The Giveaway Read online

  “What did you owe Nick for, exactly?”

  Bruce got a pensive look on his face and started rubbing at his wrist again. When he finally spoke, it was just above a whisper. “He did my finger.”

  “Could you speak up, Bruce?” Sam said. “I can’t quite hear you. Ten percent hearing loss in my right ear from the Falklands.”

  Bruce didn’t know quite what to make of Sam, so for a moment he glared at him in a rather benign way, as if to say, You could say please. It didn’t last. “He did my finger, okay? Spent two months in the hole for it. When he got out, there was this meshugass with my mother’s illness, and so I couldn’t pay him what I owed him initially, but he was cool, really. The dinner and all that. Ever had Cuban pork chops? Authentic Cuban pork chops?”

  “Once,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “In Santiago de Cuba,” I said.

  “But I thought that . . .” He stopped for a minute, thought about where he was going, opted to change lanes. “Anyway, he was perfectly sweet about everything, but it was clear he wanted what was his.”

  “Let me get this right,” Sam said. “Guy takes off your finger and you have to pay him? That’s inflation for you. Mikey, you hear that?”

  “I hear that,” I said.

  “It doesn’t make sense on the outside, I know,” Bruce said. “But it’s a different set of rules in prison.”

  “How much did you owe him?” I asked.

  “Fifty grand,” he said.

  “How much do you think he could get for the drugs you gave him?”

  “Enough that he felt comfortable offering me a cut,” Bruce said.

  “Real gentleman,” Sam said.

  The problem here was that even if Bruce wanted to give the Ghouls back their drugs—presuming Nick hadn’t already tried to sell them their own stuff—a good sum of it was already gone. And I didn’t feel comfortable giving anyone back a bunch of drugs—there’s no way into that situation that is safe and I didn’t particularly want to kill anyone that week. Or be killed, for that matter.

  “Nick, he’s a good guy,” Bruce said. “He just has a bad job. But who doesn’t?”

  Bruce made a convincing argument, but it might just have been his delivery. Having a sixty- five-year-old man give you a slice of prison wisdom does have a certain charm. He wanted to explain more, but before he could, Fiona came to the sliding glass window and cracked it open.

  “Zadie would like something to eat,” she said to Bruce, who jumped from his seat like he’d been shocked and went directly into caregiver mode, rushing off to the other side of the great room and into the kitchen to fix his mother a sandwich.

  Sam and I both watched him for a bit, how meticulous he was in putting together a plate for her, how he put the sandwich in one corner, a bit of Jell-O in another, how he washed by hand a few leaves of lettuce and then shook pepper onto them, followed by a dash of oil and vinegar. He then poured his mother an entire glass of ginger ale, no ice.

  “We have to help him,” I said quietly.

  Sam nodded once.

  Bruce walked past us to the patio without saying a word.

  “A complication,” Sam said, still watching Bruce. “Before I got here I ran the information on the house he hit. It was burned down last night.”

  “Not a surprise,” I said.

  “With the occupants inside of it,” Sam said.

  “How many?”

  “Two. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they found this Balsalmo in a ditch in the back if he’s as savvy as our friend Bruce is.”

  Page ten of the Ghouls’ constitution said, “You dishonor the Ghouls. The price is determined by your dishonor.”

  I guess they meant it.

  Trying to figure out how to return stolen property is like trying to un-swallow: There’s no actual opposite action that will return the property (or the food you’ve eaten) in its original form. There will always be an elemental difference. Steal from someone and even if they get their stuff back in whole cloth, they’re still going to feel that sense of violation. Steal from a criminal organization and whether or not they feel violated, they’re going to want revenge.

  In Bruce Grossman’s case, he didn’t actually want to return everything he’d stolen. He wanted to keep the money and give back the drugs and the paperwork and the box of patches that he’d also lifted and just call it even, which wasn’t going to work. There’s no even when three hundred thousand bucks is left out of the equation. And stealing a gang’s patches is maybe worst of all. It’s silly, but these grown men live and die for a stitch of cloth.

  “Here’s what I don’t get,” Sam said. We were back at my loft. I was eating blueberry yogurt. Fiona was doing this thing where she sits quietly flipping through a fashion magazine but is really listening to everything and waiting to make proclamations that will solve all the problems we’ve encountered. Sam was doing what Sam does: drinking my beer and asking questions. “If you’re a criminal mastermind, like Bruce thinks he is, why would you be so stupid?”

  “He’s not a criminal mastermind,” I said, “so that solves that.”

  “He’s closer to a criminal mastermind than either of you are,” Fiona said. She didn’t even bother to look up from her magazine.

  “Because we’re not criminals,” I said.

  “Have you ever tried to break into a safe-deposit box?” she asked.

  Sam and I looked at each other. She had a point. Kind of.

  “I’ve cracked into a few secure locations,” Sam said. “And Mikey here could have Fort Knox renamed Fort Westen in no time. Right, Mikey?”

  “Uh, right,” I said.

