Born to Run (13 page)

"You take an IOU here?"

"This ain't no charity."

"World keeps getting crueler every day, don't it?"

The bartender started wiping down the Formica. "Tell me something I don't know, pal."

The Greek snatched the towel, giving the bartender a start.

"What the hell, old man?"

With a quickness that belied his age, the Greek brought his hand up from his lap and rested it on the bar top. It was wrapped in the towel.

"I'm telling you something you don't know."

The bartender glanced uneasily at the towel. "What you got wrapped up in there?"

"Could be just my hand. Could be my hand holding a bobcat."

"A bobcat?"

The Greek turned deadly serious, working extra hard to speak with no accent. "I mean the Beretta model 21A semiautomatic twenty-two-caliber pistol fully loaded with forty-grain lead, round-nosed, standard-velocity subsonic ammunition. Weighs less than a pound, easily concealed in the palm of a man's hand. Wrapped in a towel like this one, the muzzle blast is reduced to something less than a cap gun. Much less. On the street, it's called a bobcat. You didn't know that, did you?"

The Greek delivered his patented stare, a penetrating laser that could have burned through men of steel, much less a skinny bartender who looked barely old enough to drink. To most folks, the Greek was another one of those sixty-something-year-old marvels who could have lifted weights with Chuck Norris and out-boxed Sly Stallone. An unlucky few, however, learned why he stayed fit--though it had been a very long time since he'd killed a man over twenty bucks.

"There's two hundred dollars in the cash register," said the bartender, his voice quaking. "Grab it and go."

"Don't shit your pants, okay? This ain't a robbery. I'm good with the drinks. Just put them on my tab, junior." Dzunior.

"Forget about it. They're on me."

The Greek slid off his bar stool. "I'm gonna pay you for the drinks. I got some money coming in."

"Sure, whatever. Just be cool and walk your bobcat right on out of here."

He started toward the door, but an almost unbearable shooting pain in his right leg brought him to a halt. Sciatica from the L5 vertebra felt as if someone had taken a hot knife and sliced him open from hip to heel. It got that way only when he was under serious stress--and these last two weeks had been as serious as it gets.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the way his Zen muscular therapist had taught him. She'd given him various techniques, starting with a descriptive name for his pain that would make it seem weaker than his will to defeat it. He tried "Useless Pain in the Ass," but that was too cumbersome. He settled on "Politico," a shorter but synonymous term.

The Greek swallowed the pain and walked out the front door.

The cold night air cut to the bone, which only exacerbated his back pain. It was possible that the bartender would dial 911, but if he did, so what? As much trouble as the Greek had gotten himself into on the outside, he was probably safer in jail.

He stopped at the pedestrian crossing on the street corner. A taxi pulled up before he could even get his hand out of his coat pocket to flag him down. It was a van. The side door slid open, and the Greek climbed up into the middle seat.

"Motel Six," he said, as he closed the door. "Just outside the Beltway."

The driver nodded and pulled away, and before the Greek could react, a leather strap came up and over his head from behind. He grabbed it instinctively, trying to pry it from his neck, and it loosened just enough for him to breathe.

"Move and you die," the man said. He was in the luggage area behind the middle seat. His accent was definitely Russian.

Shit, not again.

The Greek struggled to speak. "That you, Vlad?"

"It ain't your momma."

It was definitely Vladimir. He gave the Greek another centimeter of slack on the strap, and the words came easier.

"I'm no good to you dead," said the Greek.

"No damn good alive."

"I can't raise a quarter million dollars overnight."

"Should have thought of that before you started skimming from us."

The Greek drew a breath. In the old days, a casino manager could pocket ten grand a month from the counting room and the Sicilians would look the other way, almost expecting their local boys to grab a little "walking-around money." All that changed when the Russians took over Cyprus. Skimming in the classic sense--hiding your own money from the government--was still cool. But hiding money from the Mafiya was almost certain death, if you got caught. And the Greek had been caught red-handed.

"I'll double what I owe," said the Greek. "Five hundred thousand. Give me two weeks."

The taxi rounded a corner, and in the rearview mirror the Greek caught a glimpse of the man behind the pistol. He appeared to be smiling.

"One week," said Vladimir. "Call it professional courtesy."

The taxi stopped, and the Russian leaned closer to whisper into his ear: "If I come back, it wont be pretty, and it wont be quick. Half a million in one week. Or you'll wish to God I'd finished you off tonight."

The driver hopped out and opened the door. Vladimir pushed the Greek out into the street, and the taxi sped away as he picked himself up from the pavement. He walked to the curb and cinched up his coat.

Haifa million dollars. In one week. It didn't seem feasible, not with two strikes named Sparks and Swyteck already against him. At this stage of the game, his only real choice was to go back to Keyes' people. The Greek had sold his secret way too cheap the first time around anyway. They might pay again if he threatened to go public.

Or kill me.

He buried his hands in his pocket and walked slowly into the night. Yeah, they might kill him this time. But one thing was certain.

It beat letting the Russians do the job.

Chapter
20

The winds shifted overnight, and by morning the grip of winter had lifted from the Capitol. Jack and his father decided to go for a jog in the National Mall before breakfast. They weren't alone by a long shot. It didn't take springtime and cherry blossoms to bring out the joggers by the hundreds, more stress than sweat oozing from their pores. Harry, however, became winded in less than ten minutes. He found rest on a park bench near the World War II Memorial.

