Backflash. Part 12

"You're beautiful, Miss Jane Ann, is it?"

Carlow said, "But then something else happened. What?"

"There's a VIP on the s.h.i.+p, I don't know if you-"

"Yeah, we've seen him," Carlow said, thinking, this is it. This is it right here. "What about him?"

"Well, he says he's a state a.s.semblyman named Kotkind," Manchester said, "but he isn't. He's a fake. I know a.s.semblyman Kotkind, I've interviewed him."

"Ah," Carlow said.

"What I can't figure out," Manchester said, "is why anybody would do that. Did the real a.s.semblyman send this guy in his place? He is handing out the a.s.semblyman's business card. If I say something, my cover is blown and maybe I just make a fool of myself. Or maybe something's wrong, and the cruise line should know about it. What do you think?"

Noelle said, "I think-" and began to cough. She tried to go on talking through the coughs that wracked her poor frail body, and Manchester leaned closer to her, concerned, trying to make out what she was trying to say.

Carlow kept his wallet in his inside jacket pocket because he kept his sap in his right hip pocket; a black leather bag full of sand. It was one smooth movement to reach back, draw it out, lift it up, drop it down, and put Mr. Manchester on ice.

Noelle's left arm shot out, her hand splayed against Manchester's chest, and she held him upright on the bench. "Don't kill him," she said.

"Of course not," Carlow told her. He knew as well as she did that the law goes after a killer a lot more determinedly than it goes after a heister. If it were possible to keep this clown alive, Carlow would do it. He said, "I need a gag, and I need something to tie him."

"You hold him for a minute."

Carlow pushed the wheelchair a few inches forward, and sat on the bench beside the clown. He put his left elbow up onto the guy's chest and said, "Okay."

Noelle was wearing all these filmy garments out of a gothic novel, so now she reached down inside and gritted her teeth and Carlow heard a series of rips. Out she came with several lengths of white cloth, and handed them to him. "I've got him now," she said, and put her hand on Manchester's chest again.

Carlow bent to tie the ankles together, then tied the wrists behind the back, then stuffed a ball of cloth into Manchester's mouth and used the last strip to make a gag.

Noelle said, "What are you going to do with him?"

"Lifeboat."

They'd watched that d.a.m.n safety drill every night for over a week, so Carlow knew exactly how to open the sliding gla.s.s door and how to open one segment of the top of the enclosed lifeboat just below. "You keep him," he said, and started to rise.

"Wait!"

"For what?"

"d.a.m.n it, Mike," she said. "Get the camera. That's my face he's got there, and probably yours, too."

"Oh. Sorry."

Carlow sat again, and patted him down, and found first the ca.s.sette recorder and then the Minolta. "Nice camera," he commented, and pocketed both.

He looked around. The half-asleep couple were still in the same spot. Toward the stern, three or four people were looking out and downriver at where they'd been, talking together. Carlow stood, crossed to the outer gla.s.s wall, slid open a panel, stepped through onto the curved roof of the lifeboat, leaned down, gave the stiff handle a quarter turn, lifted, and a rectangular piece of the roof opened right up. Then he crossed back to Noelle, sat beside Manchester again, and said, "Now I have to get him over there."

"Put him on my lap," she said, "and wheel us over."

"Nice."

He held Manchester while Noelle wheeled herself backward out of the way. Then he stood, picked up Manchester under the armpits and placed him seated on top of Noelle. "So this is what they call a dead weight," Noelle said.

Carlow wheeled them both across the promenade to the open gla.s.s door, where the cool night air now drifted in. He stopped, and she shoved, and Manchester went toppling out and down into the lifeboat. Carlow winced. He'd land on a stack of life preservers, but still. "Goodbye," Noelle said.

"He'll have a headache in the morning," Carlow commented, as he moved the wheelchair to one side so he could shut everything up again.

"Let him take a picture of that," she said, unsympathetic. "a.s.shole."

7.

Susan Cahill didn't really like Morton Kotkind, Lou Sternberg could tell. She smiled at him, she waved her t.i.ts at him, she smoothed the way for him as they made their long slow inspection tour of the s.h.i.+p, she even went out of her way to chat with him during dinner at the captain's table, since the captain himself was making every effort not to be friendly and accommodating but was instead doing a very good impression of an iceberg from his native land; and yet, Sternberg could tell, Susan Cahill didn't really like Morton Kotkind.

Which was fine with Sternberg, who hadn't liked Kotkind either, during those days in the lawyers' bar on Court Street in Brooklyn, getting to know the man, getting to know him so well it was an absolute pleasure to feed him the Mickey Finn yesterday. Probably, Sternberg thought, Cahill would be just as happy to feed a Mickey to me, and the thought made him smile.

