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HE OLD AUDI LOOKED STRANGELY in place, parked under the abandoned canopy of Three Queens. So did its driver-gambler. Bino sucked the last bit of smoke from his cigarette and dropped the butt on the asphalt, crushing it with the sole of his loafer. He peered across Bridger to the cream sedan parked at the curb, its driver focused on his every move. One lone guard stood inside the vacant casino. He unlocked the glass entry door to let Bino inside.
Locking the door once more, the guard, without so much as a word, ran his hands up and down Bino’s slender frame to check for anything resembling a threat to the big man on the 13th floor. “Middle elevator,” he muttered upon completing his search.
Bino made his way across the dormant lobby, his oxygen cart in tow. At the elevator, he pressed a nicotine-stained finger on the call button and drew a fresh cigarette from his shirt pocket. By the time the elevator doors opened to the upper level, half of the stick had gone up in smoke, gray clouds that billowed from the car.
Vinnie’s cloistered figure slumped behind the massive desk. His back was to the elevator. The room’s blinds were drawn tight, the faint shadows a better medium for the wise guy to stare at the empty screen of his desktop monitor. Turning, he reached into his desk drawer and tossed a Polaroid photo onto the floor at Bino’s feet. “Cute girl,” he said as he propped his feet up.
Bino bent down and picked up the picture. Behind its glossy surface was the image of his little girl, taped to a chair. Her face was streaked with tears, her pajamas wet from the waist down. The gambler swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. Then, tempting fate, he dropped his still-smoldering butt on the white carpet and crushed it out. “The kid’s wife . . . visits the Heritage . . . Care Center on . . . Friday nights. . . . She hasn’t been to work . . . all week.”
“Good boy,” Vinnie sneered triumphantly. “I’ll give you a bone and let her live another day.”Like a whipped dog, Bino turned and hightailed it to the elevator. When it hit bottom and Bino bolted from the car, a squatty man in a wrinkled suit stood waiting to enter. He passed with a casual, “Good day, mate,” and disappeared behind the shutting doors.
The guard unlocked the glass doors and motioned Vinnie’s distraught visitor out onto the street. As Bino steered the smoky Audi onto Bridger, the cream sedan tailed close behind. The washed-up gambler slowed to a stop at 3rd, yanked the photo from his shirt pocket, took one last look at his poor, sweet Angelina, and flung it out the window. The light turned green, the restless traffic pressed forward. The miserable photograph, tossed to the wind, fluttered about in the middle of the crosswalk.
Cook had brought two plates of food into the back office and was now shouting orders to the vanishing crowd. “You!” Greg could hear him snarl. “And you!” He could picture Cook’s spoon shaking at a cowering, disheveled diner trying to shovel the last of his potatoes in his mouth. It seems if you didn’t make it out the door in time, you’d just volunteered for clean-up duty.
“I take what the Good Lord gives me,” the reverend said, referring to his crusty chef. He slid open the desk drawer and pulled out a business card. “But they still come to eat.”
Greg stacked his plate on top of the reverend’s. “He’s a good cook,” he said appreciatively.
Reverend Keller leaned forward and took in a deep breath. “I think what you’re doing might work, but if you want my help I need to give the Feds a token so they’ll believe what I tell them.”
“Agreed.” Greg fidgeted with the forks atop the food-spotted plates.
The retired plumber leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. It was as though he could see into Greg’s fractured heart. “That’s not the reason you came to see me, though, is it?”
Greg started to get up. “You’ve already done enough . . .”
“Please,” said Reverend Keller. “The temporal help is just that–only temporary. If you don’t work out the other problems–the mental, the emotional, the spiritual–the cycle will start all over again. I see it everyday. Most of the people who come here can’t or won’t be helped.” Greg sank back in his seat. “You miss her, don’t you?” he asked, point-blank.
“I’ve caused more heartache to my family and friends than I can ever undo.”
“I’m sure you feel that way. In fact, I read the letter you started to write.” Greg looked up, perplexed. “I retrieved it. And, with your permission, of course, I’d like to send it to your wife. I’d enclose a letter of my own. . . .” The room grew quiet. Only the rattle and clank of pots and pans pealed in the background. The recollection of his heartfelt apology stroked the corners of Greg’s mind. “Have you ever been able to tell her those things in person?”
Greg shook his head. “She was always too angry to listen, and I was always too proud, too bullheaded.”
“Sometimes a little distance and time can jumpstart the healing of even the biggest wound. When someone becomes so mad at what you’ve done to her, it shows she still cares. It could be because she still loves you as much as you do her.”
Greg lowered his head, contemplating the matter.
“Hey, it couldn’t hurt–and it could help,” the reverend added. “If there’s hope of patching things up, it’s a good place to start.”
Hard-pressed to argue with that kind of logic, Greg struggled for something to say. “Thank you,” is what came out. He felt a soft tingling in his scalp–perhaps the sign of a new glimmer of hope sprouting in his own desperate mind and heart.
“You’re welcome. . . . Now let’s help Cook clean up and I’ll give you and your guest that ride we’ve been talking about.”
Smitty lay on the park bench, sound asleep. His leg twitched occasionally, the dreams of a street-mutt. Smitty, though, was more like a street-smart puppy, innocent yet still wise to the ways of the street. And the pup had already learned well the art of chasing cats: Never get close enough to get scratched and always get the cat on the run before giving chase.
The agents had grown tired of his childlike games. Something had to give–or they’d go crazy. He’d out-dueled them in the park, in the soup kitchen, and in general. They’d visited with Barnes to complain, and to explain that the mute was less than cognizant of his surroundings. Barnes finally had agreed to call off the chase, perhaps to pick it up at a later hour. Their mark could easily be pinpointed again, electronically, since the chip was still secure in Smitty’s back pocket.
A half block from the apartment, Mitch also lay on a bus-stop bench, surveying from under his sweaty baseball cap the comings and goings of the various tenants and visitors to and from their apartment building. He fidgeted nervously with each new arrival. The thought of recovering his GTO had invigorated him, had provided a brief shot of life to the lazy afternoon. Trusting Bino’s word was the risky part. If the warehouse was where he said it was, the goat’s rescue would be as simple as getting in–which was no longer that simple.
With Smitty still at large, the risk was still too great for the Alley Team to remain at the apartment. If the mute was followed back home, all who were there would be taken into custody. What’s more, Mike’s body again needed to be moved–and soon. The dry ice was almost gone; and the layers of blankets didn’t help anyone in the apartment keep their cool, except Mike.
Nurse, Cap’n and Sound, meanwhile, were working their third casino, wielding their third fraudulent credit card. Cap’n had stashed over sixteenthousand in bills in his briefcase. The little gang kept up the appearance of being regular, pleasure-seeking gamblers, dropping small change in the slots and acting out the suitable win or lose response. In fact, they’d become quite adept at walking away with hardly a shrug when one of the onearmed bandits took their coins.
By now at County Hospital, Grandpa’s festering gruff and grumble had given his caretakers a case of burnout. Of course, his lack of supplemental insurance was a contributing factor in his imminent discharge. The treaty included the compromise that he’d stay one more night in the hospital, then that he would let an in-home nurse come to his home for the first several days until he was back on his feet. Despite the complications it might cause and the already overburdened state it was in, the agency agreed to assign their own male nurse to the job.
And in a secure location in the suburbs, Agent Sutton had successfully cleared Stephanie and Maggie to make their regular Friday night visit to Heritage Care. Though reluctant, Barnes had finally approved a two-hour visit for the next day. Both women were elated. Unable to go anywhere for an entire day, the safe-house was beginning to feel more like a prison.
Of all the players in this tangled Vegas floor show, it was Ritter who considered himself its star. After standing for a full 15 minutes, waiting to be whisked up to the 13th-floor penthouse, he found himself between a rock and an even bigger stone–namely, smack dab in the middle of Frankie and Vinnie. All three men stood peering out the window. Ritter coolly turned to his host and said, “I been followed mate. Looks like you got a few on your doorstep, too.”
Vinnie cussed, gulped the last of a drink he held in his hand, then launched a rage bordering on a temper tantrum. “You think I don’t know that! I been cooped up by a punk kid, my hotel’s shut down, my car’s stolen, and he’s out there laughin’ at me. . . . He’s gotta pay, or I won’t have an ounce a’ respect left.”
“Maybe I can help,” Ritter said with a smirk. “You’re the man, an’ you already set it up, if I seen it right. Let’s say I give the Feds Agent Hales’ body and you give ‘em the gun, then the whole thing might just take a trip. Evidence shows up from two different sources, they’ll stop lookin’ at you and concentrate on the kid.”
Vinnie sank into the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. His turbulent three-day rant had not only taken its toll on his psyche, but had blown his initial plan way off track. “Yeah. . . . You’re pretty smart, Ritter. That’s what I had in mind all along.” A wicked grin slid down Vinnie’s face and rested comfortably on his lips.
“There’s just one thing,” Ritter said as an aside, “th’ matter of me compensation?”
Vinnie shrugged his shoulders. “What’d you have in mind?”
“You wire fifty-grand to me bank, Selby in Yorkshire. It’s called Midland Bank.”
Vinnie swore again. “You think I’m stupid, givin’ you the money before I got the goods?”
Ritter shook his head like a ruddy schoolmarm in front of a child. “Don’t ya’ see, mate, ya’ got me. I ain’t about to run. If I don’t give up the goods, you still got me ‘til I do. Just buy me a ticket and put me on the plane when we finish.”
Vinnie plucked a bottle from off his desk and poured himself another shot of whiskey. “What do you think, Frankie?” he asked, turning to his silent partner. “Could you break his arms and legs without killin’him if he doesn’t keep his end of the deal?”
“Whatever you say, Vinnie,” Frankie mumbled as he cracked his knuckles and ran a huge hand across his short-cropped hair.
Ritter swallowed. Deep down, a sharp pain shot through his chest and twisted knots inside his gut. “Why don’t you give me the gun and I’ll stash it with the body?”
Vinnie burst out laughing, then gulped down another drink. “Over my dead body.”
“Just figurin’ you might want to keep a might clear a’ the whole mess . . .”
“Listen,” said Vinnie, in a tone suggesting their conversation was over, “I’ll wire your money in the morning. Then you’ll show me where the body is.”
“What ‘bout our friends out front?”
“I’ll worry about them. Now you run along and find yourself a room– have a good night’s sleep.”
Cheers!” Ritter turned and stepped into the elevator. Once its doors had shut, he reached over and inconspicuously pushed the button to the 3rd floor. He wasn’t quite done with his visit to Three Queens.
With the Englishman out of the way, up in the penthouse Vinnie poured himself another whiskey and sat down to consider his options. Finally he uttered the verdict: “I’ll kill him and leave his body with Mikey-the-cop’s rotting carcass. A double murder–what could be better? And the kid’ll get a five-year bonus for stealin’my car.”
Frankie gave a chuckle. “Good idea, Vinnie. You show him. . . .”
They shook hands through the van window.
“You better call me Bart. I think I’ve already stepped way outside
the mantle of my calling.” The reverend took a glimpse at the bigscreen box tucked in the back of the van, dry-ice smoke still falling
from the bottom most cracks.
Greg seemed a bit chagrined. “I’d totally understand if you’ve
changed your mind.”
“No,” the reverend said, waving him away. “I’ll take good care of
your cargo. Consider this my part of the neighborhood cleanup.” He
turned over the ignition. “Besides, I haven’t watched the tube in years.”
Both men smiled. “I’ll send the letter to your wife in the morning. And Cook
and I will do some work on my old refrigerator-freezer tonight–sort of
empty it out. I think it’s about to break down.”
Reverend Keller pulled from the parking lot just as Smitty came
walking up the sidewalk. The mute smiled and waved proudly as the
van rounded the corner and disappeared.
Greg scanned the street. There was no one else around. Still, Smitty might have been followed. “You okay?” he asked. Smitty merely sauntered up to the apartment door, nodded, and flailed his arms behind him as if to
say, Can’t you see I’m alone?
“We’ve got to get you out of sight. You don’t think you were followed?” Smitty shook his head.
“Come on. Lightning’s packing up our things as we speak. We’re
moving out. The place is too hot.” As the slow-moving elevator made
its way up to the building’s 5th floor, Smitty tried to explain how he’d
eluded the agents in the park with his childish antics. Greg, however, was so
concerned with being nailed that he didn’t pay much attention. A sick feeling washed over him; the pit of his stomach felt like it was filled with cold
lead. He led Smitty out of the elevator car, shoved the key in the door, and
jostled him inside. “Lightning, Smitty’s back,” he hollered.
Mitch strode from the bathroom, carrying the last of the toiletries. He
hurried over to the tattered couch and dropped them in a bag. The grin on
his face was as big as Smitty’s. “Hey, guy, you made it!” He seized the mute
by the shoulders and gave him a shake.
Smitty nodded enthusiastically.
“Were you followed?” Suddenly the same surge of alarm came over
Mitch.
Smitty shook his head.
Greg leapt to the window and peered down through the blinds. “I
don’t see anybody out of the ordinary,” he said under his breath. Mitch tossed Smitty a change of clothes. “Here, put these on,” he
urged. “And make it quick.”
The mute immediately kicked off his shoes and jerked down his
suspenders, yanking the pants off his gangly legs. As the trousers hit
the carpet, so did the dime-size chip he’d carried in his back pocket.
He paused and stared down at the odd-looking coin, a little larger than
a dime. Curious, he picked it up.
Mitch was already at the door, ready to leave. “What’re you doing,
Smitty? We’ve gotta go.”
“Greg turned from the window and eyed the strange object Smitty
was holding between his fingers. “What’s that?”
Smitty hunched his shoulders and pointed to the pants pocket. Greg
hurled himself across the room and snatched the trinket from Smitty’s
grasp. Giving it a hard stare, he used his fingernail to peel the plastic
coating from its surface. “It’s a computer chip!” he said with a gasp. Mitch swung the door closed and snatched the miniature transmitter from
Greg’s outstretched palm, turning it side to side. Greg lunged back to the
window, then exclaimed, “We’ve got a van down in the lot! It’s got some
sort of retriever dish on the roof.”
“Blast!” bellowed Mitch as he scurried toward the bathroom. Smitty
began to dance around the floor in a mad struggle to pull on the other
pair of pants.
Still at the window, Greg kept up his play-by-play narrative. “Two
guys are climbing from the van. They’re holding an antenna . . .” Inside the bathroom the toilet flushed. Mitch watched the water rise in
the bowl, then swirl down through the porcelain throat and gush down four
stories of pipes. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the tumbling chip
sink back to the bottom of the bowl. It wouldn’t flush!
“They’re coming inside!” called Greg. “What should we do?” With a loud splash, Mitch plunged his hand down into the toilet
bowl. Sweeping wildly with his fingers, he felt for the pesky little
chip. “I can’t reach it!” he hollered.
Greg rushed into the room. “Let me try.” He, too, tried to squeeze
his fingers into the small opening. “I can’t either!”
Smitty peered into the room. Dropping his leather bag of tools on
the floor, he took out a small mechanical cable. “Good job, Smitty,”
Mitch said as he yanked the pronged device free and inserted it into
the stained commode. Using a backward motion, he churned at the
brackish water. “There . . . I think I got it.”
Greg scrounged through the bag of toiletries and pulled out a roll of
toilet paper. “Here, wrap it up.”
Mitch lifted the tiny gadget from the toilet and ran paper around it
in both directions. Then he pulled the flush lever and tossed the little
snitch back into the swirling water. “It won’t take long,” he said, “for
them to figure out what we did.”
“You check the door, I’ll catch the window,” Greg said, racing back to
the closed blinds.
Mitch cracked the door and eyed the elevator call button. The bell
rang and Mitch pushed the door shut and bolted the lock. Pressing his
ear to the door, he listened to the voices in the hallway. “He’s moving
again,” he heard one of them say.
“Where to?”
“He must’ve used the stairs; he’s headed down.”
“Don’t lose him!” one of the men said. “You take the stairs, I’ll get the
elevator.”
Mitch turned to Greg. In a whisper, he said, “I figure we’ve got a
couple of minutes to get out.” He heard the elevator doors shut. “As soon
as they find their smart little stool pigeon, they’ll be back, asking lots of
questions.”
By this time Smitty had pulled on his laceless work boots and was
tugging his pant legs down over the tops. He began to strap his pouch
to his waist, when he heard Greg ask, “You have the cash?” Thinking the
question was directed at him, he wagged his head.
