CHAPTER

Sixteen

Zebby and Tony stood at the counter at Gray's Papaya, scarfing down chili dogs. They'd spent the last hour catching up. Tony continuously teased Zebby about his newly obtained Australian accent and his referring to him and any other guy as “mate.”

“Listen,” Zebby said, his face suddenly becoming serious, “I wanna thank you for taking care of my place while I was gone.”

“No problem,” Tony said as he dragged a napkin across his lips. “It was my pleasure,” he added with a wink.

“Hey”—Zebby leaned in—“I ain't gonna have any crazy bitches showing up at my place looking for you, am I?”

“Nah, man. Nah,” Tony said.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Zebby gave Tony a penetrating look before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue. “I got you something. My way of saying thanks,” he said as he set the tissue down on the counter.

Tony eyed it. “You shouldn't have.”

“No, you deserve it.”

“I hope you didn't spend too much time shopping for it.” Tony's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“Look, Negro,” Zebby said, picking the tissue up and shaking it. A platinum and diamond ring fell out and onto the counter.

Tony's eyes bulged. “Damn,” he said as he reached for the ring. It was heavy. Tony brought the ring to eye level. Even he, an amateur, could see the clarity of the diamonds. The ring was expensive.

“Thanks, man,” Tony said as he slipped it onto his finger. Later, when he returned home, he would slip it off and place it in his jewelry box for safekeeping.

“No problem,” Zebby said with a shrug. “So,” he continued, slapping his hands loudly together, “now on to business.”

Zebby explained that while he was in Australia he'd hooked up with a white boy who had almost bankrupted Harrods with an intensely complicated insurance scam that involved some very high-power players.

The gentleman—Zebby wouldn't divulge his name—had shared some of his most profitable scams with Zebby, one of which, coincidentally, involved inactive accounts.

Tony was half listening; he was too busy ogling the ring on his finger like a newly engaged virgin.

“Uh-huh,” Tony mumbled.

“You see, man, that's where you come in.”

Now Zebby had his attention. “What?”

“You. That's where you come in.”

“Me?” Tony was dumbfounded. The most serious crime he'd ever committed was boosting a suit from Abraham and Strauss, and that was back in the eighties, before all of the sophisticated crime-stopper technology.

“Yeah, man. You work with dead accounts.”

“Yes.”

“So you can be my in guy. Of course, I'll split all the proceeds with you, fifty-fifty,” Zebby said, his eyes sparkling.

Tony looked around. Already he was feeling paranoid. Just talking about it made him feel uneasy.

“I don't know, Zebby,” he said, shaking his head.

“Look,” Zebby said, leaning in closer. “It's real simple. All you have to do is transfer the money from the dead accounts into an active one.”

Zebby made it sound so easy.

“I'll open the active accounts. I've got loads of social security numbers, addresses, names—”

Tony jumped up from the stool. He was twisting the ring around and around on his finger. He'd broken into a sweat. He could hear the cell door clanging shut.

“I can't, man. I can't do that.”

He didn't want to seem like a punk, but this was his life that Zebby was trying to fuck with. They were friends, but they weren't close enough for him to put his freedom on the line.

“Nah, nah. Count me out,” Tony said.

Zebby bit down hard on his bottom lip. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to the empty stool. “Just hear me out.”

Tony reluctantly sat down. He would listen, even though his mind was made up.