"I ran two miles every morning when I was in the governor's mansion," said Harry, shaking his head. "Your old man isn't what he used to be."

This was one of those moments when the good son was supposed to step up and say something like Nonsense, you're in great shape. But Jack was thinking other thoughts.

"Dad, there are some things I need to tell you."

Harry reached down and tried to touch his toes but made it only to his knees. "Okay," he said, groaning. "I'm listening."

"I'm starting to wonder about this whole thing."

"My being vice president?"

"It's more about how the job came open in the first place."

Jack sat on the bench beside him. A group of college students ran by. Jack could almost smell last night's frat party in the air. He let them pass, then continued.

"I've been hearing some disturbing things lately. Did you know that Grayson was cheating on his wife?"

Harry looked as if he'd just sucked a lemon. "What does that have to do with anything? Let the man rest in peace. And who told you that, anyway?"

"His daughter."

"You talked to Elizabeth about her father's sex life?"

"Well--yes, actually. His widow, too."

"You've been hanging around Theo too much."

"It's not what it sounds like. This is serious."

"Seriously weird."

"Dad, just listen."

"No, I really don't want to hear this. You of all people should know better than to put rumors inside my head. I'm about to face off against two congressional committees, and there are members of those committees who never miss an opportunity to embarrass the president. The less I know about anything that doesn't deal with my own qualifications for the job, the better."

"This isn't about you being qualified. I've been talking with Paulette Sparks about this--"

"Damn, Jack. Why would you do that?"

"She's been helping me sort this out."

"She's a Washington reporter. She's not helping you."

"Paulette thinks Grayson may have been murdered."

"That's it, I'm outta here," he said as he sprang from the bench.

Jack went after him, jogging at his side. "Why won't you listen to this?"

"Why won't you stop talking?"

"This is important."

"This is poppycock."

"How do you know?"

"Because I live in the real world, Jack. You should try visitin
g t
here some time."

"A fifty-year-old man cheats on his wife, and both he and his young lover end up dead. For a criminal defense lawyer, that is the real world."

Harry stopped abruptly. "I'm trying to pull you up out of that cesspool, Jack. I'm giving you a shot at the big leagues. Don't blow it."

"A shot? I didn't ask for a shot."

"As your father, I'm asking you to stop talking with Paulette Sparks."

"As your lawyer, I'm telling you to open your eyes."

"As my lawyer, you should have known better than to put your trust in a reporter in the first place."

"What are you going to do, fire me?"

Another runner passed them. It gave Harry time to reflect, but he still didn't pull any punches. "Yeah," he said, grunting. "I think I am."

Jack stopped running. "What?"

Harry continued several paces down the path, then turned to look Jack in the eye. "I need a lawyer who really wants this job. Ever since you got here, all you've done is play detective. That's not helping me."

Fired by my own father? Jack didn't know what to say. "Okay. If that's the way you want it."

"If this keeps up, we'll end up not speaking to each other, and it'll be the bad old days all over again. That's what I don't want."

"So ... I should go back to Miami?"

"I think it's best this way. Now, come on, let's start back."

"You go ahead. I don't much feel like it."

"Suit yourself."

Jack watched in silence as his father turned and merged into a long line of joggers that was headed in the general direction of the White House.

Chapter
21

Paulette Sparks returned to Washington on Tuesday night.

Chloe's funeral had left her completely drained.

She wondered if her father would ever recover.

Paulette's relationship with Chloe's mother had never amounted to much, but it killed her to see their father suffer. Chloe had caused him so much heartache in her teenage years-- drinking and driving, hitting the party scene, not coming home at night. Paulette resented her for that, but it was nothing compared to Chloe's resentment toward her. As the older sister, Paulette had done everything before Chloe. Chloe was riding a bike when Paulette learned to drive. Chloe was in middle school when Paulette started college. At the funeral, Paulette recalled an argument they'd had years earlier, when just by coincidence Chloe's acceptance to journalism school was completely overshadowed by Paulette's landing a job with CNN.

"I hope you die before I do, too!" Chloe had screamed a
t h
er.

Her sister hadn't gotten her wish.

"Seventh Street," Paulette cold the taxi driver.

"Where?"

It was a dark and drizzly night at Reagan International Airport, and the only sound in the car was the wump-wump of the windshield wipers.

"Columbia Bowling Alley. You know it?"

"Yeah. Do you?"

"Sure," she said.

"Funny," said the driver. "You don't look the bowling type." "Looks can be deceiving."

"I hear you. But you know, if you're going to the alley looking to soothe the beast, I could probably help you find whatever you--

"I'm not looking for drugs. I'm going bowling." "Okay, sure. If you say so, lady."

Paulette was only half lying. No, she wasn't looking for drugs. But she wasn't going bowling. She was on a mission. Instinctively, she reached inside her purse and touched the envelope, just to make sure it was still there. It was.

Chloe's letter had landed in their father's mailbox on the morning of her burial. The poor man had nearly fainted. He gave it to Paulette to read it to him. The very idea of getting a letter from a daughter he had just laid beneath the earth was too painful for him to handle. Chloe had mailed it just one day before her death. The timing was not mere coincidence.

Paulette opened the envelope and read it one more time in the backseat of the taxi, the dim reading lamp giving her barely enough light: