On the Brinks

by Sam Millar

  “Agent Stith isn’t available at this moment, sir. But I can put you through –”

  “No! No one else. I’ll try and call at the same time tomorrow … perhaps.”

  “Sir, if you would just –” Damn! Hung up!

  Fuentes cursed himself, wondering if he had frightened him away. He wondered what Stith would say. They were all under pressure. Damn! Almost …

  The FBI man needn’t have worried. The caller would be back. Back with a vengeance.

  ***

  “There’s danger in wearing a wire. There’s nothing cool about it, the way Hollywood would have you believe. I don’t wish to scare you off … just preparing you in case …”

  The man sitting opposite the FBI agent nodded. He was determined to go along with this, despite the burning in his heart, pumping at an alarming rate.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about it,” he replied, softly, almost in a whisper. “What they did to my brother …”

  The FBI man knew all about the man’s brother. He had read the file more than once. A robbery gone wrong, said the report. Off the record said: revenge, a love triangle turned sour. Whatever the motivation, it had produced their only solid lead. With all the pressure they were under, the agent was almost grateful it had happened, in a perverse sort of way, of course.

  “Okay, then. Your first stop will be Molly Malone’s on Tuesday night. Our sources tell us there is a good possibility he will be there, probably with his girlfriend.”

  “That’s no problem. I used to be a regular there.”

  “Don’t get complacent, please. This guy is dangerous as well as smart. We believe he has killed at least two other persons, apart from your brother. Don’t take any chances. He already knows you hate him, and will certainly feel wary if you try to have a conversation with him.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware of that. Believe me. But I’m hoping the Jenny Light beer will make him a bit more cocky than usual, especially when we’re taking a piss together, just like old buddies.”

  The man tried a smile, but his mouth had gone dry and tight.

  “Don’t forget,” the agent reassured. “We’ll only be a few yards away at most. Don’t get macho. Understand?”

  The man nodded, before standing to go.

  “We appreciate all you’re doing for us,” said the agent, opening the door.

  “Let’s hope it works and we get this bastard. That’s all I want.”

  My sentiments exactly, thought the agent, closing the door. Tuesday night would tell …

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Money? Don’t Mention that Word to Me

  Money is like muck, not good except it be spread.

  Francis Bacon

  We are now offering $500,000 for information to help solve the robbery.

  Brinks Incorporated

  Money, money everywhere, and not a drop to spend. I couldn’t touch it with a barge pole, and it was killing me. In the weeks after the robbery, every time I went to the garage to check the money, I realised how a conformed alcoholic must feel each time he comes close to a bar. The smell of the money was making me sick. It was laughing at me, all those hundreds, fifties and twenties. George Washington’s false teeth almost came flying out, he was laughing so much.

  Things couldn’t get worse, I thought, answering my mobile phone. I called it the “bad news phone” because only three people knew the number, and they knew only to use it in the event of something dire happening.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m gonna ask ya a question, then call ya back in two minutes. What did Danny G’s father own? Think about it. When I call ya back, don’t say the answer. Understand?”

  Before I could reply, he hung up.

  My mind raced. Who the fuck was Danny G, never mind his father, and what did he own? The more I tried to figure it out, the more my brain froze. Less than a minute and he’d be calling me back. I hadn’t a clue. Then it hit me. Danny G was an old friend of the caller. We had met only a couple of times. He had fancied himself as a bit of a singer, but until the big day arrived, he’d have to content himself with working in his father’s tyre depot. But what did that have to do with me?

  The phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Do you remember?”

  “Yes … at least I think so.”

  “Good. Get rid of ’em immediately, but prudently. The vultures are on to you.”

  The phone went dead. Its click made my stomach churn. I looked out the window of my comic-book store, glancing up and down the street. I felt like closing the store and making a run for the Mexican border. They were on to me! Fuckers! How? I didn’t want to believe it, but my source had a proven track record.

  I should’ve got rid of the van at the very beginning. No, I should never have used it in the first place. Being so cocky was now going to be my downfall. I was going to be de-cocked!

  In keeping the van, I was trying to make things look as normal as possible. Still driving the same old piece of shit wouldn’t bring undue attention to myself, I had reasoned. Now it was coming back to haunt me. The fucker. I began to pluck at straws. It was only tyres he had hinted at, not the van. Perhaps I still had a chance.

  They could be anywhere, the Feds. Every tree hid one. The old lady with the limp, coming towards me, was probably one. I wanted to knock her flying, test the fake cane that balanced her, watch her comrades come rushing to her aid, guns blazing.

  I closed the store and brought the van to a Greek friend who owned a filling station. He didn’t ask why I would want to replace practically new tyres. He simply replaced them, putting the old ones in the back of the van.

  I drove for miles, trying to think where I could dump them, watching my mirror, waiting for the sirens. Eventually, I stopped at a MacDonald’s, and after a cup of coffee I felt better, calmer, despite the caffeine.

