Steve looks at Fred. Fred shrugs. Steve turns his attention back to the mustache. “How about ten grand?”
I can easily afford it, but what fun would that be? “I take that as a ‘no deal’ then.” I put two fists on the table as though to push myself to a stand. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”
Steve waves his tiny hands at me. “Just... stop that, okay? You promise it doesn’t leave this room? I mean, forget the cops. If it gets out I talked—”
“It won’t,” I say.
“Promise?”
I mime crossing my heart.
Fred looks as though he’s going to argue, but Steve shakes him off.
“Yeah, okay, we broke in. We all know this. And the cash in the safe is light. One of our guys got it wrong. He thought the pickup... never mind, that doesn’t matter. So we are already in there, that’s the hard part, so I suggest we go for the boxes. We have the tools. You interested in the technical details?”
“Of how you broke into the boxes?”
“Yeah.”
“Not in the slightest,” I say. “Skip ahead.”
“Okay, right, so anyway, we get the stuff back to our safe house. It’s in Millbrook. You ever been? Gorgeous place. Not far from Poughkeepsie.”
I stare at him.
“Right, right, not important. Anyway, we get a lot of good stuff. People keep all kinds of great stuff in those boxes. Watches, diamonds.”
I gesture for him to speed up with my hand. “And Ry Strauss?”
“Right, sorry. Yeah, I find this birth certificate. All official-like. I’m about to throw it out, but then I figure maybe one of the forgers can use the paper stock. It’s got a raised seal too. So I hand it to Randy, that’s my brother-in-law. Anyway, Randy reads it and is like ‘Holy shit, let me see the rest of his stuff.’ And it’s just more paperwork, fake IDs, a deed on an apartment, stuff like that. I say, ‘What’s the big deal? Who is Ryker Strauss?’ See, that was the name on the certificate. Ryker. So Randy, he says, ‘Dummy, it’s Ry Strauss,’ and I’m like, ‘Who?’ and then he explains about how famous he is and that he’s been missing and all that. You want to know what our first thought was?”
I’m not sure, but I reply, “I would, yes.”
“We could sell this stuff to, like, a TV station.”
“A TV station?”
“You know, like one of those magazine shows or cable news shows. 60 Minutes or 48 Hours. It could be a huge story. But I’m thinking Geraldo too.”
“Geraldo?”
“Geraldo Rivera? You know who he is?”
I let him know that I do.
Steve looks wistful. “I always liked Geraldo. Tells it like it is. And I think he got a bum rap on that whole Al Capone vault thing, do you remember that?”
I let him know that I do.
“So I’m picturing a bidding war for this information, or maybe, I don’t know, like I said, I really admire Geraldo, so maybe we just make the deal with him. I bet I could meet him too. Geraldo seems like a regular guy. Tells it like it is.”
“And you two have the mustache in common,” I say, because I can’t help myself.
“Right?” He’s animated now. “See? And maybe, who knows, but maybe I can even get my picture taken with Geraldo or something. I mean, look what I’m bringing him. Geraldo, he’s a regular guy. He’d be grateful. And talk about redemption. If he’s the one who finds Ry Strauss, I mean, wow, people forget that stupid Capone vault was empty, am I right?”
I look at Fred. Fred shrugs.
“But Randy, he slaps me in the head. Not hard. Gentle like. Randy and me, we’re close. It’s why you have to keep his name out of it. Anyway, Randy says we can’t sell it to a TV show because it’ll be a huge story and draw a lot of attention. The cops will be all over the place, and they’ll pressure the TV network or whatever and then it’ll be over for us. I argue that Geraldo would never sell us out. He wouldn’t. He’s not the type. But Randy, he says that even if he doesn’t sell us out, there’ll be so much heat on us, something will crack. I’m disappointed — I mean, I really figured Geraldo could use this — so I start defending Geraldo, but then Randy says it’s too dangerous for another reason.”
“That reason being?”
“Look, it’s pretty well known in certain circles that the Staunch family has been after this Ry Strauss for a long time. That’s what Randy tells me. The whole group of them. Rumor is, they found one of the guys years back and the old man, well, Nero skinned him alive. Literally. Like, it took weeks for the guy to die. Scary stuff. That’s why. That’s why you can’t talk, okay?”
Steve is stroking the mustache like a long-lost lover.
“Okay,” I say. “I won’t talk.”
“Now my crew, we don’t work for the Staunches. We steer clear, you know what I’m saying? We don’t want no trouble. But Randy, he sees a chance to do them a favor and maybe make a few dollars too.”
“So Randy sold it to the Staunches?”
“That was the plan, yeah.”
“The plan?”
“I mean, I assume it all went okay, but I got picked up a month ago. It’s not like I’m going to ask Randy about it.”
Chapter 29
The Staunch Craft Brewery was packed with — I shouldn’t stereotype — annoying hipsters. Located in a tony warehouse in Williamsburg, the epicenter of the hipster, the bar drew a crowd in their twenties, maybe early thirties, who were trying so hard not to appear mainstream that they simply redefined the mainstream. The men had hipster glasses (you know what they are); asymmetrical facial hair; flimsy scarfs draped loosely around their necks; suspenders on strategically ripped jeans; retro concert tees that struggled to be ironic; man buns or a potpourri of awful hats, such as the cable-knit slouchy beanie, the Newsie flat cap, and of course, the carefully tilted fedora (unwritten hipster rule: Only one guy per table can wear the fedora at a time); and of course, boots that could be high or low or any hue but somehow you’d still label them hipster boots. The female of the species offered up a wider range — secondhand vintage pickups, flannels, cardigans, unmatching layers, acid wash, fishnets — the rule being nothing mainstream, which again makes them just mainstream with a desperation stench.
I’m being too harsh.
The many, many beers on tap — IPAs, stout, lager, pilsner, porter, autumnal, winter, summer (beers now have seasons), orange, pumpkin, watermelon, chocolate (I almost looked for a Cap’n Crunch artisanal) — are being served in mason jars rather than glasses or mugs. One entrance has a sign saying BREWERY TOUR. The other reads TASTING ROOM, the crowd of which had spilled outside to the sticky picnic tables. As I pass through them, I hear a swirl of the following terminology: bro, bae, edible, gluten, FOMO, kale, sesh, self-care, fleek, screenplay, kombucha, I can’t even, the struggle is real.
Clarification: I do not literally hear all those terms, but I think I do.
In the old days, gangsters hung out in bars or restaurants or strip joints. Times, they do a-change. As I duck inside, a pretty young barmaid with pigtails in cutoff shorts approaches me.
“Oh man, you have to be Win,” she says. “Follow me.”
The floors are concrete, the lighting low. In the right-hand corner, someone spins vinyl records. Eco-friendly yoga mats that appear to be as comfortable as tweed undergarments are laid out to the left; a flexible man with a beard the approximate dimensions of a lobster bib leads the mildly inebriated through a sun salutation. The barmaid takes me down a corridor lined with beer kegs and for-sale merchandise until we reach a big metal door. The barmaid knocks and says to me, “Stay here.”
She saunters away before I can offer a tip. The door opens. It is, I think, the big man who accompanied Leo Staunch to my hospital room, but it is hard to say. I can only tell you that he is north of six six with wide shoulders and a hairline so thick and low that it seems to start at his eyebrows. He, too, sports the prerequisite facial hair and a fedora that looks too small on his head, like one of those baseball-shape-headed mascots with a tiny cap.