A Man of Lies, page 3
Owen stares at the safe, unsure exactly what Pickens is saying. “Are you gonna open that one, too?”
“Yes,” Pickens says. “But not here. Back at Holzmann’s.” Pickens carefully slides the safe into the extra duffel. While he breaks down and packs away his drill, Owen and Conrad go through the storage unit, ensuring that they’ve left no trace of their presence.
The three men leave the same way they came, through a hole in the fence behind the U-Store-It’s loading dock, where Conrad’s Jeep is waiting for them.
Pickens is only in Omaha for this job, and Holzmann was insistent that he be driven everywhere by his trusted people. A rental car might leave a GPS trail of Pickens’s movements, and cabs would be even worse. So Pickens has another thirty minutes of the cops’ presence to enjoy. They seem content to ignore him, though, and he is more than happy to return the favor.
He watches, instead, the changing landscapes as Conrad drives them away from the industrial environs surrounding the U-Store-It. Wire-topped fences around broad, boxy buildings give way to wide streets, strip malls, and subdevelopments, and ultimately—as they leave the city proper and Route 6 turns into a freeway—to striped green fields of soybeans.
CHAPTER 5 Barrett Rye, 10:29 P.M.
I may not have been here before, but I know this place. This temple to misery where all the shit that makes the shiny and polished casino run is tucked away, out of sight. Richard is already on the ground, protecting his face from the two bouncers. Brock calls them off, and I take their place.
I take no pleasure in hitting Richard Sands. I tell myself—and I know this is me rationalizing—that I am not beating him for me. I am beating him for the girlfriend he sent to the hospital three times in two years. I’m beating him for the working girl whose nose he broke after that girlfriend finally took out a restraining order. I’m beating him for the trail of misery that he leaves in his wake, though I know that I, of all people, shouldn’t be throwing stones on that account. I’ve made my living hurting people, only a tiny fraction of whom deserved it. But at least I’m trying to change. That’s why I’m here.
“Stand up,” I say. I don’t enjoy this, but I need them to believe I do. I grab Richard’s lapel and drag him to his knees. A seam in his jacket gives way. It’s a fine-looking piece, but the stitching is cheap.
“I didn’t do anything,” he wails.
I hit him in the face, and he crumples. He tries to crawl away from me. I just want to finish what I came for and get out.
I grab his jacket again, but he slips free of it. There’s something heavy in it. He looks back over his shoulder and sees me rifling through his pockets.
“Hey!” he calls. His mouth is bleeding, and a red mist accompanies the cry. I feel like I’m going to be sick. “Stop that!”
In the right breast pocket I find a lump of metal a bit larger than a quail egg, with a little button and an LED light at one end, a loop for a keychain at the other. It is smooth and cool against my fingers. I lift it out, and his eyes go wide.
“That’s mine!” he shouts.
Everything I’ve done tonight was to get me here, to get this little ball of steel. This is how I’ll get the money I need to get Scarpello off my back. Brock and his bouncers are looking the other way, bearing witness to nothing at all. I hold out the metal spheroid and gesture for Richard to come take it. He crawls back to me, his hand outstretched for the silvery bauble.
“Please give that back.”
My fist closes around it, and I slug him in the jaw. He falls again. I don’t want to hear him whimper anymore. I walk back to Brock, keeping the metal hidden in my palm, as he wraps up a conversation with his pit boss.
“I think I’m done,” I say.
“Of course,” Brock says, paying no mind to Richard on the ground behind me. “The pot from your last hand has been awarded to you, and we’ve taken the liberty of cashing out your chips.” He passes me another, smaller stack of cash that I slide into the envelope alongside the bounty.
I cover the palmed egg with the envelope and drop the whole thing into my pocket.
Brock’s eyes stay on the abraded skin of my knuckles. “Perhaps you would like to wash up before returning to the game?”
“I’m done for the night,” I say. I got what I came for.