  Fiona was heading somewhere. This was just the opening salvo. She raised her eyebrows, but kept her eyes on the magazine, turning pages casually. “I should have been a model,” she said to no one in particular. “Seems like I’d get to sit around on bearskin rugs in Uggs and a bikini, not a care in the world.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” I said.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” Fiona said.

  “I think it’s cute when you guys repeat each other’s sentences,” Sam said.

  “Do you know who Bruce Grossman is, Michael?” Fiona said. “I mean, do you really know?”

  “I know he’s a person with a problem,” I said. “I know he’s a friend of Barry’s. I know he’s been a fool since he got out of prison. I know his mother is going to die soon. Isn’t that enough?”

  Fiona shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe how utterly daft I was. “Right, right,” she said. She still hadn’t bothered to put down the magazine or look at either me or Sam. “What I’m saying is that the man is near a legend, Michael. I heard of what he was doing in Ireland. He broke into every bank imaginable. And so smart about it, too. Safe-deposit boxes are bank robber nirvana, Michael.”

  “And?”

  “And maybe he’d be good to keep around,” Fiona said. She looked up finally, smiling, flirting, batting eyelashes, doing that thing she does with the tip of her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip.

  “No,” I said.

  “No, what?”

  I could see the wheels turning in her mind.

  “No, he will not rob banks with you. No, you will not sell his services to other people who rob banks. No, you will not put him in a box and ship him to a small town in Iceland where there are very old banks. No, no and no.”

  There’s not much about Fiona that remains a mystery to me, apart from her total nihilism. But it’s unusually cute, so there’s that.

  “I’m just saying that in the position you’re in,” she said, “where revenue streams seem inconsistent, it might be wise to look at all avenues, Michael. It’s not every day someone from history shows up.”

  “Duly noted,” I said, “and still, no.”

  I went back to eating my yogurt and thinking about how to un-swallow Bruce’s problems. Fiona went back to reading her magazine, presumably thinking ab
out the fashion shoots she’d missed in Bora Bora all these years. But Sam wasn’t doing anything. That was troubling, particularly since he’d finished his beer and hadn’t gone foraging in my fridge for another.

  “Is he really from history?” Sam asked.

  “The Safe-Deposit Bandit,” Fiona said. “There are probably textbooks about him.”

  “As a kid, I always thought it was ‘safety’ deposit box,” Sam said.

  “That’s because your American education never put the proper emphasis on enunciation. Both of you sound like you learned to speak with dirt in your mouth.”

  Sam gave me a look that said, basically, What the hell?

  “Something else troubling you, Fiona?”

  “If you must know,” she said, “I’d like it if you found a way to describe me that didn’t make me sound like the help.”

  “That’s my cue,” Sam said and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” I said. “We haven’t figured out what we’re going to do with Bruce.”

  “I can’t stand to hear you two fight,” Sam said, already halfway out the door of my loft. “It just breaks my heart.”

  “Sam,” I said.

  All that was left was his waving arm. “Call me later,” he shouted. “We’ll do some covert stuff together and it will be a great time.”

  And then he was gone completely, leaving me alone with Fiona, who, in the last year or so, had become an inconsistent emotional concern. One minute she loved me, the next minute she hated me, a minute after that she was kissing me, two minutes later she was punching me in the head, five minutes later we were in bed . . . and always, always, there was some guilt on both ends.

  And now this.

  “If we’re going to talk about this,” I said, “you’re going to need to put that magazine down.”

  “If I do that,” she said, perfectly calm, “I might be inclined to use it as a weapon.”

  “Fine,” I said. I sat down on my bed, across from the chair she was sitting in. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well,” she said, “do you consider me your friend or your associate?”

  “Yes, technically, I believe both are accurate descriptions.”

  Fiona hurled the magazine at me, but fortunately she hadn’t slipped a sharp piece of broken glass into the pages beforehand, which is a nice trick if you want to really hurt someone. So the magazine just fluttered to the ground.

  “Wrong answer,” she said.

  “Fi, look, I’m not comfortable categorizing who we are to complete strangers, particularly not people like Bruce Grossman. He’s not exactly a confidential source.”

  “I’m not speaking of him solely,” she said. “It would just be nice if, every now and then, I knew where I stood before I was offended by your boorish behavior.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking, I have no idea where we stand, moment to moment. “How would you like me to describe you?”

  Fiona stood up then, went into my kitchen, poured water into a teapot and began preparing a cup of tea. It was as if I wasn’t even in the room. I watched her for a few moments, the simple, fluid motions of her actions, the lack of wasted space she conveyed. After about five minutes, the water came to a boil and she fixed her tea. She sat back down in her chair and played absently with the steeping teabag. “Any ideas come to you yet, Michael?” she asked.

  “A few,” I said.

  “Good,” she said. “Remember them when next the moment arises.”

  I nodded. “In the meantime”—I paused—“most elegant Fiona”—I paused again, to see how that went over; well, it turns out—“we need to figure out what to do with Bruce Grossman.”

  “How much time do you presume he has left until the Ghouls figure out who did the job?” she asked. “Assuming Balsalmo didn’t tell them?”

  “How many people living in Miami that they don’t already know could do the job?” I said. “Someone in Miami, other than Barry, other than Balsalmo, likely knows who Bruce Grossman is, especially if you did and you’re not even from these here parts.”

