“Nice costume,” I said as I sat beside him and handed over a vanilla custard I had bought him.
“I look like I drive NASCAR. Do I look like I drive NASCAR?”
“The sandals cinch it. Couldn’t you have picked someplace different?”
“Who would think we’d be dumb enough to meet at the same corner of the boardwalk?”
“Not I,” I said.
“Everything arranged?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What’s the deal?”
“You answer all their questions, don’t hold anything back, tell them everything you know about the Warrick gang and the robbery, especially about your old friend Teddy Pravitz, and you’ll be given protective custody with no more than a couple of years. After that, if you want witness protection, you can get it.”
“Can they back out once I show up?”
“Not really. I have the offer in writing, and I’m going to take a precaution to make sure they keep their word.”
“I have to tell them everything?”
“Yes.”
“Even about the girl?”
“That’s the most important part.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’ve been holding it in for a long time now, haven’t you, Charlie?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You once told me your life had turned to crap. I think it’s because of what happened to the girl and the way it’s twisted you around, the way it twisted all of you. You wanted to do that robbery to start a new life, but look at the life you ended up with, more crime, more filth. And then flight, turning yourself into a vagabond. It’s all because of the girl. You can’t start anew without coming to grips with the crimes of your past.”
“What does my mom say?”
“She just wants you home. To say good-bye.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She looks pretty chipper, actually. She wanted to show me her knife.”
“I told you from the start she’d outlive us both. What about that guy you set me up with? What was his name? Lilac?”
“Lavender.”
“Right.”
“Here’s the story. I set it up so that your agreement with the government does not require that you give them the painting. The only thing that can screw up your deal with the government is if you don’t tell them the entire truth. Selling the painting to Lavender Hill could constitute a crime not covered by the agreement. Lying about selling the painting could screw up your plea deal. But the amount of money realized could be enormous. I can’t make the decision for you, but I can relay any message you want to send to Mr. Hill. Put it in an envelope without showing it to me, and I’ll get it to him. What’s in the message and how it works out after that is up to you.”
“So you’re saying I could tell him where the painting is and not tell you and then lie to the cops.”
“That would put your plea agreement at risk, but it could be done.”
“How many years could I get for selling the painting?”
“A few more.”
“It might be worth it.”
“That’s your decision.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“It’s a lot of money, Charlie. There’s a lot you could do with that money.”
“Let me think on it.”
“Okay. We have to make one stop, and then we’ll see your mother.”
“I’m shaking.”
“Happiness or fear?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you didn’t eat your ice cream cone.”
He looked down at the vanilla cone in his fist, with its dripping frozen custard and its smear of sprinkles. He stood and tossed it into the trash can by the bench.
“You ready?” I said.
“No.”
“Good, then let’s go and start your life all over again.”
63
It was a strange reunion, two old friends with a long-buried secret who hadn’t seen each other in decades. Joey Pride and Charlie Kalakos.
The cab was parked on a side street just off the boardwalk, and when we reached it, Joey was outside, leaning on the fender, giving Charlie a hard look. There was a shake and then an awkward reticence, with shoes kicking at the asphalt. I introduced Charlie to Monica. Charlie’s head cocked when he heard her last name.
“That’s the same as the girl,” he said.
“Yes it is.”
“You related?”
“I’m her sister,” said Monica.
The two looked at each other and kept their distance. And then, cutting through the tension, Joey loosed a shot of anger.
“You were trying to dick us out of our share, you little Greek snake,” said Joey. “You were leaving your oldest friends out on the side of your highway to happiness.”
“I wouldn’t have done that, Joey. I wouldn’t have done that.”
“We all deserved a taste.”
“I know that, Joey. I do.”
“You heard about Ralphie?”
“Yeah.”
“It was your old running buddies who did it to him. They was looking for you.”
“They aren’t my friends no more, not for a long time.”
“If you just kept your mouth shut and stayed away, none of this would have happened.”
“It was my mother.”
“What you say?”
“It was just that my mother-”
“Still the same, ain’t you, Charlie? When you going to break away?”
“I thought I had.”
“Fool. She’ll be dead and buried, and you’ll still be tugging at her apron. ‘Mama, Mama, what am I going to do?’ What are we going to do, Charlie?”
“I guess we’re going to tell them what happened.”
“I guess we are. What about the painting?”
“I don’t know?”
“You still got it?”
“I know where I put it.”
“You going to sell it?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, let me tell you this, you Greek snake.” He stepped forward, stuck a finger in Charlie’s chest. “I don’t want nothing from it no more.”
“What?”
“Don’t include me.”
“You sure?”
“It still haunts me.”
“Yeah, I think I understand.”
“What do you understand?”
“I think about her, too. A lot more lately, after Victor showed me the picture.”
“Well, then, maybe you do.”
“Guys,” I said, breaking in. “This is sweet and all, quite the tender moment, but can we get moving? We still have a lot to do, and there are people trying to kill us.”
“Kill him,” said Joey, jerking his thumb at Charlie.
“I don’t think they care about the body count, do you? Let’s go.”
We piled into the cab, Joey and I in the front seat, Charlie sitting in the back next to Monica, and headed out of Ocean City. We drove around the traffic circle at Somers Point, with its bars and liquor stores. Signs pointed toward the Garden State Parkway, which led to the Atlantic City Expressway and straight to the heart of Philadelphia.
“Let’s go back the way we came,” I said.
“That’s way the hell out of the way,” said Joey.
“So it is, but we have another stop to make.”
“Where?”
“To buy some tomatoes. Nothing better than a Jersey tomato fresh off the vine.”
“We’re not hungry,” said Joey.
Charlie said, “I could use a little-”
“Let’s just get on with this,” said Joey. “We’re not hungry.”
“That’s good,” I said, “because they might be a little out of stock.”
We headed back, through traffic and past strip malls, toward the long two-lane road on which we’d come east. I had Joey keep careful check on his rearview mirror to see if he caught anything in the least suspicious, but he said it looked clean. About ten miles along, there it was on our side of the road. The broken-down shed of Schmidty’s Farmer’s Market.
Parked in front was a generic silver midsize rental. On the table to the side was a large picnic basket, red-checked tablecloth festively sticking out one of its sides. And sitting on the bench in front of the basket, her pretty legs crossed, her eyes crinkled in welcome and her hand waving hello, was Rhonda Harris.