* * *
When I was eight years old, I wanted to be a magician. When I was eleven, puberty hit with the strength of—well—me. By the time I was twelve, I was five foot six and just shy of a hundred and fifty pounds. I was six-eight when I dropped out of high school. There are only so many things that the world says a man of my size with skin that looks like mine can be, and I was never one for team sports. I don’t like relying on other people, and I hate them relying on me. With no diploma and no demonstrable skills, it wasn’t long before I got into trouble, and when Scarpello offered me a way out—a way to earn respect—I leapt at the chance.
CHAPTER 6 Jim Pickens, 11:23 P.M.
Elkhorn is a wealthy enclave on Omaha’s western flank. Oversized ranch homes hang back from the streets, peeking around landscaped copses of maple and hornbeam. Henry Holzmann has built his headquarters here, ensconced among Omaha’s finest citizens, on a four-acre lot surrounded by a twelve-foot fence. His is the only property in the development with such a wall—the neighbors prefer to display their wealth—and it required a special dispensation from the HOA for him to build it.
“I’ve got your delivery here,” Conrad says to the intercom at the gate. With a buzz, the pedestrian door opens, but the iron and wood slab that bars the driveway remains unmoved.
“We never go onto the property,” Owen says before Pickens can ask the question. “It keeps everything cleaner.”
“Right,” Pickens says. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Two men come out of the gate and silently help him with his gear.
“I’ve got this one,” Pickens says, holding the safe close as he follows the men onto the estate.
A small guardhouse stands just inside the wall, and the driveway bends lazily across the wide lawn toward the house. It’s a two-story mansion with half-timbered walls over a brick base. The grounds around it are kept clear, and a stone path circles the whole property. Holzmann had wanted to have floodlights installed but decided that the increased security was not worth the additional scrutiny it would draw from his neighbors.
At the front door, another guard frisks Pickens before leading him to the boss’s office, where Holzmann waits with his lieutenant, Benny D’Angelo.
Benny stares at the little safe as Pickens places it on Holzmann’s desk. It doesn’t look like one of the most secure safes in the world. It doesn’t even look stronger than the ones they put in the hotel closet to hold your wallet and passport while you’re down at the pool. He touches it and feels the steel flex beneath even gentle pressure.
“Do not touch,” Holzmann says without looking at his lieutenant. He stands at the bay window in the back of his private office. His rigid posture belies his age, and careful military tailoring conceals a growing paunch and slope to his shoulders. Despite having spent the overwhelming majority of his life in America, he has guarded his Berlin accent.
“He won’t break it,” Pickens says. “You can do whatever you want to the skin. It’s only once you get inside that you need to be careful.” Pickens is setting up his drill press once again, hanging it this time, as Owen had originally expected, from the front of the safe. He marks five spots around the dial and places a guard exactly twenty-four millimeters from the end of his drill bit.
Holzmann nods sagely. “The policemen did their work?”
“They did.” Pickens keeps his tone carefully flat. Owen and Conrad would not have been his first choice in partners, but they had, as promised, kept security away.
“Good,” Holzmann says. “It is important to choose men on whom we can rely and to put aside all other considerations. Most important is the trust which we must have in our lieutenants.” He turns from the window to observe Pickens’s reaction to this wisdom, but Pickens remains focused on his work. Holzmann points to a framed print on the wall, one of several military portraits, of a baby-faced young man in a high-collared uniform with a swept-back shock of dark hair. “Carl von Clausewitz. One of the most brilliant strategic minds humanity has ever produced. Prussian, of course.”
“What the boss is saying”—Benny leans over to Pickens—“is that when you want something done, you gotta pick the right guy.”
Holzmann strides across the room, arms locked in place behind his back. “It is good we hired Herr Pickens for his technical skill and not his philosophical insights.”
“I just don’t see what I could add to the great masters. Clausewitz, Bismarck, Moltke.” Pickens gestures to each of the portraits in turn.
Holzmann pauses in his pacing, surprised and pleased. “Very good, Herr Pickens. And now you will make me very happy to open that safe.”
“You have the key for me?”
Benny replies more quickly than Holzmann can. “You said you could open anything.”
“Sure,” Pickens sighs. “I can open it. That’s trivial. The key doesn’t unlock it. It disables a security core at the safe’s center. If this door opens even the tiniest crack before that core is disconnected, the whole chamber floods with a mix of nitric, hydrofluoric, and hydrochloric acids. Anything inside will be reduced to slag. The only way to prevent that is with the key.”
“Why would someone do that?” Benny takes a careful step back, as though his presence might trigger the device.
“If you have something you would rather destroy than lose,” Holzmann says. He looks again out the bay window. Pickens is not the only guest he is expecting tonight. “Call Herr Sands. He should have already been here.”
Benny puts the call on speaker for Holzmann’s benefit. It rings six times before Richard Sands answers, and when he does, it is clear he’s in pain.
“Where is the key, Richard?” Benny asks. There is a long silence before Richard responds.
“So about that—there’s a bit of a problem.”
Benny looks to Holzmann, who frowns but says nothing.
“What kind of problem?” Benny prompts when Richard doesn’t continue.
“I had the key, and I was on my way to you guys when this fucking goon—”
Holzmann’s face sours, and Benny interrupts the story. “Language, Richard.”
“Right, sorry. So this goon, biggest mother—” Richard catches himself. “Biggest guy you’ve ever seen. Big as a truck. This guy corners me in an alley, sucker punches me, and takes the key.”
Holzmann and Benny huddle in a whispered conference before Benny returns to the phone. “Why would he want the key? You said it’s just a metal ball.”
“I don’t know, but I’ll get it back.” Even Pickens can hear the desperation in Richard’s voice.
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Benny asks.
“I got the guy’s name. Barrett Rye.”
At a gesture from Holzmann, Benny ends the call. “What do you want to do, sir?”
“Put our police friends on it,” Holzmann says after a moment’s consideration. “I want to know everything about this Barrett Rye.”
CHAPTER 7 Eight Months Ago
Mickey and I were in bed together. He was tracing the curve of my pec and chuckling to himself.
“What is it?” I asked.
He looked up at me, and I felt all over again the wash of fear and joy that always came when he looked at me. His smile was so pure. I had done nothing to deserve that smile. What right did my hands—my filthy, bloody hands—have to touch his skin? He flushed red. “You’re looking at me like that again.”
“I am not!” I don’t know how he saw through me so easily.
“You are,” he said. “But I don’t mind.” He laid his head against my chest. His stubble scratched me as he smiled.
“What were you laughing at?” I pressed. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you change the subject.”
“Double negative.” He tried halfheartedly to push away from me, but I held him close. He liked to feel my strength.
“I’ll double your negative.”
“What does that even mean?” He laughed. God, I could live in that laughter. I don’t give a fuck if that doesn’t make sense. It does to me.
“What were you laughing at?”
He grew quiet and smiled again. “It was nothing.”
“Oh, it must have been real bad,” I said. “Now you’ve gotta tell me.”
“I was just thinking that you—” He put a hand on my chest. “This is really stupid.” I was silent. He went back to idly playing with the lines of my chest. The blush moved across his neck. “I was just thinking that you’ve got bigger tits than most of the women I’ve been with.”
Later, as I was falling asleep, I felt him moving behind me. Shifting. Unable to get comfortable. There was something on his mind, but I knew I couldn’t push him. He would share when he was ready.
Eventually, I heard him take a deep breath, let it out, and say, “Hey, Barrett?”
“Yeah?”
More silence as he thought through whatever he needed to.
“You still awake?” He was stalling.
“Yeah.”
“How long do you want to keep doing this?”
