Tim Green - Exact Revenge

“Why?”

“No,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about that. I need to find some things out about a couple of guys.”

“Who?”

“Guy named Seth Cole who bought the Jets and his friend, this Bert Washington guy who says he’s with a group of Indians who own some of those casinos upstate.”

“How much? How soon?”

“All I can and yesterday,” Frank said. “And I want you to use all our cops.”

“That much?”

“If you need to empty that fucking safe behind you, you do it, understand?” Frank said, making a fist. “I want to know who these motherfuckers are and what they’re doing.”

Mickey was sitting up straight now and blinking, looking around the room like he was expecting someone to pop up out of nowhere and kill him.

“Ah, I’m just jumpy. Maybe everything’s just fine,” Frank said, waving his hand in the air and easing back in his chair so that it gave a little groan. He looked over at a picture of Mickey and his family on a beach somewhere and his eyes lost their focus. “I’m so fucking close, Mick. This deal is so perfect.”

“Something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said, putting his thumbnail back against his teeth, his eyes still on the photograph. “But if it is, I ain’t gonna just sit here and take it. You get the money ready too. In case we got to run.”

“Run?” Mickey said. “Hey, I don’t see running from those guys, Frank. You don’t run from them.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank said, pulling his thumb out of his mouth and leaning toward Mickey. “What else you gonna do, talk? You gonna throw me under the bus and save your own ass?”

“They don’t have to know about me, Frank,” Mickey whined, his eyes pulled down at the corners. “I don’t want the money.”

“Well you’re taking the fucking money,” Frank said, drawing a Glock 9mm out from under his coat and putting it in Mickey’s face. “Ten percent. That’s your share. You’re rich, you and that little Sioux City bimbo. So you better find out for me real quick who these motherfuckers are so I can deal with it.”

WHEN MY FATHER DIED, they cremated his frozen body and buried the ashes in a cardboard box. I had that box dug up and reburied under some tall pine trees on a windy knob that overlooks the valley of the Onondaga Nation. I know how much he loved my mother and Black Turtle too. The stone that marks his new grave is a towering pillar of limestone cut from his own quarry with a sculpted bust of my father on top with his eyes facing the Nation. I know he would have liked that.

But still, after he froze to death, his body was burned-one of the few things my father ever openly despised about death. And I remember the one time we talked about it that he asked me to never let them burn his body.

Because of all that, I believe I would be justified if I didn’t feel any remorse as I watch them lower Dani Rangle’s dark walnut casket with its single rose and its silver gilt corners into the ground. But justified or not, there is a knot in my stomach. I sigh and force my mind away from the young girl. My business is with Rangle and it cuts through sentimentality. It has to.

Rangle is stooped over, and when the priest hands him the silver ornamental shovel to deposit the first scoop of dirt over his daughter’s dead body, it glints in the bright sunlight and he staggers away. An attendant from the funeral home catches him and stiffly endures his teary hug.

Katie Vanderhorn is much less affected. She stands in her place next to the grave in a black dress and sunglasses with her long hair gently waving in the breeze and is comforted by the one-armed embrace of Martin Debray. There are maybe two dozen other people there, standing under the pale blue sky, in front of their chairs, and dressed in the finest suits and dresses that can be found on Madison Avenue. One man looks at his watch. Another woman yawns. When the priest finally gives up, dumps the dirt himself, says a last prayer, and excuses them, they turn to leave without bothering to comfort the hysterical Bob Rangle.

It is the white-haired priest who takes Rangle by the arm and slowly leads him toward the waiting limousine, following a few steps behind his wife, who is clutching Martin’s strong arm. I walk down the hill with the wind in my face, smelling the fresh loamy dirt. I walk around the grave and down the path of white fabric that leads toward the limo.

When I put my hand on the priest’s square trim shoulder, he starts and whips his head around. His pale blue eyes are wide when they see me, almost as if he’s afraid.

“I need to talk to him, Father,” I say, gently separating the older man from Rangle’s sagging frame. “Please. It’s all right. I’m an old friend.”

I support Rangle by one arm and he looks up at me without focusing. There are gray circles under the dark wet pits of his eyes and his nose drips and seems more pointed than ever. The dyed flap of hair hangs crooked across his bald head. The lines on his face are deep and craggy. The face of an old man. He takes a ragged breath, wiping the drip on his sleeve, and a moan escapes him.

I watch the priest walk toward his own waiting Town Car, his robes full of the breeze. When he turns back to look at us, I nod to him and smile. He continues his walk. On the gravel drive, I see Martin Debray’s face in the dark opening of the limousine. Rangle is still crying, although all his tears seem to have been spent.

“I have some more news for you,” I say in a tone that makes Rangle straighten and wipe his eyes.

“He was a royal,” he says, blubbering.

“Sometimes they’re worse,” I say. “I tried to call you this morning.”

“I was…” Rangle looks back at the grave and pulls his arm away from my grip. “You’re hurting me.”

“The Russian government announced that it’s investigating the Bank of Moscow for fraud.”

“What?” Rangle’s eyes widen and his mouth opens so that I can see his tongue. “When?”

“Midday,” I say, soaking up the expression on his face. “Moscow time.”

“After we bought?”

“After you bought,” I say. “Technically, we’re not even having this conversation. I’m just a client, remember? My lawyer advised me against talking to you. With your client list, and the amount of money lost, he expects an FBI probe. But I wanted to tell you in person…”

I can’t help a small smile. The sound that comes from him is exquisite, a strangled cry of rage and horror. His lip curls up under the thin mustache. He clenches his hands and his weak trembling turns into a violent shake.

“It could be worse,” I say. “Believe me when I say that.”

“You-” he says in a screech, raising his fist. “You’re sick.”

My heart is racing. I would love to smash his face and snap his neck with my bare hands, but that would be too easy. This is the man who destroyed my life, not for love or even money, but out of greed for power and adulation. He ruined Raymond White for a seat in the U.S. Congress, and for that, his suffering will be a long-drawn-out affair. So instead of hitting him, I turn and walk away, savoring what waits for him now.

RANGLE MADE A FEW discreet calls with his hand over his mouth and the phone and found out that everything Seth told him was true. He slumped in the corner of the limousine and said nothing else the entire way back to his apartment. When the car stopped, he didn’t bother with his wife and Debray, but he told the driver to wait for him. He slipped out of the car, hurried through the lobby, and into the elevator.

Bursting into his apartment, he dismissed the maid and headed directly into his bedroom. There he went right to his wife’s jewelry safe.