  The calmness lasted until I picked up a newspaper from a bunch on the counter. That morning’s New York Times carried an article about the robbery, claiming the Feds had a new lead.

  I left the restaurant, more depressed than ever. My stomach told me something was going to happen, probably today, something beyond my control.

  As I was about to start the van, I noticed the dumpster. I couldn’t believe my luck. It sat with its jaws wide open, in an adjacent car park. A group of trees camouflaged it, and it was filled with all sorts of crap. But more than enough room for the tyres. Perfect.

  As I drove away, I took a last glance back, just to make sure. Nothing. I admonished myself for becoming paranoid, for giving the Feds too much credit. They hadn’t a clue. Would never have a clue. For the first time in hours I relaxed, smiling to myself.

  Had I looked back, just one more teeny-weeny time, I would have crapped my pants to see the two grinning FBI agents place the tyres in the back of their own van.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Fly Men

  A man’s mind will very generally refuse to make itself up until it be driven and compelled by emergency.

  Anthony Trollope, Ayala’s Angel

  We must always hold the possibility of disaster in mind.

  Seneca

  Marco and I had agreed to meet at La Guardia airport, near to where the planes took off. This would drown out any potential listening devices, or so we hoped. We set the date through a code we had developed prior to the robbery. Of course the Feds had long deciphered our code, and knew every move we made. They had placed their agents in and around the airport days prior to the arranged rendezvous. Little did we know it, but we were walking straight into a trap. The Feds, who had been biting their nails to nab us, now would have the irrefutable evidence they had so patiently waited for: the two of us together for a photo opportunity.

  That morning, as I drove to the spot, I heard the sound of an explosion. It was near noon and I could see ribbons of smoke snaking into the air.

  A gas explosion, I thought, turning the radio on. The Stones were singing You can’t always get what you
want.

  I made a left, towards Astoria Boulevard. The airport was in sight. I’d be there in a couple of minutes, into the open arms of the FBI.

  The music was interrupted by a voice saying that unconfirmed reports were coming in of a massive explosion at the World Trade Centre, of people being killed and injured.

  People were stopping their cars, in shock and disbelief, not fathoming such an act of terrorism on American soil. I stopped the car too, and got out. The smoke in the distance was becoming thicker, more menacing. The entire scene made me think of Belfast. I shuddered, thinking of my friends living in Manhattan, of all the card dealers and customers I had come to know over the years. I said a silent prayer that none of them were hurt, or worse, killed.

  The irony of the horrendous explosion was that it had saved our necks – albeit temporarily – as every agent on the east coast was pulled off their designated case, and ordered to make the explosion their number-one priority, trying to find the terrorists behind this murderous outrage.

  As I pulled into the airport, the New York Feds were pulling out, cursing their terrible luck.

  Little did we all know at the time, but the explosion was a dry run for what would become the biggest terrorist atrocity in American history: 9/11.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Money Money Money, in a Rich Man’s World

  I think the greatest rogues are they who talk most of their honesty.

  Anthony Trollope, The Three Clerks

  There are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses.

  George Bernard Shaw, Mrs Warren’s Profession

  As days turned to weeks and no arrests, my confidence grew. I had only one problem, a problem I never believed I would ever have: Money. Too much of it.

  All this money, and no place to hide it. I kept my entire cut in the back of the van, big bags of it, shrouded by a few oily blankets, ignored each day by the numerous residents who came to pick up their own cars or trucks from the private underground car park. Each morning I awoke, wondering if the van’s contents remained intact, grateful that the van looked like shit, low on the list for thieves.

  But enough was enough. Sooner or later, someone would come across it, probably by accident, and either steal it or call in the Feds. It was time for me to come in from the cold. Someone would have to be told, someone whose discretion I could trust. After much deliberation, one name came to the fore: Father Pat.

  I first met Pat when a friend of mine asked me to drop him off at his home, in the lower East Side of Manhattan. His brother-in-law had gone missing, and he wanted to know if Pat could help. I was extremely cold towards him initially, as my experience of priests in Long Kesh had made me very cynical and gave rise to a nasty taste in my mouth every time I met one. Pat, I later discovered, slept in an old cupboard and was constantly answering the phone and door to people needing help.

  At first, I thought it was a con he was pulling, but as I got to know him, I began to have a grudging respect. His lifestyle was austere, to say the least, in sharp contrast to the lifestyles of priests I had known in Ireland.

  I would drop in occasionally with material I picked up from work at Park Avenue: paint, cement, furniture and household goods. Whatever the rich threw out, he knew a hundred people who could use it. His motto was simple: Pray for the dead; but fight like hell for the living! Eventually, we became friends.

  I approached him, not knowing if he would refuse, or simply condemn me and tell me never to blacken his door again.

  “If someone had a good bit of money, and wanted it kept safe, what would be the best way of going about it?” I asked, matter-of-factly.

  He was having a light lunch in his living room, as was his norm. I was sipping tea.

  “Oh, there are hundreds of ways, I suppose,” he said, uninterested. He had just got off the phone, and the call seemed to have bothered him.