Cahill picked up on that, and smiled right back, across the dinner table. "Mister a.s.semblyman," she said, "I believe you're enjoying yourself."

"I'm not here to enjoy myself," he snapped at her, and put his pouty brat face on again, which she bravely pretended not to see.

But in fact he was enjoying himself, hugely, which was rare on a heist. For him, pleasure was at home, his little town house in London 2, Montpelier Gardens, SW6 with its little garden in the back enclosed by ancient stone walls, with roses to left and right, cuc.u.mbers and brussels sprouts at the back. There he lived, and in that city his friends lived, people who had nothing to do with any kind of criminality, except possibly in the tax forms they filled out for Inland Revenue.

That was an extra bonus in Sternberg's living arrangements; he filled out no tax forms anywhere. To be resident in the U.K. for more than six months, legally, one had to sign a statement that one will be supported from outside the country, will neither go on the dole nor take a job away from some native-born Englishman. How the foreigner supports himself from outside the country doesn't matter, only that he does. So there was never a reason to deal with Inland Revenue. At the same time, since he didn't live or work in the U.S., didn't even pay any bills or credit accounts or mortgages there, he also flew below the IRS's radar. Which meant there was no one anywhere to say, "Just how do you support yourself, Mr. Sternberg?" Lovely.

In fact, it was the occasional job with a trusted a.s.sociate like Parker that took care of his material wants, while the house in Montpelier Gardens saw to his spiritual needs, so except for the occasional soulless transatlantic airplane ride he was a reasonably happy man, though you could never tell that from his face.

The airplane rides were necessitated by his iron rule that he would never work and live in the same territory. London in fact, all of England was out of bounds. Whenever it was time to restock the bank accounts, it was off to America once more, with Lillian the char left behind to see to the roses and the cuc.u.mbers; the brussels sprouts took care of themselves.

This particular journey to the land of his birth looked to be a fairly easy one, and profitable. The last time he'd worked with Parker it had been anything but profitable, but that hadn't been Parker's fault, and Sternberg didn't hold it against him. This job looked much more likely to provide another year or two of comfort in SW6.

The problem with the job was that it was taking too long. Sternberg had pretended to be other people before in the course of a heist a telephone repairman, a fire department inspector but never for five hours. From eight P.M. till one A.M., in this confined s.p.a.ce on the Spirit of the Hudson, essentially on his own since Parker and Wycza's job was just to stand around looking tough and competent, Lou Sternberg not only had to be a politician and a Brooklynite, he also had to be a bad-tempered boor. He actually was bad-tempered at times, he had to admit, but he'd never been a politician or a Brooklynite, and he certainly hoped he had never been a boor.

Ah, well. Dinner pa.s.sed, the turnaround at Poughkeepsie pa.s.sed, the inspections of the casino and the kitchens and the purser's office and the promenades and the game room and the laughable library and all the rest of it slowly pa.s.sed. The engine room was interesting, being more like a windowless control tower than like anything purporting to be a steams.h.i.+p's engine room Sternberg had ever seen in the movies. And through it all, he maintained this sour and offensive persona.

There were reasons for it. First, the original was like this. Second, bad temper keeps other people off balance, and they never believe the person being difficult is lying in some way; rudeness is always seen as bona fide. And the third reason was the money room.

There'd been only one real fight so far, the one over the handguns, and Sternberg had won that, as he'd expected to. The money room would be another fight access to the money room was almost certain to be a fight and by the time they got there Sternberg wanted the entire s.h.i.+p's complement to be convinced that if they argued with this son of a b.i.t.c.h a.s.semblyman, they lost.

Of course, if Susan Cahill had led them straight to the money room at nine-thirty or ten, it would have been a real waste, because most of the money wouldn't have arrived yet, but they'd a.s.sumed that she wouldn't want to mention the money room at all, and so far she hadn't.

Twelve-fifteen, and not a single G.o.ddam thing left to look at. The last place they inspected was the nurse's office, and found she was well equipped in there for first-level treatment of medical emergencies, and also had a direct-line radio to the medevac helicopter at Albany Hospital, probably for when winners had heart attacks. Sternberg stretched the moment by congratulating her on her readiness and enquiring into her previous work history, and unbent so far he could feel the curmudgeon facade start to crack.

So finally they came out of her office, and it was only twelve-fifteen, and Cahill said, "Well, Mister a.s.semblyman, that's it. You've seen it all. And now, if you wouldn't consider it a bribe-" and she beamed on him, jolly and s.e.xy "-the captain would love to buy you a drink."

Sure he would. Too early, too early. What should he do? This was Sternberg's call alone, he couldn't confer with the other two, couldn't even take time to look at them. Accept a drink? Should he stall another half an hour that way, then all at once remember the money room and demand to see it? Or go with it now, knowing they'd be cutting their take by about forty-five minutes worth of money?

