Peter Spiegelman - Thick as Thieves

“What about it?”

“The unanswered questions-who tipped Bertolli, and what happened to the rest of the cash-you want to spend more money on them? Should I keep asking around?”

There’s a rumble of thunder outside, and fat drops of rain against the glass. The garden is dark, the flower beds a uniform gray.

“Keep asking,” Carr says.***

The wind is gone and the rain falls straight and heavy; the short sprint from parking lot to lobby leaves Carr soaked. He shivers as he steps into the elevator and presses the fourth-floor button. He’s alone in the car and the door is nearly shut when a hand slides in and bumps it open again. And then Valerie is there, wet from the rain. She presses the button for three, waits for the door to close, and presses her mouth against his.

Howard Bessemer is a vision in seersucker: clear-eyed, pink-cheeked, hair slicked and shining-an altogether healthier vision than his recent diet should allow. He sits erect and alert in the passenger seat, scanning the approaching coast, the whitecaps, the immaculate sky, as Carr bears left off Frank Sound Road onto North Side Road. Bessemer’s window is down and his face is turned into the salt breeze, and he reminds Carr of a dog out for a ride.

“Day like today, you see why people move here,” Carr says.

Bessemer smiles. “Wait till you see Curt’s place. It’s not quite San Simeon, but it’s a hell of a spread.”

Carr nods. “Prager live there all by himself?”

“Him and the staff. Every now and then he sets up a girl in the guesthouse.”

“Girl as in girlfriend?”

“As in hooker,” Bessemer says, smirking. Carr lifts an eyebrow. “Always pricey, though. Very high-class.”

“No doubt,” Carr says.

They ride on in silence, Bessemer watching the sea, and Carr, despite their destination and the mounting tension, failing to keep his mind from the night before. Lack of sleep casts a dreamlike scrim over his memories of the evening-burnishing the images and shuffling their order.

Even from across the room, Valerie’s voice was close in his ear. “You want this job done, and so do I. I did what I had to do.”

Her hands were cold under his shirt. Her hair was wet and smelled like lilac and an airplane cabin.

“All I know about what happened down there is what Bobby and Mike told us. The first Mike said anything to me about euros was the day before we went to Miami.”

Her mouth tasted of airline wine, and it seemed to be everywhere at once.

“Bobby and Mike talked about Nando sometimes, and so did Deke, but I never met him until that day in Miami.”

Her dress was wet, and it peeled away like a shedding skin. She left it in a pile beside the minibar.

“Amy’s gone for two days, up in New York. I’m booked on the first flight back to Boca tomorrow morning.”

Her legs were smooth and slick, and the hollows of her neck were full of rain.

“Mike was going to pull out of the job if I didn’t help him wash his money-and he was going to take Bobby with him.”

Her room was on the third floor, overlooking treetops and a loading dock. She kept the lights off and opened the drapes.

“Bobby told Mike that you knew, and Mike told me, and then I got on a plane down here. I didn’t want to talk to you about this on the phone.”

Her lips were searing.

“The e-mail from that coffee bar? That was to Nando. He said no cell phones-messaging only. He was superparanoid.”

In the dim light, her skin was like matte gold.

“That afternoon, with Mike, that was the only time. You want this job done, and so do I. I do what I have to, and I’m not going to apologize for it.”

The rain grew heavier, and it made a tearing sound as it fell through the leaves.

“Have you thought any more about afterward-where you want to go, what you want to do? ’Cause if you haven’t, I’ve got ideas.”

North Sound Road becomes Rum Point Drive, and Bessemer clears his throat. “We’re coming to it,” he says, and a surge of adrenaline drags Carr from his reverie.

Prager’s property announces itself to their right, with a wrought-iron fence and high, dense shrubs that obscure the ocean view. A while longer and they reach the gate.

It’s tall and steel and topped with cameras, and adjoined by a green pastel bungalow. There are two men inside and Carr recognizes one of them from the airport tail. The man comes out wearing a trained smile and a Glock on his hip. He’s carrying an iPad and Carr sees two pictures on the screen: his own and Bessemer’s. The guard glances at the photos and at them and rests a hand on the car roof.

“Mr. Frye, Mr. Bessemer, welcome. Mr. Prager will meet you at the main house. Just stay on this drive-you can’t miss it.” As he speaks, the gate opens and he steps aside and waves them in.

The drive is crushed shell and it’s bordered by close-cut lawns and ironwood trees sculpted by the constant winds. It curves gently west and rises up a hillside that he knows, from the broader topography, must be man-made. Another curve and they’re at the top, where the drive empties into a wide circle of pavers, set in a herringbone pattern. There’s a fountain in the center, marble, pale pink, like the inside of a baby’s ear. A marble fish stands on its tail within, and the braid of water falling from its mouth makes a prosperous sound. Across the circle is the house.

Its architectural pedigree is indeterminate-an uneasy hybrid of Italianate, Spanish Colonial, and Georgian-with big the only unifying principle. Beneath the tiled roof, its stone walls are yellow-goldenrod in the main parts, going to a butter color for the arched colonnades and the ornament work around the windows and doors. There is a portico in front, and two glossy black doors. They stand open, and Curtis Prager is in the threshold, in sandals, linen trousers, and a pale pink polo shirt. Kathy Rink is at his side, in a green golf skirt and with a smile fastened on her face.

Carr glances at Bessemer, who is smiling oddly and humming softly, tunelessly. Carr wonders if he’s taken something. “Shit,” Carr whispers, but when he pulls up to the portico, Bessemer sharpens.

Bessemer is out of the Toyota before Carr has switched off the engine, a big smile and a big hand extended. There’s a clumsy hug and biceps squeezing, and then Prager holds Bessemer at arm’s length. He’s taller than Carr expected, with more ropy muscle on him. He seems to dwarf Bessemer.

“Jesus, Bess, you look like shit. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

Bessemer grins and ducks his head almost shyly. “Just the usual misdemeanors. But what about you-you keep a special portrait in the attic, or something? Drinking pints of virgin’s blood? You look twenty years younger.”

“ Virgin’s blood. ” Prager laughs. “That’s the pot calling the kettle. I just do a day’s work once in a while, and then I get on a tennis court or in a boat. Get some oxygen in my blood, instead of pure ethanol.”

Prager claps Bessemer on the shoulder once more, and Bessemer ducks his head again, and it occurs to Carr that he’s witnessing a sort of theater: an imitation of camaraderie, an acting out of Bessemer’s subordination. He’s not sure who the intended audience is. Maybe himself. Maybe they do it for each other.

There’s a final lockjaw laugh, and Prager turns to Carr. His eyes, in his lined, brown face, are the color of sleet. His hand is cool and wiry. “And you must be Mr. Frye-at long last. Sorry for the scheduling screwup, but this week has been one fire drill after the other.”

“There are worse places to kill time,” Carr says. “And call me Greg.”

Prager nods. “I’m Curt. Now, I hope you’ll bear with me a bit longer, Greg, before we sit down.” He looks at Kathy Rink, who looks inside the house and beckons.