Sincerely,
Lucas hit Send.
Lucas had dinner alone at the bar of Cava Mezze, a Greek spot on Capitol Hill. When he returned to his apartment he saw that he’d received a message from Grant Summers.
You have wore me down, Mr. Bell. I will find a way to deliver the car. Please give me a day so I can figure this out. Once I get off base I will contact you and tell you where we can meet. Please bring cash, as promised. I will have car, along with title and keys. What is your contact number?
Lucas typed him the phone number to one of his disposables and asked, What’s yours? Summers did not reply. It was not surprising and also unimportant. Lucas was about to get close to the one called Serge. Which would put Billy Hunter in his field of fire, too.
“You think it’s wise?” said Billy King.
“I think it’s money,” said Serge Bacalov.
They were in the living room of their rented house near Jug Bay. Louis Smalls was on the couch, stoned, earbuds in, listening to something heavy and loud.
“You’re gonna do what?” said King.
“We are going to rob him,” said Bacalov.
“You gonna hit him on the head, too? You know you almost killed that old man.”
“Almost is horseshoes and hand grenades.”
“You got lucky.”
“And I got your goods.”
“Serge, you nearly always miss my point,” said King. “I don’t like sloppy. If there’s a reason to kill, you do it all the way. That way they can’t talk. I’m not about to go to prison ’cause you almost killed someone. I like my freedom.”
“Do you like twelve thousand dollars?”
“Life’s easier with money.”
“Only if you can trade it. Cash is better than gold coins you cannot spend. Or paintings.”
“I’m going to see the man tomorrow about the gold.”
Bacalov smiled thinly. King would meet his middleman at a waterfront location. He’d then spend the night jackhammering some marina whore he’d meet in a bar.
“I’ll come back with cash,” said King.
“And with the smell of fish on you, no doubt,” said Bacalov.
“What’s it to you?” said King. He got up from his chair, tipped his bottle of Heineken to his lips, and finished it. Bacalov looked at King’s drinking arm, the ripple in his massive forearms, thickly covered in blond hair like fur covers an animal. King was a beast. He should have had hooves for feet. It would complete his look.
“This will be easy,” said Bacalov. “No worries. Louis will drive, you will back me up. I only need to pick the spot.”
“So you’re just gonna take his money.”
“I will strong-arm him,” said Bacalov. “It will be piece of cake.”
King had gotten a call from Lumley about a man who had come into the art dealer’s shop and described him as sitting at the bar of Cashion’s with Grace Kinkaid. The man had said there’d been a conversation. But there had been no such man or conversation there that night. It bothered King that someone was looking for him. Bothered him and excited him at the same time. But there was no reason to tell Bacalov about this man yet.
“What’s this guy’s name?” said King.
“He calls himself Rick Bell.”
“How do you contact him?”
“By e-mail. My untrackable account. And I have a phone number for him if I need it.”
“You ever stop to think this guy is baiting you?” said King.
“You think he is FBI, or something? They don’t bother with these little potatoes.”
“I don’t know who he is. Neither do you. I’m saying, be careful.”
“He wants car. For his wife. Can you imagine overpaying for present, for a woman you can have in bed anytime you want? He talks like he is the woman.”
King had not wanted to double up with Bacalov on Grace Kinkaid. It seemed excessive, a bold move for bold’s sake. And Bacalov had not even pulled his end off. King wondered, was the man in Lumley’s shop after both of them? Lumley had described him as medium height, strong build, with short black hair. King could at least get a look at him when Bacalov tried to take him for the twelve.
“He is pussy,” said Bacalov.
“Maybe.”
“You come with me, eh?”
King said, “Yes.”
Fourteen
The next day, Lucas met Marquis Rollins and Bobby Waldron at the bar of the American Legion, Cissel Saxon Post 41, on Sligo Avenue in Silver Spring. After he was buzzed through the security entrance, he slid onto a stool between Marquis and Waldron at the double-sided stick.
There were several solitary drinkers today and sets of two and three as well. The place was sparsely decorated in the manner of a school auditorium, and not well lit, but the draw wasn’t the decor or the ambience. It was a second home to many veterans in the area and some who visited from out of state. People liked to drink with others who shared their experiences, and they liked to be with their own kind. Plus, the beer was cold and very cheap.
“What’d you do to that hand, lover?” said Marquis, nodding at Lucas’s bandage.
“I fell down in some broken glass,” said Lucas.
“Sure you didn’t put your paw where it didn’t belong?” said Waldron.
“There was a woman,” said Lucas.
“Always is, with you,” said Marquis.
The bartender put a Budweiser in front of Lucas. Here at the Legion he drank from brown bottles. He tapped his with Marquis’s and Waldron’s.
“Success,” said Lucas.
“Hear, hear,” said Marquis, looking smart in his matching outfit, a billowing print shirt and pants. His New Balance sneakers somewhat reduced the sartorial effect of his getup, but not entirely. Sneaks were the only kind of shoe he could comfortably wear on the end of his prosthetic leg.
“I’m for it,” said Waldron, wearing a T-shirt with cutoff sleeves, the better to show off his guns and tiger-stripe tats. The “dots” on his forearm, small bits of shrapnel permanently embedded under his skin, were augmented with tiny dots inked in as well. “When I can get it.”
“Still doing security work, Bobby?” said Lucas.
“The boss man’s got me holding down an Urban Outfitters,” said Waldron.
“It does have urban in the name,” said Marquis. “So that means it must be dangerous.”
“It’s a jungle out there,” said Waldron. “In Georgetown.”
“Yeah, how’s it feel to be back in uniform, Waldron?”
This came from Tom Kaniewski, seated on the other side of the bar, five beers deep into the afternoon. Kaniewski was in his late forties, a marine who had participated in an infamous Reagan-era military action. Waldron had been a PFC in the army, posted for recon at a firebase in the Korengol Valley of Afghanistan. The animosity between the branches of the service was real for some, almost a tradition, but Waldron plain didn’t like Kaniewski, a decent guy ordinarily whose mouth overloaded his asshole when he drank. As for Lucas, he had nothing but respect for the guys in the army. They’d caught it in Fallujah, and dealt it back.
“Fuck you, Tommy,” said Waldron.
“I’m just playing with you,” said Kaniewski.
“Play with this,” said Waldron. “I should be more understanding of you, I guess. You’re still living with the posttraumatic stress of that Grenada invasion.”
“That again.”
“The climax of Heartbreak Ridge had me on the edge of my seat.”
“Excuse me,” said Kaniewski to the guy seated next to him, and clumsily got off his stool and headed toward the bathroom.