He wanted to read Sports Illustrated. He wanted to think about the Colts’ offensive line, not about how he could bump through a residential Kwikset in thirty seconds even without proper tools. He wanted to—
“Relax. This could be very good for you.” She slid something across the floor to him. He peeked under the table and saw a blue duffel bag. “Look inside.”
He picked the bag up by the handle. Already half suspecting what he might find, he unzipped it and peeked inside. Cash. Lots of it. Mostly fifties and hundreds.
Steve set the bag down and pushed it back across the floor. “How much is in there?”
“Three hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “-ish.”
“That’s an odd amount.”
“I’m an odd person.”
Steve sighed. “You have my attention.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“No. Absolutely not.” The Buddhist undertakes to refrain from taking that which is not given. He paused, grimaced. The previous year he had declared $58,000 on his taxes. His credit card debt was just slightly less than that. “Maybe.” He lit another cigarette. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Is it? I suppose.”
“It is to me, anyway. You rich?”
She shrugged. “My Father.”
“Ah.” Rich daddy. That explained some of it, anyway. “How’d you come up with—how much did you say it was?”
“Three hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars. I went to the bank. Money really isn’t a problem for me. Will that be enough? I can get more.”
“It should cover it,” he said. “I used to know people—qualified people—who would do a job like this for three hundred dollars.” He waited, not unhopefully, for her to rescind the offer, or maybe ask for an introduction to the qualified people. Instead they stared at each other for a while.
“You’re the one I want,” she said. “If it’s not the money, then what’s holding you back?”
He thought of explaining to her how he was trying to do better. He could say, Sometimes I feel like a new plant, like I just sprouted from the dirt, like I’m trying to stretch up to the sun. Instead what he said was “I’m trying to figure out what you get out of this. Is it some kind of rich-kid extreme sport? You bored?”
She snorted laughter. “No. I’m the exact opposite of bored.”
“What, then?”
“Something was taken from me a number of years ago. Something precious.” She gave him a flinty smile. “I mean to have it back.”
“I’ll need a little more detail. What are we talking about? Diamonds? Jewels?” He hesitated. “Drugs?”
“Nothing like that. More like sentimental value. That’s all I can tell you.”
“And why me?”
“You come highly recommended.”
Steve considered. Over Carolyn’s shoulder, on the dance floor, Eddie Hu and Cath were practicing the Charleston. They’re getting pretty good, too. Steve remembered what it felt like to be good at something. For a time, in some circles, he had been a little bit well-known. Maybe somebody remembered. “All right,” he said finally. “I can accept that, I guess. Couple more questions, though.”
“Shoot.”
“You’re sure that whatever it is, we’ll just be dealing with basic, residential alarms? No safes, no exotic locks, nothing like that?”
“I’m sure.”
“How do you know?”
“My sister again.”
Steve opened his mouth to wonder about the quality of her information. Then it occurred to him that he couldn’t have told you exactly how many jobs he’d done if you put a gun to his head. One hundred and twelve sounds about right, though. So, instead, he said, “Last question. What if whatever it is you’re after isn’t there?”
“You get the cash anyway.” She smiled slightly and leaned in a little closer. “Maybe even a bonus.” She cocked an eyebrow, smiled just a little flirtatiously.
Steve considered this. Before she dropped the burglary bombshell he’d been hoping that the conversation might head toward flirty land. But now…“Let’s keep it simple,” he said. “The money should do me just fine. When do you want to go?”
“You’ll do it then?” Her legs were strong and tan. When she moved you could see the muscles working under her skin.
“Yeah,” he said, already knowing in his heart what a terrible idea it was. “I guess.”
“No time like the present.”
II
One of the things Steve liked about Warwick Hall was how clean it was. Everything was polished wood, glowing brass, well-sprung leather seats shaped like a friendly invitation for your ass, black-and-white tile laid out on the floor in a way that would have tickled Euclid.
That atmosphere broke as soon as you went out the front door, though. To get back to the modern world you had to climb a couple of flights of greasy concrete steps up to the street. The stairwell was black with ancient dirt, the sort of place stray cats go to die. Drifts of McCrap accumulated in the corners—cigarette butts, fast food bags, a Dasani bottle half full of tobacco spit. Tonight it was chilly, which kept the smell down, but in the summer he held his breath while he climbed.
Carolyn didn’t like it either. She had removed her rubber boots in the bar, but put them back on at the threshold, then took them off again at the top of the stairs. Her leg warmers were candy-striped in the many colors of the unfashionable rainbow. Oh hell, I’ve got to ask. “Where did you even get those things, anyway?”
“Hmm?”
He pointed at the galoshes.
“I’m staying with a lady. She had them in her closet.” Without the rain boots her feet were bare. The parking lot was crushed gravel. Walking on it didn’t seem to bother her.
“That’s my truck over there.” It was a white work truck, a couple of years old, HODGSON PLUMBING stenciled in red letters on the door. The locks on his equipment cases were Medeco, the best. “Chicks dig it, I know. Try to contain yourself.” It had turned cold after the sun went down. His breath puffed white as he spoke.
She tilted her head at him, a quizzical expression on her face.
“Not funny. Never mind.” He got in the driver’s side. She fumbled at the door handle.
“Is it jammed?”
She gave a small, nervous smile and fumbled harder. He reached across the seat and opened the door from the inside.
“Thanks.” She tossed her galoshes and the bag with the $327,000 onto the floorboard, there to languish among the Mountain Dew bottles and empty bags of beef jerky. She curled up on the bench seat, legs folded beneath her, flexible as an eight-year-old.
“I got a spare jacket in the back. You want to borrow it? It’s chilly out.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
Steve cranked the truck. It rumbled to life. Cold air began to pour out of the vents. Last chance, he thought. Last chance to back out of this. He glanced at the floorboard. In the phlegmy yellow glow of the streetlamp he could see a bundle of money outlined against the canvas of the bag. He grimaced the way you do when you swallow medicine. “You got an address for this place?”