Peter Spiegelman - Thick as Thieves

“We knew he was a lazy drunk, and that was…” Bobby puts up his hands, searching for a word.

“Comforting?”

“There you go,” Bobby says, raising his beer bottle. “We’re just feeling around in the dark now, and I like it better with the lights on.”

“Like I said, Bobby-if she’s changed anything important to our plans, then we don’t go. If all she’s done is add muscle-”

“You sound like Mike now.”

“Yeah? I haven’t heard Mike say much lately.”

“Well he’s saying the same shit as you-how it’s all manageable, how we should keep on keepin’ on. Personally, I think his perspective’s fucked.”

“Which means that mine is too?”

Bobby shrugs. “You can’t like a job so much you lose sight of the basics. You can’t get locked in. You gotta be willing to cut your losses if it’s the smart thing.”

“And you think I’m not willing?”

“Hey-I want to finish this as much as anybody. I got the same time in-the same sunk costs. But there’ll be other jobs.”

“Not too many others this size, Bobby.”

“See what I mean-locked in,” Bobby says. “That’s the kind of attitude that gets you killed, brother.” He drains the rest of the beer, pulls a fresh one from the locker, and holds the bottle against the side of his face. He closes his eyes.

Carr swings the boat farther north. They pass day-sailers and catamarans coming out of the sound, and divers massed along the reefs of Stingray City. When the sea around them is empty of other boats, Carr cuts the engines and lets them drift.

Bobby sits up and looks around. “What-we fishing for real?”

Carr shakes his head. “You know, I had a talk like this with Declan, just before the Mendoza job-”

“Oh for chrissakes!”

“About getting hung up on a job, and losing sight of the fundamentals.”

“Motherfuckin’ Carr-”

“You think that kind of attitude got him killed, Bobby, or was it something more specific?”

“I thought for sure we were done with this crap.”

“We’re done when I say so, and I’m not there yet. But here’s where I am, Bobby: I’m down to the short strokes on the last job I ever want to work; I’ve had a nasty surprise with bad intel; and whenever I’ve asked a question in the last four months about what happened in Argentina I get answers that are at least fifty percent bullshit. So I’m nervous. And I don’t want to be nervous anymore. I’m fucking tired of it. I’m tired of wondering who’s got my back and who’s going to stick something in it. If I’m going to finish this job, I need to know what’s what, Bobby, and you’re going to tell me.”

Bobby shakes his head slowly. “Mike said-”

“Mike isn’t here, Bobby. You’re going to tell me.”

Bobby chuckles and opens his beer. He takes a long swallow. Then he looks over his shoulder at the empty ocean. “Or what-you’re gonna make me swim back?”

“We’re pretty far out, so let’s not have it come to that.”

Another drink. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Carr?”

“I want to know what happened that night.”

“Jesus, I’ve told you-”

“Talk to me about the barn. Talk to me about the money in the barn.”

Bobby looks up. He shakes his head and laughs softly. “Mike thought you knew. In fact, the fucking guy thought I told you.”

Carr sighs and looks at the sketchy clouds. He nods and smiles minutely. “Well, now he’s right.”

“Aw fuck!” Bobby barks. He pushes his sunglasses into his hair. His eyes are bleary and buried deep in a nest of lines and folds. “You fucking prick. That was bullshit, Carr-total fucking bullshit. What are you, practicing to be a cop?”

“Yeah, really sorry, Bobby. I feel just awful about betraying your trust. Now talk about the barn.”

“Fuck you.”

“So you’re going to try the swimming?”

“Fuck you,” Bobby says again, but there’s less to it now. He lets his sunglasses fall to his nose, and he takes a deep breath. “Everything I told you about our run up to Bertolli’s place, and everything I said about our running out again-all that was true. The only bullshit part was about the barn. They didn’t hit us before we went in; they hit us after-after we came out.”

“Who’s we, Bobby? Who went in?”

“All four of us-me, Mike, Ray-Ray, and Deke. It was pitch-fucking-black, like I said, and cold-cold enough to see your breath if it wasn’t so dark. We came up real quiet-coasting in at the end. There was a chain on the sliding door, and we clipped it. Then we popped the door lock and went inside.

“The goddamn place reeked of dirt and horse shit-it came out like a big cloud-but there were no horses. No, it was just like Deke said it would be-a long row of empty stalls, and one at the end that was outfitted as a strong room. Steel wall panels, a big reinforced door, this giant fucking lock that was about as useful as skates on a pig, and some really stupid wiring. We snipped the wires, jacked the door frame right off the wall, and opened her up like that.” And Bobby snaps his fingers.

Carr starts at the sound, and it breaks a spell he didn’t realize Bobby had woven. The darkness, the oiled weight of weapons and tools, the rich, humid scent of earth and horses, the metal tang of adrenaline on the tongue-Carr could taste it and smell it and feel it all. He could practically see Declan, hulking but somehow graceful as he moved through the shadows. Bobby is watching him, looking worried.

Carr tugs at the bill of his cap. “And inside?”

Bobby drags a hand across the back of his neck. He’s staring at his feet, at the beer bottle, empty now, at anyplace but Carr. “Inside was money-bricks of euros, banded and shrink-wrapped, very neat. It was like Deke said, just not quite as much of it.”

“How much?”

“We took out about two.”

“Two million?”

“About. In two duffels. Ray-Ray had one, Mike took the other.”

Carr nods slowly. “Split evenly-a million in each?”

“Pretty much.”

“And then what?”

“And then we came out to the vans, and it was like I told you-they came around that hangar and lit us up.”

“As you came out of the barn?”

“As we were getting back in the vans.”

“And Mike still had the duffel?”

“He had one; Ray-Ray had the other.”

Carr nods again and watches a cruise ship churn across the horizon to the north. “Then what happened?”

“Then it was lights, camera, action: yelling, shooting, hauling ass out of there-exactly like I said.”

“Except you left out the part about hauling ass with a bag full of money.”

“Yeah, well, the driving was the same, and so was the shooting.”

“And the safe house, and the call from Declan-were those the same too?”

Bobby blots his face with his balled-up T-shirt and looks at Carr. “I swear to Christ, that was straight up-all of it.”

“But you and Mike decided not to mention the money. Why?”

“It was Mike’s idea,” Bobby says, slouching in his seat. “After Mendoza, we didn’t know what the fuck was going on-if the Prager job was still on, who was gonna run things, hell, we didn’t know if there was gonna be anything to run. And Mike said it was us who almost got our asses shot off-not you or Val or Dennis. We’d earned the money, and why the hell should we pay into the kitty for a job that might not happen.”

“Except, as it turns out, the job is happening-and it’s been happening for a while now. But I guess you two never revisited your original reasoning.”

Bobby sits up and sticks out his chin. “It was us-”

“Who almost got your asses shot off-I heard you the first time. So, you lied about the money. Anything else you want to clear up?”