Go now, he decided. Go now because they were in a movement here, a flow, and it would be best to just keep it going, not let it break off and then later try to start it up again. And go now because he was tired of being Mister a.s.semblyman. "We're not quite finished," he said. "When we are finished, if there's still time, I'll be very happy to join you and the captain you will join us, won't you? in a drink."

Either she was bewildered, or she did bewilderment well. "Not finished? But you've seen everything."

"I haven't seen," he said, "where the money goes. It's still on the s.h.i.+p, is it not?"

She looked stricken. "Oh, Mister a.s.semblyman, we can't do that."

He gave her his most suspicious glare. "Can't do what?"

"That room," she said, "you see, that room is completely closed away, for security reasons, n.o.body can get into that room."

"Nonsense," he said. "There must be people in there. How do they get out?"

"They have their own door on the side of the s.h.i.+p," she explained, "with access direct to the dock and the armored car, when we land."

He said, "You're telling me there's no way in or out of that place, whatever the place is-"

"The money room," she said. "It's called the money room."

"Because that's the whole point of the operation, isn't it?" he demanded. "The money. And what happens to it next."

"Mister a.s.semblyman, the company's books are-"

"Very attractive, I have no doubt," he interrupted. "Ms. Cahill, do you suddenly have something to hide from me? The very crux of this matter is what happens to gambling money once it has been lost to the casino operator."

"Mister Kotkind," she said, voice rising, forgetting to call him by his t.i.tle, "we hide nothing on this s.h.i.+p! Every penny is accounted for."

"And yet you tell me there's no access to the, what did you call it, money room. And if this s.h.i.+p were to sink, the people in that money room would simply die? If it caught fire? Is that what you're telling me? You have human beings in that room, and their safety is at risk for money?"

"Of course not." She was scrambling now, not sure how to stay ahead of him. "They can unlock themselves out if it's absolutely necessary."

"And unlock others in," he insisted. "I haven't even seen the door to this place. Is there-"

"It has its own staircase," she said reluctantly, "down from the restroom area, with a guard at the top and a very locked door at the bottom."

"Oh, does it. And I a.s.sume that door has, like any apartment in my district in Brooklyn, an intercom beside the door, and a bell. You can ring that bell and explain the situation and they can open up and let me in to inspect that room and I can see for myself what's happening with that money."

"Mister Ambas a.s.semblyman, I..." She shook her head, and moved her hands around.

"And without," he told her, as heavily as any prosecutor, "warning them ahead of time that they are going to be observed."

She'd run out of things to say, but she still didn't want to give in. She was desperate, confused, blind-sided but not yet defeated. She stood staring at Sternberg, trying to find a way out.

No; no way out. He let the full flood of his exasperation wash over her: "Ms. Cahill, do I have to go to the captain? This absolutely core part of my inspection you are unreasonably denying me, and you claim there's nothing to hide? Is that what I must take back to the a.s.sembly with me and report to my colleagues? Shall I explain what my report is going to be to the captain?"

Silence. Cahill took a deep breath. Her previously perfect complexion was blotched. She sighed. "Very well, Mister a.s.semblyman," she said. "Come along."

8.

As far as George Twill was concerned, no matter who upstairs won or lost, he himself was the luckiest person on this s.h.i.+p. He was fifty-one years of age, and he'd been more than two years out of a job, after the State Street in Albany branch of Merchants Bank downsized him. Twenty-two years of steady employment, and boom. Unemployment insurance gone, severance pay almost used up, savings dwindling, no jobs anywhere. Supermarket a.s.sistant manager; movie theater manager; parking garage manager; even motel desk clerk: every job went to somebody else. George was feeling pretty desperate by the time he joined the hundreds of other people who responded to the newspaper ad for jobs on this s.h.i.+p, to fill in for the people who hadn't traveled with it up from the south. And he got the job. Teller in the money room, so here he was a teller again, though a very different kind of teller from before. But the people in the money room had to not only have some banking background but they also needed solid reputations, because they'd be bonded, so that was why George Twill was at last employed again, at better than his old salary at the bank. And this job wouldn't be taken over by an ATM machine.

He was by far the oldest of the five people who worked in here, probably twenty years older than his immediate boss, Pete Hancourt, whose job t.i.tle was cas.h.i.+er but who was known in the room as Pete. They were a pretty informal bunch in here, happy in their work, and with one another. The two women were Helen and Ruth, and the other male teller was Sam. They worked day s.h.i.+ft four days, then three days off, then night s.h.i.+ft three nights, then four days off. Good pay, easy hours, fine co-workers; heaven, after the h.e.l.l of the last two years.

