“This is the dude who planned the whole operation,” Tariq Jessup said, pointing at the newcomer. “He kept seven hundred thousand, and we got fifty thou apiece, which is not the kind of payday that fosters allegiance to your employer. So, I repeat, he did it. Do we get to go now, Officer Fly Boy?”
Reitzfeld stepped into the picture. “Don’t move until I tell you,” he said.
Jessup and Jewel recognized him immediately. “Dude,” Jessup said, “sorry about the chloroform and tying you up and shit, but that was his idea, too. We were just the help.”
Reitzfeld wasn’t interested in them. He was focused on the man in the black cap. “Why’d you do it, Rick?” he said.
Rick Button, the stand-up comic, who until seconds ago had been one of the victims, shrugged. “Ah, the age-old question: why did the comedian steal the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar poker pot?” he said. “It was better than spending a year in a body cast, gumming my food, and shitting into a bag, which is what would have happened, compliments of a pair of Russian Neanderthals who work for the Bratva in Brighton Beach.”
“Excuse us again, officers,” Jessup said. “But Garvey and I break out in hives when we’re in the presence of this many happy white people. You said we could go. Are you or are you not men of your word?”
Reitzfeld didn’t look at me. It had to be his call. “Get lost,” he said. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t be telling tales about this evening around the hood, or it will come back to bite you in the ass.”
“Have no fear,” Jessup said. “We got played by a cop. It’s not exactly something we plan to be tweeting about.” He turned to Button. “I’m updating my résumé, boss. Can I count on you for a reference?”
Button laughed. “Good one,” he said.
Jessup and Jewel left the beer hall.
“Sit down and don’t move,” Reitzfeld said to Button. Button sat.
Then Reitzfeld put his arm on my shoulder and walked me ten feet away from the table. “I got this, Zach. You better go, too,” he said.
“Bob, this is a whole different scenario than the one we rehearsed,” I said. “Shelley won’t have the same compassion for this idiot that he did for Kylie’s boyfriend. Do you think he’s going to want to prosecute? Should I—”
“The only thing you should do, Zach, is get the hell out of here. Wash your hands of the whole affair. You helped me nail this weasel, and for that I am forever grateful. Whatever Shelley wants to do now is his call, but I can tell you that whatever it is, he’ll make sure that your name isn’t connected in any way.”
“The only way for that to happen is for him to let Rick Button walk. If he’s arrested, there’s no way to keep my name out of it.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over it, Zach. You didn’t do anything wrong, and nobody is going to be asking you if you did. Thanks for the beer. Now go.”
I went. Straight to Cheryl.
Her first question after I recounted the entire evening was right out of page one of the shrink’s handbook. “So how do you feel about all this?” she said.
“Relieved,” I said. “I know it looked like I was trying to remove C.J. from the picture, but I’m really glad it wasn’t him. If it ever turned out that Kylie was dating a criminal, her career would be toast.”
“And you would have lost the best partner you ever had,” she said.
“And the most infuriating, and the most unpredictable, and the most unreasonable, and by far the most insane,” I said. “I mean, yesterday she pulled the plug on tens of thousands of cell phones, and today she walked straight at a woman in a trance who was programmed to shoot her.”
“It sounds like she’d be hard to replace.”
I wrapped my arms around Cheryl, put my lips to her ear, and whispered, “So would you, Fly Girl. So would you.”