Peter Spiegelman - Thick as Thieves

The hall is quiet and the air-conditioning sends a shiver down Carr’s arms. His footsteps echo on the polished stone floor. He has spent hours squinting at the floor plans of this house, and on them he’s found three places he might enter when the time comes. Today, after walking the grounds, counting and recounting the guards, watching the flow of guests and staff, and visiting several bathrooms, he has narrowed his list to one.

Down the hall, on the right, is a powder room. It’s small and windowless, and Carr has already been there once today. Just past the powder room, around a corner to the left, is a stairwell, with stairs climbing up. Past the stairs, across the hall, and three paces down is Carr’s way in.

It’s a rectangle labeled LAUNDRY-2 on the floor plans, but it’s not the room’s function that interests Carr, it’s the small window set in its wall. It’s in a casement-style frame, and because of its size and ground-floor location, and the dense hibiscus growing just outside, it has no view to speak of. What it does have, by Carr’s careful calculation, is a position outside the view of any of Prager’s security cameras.

As on Carr’s prior visit, one of Rink’s security crew cuts appears at the end of the corridor, to make sure he doesn’t wander too far afield. Carr raises his champagne glass.

“Toilet?” he asks the guard.

“Of course, sir,” the guard says. “Right here.” He points toward the powder room. Carr steps in and locks the door. He lifts the toilet lid and pours his champagne down in a thin, noisy stream. Then he sets his glass on the edge of the sink and starts unrolling toilet paper.

“A little help,” Carr calls, as he steps out of the bathroom.

The security guard comes down the stairs and around the corner, and almost slips on water that’s begun to flow across the powder room’s threshold. “Oh Christ,” the guard says.

Carr smiles sheepishly. “I think it’s clogged,” and he points his glass at the toilet and the water and bits of toilet paper flowing from the top of the bowl.

“You think?” the guard says impatiently, a look of disgust on his face.

“I tried jiggling it,” Carr says, and raises his hands helplessly. He looks down at the spreading water and moves out of the way, careful to keep his shoes dry. The guard steps gingerly into the bathroom, and Carr backs away.

The guard shakes his head. “Christ,” he mutters.

When the guard emerges from the powder room, his knuckles are skinned from wrestling with the jammed water valve under the toilet tank, and his trouser knees are soaked. The hallway is empty, and the patio door is just swinging shut.

Outside, crossing the lawn, Carr feels the sun’s warmth for what seems the first time. He takes a deep breath and at last there seems to be some oxygen in it. The music returns, coming to him on the warm, gusting breeze. His shirt, he realizes, is stuck to his back. He’s suddenly thirsty, and he heads for the bar set up at the edge of a terrace looking over the beach. He orders an ice water and checks his watch and his phone vibrates.

“We’re all right,” Bobby says. His words are indistinct against the background noise of water and wind. “We’re getting bounced around in the chop pretty good, but we’re ready to rock. And you?”

“So far, so good. It should be soon.”

“Soon would be aces.”

Carr pockets his phone and looks out at the ocean. The sea is boiling around the reefs offshore, and platoons of whitecaps stagger drunkenly this way and that across the bay, to fling themselves on the sand. To the east, the sky is painted with a milky wash. Carr shakes his head and wonders how long the weather will hold.

He walks along the terrace and scans the beach, looking for Prager and Rink. He spots Prager, surrounded by a knot of petitioners and making his way east from the guesthouse. He doesn’t see Kathy Rink immediately, but knows she can’t be far behind. Suddenly, Howard Bessemer is at his elbow.

“Are we almost done?” Bessemer asks. He’s pink from heat and from drink, and there are damp circles under the arms of his blue button-down shirt. His blazer hangs over his shoulder like a drowned thing.

“Soon, Howie.”

“We’re going to get some of that storm, you know. Sometime tonight they said on television, maybe sooner.”

Carr nods and looks again for Kathy Rink. “Thanks for the update. You should head back to the beach and get something to eat. And switch to soda water.”

Bessemer grimaces, unfastens another button on his shirt, and wanders off.

Carr picks out Prager again-smiling, nodding, drink in hand-walking up a shaded path. He sees no sign of Rink and checks his watch once more. It would be better, he thinks, if they were down by the water, but the thrashing surf and the sky and the tightening in his stomach tell him there’s no point in waiting. He pulls out his phone.

“I’m headed in,” he tells Bobby. “Put three minutes on the clock and go.”

“Three it is,” Bobby says over the wind. “Clock is running.”

Carr finishes his ice water, places his glass on the bar as he passes, and heads back toward the main house. He rounds a corner and there’s an orange blur to his right. Kathy Rink drops a thick, manicured hand on his arm.

She squints up at Carr. “Been lookin’ for you, Frye. What the hell have you been up to?”

Carr looks at her, at the security man at her side, and at Curtis Prager, approaching from the beach. Carr smiles and shrugs. “Enjoying the view, enjoying the hospitality, and wondering if that’s all I’m here for, or if somebody wants to do business.”

Rink’s squint turns into a scowl. “Jury’s still out when it comes to business, but we want to talk more. And now’s the time.”

“Great,” Carr says, smiling. The knot in his stomach tightens, and there’s a ticking sound in his head.

Curtis Prager grips Carr’s arm and steers him back toward the terrace bar. Rink and her security man fall in behind them. Prager’s face is flushed and shining and fixed in a wide smile. Rink’s scowl deepens.

Prager sweeps his arm in the direction of the beach. “Not bad, eh? Raising how much today, Kathy?”

“About two hundred thousand,” Rink says.

“For who?” Prager says.

“Hospital,” Rink answers. “Kids’ wing.”

“Kids’ wing.” Prager chuckles. “I’m a hero. They ought to pay me to grip and grin with this crowd for so long. Be a relief to get on the plane tomorrow.”

Carr nods appreciatively. Prager leans on the bar and orders a ginger ale from the barman, who pours it into a tall glass and disappears at some unseen signal from Rink.

“Kathy spoke to your man in Singapore,” Prager says.

Carr smiles and manages not to look at his watch. “How’d it go?”

“It went fine,” Rink says. “He says you’re tough, and reliable, and discreet, and smart, and that you generally walk on water. Which I’m guessing doesn’t surprise you. It would’ve been pretty stupid to point us at someone who wasn’t gonna say good things.”

Carr shrugs. “So besides learning I’m not stupid, it was a waste?”

Rink starts to speak, but Prager shakes his head. “Not a complete waste,” he says, “but we don’t know this guy. We don’t know any of the names you’ve given us so far. The bottom line is, Greg, we need to talk to someone we know. Someone we know, who also knows you. You understand-we need a reference.”

Carr hears an engine drone, and for a moment he thinks it’s Bobby and Mike, but it’s too fast and too far off-an airplane. Carr nods. “I get what you’re saying-I just don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know about you, but most of the people I deal with don’t want their names traded back and forth.”