  “It’s just the money I’m making in the casino. I’d hate to be arrested by the INS (Immigration and Naturalization Service), and have them confiscate it.”

  “I don’t think they have the power to confiscate your money, even if you are here illegally.”

  “Oh …”

  He picked at some tired lettuce, before pushing the plate away. “I have to go out. I shouldn’t be long. Want to wait?”

  “No, I’ve got to be going myself,” I said, knowing Pat’s “shouldn’t be long” could turn into hours. Besides, my money was parked outside his door, and this wasn’t the best of neighbourhoods. Even a shitty van full of oily rags could disappear if you didn’t keep an eye on it.

  “I’ll try to find out some more about the INS,” he said, seeing the look on my face as the black homeless man glanced in the back of my van.

  “Get the hell away from that van!” I shouted at the bewildered man, regretting it instantly.

  Pat was a well-known advocate for the homeless, and he wasn’t one bit amused at my attitude.

  “I’ve been on edge lately,” I mumbled by way of apology, as he got into his car, disappearing out of sight.

  I thought about giving the homeless man a few bucks, but he had disappeared.

  It’s funny how you remember the important things when it’s too late.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Brother Can You Spare a Dime?

  There’s nothing of so infinite vexation As man’s own thoughts.

  John Webster, The White Devil

  Nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose.

  Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

  Over the next few days, I agonised over finding a safe haven for the money. Pat was still top of the list, but if I couldn’t persuade him – and soon – I’d be in trouble. I’d give him one more try. If his answer was no, then an old friend would have to be brought in. This might cause problems later, but I needed a fix – short-term or permanent was irrelevant. I needed it now.

  Pat was relentless in his quest to alleviate the suffering of the destitute roaming the streets of the lower East Side. I knew if he had one weakness, it was the poor and their impoverished existence. I began to play on it.

  “If a person had the right sort of money, he could do an awful lot of good for the homeless in this place, couldn’t he?” I hinted.

  Pat had three old suits in his hands, which he quickly stuffed into a bag. Two shirts, a scattering of ties, a pair of boots that had seen better days and an old brown suit quickly followed suit. They would be a welcome gift for someone in Alphabet City or Hell’s Kitchen. He continued packing clothes away, ignoring me.

  I wanted to scream it out, hit him on the head with a big bag of money. Instead I simply said, “Pat, I need your help.”

  He stopped packing, straightened his back and planted himself in the chair at the window. He could see my van across the street and said, “You better be careful. They’ll be giving out tickets in twenty minutes.”

  A parking ticket was the least of my concerns.

  “I’ve got some … money. I need a safe place to keep it – maybe for quite a while.”

  He gazed back over at the van, and I wondered if he knew already.

  “The casino?” he asked.

  For a second, I didn’t realise what he meant. Then it came to me. Pat still thought I worked in the casino, transporting money across the city for Johnny Mac. “Well … I wouldn’t say it was the casino –”

  He cut me off with a wave of his hand. He didn’t want to know my business.

  “How much needs to be looked after?”

  “I don’t really know just yet.”

  “Give me a figure. A few hundred? A thousand?”

  “I really don’t know. I haven’t counted it yet.”

  He laughed at that. “Haven’t counted it? It sounds like a fairly large sum. Why haven’t you counted it?”

  “I’ve been … busy,” I mumbled. “But I need your help. Desperately.”

  He scratched his beard, then said: “Let’s have some tea.”
/>
  “I think you better come outside first.”

  Outside, I opened the back door of the van. It was the first time I had ever known Pat to be speechless.

  “Where … where in God’s name did you get this? Is this all casino money?”

  He was looking into the bags beneath the oily rags. The quiver in his voice told me he might be on the verge of a heart attack. What a headline: Dead priest found on stolen loot.

  “I can’t tell you where it came from – not yet, maybe later, maybe never. But you’ve got to give me your word that you’ll never breathe a word about this, no matter what you decide.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he quickly covered up the money, his face full of panic. “We’ve got to get this out of sight. Have you been driving it around all this time? Never mind. No time for questions. Hurry up!”

  A few minutes later, the van was parked in a secure garage. As the steel shutters closed, for the first time in days, I felt my body tumble into relaxation.

  “Where did it come from?” asked Pat as we sat down to tea, alone in his study. A small, cheeky mouse ran across the floor, stopping at my feet and staring up, as if it also needed an answer.

  “I can’t tell you. It’s for your own safety, Pat. Best you don’t know.”

  Minutes elapsed in semi-silence, with only the squeak of a hungry mouse being heard. I wondered what was going through Pat’s mind – whether he was thinking of turning his back on me while the going was good. The silence was terrible, heavy.

  “All right. It’s safe at the minute, but we’ll have to come up with something more permanent. Give me a day or two. Okay?”

  Take a year. I’m sick of it. “That’d be great, Pat, but when you call me, don’t say anything on the phone. It could be bugged.”