by Frank Zafiro
“Maybe they were.”
He gave Rachel a jerk. She gasped but held back a scream. “Don’t bullshit me. You were behind it all, and Vincent knows that now. He just didn’t want it to be true.” He let out another low, dirty laugh. “Trying to take off the store. The goddamn store. What made you think that was a good idea?”
Sam shrugged, trying to feign a calm he didn’t feel. “Sutton’s Law, I guess.”
“Da fuck?”
“That’s where the money was.”
“Funny.” The man raised the gun. “And you the best friend, all smiles. And her, the classy piece of ass, all smiles, too. Well, let me tell you something, Tom or whatever your real name is. Get those smiles ready, because we’re going to immortalize them in concrete and put you at the bottom of a lake.”
Sam raised his hands. “I can get a million.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ll just give it to me, huh?”
“If you let us go, it’s yours. No one has to know. You can keep up the search, just like you never found us.”
He laughed. “No, huh? So when I suddenly bail on Vincent, he’s not ever gonna wonder why? Or where my money came from?”
“Wash it through Atlantic City,” Sam suggested. “Win big a few times a year over two, three years. It’ll work.”
“You don’t ever stop, do you? Always working a con.”
“I’m not conning you. I can get the money.” Sam struggled to keep the urgency out of his voice, to avoid pleading.
Strength. He needs to see strength. So does Rachel.
“We’ve got a score going here,” he said, injecting all the confidence he could into his tone.
The man stared at him, as if considering. Then he motioned his head toward Rachel. “A million and I get to fuck her, too. What do you think of that, hero?”
Sam didn’t move. “You want to fuck her? Fine. I don’t care. She’ a business partner, not my wife.”
He smiled. “Oh, you’re good, Tom. I bet most people would believe you when you said that. But I’m not stupid.”
“You must want something,” Sam said. “If you didn’t, we’d already be dead. Now maybe it’s money or maybe it’s sex, but you want something. Tell me what it is, and I’ll get it for you.”
The man didn’t reply for a while. Then he said, “You’re right. I should’ve just clipped you both right away. But I did want something.”
“What? Tell me and I’ll make it happen.”
“What I wanted,” the man said, “was to enjoy the fuck out of this.”
He raised the gun.
Sam ducked instinctively. Rachel lifted her foot and stomped her heel down on the top of the man’s dress shoe.
The man howled, hunching in pain. His gun hand wavered.
Rachel sunk her teeth into his forearm and bit down. He pulled his arm away with a guttural cry, and she stepped aside.
Sam charged.
He drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, throwing him backward into the brick wall of the building. The man hit the wall with a grunt and slid downward. Sam didn’t hesitate, powering a kick up directly between the man’s legs. When the man bent over from the blow, he kicked upward again, catching the man in the face.
Then he went for the gun.
Despite being surprised and battered, the man’s grip on the pistol remained strong. Sam tried to pry his fingers loose, but the man clutched the gun like a lifeline. Then Sam felt the man’s other hand reach up and grasp at his shoulder. He drove an elbow into the man’s mid-section once, twice, a third time.
The hand fell from his shoulder, and Sam tore the gun from the man’s other hand. He jammed it up under the man’s chin.
“No!” Rachel hissed. “They’ll hear.”
Sam hesitated. He could hear the faint music inside and felt the thrum of the bass. A gunshot outside might go unnoticed.
“Don’t,” Rachel repeated. “Someone will hear.”
Against the wall, the man let a slow, wet laugh. “You couldn’t do it, anyway. You’re a con, not a killer.”
Sam raised gun and brought barrel down across the man’s nose. Then he hit him again, this time with butt of the handle. Then again.
Again.
And again.
Rachel grabbed his hand when he raised it for another strike. The gun and his hand were slick with blood. The man was unmoving against the wall, having slid down into a motionless crouch.
“Enough,” she whispered shakily. “We have to go.”
Sam nodded, breathing heavily. He slipped the gun into his waistband, untucking his shirt to cover it. He wrapped his arm around Rachel and they supported each other, staggering toward their car without looking around. Once inside, they drove around until they found another dumpster behind a supermarket. Sam threw the gun inside, and they drove away.
Six blocks later, he pulled into a large parking lot, stopped the car and grabbed onto Rachel, pulling her tight. She squeezed him back.
“I thought that was it,” she whispered. “I thought we were done.”
“Never,” he whispered back. “But you were right. We should have left as soon as we got the earnest money.”
“We’ll leave now,” Rachel said, her voice still wavering as she pulled away from him and looked him in the face. “We have to. The money is safe in the bank. We’ve got enough to travel on. Let’s just go.”
“I have to clean up. I’ve got his blood all over me.”
“We’ll do it at a rest stop.”
“What about Finch?”
“He won’t steal our cut,” Rachel said. “He’s not wired that way.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Rachel thought for a second, then lowered her face into her hands. “Shit. Either they found us by tracking us somehow, or…”
“Or they started looking up old partners, and found Finch. And if they found Finch first, then he’s probably already…already gone.”