I felt my heartbeat accelerate. I was sure he could feel it with his arm thrown around me. Could feel the sweat prickling up on my back. How long did I want to keep doing this? I’d never been with someone like Mickey before. Never let anyone know me like Mickey did. I wanted to keep doing this for as long as he would allow it. Unless that wasn’t what he meant. Maybe that wasn’t what he meant? Please let that not be what he meant.
“Keep doing what?” I tried to keep the nerves out of my voice.
“This work.” It wasn’t what he meant.
I rolled over to face him. “I dunno. This is just what I do.”
“It makes you miserable,” he said, and he was right. I did hate it, but it was all I’d ever known. I didn’t let myself think that life might have more to offer than misery served up at Scarpello’s altar to greed. I had never thought I could have someone like Mickey either, though.
“What else would I do?”
“Whatever you want,” he said. “We could go legit. I could get a CPA license. We could leave Chicago. Go somewhere new. There’s nothing here for us.” He was talking quickly, trying to not leave a moment of silence for me to fill with a no.
“Where would we go?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”
I wasn’t sure. I’d never imagined leaving. This was just who I was. I was a mob enforcer, a professional boogeyman. But now Mickey was making me think about it, and I knew—as surely and as desperately as I knew that I wanted him—I knew I wanted it. Whatever he was offering, so long as it wasn’t here and wasn’t this, so long as it was with him, I wanted it.
“I want,” I started. The words fought to stay inside. As soon as I said them, I could never take them back. Never pretend they weren’t there. I didn’t like the work, but I had Mickey to make it bearable. And if I said no, he would drop this. That would be the end of it. We would continue our lives, continue our work, continue being miserable in all things except each other.
Maybe that was enough. Who was I to think I deserved a life with everything? I had found Mickey. Should I not be satisfied with that? I took a breath to tell him no. We shouldn’t dream of what we can never have. I felt his arm tighten as he held me closer, and I realized that he hadn’t breathed since I last spoke. He was as afraid as I was, but he had been brave enough to ask the question. The least I could do was answer it.
“I want to leave with you.” Saying the words raised gooseflesh down my arms.
Mickey let go of his held breath. “I can get us new documents. Set us up far away, and we can start again.”
“How quickly?” I asked. Now that the hope was there, the idea of returning to work pained me.
“It’ll take time,” he said. “We need to be careful if we want to do this right. And I’ll need money to get us started.”
“Then let’s get you some money,” I said. And that’s what we did.
* * *
None of that is important right now, though. The why and the how of getting from there to here. What matters is that the five-thousand-dollar bounty from Brock is nice, but it barely even registers against what I owe Scarpello, and certainly wasn’t worth the risk of slipping a card up Richard’s sleeve. I am playing a longer game now.
You learned, or at least I did from a childhood of heist movies, that a con requires cleverness and wit and, above all else, a joyful capacity to lie. To not just present untruths, but to drown the target in such overwhelming inundations of charming bullshittery that the facts can’t withstand the patter. It also requires a plan, the more convoluted the better, that leaves the victim trapped in a twisting labyrinth, helpless to piece it all together in the aftermath.
Maybe that works for some folks, but I’ve got a different take. Running a con is not about lying, nor is it about planning. There are too many pieces in play to predict them all, and anyone who says they can is lying to you. A con artist isn’t a conductor; they’re a tickler.
Do you know those fishermen who stand in a river with no equipment, watching as the fish swim past in their chaotic multitudes? They study the fish, searching for patterns in their movements and waiting for the precise moment that one swims right beneath their legs, and then they strike. If they time it right, they can run their hand beneath the fish, grab it by the gills, and lift it wholly out of the water. That’s tickling, and that’s what I do. I watch the chaos, waiting for the right time to strike.
I might try to nudge the fish one way or another, but I can’t control the whole school. So the thing at Brock’s wasn’t about the five thousand dollars. It was about creating a situation where I could get what I was really after, which was that little ball of polished steel I’d taken out of Richard’s pocket. That, I knew, was valuable.
