Forty-One

“Lock it behind you,” the slender man in the security guard uniform barked.

I heard the click as Hal obeyed. Hal was still wearing the wire, I reminded myself, sucking in a deep breath. But had he turned it back to the proper volume? Was anybody tuned in? Were the DEA listeners partying in their van, celebrating the capture of Manganero?

This was the simple part, after all.

DEA agents would pick up George, along with Gloria’s brother Leroy, as soon as they left the building, and tail them to the bank. What could go wrong before then? DEA hadn’t even sent an agent with me, figuring a judge would like it better if an independent citizen could back up Hal’s statement and testify that Manganero’s dubious cash had mingled with legitimate concert receipts in George’s office.

Hal introduced me to George, the man on the bank’s exempt list, a heavyset middle-aged fellow who didn’t say anything beyond hello. I managed a smile. Maybe George didn’t realize anything was wrong either. Hal hadn’t noticed. That left me, and I’d seen the smudgy-eyed man only once. Was I absolutely certain? I hadn’t even asked Mooney for a peek at his mug shot.

“You think the two of you can handle this?” I said, giggling in a way I never do, speaking too loudly, trying to catch the ear of some quick-witted technician in the sound van. “Hell of a lot of money. Must weigh a ton.”

George tried a weak laugh and said, “Yeah, they sent me a pint-sized assistant this week. Regular guy’s off, uh, sick.”

“Man your size doing security work,” I said in a flirty voice. “You carry a big gun?”

“What’s it to you?” Ray said. I took that for a yes, and hoped the DEA had picked it up.

How had Ray put Leroy out of commission? I prayed he’d used his brain and not his gun, envisioned a furious Leroy locked in some closet. How could I face Gloria if anything happened to her brother Leroy? One thing: Ray hadn’t stolen Leroy’s clothes. The blue uniform fit his narrow frame precisely.

Christ, this guy was resourceful. If he couldn’t get the money one way, he’d get it another.

“Who are you?” Ray addressed me warily.

“She’s my baby tonight,” Hal said cheerfully, slipping an arm around my waist, keeping to our cover story. “I like ’em tall.”

I deviated from it. “I’m Dee’s good buddy,” I announced. “Dee and Mooney want to make sure every little nickel gets to the nest.” I tried to sound as if I’d had a drink too many, slurring an occasional word. I listened, hoping for footsteps in the hall, on the stairs. Nothing.

George glanced at Hal’s heavy satchel. “What’s the count?”

While they shifted stacks of bills, I took a good look around the office. No other entrances or exits, not even a window. I memorized a poster of an early Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young tour, stuck to one of the yellowed walls with pushpins. A bulletin board covered with pastel flyers announced upcoming events. A round schoolroom clock ticked. Eleven forty-six. Eleven forty-seven. I gave Ray a sidelong glance, wondering if the gun was in the back of his pants, tucked in his waistband, or in his side pocket. I couldn’t spot a bulge.

“What’re you staring at, bitch?”

“What do you think?”

“Hey,” Hal said. “None of that talk.”

I measured the distance between the desk and the door, between Ray and George. Could I stop him?

She was a decent player. That’s what Dee had said about Brenda. A tough cookie, and a decent player. Not a bad thing to have carved on your tombstone.

“Wait a minute,” I said with a wide smile. “Haven’t I seen you around? You a musician? No, don’t tell me. Didn’t I see you with what’s-her-name? Brenda, Dee’s bass player?”

There. I’d said it. Now would somebody in the damned sound truck clue Mooney that something weird was happening in the office where the nicely photographed money was about to slip into the wrong hands?

“Not me,” Ray said curtly, quietly. I wondered if he remembered me from our brief encounter in Dee’s suite.

“I guess everybody has a double,” I said lightly. “But you sure look like Ray—Brenda’s boyfriend, Ray. Hal, honey, do you believe everybody’s got a double someplace?”

“I’m a security guard,” Ray said firmly. “Shut up. Come on, George, let’s go.”

The money had been transferred to four canvas sacks, each zipped and padlocked. Reluctantly, George handed the small brass key to Ray.

Hal caught on at just the wrong time. He stared at the slight, dark-eyed man, and an uncertain smile flickered across his face. “Shit,” he said, “you’re no security guard, son. You don’t have the build for it.”

Then Hal turned to face me, as if the break in routine was my fault, cooked up by yours truly in conjunction with the Boston Police and the Drug Enforcement Agency. “What the hell is that son of a bitch doing here?” he demanded.

“Just give him the money, Hal,” George urged, wiping a hand across his mouth. “He’s got a freaking gun, okay? You just hand him the money. That’s what we’re supposed to do. It isn’t your money; it isn’t mine. It’s not worth—”

Hal shook his head in disbelief as he listened. Then a grin spread slowly across his face and he interrupted. “Oh, kid,” he said in a sorrowful voice, “have you ever fucked up.” And he reached inside his shirt to show Ray the wire.

“Asshole,” Ray screamed, pulling his gun, “I only want the goddamned money! What’s it to you?”

“Don’t!” I yelled at the same time.

I tried to shove Hal aside. The office was too small.

Ray shot him. Must have thought he was reaching for a gun.

I hit the floor before the explosion quit reverberating. To minimize myself as a target, to stay as low as possible in the tiny space, I had to spread my legs and bend them at the knee like I was in the middle of a frog kick. My feet pressed against the wall. I could see one of Ray’s shoes through the kneehole of the desk. Before he could fire again, I straightened both legs abruptly, shoving myself across the linoleum, grabbing his foot in both hands, and yanking it out from under him. George, fast for his size, thank God, smashed Ray’s wrist with the edge of his hand and grabbed the little .22.

Hal was moaning on the floor.

I ripped open his shirt and yelled into the mike, “Get an ambulance up here, for chrissake! What the fuck are you guys doing?”

They were listening to the concert, the DEA man told me later. They were having trouble with the wire; its sound level had suddenly diminished. I didn’t enlighten them, didn’t tell them I’d asked Hal to turn it off. While they were yelling and blaming each other, I breathed into Hal’s mouth, forcing his chest up and down, up and down. I thought he was alive when the paramedics took him.

He died at the hospital, Mooney told me. I didn’t go to the party. My green silk shirt was covered with blood. I threw it in the trash when I got home.

I wondered whether I’d remember to add the price of the shirt to MGA/America’s bill.