3
Nelson McWhitney liked his bar so much that, if the damn thing would only turn some kind of profit, he might just stay there all the time and retire from his activities in that other life. His customers in the bar were more settled, less sudden, than the people he worked with in that other sphere. His apartment behind the place was small but comfortable, and the neighborhood was working-class and safe, the kind of people who didn’t have much of anything but just naturally watched one another’s backs. About the only way anybody could get hurt really badly around here was by winning the lottery, which occasionally happened to some poor bastard, who was usually, a year later, either dead or in jail or rehab or exile. McWhitney did not play the lottery.
McWhitney did, however, sometimes play an even more dangerous game, and he was planning a round of it just now. When he got out of bed Saturday morning, he had two appointments ahead of him, both connected to that game. The second one, at eleven this morning, was a three-block walk from here to pick up the truck he’d bought yesterday, which would have the Holy Redeemer Choir name painted on the doors by then, and be ready for the drive north. And the first, at ten, was with a fellow he knew from that other world, named Oscar Sidd.
Because of the meeting with Oscar Sidd, McWhitney had only one beer with the eggs and fried potatoes he made in his little kitchen at the rear of the apartment before going out front to the bar, where he put a few small bills in the cash register to start the day.
He had the Daily News delivered, every morning pushed through the large letter slot in the bar’s front door, so he sat at the bar and read a while, digesting his breakfast. He had some tricky moments coming, but he was calm about it.
Oscar Sidd was a frugal man; at exactly ten o’clock, wasting no time, he gave two hard raps to the glass of the front door, wasting no energy. A dark green shade was lowered over that glass, but this would be Oscar.
It was. A bony man a few inches over six feet, he wore narrow clothing that tended to be just a little too short for him. He came in now wearing a black topcoat that stopped above his knees with sleeves that stopped above the sleeves of his dark brown sport coat, which stopped above his bony wrists, and black pants that stopped far enough above his black shoes to show dark blue socks.
“Good morning, Nels,” he said, and stepped to the side so McWhitney could shut the door.
“You okay, Oscar?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“You want a beer?”
“I think not,” Oscar said. “You go ahead, I’ll join you with a seltzer.”
“I’ll join us both with a seltzer,” McWhitney said, and gestured at the nearest booth. “Sit down, I’ll get them.” He wouldn’t be introducing Oscar Sidd to his private quarters in back.
Oscar slid into the booth, facing the closed front door, opening his topcoat as McWhitney went behind the bar to fill two glasses with seltzer and ice and bring them around the end of the bar on a tray. He dealt the glasses, put the tray back on the bar, sat across from Oscar, and said, “How goes it?”
“Colder this morning,” Oscar said. He didn’t touch his glass, but watched McWhitney solemnly.
“You keep up with the news, Oscar,” McWhitney suggested.
“If it’s interesting.”
“That big bank robbery up in Massachusetts last week.”
“Armored car, you mean.”
McWhitney grinned. “You’re right, I do. You noticed that.”
“It was interesting,” Oscar said. “One of them got picked up, I believe.”
“And then lost again.”
Oscar’s smile, when he showed it, was thin. “Hard to get reliable help,” he said.
McWhitney said, “Did you notice how it was they got onto him?”
“The bank’s money is poisoned, I believe,” Oscar said. “Traceable. It can’t be used.”
“Well, not in this country,” McWhitney agreed.
Oscar gave him a keen look. “I begin to see why we’re talking.”
McWhitney, having nothing to say, sipped his seltzer.
Oscar said, “You are suggesting you might have access to that poisoned cash.”
“And I know,” McWhitney said, “you do some dealings with money overseas.”
“Money for weapons,” Oscar said, and shrugged. “I am a... junior partner in a business trading weaponry.”
“What I’m interested in,” McWhitney said, “is money for money. If I could get that poisoned cash out of the States, what percentage do you think I could sell it for?”
“Oh, not much,” Oscar said. “I’m not sure it would be worth it, all that trouble.”
“Well, what percent do you think? Ten?”
“I doubt it.” Oscar shrugged. “Most of the profit would go in tips,” he said. “To import officials, shipping company employees, warehousemen. You start playing with those people, Nels, many many hands are out.”
“It’s an awful lot of money, Oscar,” McWhitney said.
“It would very quickly shrink,” Oscar said, and shrugged. “But since it’s there,” he went on, “and since you do have access to it, and since we are old friends” — which was not strictly speaking true — “it is possible we could work something out.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Oscar looked around at the dark wood bar. “Do you have this money with you now?”
“No, I’m on my way to get it.”
“The police theory,” Oscar said, “according to the television news, is that the thieves hid their loot somewhere near the site of the robbery.”
“The police theory,” McWhitney said, “is, you might say, on the money.”
“But you believe,” Oscar said, “you could now go to this area and retrieve the cash and bring it safely home.”
“That’s the idea,” McWhitney said.
“And are you alone in this endeavor?”
“Well,” McWhitney said, “that’s the complication. There’s other people involved.”
“Other people,” Oscar agreed, “do tend to be a complication. In fact, Nels, if I may offer you some advice...”
“Go ahead.”
“Leave the money there,” Oscar said. “The little profit you’d realize from an offshore trade becomes ridiculous if you have to share it with others.”
“I may not have to share it,” McWhitney said.
Oscar’s thin face looked both amused and disapproving. “Oh, Nels,” he said. “And do you suppose your partners have similar thoughts?”
McWhitney shook his head, frowning for a stressful instant at the scarred wood tabletop. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “Could be. I don’t know.”
“A dangerous arena to walk into.”
“I know that much.” McWhitney gave Oscar an impassioned look. “I’m not talking about killing anybody, Oscar. I’m not talking about a double-cross.”
“No.”
“You said it: a dangerous arena. If I have to defend myself I will.”
“Of course.”
“There’s three of us.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe three of us come out with the money, maybe one of us comes out, maybe nobody comes out.”
“You’re determined to know which.”
“Oh, I am,” McWhitney said. “And so are the others. If at the end— If at the end, I’m clear of it, and I’ve got the money, and it’s just me, I want to be able to think you’ll be there for the export part.”
“You won’t be mentioning me to the others.”
“No.”
Oscar considered. “Well, it’s possible,” he said. “However, one caveat.”
“Yeah?”
“If you come out trailed by ex-partners,” Oscar told him, “I do not know you, and I have never known you.”
“That’s one thing I can tell you for sure,” McWhitney promised. “I won’t be trailed by any ex-partners.”