“No.” Rachel let out a distressed moan, then quickly gathered herself. “But hold on. If it was us they were on to, if that’s how they found us, he could still be all right.”
“They’d still have to know about him,” Sam said. “We’ve gone there too many times. If anyone was following us…”
Rachel looked up at him. “We have to warn Finch.”
“How? My burner phone was in my jacket pocket, which is back at the bar.”
“Shit. I left mine at the room.”
They stared at each other for a few moments. Then Sam said, “Look, he’s out of play for a while, that guy back there. We can go by the hotel in person, and warn Finch.”
Small tears formed in her eyes as she shook her head. “We can’t, Sam. We can’t.”
“Yes, we can. There’s time.”
“Maybe. If that guy’s hurt bad enough. If he’s the only one here in town. And if he doesn’t just pick up his phone as soon as he comes to and calls someone…” She trailed off, her tone defeated.
“It’s a gamble,” Sam admitted.
“A bad one,” she said softly. “Oh, Sam. God damn it. We can’t.”
They sat for a long minute, silent. Rachel wiped her tears away. Sam clenched his fingers around the steering wheel. Finally, he put the car into gear and started driving. Rachel didn’t ask him where he was going.
“We have to try,” he said, quietly. “It’s worth the stretch.”
She touched him on the shoulder, and said nothing.
The drive took over half an hour, and neither spoke. As they got closer to the hotel, traffic slowed. A couple blocks away, it stopped almost entirely. They inched forward amidst honking horns. Sam gave Rachel a nervous glance, but she didn’t say a word.
In front of the hotel, only a single lane was open. They saw the splash of red and white flashing lights washing across traffic long before they were close enough to see the police cruisers and unmarked de
tectives’ cars that lined the sidewalk.
They crawled past the scene with the rest of traffic. Rachel gawked like every other idiot who drove by, because to do otherwise would be suspicious.
Once past, traffic cleared up and they were quickly up to speed.
“It might not be him,” Rachel said quietly.
Sam didn’t reply.
“It’s a big city. A big hotel. Things happen.”
Sam continued to drive, silent. Rachel was right. Maybe another guest had a heart attack. Or someone ate some bad clams at the restaurant. But he didn’t think so.
“What did you leave at the motel?” Sam asked.
“Some clothes. Shampoo. Makeup. You?”
“A shaving kit and a few changes of clothes.”
“How much cash do you have?”
“About eight hundred.”
“I’ve got a little more than that. We can get a couple states away before we need to go to a bank.”
He drove in silence. The blood on his hands that was slick when he’d first stopped striking the man who tried to kill them had dried into a tacky, brittle paste in places. He stared at the dark flakes on his fingers as the approaching headlights swept past.
“I’m sorry about Finch,” Rachel said, her voice softening.
“Me, too.”
They drove a while longer. Sam found a freeway entrance and got on it, not caring which direction it took them.
They drove for another hour before Sam pulled into a rest area. He waited until there were no other cars, and then he slipped into the bathroom to clean up as best he could. He scrubbed away the blood, then took off his shirt and rinsed it. When he stepped back out into the night, a breeze washed over him, and he shivered.
At the next town, they stopped outside of a Walmart. Rachel went inside and bought him a new shirt and a pair of jeans. He changed in the car, and they threw his old clothes into the trash behind a McDonald’s a mile away. Then they got back on the freeway.
Outside of Louisville, he pulled into a Super 8 motel and they got a room. Both slept in snatches on the uncomfortable bed. In the morning, they got coffee and bagels, and went to the library. Sam waited in the car while Rachel went inside.
The morning was bright, and Sam slowly spun his lighter through his fingers while he watched all the life teem around him. People, dogs, birds. He felt a crushing guilt that Finch would never see these simple things again, and he wondered if it was their fault, and how.
Rachel returned after a while. “It’s like we thought,” she told him. “Finch is dead.”
He slid the Zippo into his pocket, started the car, and headed back toward the freeway. “So we’ll never know…”
“If we led them to him or if they found us by finding him.” She finished, then sighed. “I know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said. “It was our fault either way.”
“It was,” she agreed. They drove a while further, and then Rachel added, “The whole thing was falling apart, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cops were on to Finch,” Rachel told him. “They were on to the deal itself.”
“Wait. All that was in the paper?”
“No.”
Sam glanced over at her and then back to the road. “You called Jacobsen.”
“I did.”
Sam sighed. “That was a risk. If they’re tracing his calls…”
“I had to know,” she said.
Sam didn’t argue. “What else?”
“It was Gloria,” Rachel explained. “Her brother is a police detective.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Did you know that?”
“Please,” she said. “The woman didn’t say three words to me the whole time I was there, no matter what I tried. She just gave me the death stare all day long. But it looks like she called her brother about the deal early on, and when the fraud cops looked into it, they found Finch. He’s not exactly unknown to them in St. Louis.”
