Peter Spiegelman - Thick as Thieves

Carr remembers her at the dining table, half-glasses balanced on her nose, a cigarette burning in an ashtray, a cord of smoke twisting to the ceiling. The books were open in an arc in front of her, and the maps were unfurled. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a black ribbon.

“Here’s where we will live, mijo,” she said, pointing with a sharp red pencil. “And here is Daddy’s office, and the new school.” She made neat red check marks as she spoke. “Here is the museum, and the futbol stadium, and the port, right here, and three train stations, and the main post office. Here is the airport, and the television studio, and the radio station, and the power plant. And see-here is the park, mijo, and the carousel.”

And he remembers wandering the cities with her, remembers the narrow streets and the squares-cobbled, noisy, sometimes with a fountain, a dark arcade, or a looming church. His mother would hold his hand through the crowds, and buy him a lemon ice, a slice of melon, or a skewer off the grill. Then she would find a bench or little table and smoke and watch the people while Carr ate. They would sit for what seemed like hours to Carr, but he didn’t mind. She would run her fingers through his hair, and sometimes, after he’d eaten, he would lean against her and doze.

Often, he recalls, she would meet someone she knew. Or they would meet her. And why not: the whole world seemed to stroll through those squares. Carr recognized some of the men and women, from embassy parties he thought, but most of them were strangers to him. They spoke mainly in Spanish to his mother, though some spoke in English and some in Portuguese. They would stop long enough to say hello, to talk about the weather, to shake hands and offer a cigarette or a book of matches. They all stared at him.

He remembers the heat of the stones, the smells of rotting fruit and grilling meat, the cool damp of the arcades, the drone of many footsteps on the cobbles, the feel of her dress as he leaned against her. Gardenias and tobacco.

And then there is a voice behind him, and a cool hand on the back of his neck.

“I thought you’d know better than to sit with your back to the door.”

He jumps, and his beer goes flying, and Tina smiles.

“At ease, soldier,” she says.

It’s the first time he’s seen her away from a golf course, the first time he’s seen her without Mr. Boyce, and the change in context is disorienting. For an instant Carr wonders if she’s come to kill him, but decides probably not. If she had, he would probably be dead by now. Probably, too, she would’ve worn something else.

She’s dressed in black shorts-very short-a black tank top, and black flip-flops. Her black sunglasses are pushed into her white-blond hair. Her arms and legs are ghostly, and her hands, long-fingered and elegant, are raised. Her gray eyes are steady.

“The door was locked,” Carr says.

“Guy like you should get better locks,” Tina says, lowering her hands. “Sorry for the surprise.”

“You could’ve called first.”

“Don’t like phones,” she says. “Besides, I like to keep in practice.”

Carr wipes his hands on his pants. “It doesn’t seem like you need much. And somehow I don’t think that’s the only reason you’re here.”

She smiles thinly. “Mr. Boyce didn’t want to pull you away, but he does want to know how things are going.”

“And he doesn’t like the phone either?” Tina nods. “So you’re here to check up?”

“More like checking in.”

“I don’t remember a lot of checking in with Declan.”

She shrugs. “Does it need explaining?”

“I’m not Declan-I get it.”

Tina sits on the sofa, slips off her shoes, and folds her legs beneath her. “No need to pout,” she says. “So how about we open a couple more beers, and you tell me what’s what, and I do the same?”

Carr looks at her more closely, and his disorientation becomes bewilderment. Tina out of school is less guarded-relaxed, almost funny. Her voice is soft and liquid-intimate in the confines of a room. And her pale, oval face, always smooth and empty at those golf course meetings, has an appealing touch of irony at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

“You want yours in a glass?” he asks. Tina shakes her head.

Tina’s had three bottles by the time Carr’s made his report, and Carr has had two more. His head is cottony, and Bessemer’s work as a procurer, though no less mystifying to him, is more amusing as he tells it to Tina.

“Maybe it’s not all that different from private banking,” Carr says, smiling. “It’s all about keeping the clients happy.”

Tina shakes her head. “Guy’s a few cards short of a deck, for sure. It’s a big gamble just to pick up some extra income. Can’t blame you for wanting to find out why.”

Carr shrugs. “And what about you? Anything new with our pal Prager?”

“Not much. His security guy, Silva, has fallen off the wagon again.”

“Christ,” Carr says, drinking the last of his beer. “It’s a wonder he has a liver left.”

“I’m not sure he does. And this time he’s fallen off the radar too. He was on a tear in Homestead last week and we lost him.”

“Probably staggered into the Everglades.”

“We’ll let you know if he staggers out again,” Tina says. “You need any help with Bessemer, or maybe with his Russian friends?”

“If I do, what’s it going to cost me?”

Her smile is chilly. “The deal doesn’t change: we front your expense money, and we get paid back-plus finance charges-off the top. Services rendered are at cost plus.”

Carr counts off on his fingers. “Expenses, finance charges, cost plus, finder’s fee, management fee. You guys are fucking crooks.”

Tina laughs, and it’s surprisingly girlish. “We don’t do pro bono.” She drains her beer bottle and thrusts the empty at Carr. “But you want to do for yourself, fund your own expenses, save a little money, it’s okay with us.”

A frown darkens Carr’s face. “That didn’t work out so well for Declan.” He takes Tina’s empties and his own to the kitchen, and returns with two fresh beers. Tina is standing at the window, watching the distant storm.

“Speaking of which,” she says. Carr takes a deep breath, trying to chase the wool from his head. He stands next to Tina. Their reflections are like ghosts in the glass. “We had a talk with somebody down there,” she continues. “Somebody who used to work for Bertolli.”

“ Somebody who?”

Tina shakes her head. “Somebody who worked security for him, up until a few months ago-security in Mendoza.”

Carr leans forward. “Did he say anything about how they knew Deke was coming? Who they got the word from?”

“He didn’t know anything about that. He was strictly an order taker; he didn’t ask questions, didn’t even think about having questions.”

“So what use is he?”

“Everything we heard about that night-everything we heard from you-says that your guys got tagged almost as soon as they pulled up to that little airstrip.”

“That’s the way it was told to me, every time-that they’d barely gotten out of the vans.”

“And they never got inside the barn? Never laid eyes on the cash?”

“That’s the way I heard it. I assume that you’ve heard something different.”

She nods again. “This guy says that your people didn’t get hit coming out of the vans; they got hit coming out of the barn. He says when it was all over that night, Bertolli was short almost two million euro.”

In the glass, Carr sees Tina watching him. “And this guy is who?”

“I told you, he worked security for Bertolli.”

“So he’s what-some brain-dead kid with a gun? And your friends down there just tripped over him? Or did he volunteer his services?”