The other thing George had, because he was the oldest here, was one extra responsibility. He was in charge of the panic b.u.t.ton. It was on the floor, a large flat metal circle that stuck up no more than an inch, and it was an easy reach, maybe eighteen inches, from where his left foot was normally positioned when he was seated at his counter. If anything ever happened in here that wasn't supposed to happen, like a fire or a sudden illness or a leak in the side of the s.h.i.+p all of them extremely unlikely it would be George's job to reach over with his left food and press down just once on that b.u.t.ton. Otherwise, his responsibility was not to b.u.mp into that b.u.t.ton inadvertently. No problem; it was tucked well out of the way.

The work here was easy and repet.i.tious and he didn't mind it a bit. The vacuum canisters came down, with cash for chips, or chips for cash. George and the other three tellers made the transactions and kept track of the drawers of money and the drawers of chips. No cash was used up in the casino; even the slots took only chips.

At the beginning of each run, down here in the money room, they'd have a full supply of chips and just a little money. By the end of each run, they'd be down fifty or a hundred chips, because people forgot they had them in their pockets or wanted to keep them as souvenirs, and they would have a lot of money, particularly on Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights. It was fascinating to see the efficiency with which it worked. And if George Twill had ever had a tendency toward being a betting man which he had not being around this efficient money machine would have cured it.

When the buzzer sounded, all of a sudden, at twenty minutes to one, it startled them all, and at first George had no idea what that sound was. Then he remembered; it was the bell for the door, the entry to and from the rest of the s.h.i.+p that was always kept locked and that none of them ever used. He'd only heard it once before, the third day of his employment, and that time it had been the s.h.i.+p's nurse, a recent hire like George, bringing around medical history forms to be filled out. Apparently she hadn't realized she wasn't supposed to have done it that way, but mailed it to their homes. Pete said he'd heard that a couple of executives from the company had really reamed her out that time.

So whatever this was, it wouldn't be the nurse again. Feeling his responsibility, and feeling also a sudden nervousness, wondering what this would turn out to be, George moved his foot closer to the panic b.u.t.ton and watched Pete, frowning deeply, walk over to the door and speak into the intercom there.

George could hear that it was a woman's voice that answered, but he couldn't make out the words. Pete said something else, the woman said something else, Pete said something else, and then Pete unlocked the door.

Susan Cahill came in. George remembered her, she was one of the people who'd interviewed him when he applied for the job. She'd seemed remote and cold and a little scary, and he'd thought she didn't like him and would recommend against his being hired, but apparently he'd been wrong. This was the first time he was seeing her since, and the familiar face eased his tension and brought his left foot back to its normal spot on the floor.

Three men followed Susan Cahill into the room. The first was short and stout and grumpy-looking, glaring around at everybody as though looking for the person who stole his wallet. The other two men were large one of them huge blank-faced, tough-looking, in dark suits and ties.

Susan Cahill said, "Thank you, Pete," then addressed the rest of the room. She seemed to George to be annoyed or upset about something, and trying to hide it. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "this is a.s.semblyman Morton Kotkind, from the New York State legislature, and he's here on an inspection tour of the s.h.i.+p. We operate, as you know, at the discretion of the legislature. a.s.semblyman Kotkind wanted to see where the money eventually comes. These are his... aides, they are state troopers, Trooper Helsing and Trooper Renfield."

"That's funny," Pete said, grinning at the two troopers.

They turned and gave him blank looks that seemed to contain a hint of menace. Susan Cahill, sounding frazzled, said, "What's funny?"

Pete seemed to belatedly realize this was a formal occasion, not a casual one. "Nothing," he said, and avoided the troopers' eyes as he turned to say to George and the others, "Folks, just keep doing what you're doing. The congressman is here to see how the operation works."

"a.s.semblyman," the grumpy man said.

"Oh. Sorry."

A vacuum canister slid into the basket in front of George. He picked it up, twisted it open, and five one-hundred-dollar bills dropped out, along with the upstairs cas.h.i.+er's transit slip. Only an hour left on the cruise, and they were still buying chips.

Grey Hanzen, in the darkness at the water's edge, stripped out of shoes and socks and pants. What he really wanted to do was get back in his car and drive down to the Kingston bridge and across the Hudson River and line out west and not stop until the water in front of him was the Pacific Ocean. If only.

How had he got himself into this mess? It had all been so simple and easy to begin with. Now there were all these different bunches of people, and him in the middle like a grain of wheat in a G.o.ddam mill. Any one of those people could crush him in a second, and most of them would have reason. How in the good Lord's name was he going to steer himself through these rapids and come out safe and alive on the other side?

"I should just get the h.e.l.l out of here," he told himself out loud as he waded into the cold water. Gloomy, despairing, not even pretending to have hope, he waded out to his boat, threw his clothing into the bottom and climbed in.

Nothing else to do. You can't escape your G.o.ddam fate, that's all.