Sam didn’t answer. Finch had been good at what he did, but no grifter was perfect. There were always accusations, sometimes even the occasional criminal charge. Convictions were rare, but it didn’t take a conviction to get the attention of the police.
“The cops set up on the operation at some point, and when they found out Jacobsen had already paid out the earnest money, they decided to bring him in on it so he wouldn’t get taken for any more. They were set up to arrest Finch as soon as Jacobsen handed over the cashier’s check. But then the hotel called. They found Finch after…after the man from the bar had been there. Or someone like him.”
“That soon? Besides, if Finch didn’t have the do not disturb sign out, you know that guy would have…”
“There was a smear of blood on the carpet in front of the door. From a shoe or something. A maid saw it. She called security, and they went in.”
Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It made sense. “Jacobsen told you all that?”
Rachel nodded.
“And he doesn’t suspect us?”
“Not yet.”
“Did he ask about your mom?”
“Yes, but he didn’t really listen to my answer. He was focused on what happened.”
“He’ll start to suspect.”
“I’m sure Gloria already does. And the police. I told him I’d be another couple of weeks, though. Maybe that’ll slow him down, for whatever it’s worth. He’ll believe what he wants to believe. That’s part of why we chose him.”
Sam considered what he’d heard, then shook his head. “So one way or another, we led the mob to Finch. But even if they hadn’t found us first, and then him…”
“Then the cops still would have busted the whole play wide open.”
“And caught us.”
“Probably,” she said.
They drove in silence for the better part of an hour. Sam shook his head a couple of times, trying to shed the realization that the mob killing Finch is what had saved them from the cops. Rachel reached across and rested her hand on the back of his neck. They stared at the road ahead.
“We have to be more careful,” he said, finally. “About bringing in any old partners. Or new ones.”
“I know. It’s just us.”
Hours slipped past.
Miles flew by.
The world turned, and still, it was just them.
Always.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Frank Zafiro was a police officer in Spokane, Washington, from 1993 to 2013. He retired as a captain. He is the author of numerous crime novels, including the River City novels and the Stefan Kopriva series. He lives in Redmond, Oregon, with his wife Kristi, dogs Richie and Wiley, and a very self-assured cat named Pasta. He is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. You can keep up with Frank at FrankZafiro.com.
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BOOKS BY FRANK ZAFIRO
River City Series
#1 Under a Raging Moon
#2 Heroes Often Fail
#3 Beneath a Weeping Sky
#4 And Every Man Has To Die
#5 The Menace of the Years
Stefan Kopriva Mysteries
#1 Waist Deep
#2 Lovely, Dark and Deep
#3 Friend of the Departed
Other Novels
At Their Own Game
At This Point In My Life
The Last Horseman
Chisolm’s Debt
The Trade Off (with Bonnie Paulson)
With Eric Beetner
#1 The Backlist
#2 The Short List
#3 The Getaway List
With Colin Conway
Some Degree Of Murder
Charlie-316 (*)
With Lawrence Kelter
The Last Collar
Fallen City
With Jim Wilsky
The Ania Series
Blood on Blood
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br /> Queen of Diamonds
Closing the Circle
Harbinger
(*) Coming Soon
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Here is a preview from People Like Us by J.D. Rhoades, A Grifter’s Song Episode 2.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
CHAPTER ONE
Aunt Sally was the real deal, Sam said. A legend. A grifter’s grifter. Rachel looked around the front parlor of the old lady’s house in Raleigh, North Carolina, and thought of the old saying: if you can’t tell who the mark in the room is, it’s probably you.
The parlor was well-lit, the tall windows as clear as if they’d never seen a speck of dirt. The cup and saucer balanced on Rachel’s knee looked as if they’d been in the old lady’s family since the Civil War, maybe longer. The lady herself peered at Rachel over her archaic half-moon spectacles, her eyes bright blue and kind and surrounded by wrinkles. The whole scene was placid and bright and reassuring, and it made Rachel want to run screaming from the room.
“Sam’s told me all about you,” said Aunt Sally, “but he didn’t do justice to how pretty you are.” She turned to Sam and shook a playfully admonishing finger at him. “You didn’t tell me she was a knockout. She’s like a young Rita Hayworth.”
“Thank you,” Rachel murmured, thinking Jesus, she’s really laying it on thick. She took a sip of her tea and looked at Sam. He was regarding the old lady fondly, as if she actually was a favorite aunt. He looked at Rachel. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s really something.”
“But she doesn’t trust me.” The smile was still there, but it no longer reached Aunt Sally’s eyes. “Do you, sweetie?”
Rachel put the cup down on the side table. “No. I mean, no, ma’am. It’s nothing personal. I just met you.”
There was a brief silence. From out on the lawn, Rachel could hear the sound of a lawn mower, pushed by the gray-haired black man who’d nodded to them as they’d come up the flagstone walkway to the deep front porch. When she spoke, the old woman was all injured innocence. “The fact that Sam vouches for me doesn’t mean anything?”
