Detroit? She'd suggested 220 Merrill in Birmingham, sit at the bar have a couple of drinks, see if there was interest from both parties. But Fratboy didn't like it. She could have the cops there, he said. Karen wanted to tell him she could have the cops at Eastern Market too, but the cops weren't part of the plan.
Karen took 1-75 south to the Mack exit and saw the skyline of Detroit spread out in the distance. She took a left over the freeway and a right on Russell, and drove slowly through the bustling, congested streets of the market. Hi-Los were zigzagging, vendors were stocking their stalls: icing down fish, hanging sides of meat, filling bins with fruit and vegetables and flowers. Karen steered around trucks that were double-parked on Market Street, dodging workers that suddenly appeared in front of her, looking for R. Hirt, the wine and cheese place. She saw it at the end of the street, a red-brick building built in the twenties.
Karen wondered if he'd still be there. She was late because there was an accident, traffic had stopped in the four southbound lanes for twenty minutes, while a wrecker towed a jackknifed semi off the road. She parked in the R. Hirt lot, and got out of the Audi and looked around, but didn't see the fratboy or his sidekick, who reminded her of a Russian that played for the Red Wings. He was a stocky guy with frizzy blond hair and a goatee. She took a cigarette out of her purse, and lit it and smoked, watching the action at the market, crowded now at eleven in the morning.
Karen finished the cigarette and dropped it on the asphalt and stepped on it. She looked at her watch, it was 11:05. She'd give it a few more minutes and if he didn't show, she'd assume he wasn't interested. She watched a vendor pull a huge iced-down snapper out of a plastic tub, and fillet it on a wooden cutting board for a customer. She watched a butcher French and chine racks of lamb. She checked her watch and took a final look around the parking lot and opened her car door and got in. Her phone was ringing.
She reached for her purse, grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear.
"Hey," Fratboy said, "where're you going?"
They went to a place called the Boar's Head, a small dark bar in the market area, and sat in the back, Karen across the table from Fratboy and Goatee, the only people in the place who weren't wearing long white coats with bloodstains on them. Four meat cutters at a table next to them were staring at Karen like she was a side of Angus prime.
Fratboy noticed them and turned in his chair. He got their attention and said, "Something we can do for you?"
The butchers all glanced over, but none of them said anything.
He said, "Then quit staring at us like a bunch of fucking morons."
Fratboy didn't look tough at all but he delivered the line with such confidence it sounded like he could take them all on. They met his gaze and looked away. Karen lit a cigarette, inhaled, and turned her head and blew out the smoke and said, "You're making this way more difficult than it has to be."
"That's the way Bobby is," Goatee said.
"We don't need to know anyone's name, all right," Fratboy said.
"You know mine," Karen said. She picked up her beer bottle and took a drink. "Maybe I should make up names for you if you want to be so secretive. You could be Chip," she said pointing at Bobby, and "You're Billy Bob," she said to Goatee.
"Billy Bob? That's a southern hick name," Goatee said.
Karen said, "What I'm trying to say is, if we don't trust each other, we might as well get up right now and go about our business."
Goatee said, "You're right. I'm Lloyd, Lloyd Diehl."
Karen noticed Lou's ring on his second finger, too big for his pinky. He kept looking at it, reminding her of a girl who'd just gotten engaged, looking at it and grinning.
"And his name's Robert Gal," he said pointing his beer bottle at the fratboy, "but goes by Bobby."
"That better?" Karen said. "Now that we've been properly introduced-"
Bobby cut her off. "Anything else you want to tell her?" he said to Lloyd.
"Bobby's really Canadian," Lloyd said, "but doesn't want anyone to know it. He's from Guelph, Ontario. Know where that's at?"
"I don't hear a Canadian accent," Karen said. "You know, aboot or eh?"
"He lost it," Lloyd said. "Sounds American, doesn't he?"
Karen said, "Is that your real name-Gal?"
"No, I made it up," Bobby said.
Lloyd said, "Yeah, it's his real name."
"What nationality are you?" Karen said.
"Hungarian," Bobby said, "I can run home, get my family tree if you're interested."
She couldn't have found two more perfect guys. Karen took out another cigarette and held it between her teeth until she lit it, and blew smoke across the table at Bobby. He fanned the cloud with his hand.
"If we're through talking about my family history," Bobby said, "maybe we could get down to business, discuss how we're going to steal the $250,000. Where'd you say it's at?"
Karen said, "In a house in West Bloomfield."
"Whose house we talking about?" Bobby said.
"A guy I know," Karen said.
Lloyd took a drink of beer and said, "What's he do, sell dope, guns?"
"He's a businessman," Karen said.
"What's your connection?" Bobby said.
Karen said, "I used to go out with him."
"Love is a many splendored thing," Bobby said. "What happened?"
"I gave him money to invest," Karen said. "We broke up and he kept it." That was basically what had happened although there was a little more to it. "Help me get my money back and you can split the rest."
Lloyd said, "How much are we talking?"
"At least $250,000," Karen said. "Probably more like half a million." She told them about the guy, a wealthy Chaldean who owned high-end gourmet markets, party stores and Coney Island hot dog places around Detroit. He also ran a bookmaking operation and had a dozen people on the payroll.
Bobby finished his beer and raised his arm, signaling the bartender for another one.
"He keeps all the money from his gambling operation in a safe in his house," Karen said. "You open two cabinet doors and there it is."
"I don't know," Bobby said. "Arabs are nuts, man. They hunt you down with some Old Testament code and say Allah's telling them to do it."
Karen wanted to tell him Allah and the Old Testament had nothing to do with each other. But she had a better way to ease his mind. "You don't have to worry about Allah. Chaldeans are Catholic Arabs."
Bobby said, "Does he have a wife and kids?"
She took a drag and blew out the smoke and said, "He's divorced and his kids are grown up and gone."
Lloyd said, "How many guys in the house with him?"
"Three, at least," Karen said, "sometimes more, and, they're armed." She took a sip of beer. "But we're not going to shoot anybody. We're going to go in and get the safe and get out. Nobody gets hurt." Then Karen told them she had a partner. (She didn't yet, but had someone in mind.) They needed four people to do the job. "A driver and three of us to go in the house."
Bobby said, "You're full of surprises, aren't you? Anything else you want to share with us?"
Karen said, "Sure, there are a few more details, I'll tell you about them as we get closer."
"You didn't say anything about splitting it four ways," Bobby said.
"I told you, you'd make some serious money-and you will, if we can all take it easy and agree on a plan."
Lloyd said, "Who's your partner?"
"You'll meet him soon enough," Karen said. "I'll call you in a few days."
"Can we trust you?" Bobby said.
Karen liked that-the two burglars worried about trust. She said, "Yeah, but can I trust you?"
Chapter Three
O'Clair read the number on a piece of paper. This was the address Johnny had given him, 612 Rosewood. He'd called him an hour earlier and asked if O'Clair would pick him up. O'Clair had said, "Where are you?"
"At a friend's," Johnny said.