility—“we can set you up with something else, make another hundred grand, two hundred maybe. You’d be thanking yourself later.”
Miles swirled his coffee. He liked to bring the liquid all the way to the lip without it cresting, let it back down nice and gentle. He said, “In the movies when they bring the main guy in to do one last job, shit always hits the fan.”
Stanton said, “How you know you’re the main guy?”
Miles didn’t answer.
Stanton said, “Even if he says no at first, they always wear him down, make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Miles shook his head. “I’m pulling the pin. Or the rip cord. However it is people get out and do something else with their life.”
Stanton looked at him quietly and then leaned back, as if seeking a more comprehensive picture. Miles sensed that a mildly interesting observation was on the way. He waited. Eventually Stanton said, “Never actually thought I’d have you as a client.”
Miles said, “Yeah? Why’s that?”
Stanton shrugged, gave a half-smile that pushed up one sunglass lens. “You were supposed to be the good one.”
Miles said, “I’m morally immaculate.”
The smile grew and showed teeth. “Yeah. Everyone thinks they’re Robin Hood. Then they realize scruples cost too much.”
Miles didn’t answer.
Stanton looked at him over the sunglasses, trying to show him this was serious now. His bloodshot eyes wavered slightly, a tremor in the focus. He said, “If you won’t let me book you another job, you got no reason to hang around.”
Miles didn’t answer.
“So what’re you hanging around for?”
Miles drained his coffee and placed the spoon in the mug. He stood up and said, “Can you drop me at the hotel?”
* * *
Stanton called his driver and told him they needed a ride down to Canal Street. Kenny picked them up outside a minute later, the car humming with the force of its stereo. A nightclub-volume blast of Korean pop greeted Miles as he opened his door.
Stanton said, “Phwoah, turn it down, boy. I worry about your ears.”
Kenny obliged, dropped the music to a safer level. They got across Union Square and went south on Broadway. Stanton sat in back with Miles and made himself at home, took a pre-rolled joint from a compartment in the center console and lit it with a match. Miles thought maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard on Stokes. He wasn’t about to give Stanton a speech about quitting the drugs. He listened to him make a call on his cell. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m just going downtown for something else, but I’ll be with you in thirty minutes.” There was a sense of exhibition to it, the way he talked at high volume, the joint wagging in his mouth and his nose leaking pot smoke.
He clicked off and said, “Kenny, you just gotta be careful we d
on’t run a stoplight or something. I don’t want to get pulled over and caught with a joint. And what’ve you done to your hair?”
The hair in question was bright red—quite a striking look on a thirty-one-year-old Korean man. Kenny said, “I dyed it, like Chanyeol. You know Chanyeol?”
Stanton shook his head. “Nope. I don’t know Chanyeol.”
“Rapper in a band called EXO. He’s the man.”
Stanton sucked his joint delicately, eyes narrowed. He said, “I doubt that.”
As far as Miles could tell, Wynn Stanton thought that Wynn Stanton was the man, and he was reluctant to share the honor.
Kenny said, “Why? You don’t like K-pop?”
Stanton didn’t answer, sat listening to the music with one finger raised, as if poised to pass judgment. The song reached peak momentum, hyperspeed Korean backed by digital bass, and then it all went silent to let another voice say in English: “smash your limit.” That single admonition, and then the lyrics and the disco beat were back at full tempo.
Stanton said, “Yeah, right there: that’s my problem with it.” He aimed forward with the raised finger, like he’d skewered the offending line. “If they just stuck to Korean, that’d be fine. But I don’t like picking up random phrases that make zero sense—feel like I’m getting dementia or something.” He puffed his joint. “I’m too young for that shit.”
He looked across at Miles, wanting corroboration, but Miles kept his eyes on the street. Storefronts going past, window after lit window, a reeled backdrop for the sidewalk crowds glimpsed in silhouette. Even the backseat view was too broad a focus, too much data. A few blocks down Broadway showed him countless lives. You just had to accept you didn’t know what was going on.
He looked across at Stanton blowing smoke out the gap in his window and said, “Who was it who called from the Post?”
Stanton clicked his fingers. “Umm. Nina Stone.”
Miles said, “Huh. I know her.” Stanton glanced across at him, and Miles said, “She’s not a journalist, she’s a bank robber.”
THREE
NEW YORK, NY
Miles Keller
Stanton said, “Hang on, wait. Ken, give that stuff a rest, will you?”
