“Whatever,” Gaynor said. “When do you want to do this?”
Marshall looked at his watch again. Sarita could see him thinking, timing things.
“One hour,” Marshall said. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
Gaynor ended the call. Marshall looked at Sarita and smiled. “We’re going to be rich, babe.”
“Fifty thousand is not rich,” she said. “Even someone as poor as me knows fifty thousand is not rich. You’re a fool.”
“I’m gonna finish my sandwich and then I gotta go,” he said. He put a hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him. Kissed her. “You just wait. I’m going to take care of you.”
Marshall got a seat in the far corner of the food court. It wasn’t as busy as he’d hoped, eleven o’clock on a weekday morning. There were a few seniors sitting around drinking coffee, some of them clustered together, shooting the shit. What they did, Marshall knew, was arrive here before the shops opened, do their mall walk, traipsing from one end of the place to the other twenty or thirty times in their goofy-looking running shoes; then they bought some coffee and doughnuts and sat around and talked for three hours because they had nothing else in the world to do. This was their last stop before they hit Davidson Place.
Marshall bought himself a newspaper and a Coke and sat at a table that gave him an unobstructed view of the hot-dog stand and the nearby garbage receptacle. It was one of those units with one opening for trash, another for recyclables, and a place on top to leave your plastic tray. The food court was at the end of a broad hall, which meant there was only one direction Bill Gaynor could come from.
Ten minutes after Marshall had settled in, he saw a man approaching.
The man was carrying a baby up against his chest with one arm, and an eco bag hung from the end of his other arm. At first Marshall thought, Who brings a baby to pay off a blackmailer? Then he thought, Oh, yeah, his nanny didn’t show up for work today.
Duh.
Marshall tried to keep his focus on the sports pages of the Times Union, the closest thing you could get to a local paper these days. Every few seconds he’d steal a quick glance at the man.
He strolled past where Marshall was sitting, heading in the direction of the garbage.
Marshall felt a tingling all over. So close to so much money. When Gaynor had his back to him, Marshall could not take his eyes off the bag.
Gaynor reached the trash, took a quick look around, pushed open the hinged door, and shoved the bag inside. Baby still in his arm, he turned and walked back in the direction he’d come from. Marshall waited until he was out of sight.
“All right,” Marshall said, getting up, leaving his paper and Coke behind. He began walking briskly toward the trash.
At a table just a few steps away from it, an elderly man cut short his discussion with three other seniors and jumped to his feet. He moved — a lot faster than Marshall thought he should have been able to at his age — toward the trash bin.
“Get out of my way, old man,” Marshall said under his breath.
The old man had nothing in his hands to throw away. Once he’d reached the trash, he opened the door with one hand and reached in with the other.
“Hey!” Marshall shouted from thirty feet away. “Hey!”
He closed the distance in a second, put his hand on the man’s arm and started to pull it out.
“Get your paws off me,” the old man said.
“What the hell are you doing?” Marshall asked.
The man said, “Guy just threw away a perfectly good bag.” He’d found it and was pulling it through the opening. “See? That’s a good bag. No good reason to throw away that—”
“Give that to me,” Marshall said. “That’s mine.”
“I found it!” the man said. Then, seeing that it had paper stuffed in it, he added, “There’s something in here.”
“It’s mine. Let go of it. He left it there for me, you dumb bastard.”
The man was no match for Marshall, who ripped it from his hands. The man yelped in pain. “You twisted my arm, you motherfucker!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! But it’s mine!”
Marshall ran.
Behind him, the old guy shouted, “Hey! He broke my arm!”
Just keep moving. Don’t look back.
Marshall nearly ran into the glass doors on the way to the parking lot, they were so slow to retract. He had his keys out, unlocked the van from fifty feet away, jumped in behind the wheel, and keyed the ignition. He tossed the bag onto the seat next to him, threw the van into drive, and tore out of the lot as fast as he could.
A mile down the road, he pulled into a Walmart lot, stopped the car, and reached over for the bag.
His heart was pounding and his shirt was soaked with sweat. What the hell was that old guy doing, rooting around in the trash? Who needed a used eco bag that badly?
Marshall thought the bag should have been a little heavier than it was. But then again, when was the last time he’d carried fifty grand? How much was that supposed to weigh?
Gaynor had placed some newspapers over the top of the bag. Marshall tossed them into the foot well in front of the passenger seat, expecting to see bundles of cash with rubber bands around them.
There was an envelope. A business envelope. A very thin business envelope.
“Jesus, the guy didn’t write a check, did he?”
He tore it open, found a single sheet of paper inside. Gaynor had written the following:
Didn’t feel safe leaving money in trash. Have different plan for delivery. Call me.
Forty-six
Agnes tapped lightly on the hospital room door before entering. She found Marla sitting up in bed, sipping some tea from her breakfast tray.
“Haven’t they taken that away yet?” Agnes asked.
“They came by, but I told them I was still working on it,” Marla said. “The tea is cold, but that’s okay.”
“I’ll call down, tell them to bring you some hot.”
“No, please, Mom. I know that whatever you ask them to do, they’ll jump, but I just want to be treated like any other patient.”
Agnes smiled. “You’re not just any other patient. You’re my daughter. And if there was ever a time when I was willing to throw my weight around, it’s now.” She rested a hand on her daughter’s bare arm, inches above her bandaged wrist. “But the truth is, I’m getting you out of here. You’re better off at home than here. It’s a good hospital — no, it’s a great hospital, no matter how some sons of bitches want to rank it — but you’re better off with us.”
“I’d like that,” Marla said weakly.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay. The doctor — not Dr. Sturgess, but the psychiatrist? — was in to see me a while ago, and he’s going to give me something.”
“I know. I already have that sorted. Do you feel like you’re going to do anything like that again?”
Marla shook her head. “No, I don’t. I just felt, you know, overwhelmed by everything that was happening at the moment. But the prescription, it’s supposed to help with that.” She put a hand on top of her mother’s. “Really, I won’t do it again.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay, then,” Agnes said cautiously. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Carol was in to see me,” Marla said. “I really like her.”
“I’m lucky to have her. She told me this morning that she’s very worried about you.”
Marla nodded. “That’s what she said. Even though I’ve only met her a few times, she really seems to like me.”
“What about Dr. Sturgess? Has he been in to check on you?”