Mitch held up a single suitcase. “Got it,” he said, shaking its contents. “Everything else stays.”
“Agreed.” Greg let his peephole crack in the blinds close. “They’re back
out on the street.”
“Let’s take the stairs.” The three men crept out of the apartment and
down the hall. By the time they reached the 3rd floor, one of the agents’
voices was again heard coming up the stairwell, hollering into his radio. “Send back-up. We’ll stop on every floor. He can’t get past. . . .” The men scrambled from the stairwell into the hallway and Mitch
rapped on the first door he came to. After a few seconds of quiet,
Smitty pulled his pick set from his pouch and inserted it in the lock,
jiggled it around, and popped it open. The three men cowered inside.
The sound of flowing bathwater came from inside a second door.
“Honey, is that you?” a woman’s voice echoed from the bathroom.
The water turned off.
Three faces glowered in the direction of the door; the tension in the
air almost cried out to be heard. Mitch locked the outside door and
motioned the others down the hallway toward the bedroom. Just as
they passed the bathroom door, it opened. “Honey, you home?” the
woman called again. Once more the bathroom door closed. Greg skulked
the rest of the way into the bedroom and parted the curtain that looked out
over the parking lot. “We’ve got another car,” he whispered. “And two
more men.”
Smitty squinched up his eyes, as if trying to make the whole thing
go away.
“They’ll know our apartment number in a few minutes,” replied
Mitch. “Maybe we can still get past. Here’s an idea. If we can get
down to the 2nd floor and get into a back apartment, we can drop from the
deck and take off. There are only four agents to get past.”
Greg nodded his assent. “If we wait too long there’ll be thirty.” Smitty opened his eyes and pointed a finger at his chest, then stuck
it up to his throat like he was cutting it with a knife.
“It’s okay, Smitty. You didn’t know you were bugged,” Mitch whispered. Smitty shook his head and thrust his arms forward as if they were cuffed.
He again pointed at his chest, and then at the door.
“You want to give yourself up?” asked Mitch.
The mute gave a nod.
This time it was Mitch who shook his head. “No way; I need you. Bino
told me where my car is. I need you to come help me get it back.” Greg held up a finger. “One of us getting caught, though–it’s not a bad
idea,” he mused. “But this time it’s my turn. I’ll refuse to talk and get a
lawyer.”
“No!” Mitch pleaded. “We can get out.”
Determined, Greg headed for the apartment door. “My part’s finished. With a little luck, I’ll see you in a couple of days. Give me two
minutes–I’ll draw them out to the parking lot.” The door closed behind him.
Greg made his way back to the stairwell and started down. Halfway
between the first and second floors, he casually nodded at an agent
flashing past him up the stairs. “Good afternoon,” he smiled, and continued on down.
The agent marched up three more steps, then stopped short and
took a folded paper from his pocket. Opening it, he stared at two images: a thumbnail sketch and an old photo. “I’ve got Hart in the stairs!”
he shouted into his radio. “He’s headed for the main floor.” The thundering of footsteps sounded from below. Shouts to “stop–
lay face-down on the ground” followed. Apartment doors opened; curious
tenants peeked out into the hallway. Mitch, putting on his best look of bewilderment, motioned to Smitty and they, too, stuck their heads out the
apartment door. Then, pulling Smitty along, he rushed down the stairs to the
2nd floor. Smitty crouched behind his hero and fumbled with the lock to
#205. Just then the door to #207 opened, and a man poked his head into
the corridor. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Mitch tilted his head in the direction of the parking lot. “The cops
just arrested some guy out front for kidnapping. They sent us inside. Two
others are on the loose, somewhere in the building.” This time he intentionally put on some not-very-convincing airs. He spoke in a rattled tone and smeared a funny, cartoonish smile on his face. With any luck the guy knew his neighbor and would figure out that he and Smitty were the ‘loose’one of whom he spoke. But it didn’t matter. In three more minutes they’d be over the back fence and picking the lock to one of the neighbor’s cars. From then on the cops would be turning an apartment inside out, trying to ferret out two more dangerous fugitives, only to come up empty handed.