  “Then maybe you should just go tell them before they find out.”

  “You are elegant,” I said.

  “I know,” Fi said. She got up from her seat again and poured her tea down the drain.

  “You just made that,” I said.

  “Merely as an instructional tool,” she said. She looked at her watch. “Have you called your mother lately?”

  “No.”

  “You should,” she said, “seeing as I am the only person who has the kindness to actually return her calls.”

  “What does she have you doing?”

  “I’ve agreed to take her shopping for lamps this afternoon.”

  “You have fun with that,” I said.

  She walked over and kissed me once on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For watching,” she said, “and for wanting to watch.”

  Sometimes, just like a real person, all Fiona wants is to be appreciated.

  After Fiona left, I called Sam. “That was fast,” he said.

  “You just have to know the right words,” I said.

  “I’m not even at the Carlito yet. Right words or not, I figured this for a good day-or-two-long fight. Maybe with injuries. You have all of your limbs?”

  “Present and accounted for.”

  “She even hit you?”

  “Not this time,” I said.

  “She’s full of surprises,” Sam said. “When she does hit you, though, that actually hurts, right?”

  “It never feels good to get punched, Sam.” Sam started to respond, but I stopped him before he could begin exalting again the pleasures of the Flying Lotus, and instead I asked, “How long would it take for you to get your hands on a few bikes?”

  “I got a guy I could talk to,” he said.

  “Talk to him,” I said.

  “How many?”

  “Two,” I said.

  “Sidecars?”

  “This isn’t World War Two, Sam.”

  “If we’re planning a full frontal assault here, Mikey, we might want to plan for every contingency.”

  “I don’t see us needing sidecars,” I said. “No matter the contingency.”

  “I’ll look into it. They had them at the last inauguration. Looked pretty sharp, Mikey, can’t deny that.”

  “Not really the look I’m aiming for.”

  “What’s the plan here? Shock and awe or more spit and shine?”

  I told him Fiona’s idea—delivering Grossman, or at least delivering his identity, and maybe some of his stolen goods—to the Ghouls, and then that way we could control the situation. What that situation happened to be depended upon how much they already knew.

  “First thing, though,” I said, “I need to look into the mortality of Nick Balsalmo. If he’s alive, we need to make sure he stays that way and stays quiet.”

  “Gotcha,” he said. “I suppose just UPSing the Ghouls their stuff is out of the question.”

  “Not going to work,” I said. “That’s why we need the bikes.”

  “We’re talking choppers only here? That the look you want?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Chuck Finley rides again,” Sam said and hung up.

  When you’re dealing with motorcycle gangs, you have to understand that they aren’t like normal criminals. It’s an entire culture—a culture that demands loyalty above all else; and if that means someone has to die for merely being negligent, that’s not a problem. It also means if you disrespect them, it’s like disrespecting Hezbollah: They will fight you forever, wherever.

  In order to help Bruce out, it wouldn’t be as simple as giving the Ghouls back what was taken. We’d have to direct them to something larger than Bruce. Another gang. A snitch within their ranks. Someone directing Bruce’s actions for something bigger, more destructive. Get them thinking Bruce was just an instrument and they’d focus their attention on fighting that war. I’d ne
ed to get close to them to figure out just what that trigger might be.

  In the meantime, we just had to keep Bruce and his mother safe. And that I had a plan for.

  I looked at my watch. Not enough time had elapsed, so I did some push-ups, a few sit-ups, a hundred crunches and some light tae kwon do in the mirror. When it seemed like Fi would have had enough time to cross the city, pick up my mom and then head off to Lamps Are Us, I called my mother’s house.

  “Ma,” I said into her answering machine (a Record-A-Call from 1979, to be precise), “I have some friends I’d like you to meet. I’ll bring them by around dinner-time. You’re just going to love them both.”

  6

  Urban warfare isn’t any fun. Ask any soldier what they’d prefer and they’ll tell you that a clear, fixed target on a battlefield with a linear objective, replete with a front and a rear, is much easier to control than going door-to-door in a burned-out city. Gettysburg or Fallujah, basically, and if you’re a betting man and you’re betting on your life, you’ll take Gettysburg every time.

  Problem is, no one fights conventionally anymore. They’ve all seen Black Hawk Down and Full Metal Jacket, they’ve all watched CNN and Al Jazeera and they all play first-person shooter video games. Thus they all know that fighting inside buildings and alleys is the great equalizer to light manpower.

  So when you’re in a densely packed urban environment and looking for possibly hostile targets, it’s wise to look as nonthreatening as possible. Most spies spend their whole lives in slacks and a button- down shirt. It doesn’t matter if they are working in the Pentagon or Darfur: Slacks and a button-down shirt are almost always plain enough to be completely unnoticeable, because when you’re a spy it’s important never to dress to bring attention. You want to blend in.

  On the rare occasion you need a disguise, it’s imperative to remember that it’s easier to look older than younger, poorer than richer and that if you want people to think you have a limp, put a rock in your shoe. That way, you’ll actually limp.