Holy Rollers (10 page)

And God help ’em if Constance got their wallets and keys, because their wallets and keys meant their home addresses and access, which in turn meant she’d have their television, DVD player, jewelry, and whatever else she could grab before they were done arguing with the coat-check attendant about their missing claim ticket.

She
was
that good, and she knew it. But it was nice of Grant Lambert to acknowledge it.

“So the real estate office scam you were pulling,” said Grant, when it was clear Constance had accepted the compliment. “Did you keep the books?”

She nodded. “I know how to keep books, Grant Lambert. I knew how to do that long before the real estate job. A girl’s got to have skills to fall back on, after all. But I still want to know…”

“Why you?”

“Why me.”

He swallowed hard and looked at his shoes. “Because this is a Southern church we’re gonna rob. In Virginia. You don’t have a problem robbing a church, do you?”

Her voice was soft, almost hurt. “It’s like you don’t know me at all. So where in Virginia? It’s a big state.”

“Less than an hour outside Washington.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re talkin’ Northern Virginia? Why, Northern Virginia’s about as Southern as Long Island. So, again,
why me
?”

“Most of the members are real Southerners. Like ‘Deep South’ Southern, so…”

Constance threw back her head and laughed. “I’m just giving you a hard time, Lambert. You want me on this job because I’m black, right?”

He snapped his head up so quickly they both heard a crack that maybe they shouldn’t have heard.

“Damn, you’re getting old, Grant.”

Nothing hurt, so he ignored it. “I told you, I want you because you’re the best.”

“
And
…I’m black.”

His eyes returned to his shoes. “That probably helps.”

She laughed again. “You’re an idiot. I thought we were friends, Lambert. It’s okay to notice I’m black. You look damn white to
me
.” He started to say something, but she stopped him. “And I get what you’re thinking. I
am
good, but a bunch of dumb crackers aren’t gonna think some pious black woman’s a threat. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. Piece of cake. You meet my price and I’m in.” She started to stand, figuring they’d negotiate her fee on the walk to the door.

He cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing you should know. The church is a place called the Virginia Cathedral of Love.”

All thoughts of a quick negotiation stopped, and Constance dropped back onto the couch. “You shitting me?”

“You heard of it, I take it. Seems like everyone has but me.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot. That’s Oscar Hurley’s church. The guy who blamed the wildfires on Ellen and Portia.” Constance stared at nothing as she contemplated whether or not this fools’ errand was worth it, until she knew how to determine the answer. “So instead of telling me you want to rob a mega-church, give me some details.”

He shrugged. “Big church. Big congregation. I’ve gotten through better security before…”

She wagged a finger in front of his face. “Not that. How much money we talking about, and where are they hiding it?”

“Oh, that.” He didn’t want to lowball, because then she wouldn’t think it was worth her while. If he told her the truth, her cut might bleed him, but it’d be better to negotiate in good faith. He could always try to shortchange her later, if he had to. “We think maybe seven million.”

She didn’t spend a lot of time thinking it over. “In that case, my fee is five hundred.”

The numbers ran through his head: roughly two-three to Lisa; one-five to Leonard; a hundred grand to Farraday; and now five hundred Gs to Constance. It was, perhaps, the only time in his life a possible two million dollar-plus payday left him feeling poor.

But Constance Price was the woman he needed on the inside. No doubt about it.

“Okay. I’ll meet your price.”

Now she stood again and took Grant’s hand as he also stood. “Good. It’s been a long time, and I’m really looking forward to working with you again, Grant Lambert.”

“You won’t even have to get your hands dirty,” he said. “Just work your way into the good graces of Hurley, get into the office, and leave a door open on the night we come to collect it. In fact, you’ll probably even show up the day after we crack the safe like nothing is wrong. Because for all they’ll know, you’re just an earnest volunteer.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “How are you on your Bible?”

“I could use some brushing up,” she admitted. “But that isn’t going to be a problem. It doesn’t matter what I know. It only matters I know the talking points.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

She took his elbow and began leading him to the door. “These people don’t know—or care, really—about what’s in the Bible. They pick and choose. That’s how they can justify hating the gays but loving the shellfish.”

“Shellfish?”

“Hell, yeah. The same part of the Bible that tells you not to be gay also tells you not to eat shellfish. Now, how many of these Bible Belt types do you see passing up a shrimp cocktail?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “See, here’s the thing: the guys that wrote the Bible made up most of those stories to fit whatever was going on at the time. People getting sick from shellfish? Just tell ’em that God says not to eat it.”

“Huh,” said Grant. “The things you learn…”

Constance opened the door but stopped him at the threshold. “You wait here and I’ll get you a car.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Trust me, white boy. Four a.m. in this neighborhood, you want me to get you a car.” She smiled. “See? I notice skin color. Nothing wrong with that. So get over your white self and let me find you a ride.”

$ $ $

It took ninety minutes for him to get home. Chase was waiting expectantly when Grant finally walked through the front door of their apartment in Jackson Heights.

Chase tried to read his poker face. “Do we have a gang?”

Grant slumped onto the couch without answering. “How come whenever I try to put together a gang, they take all our money?”

“Uh…so we
don’t
have a gang?”

“No, we’ve got a gang.”

Chase started to let out a whoop, but Grant stopped him. “She wants a half million.”

“Leaving us with…” Chase tried to calculate.

Grant already had the number. “Two million plus. We might end up making less than Lisa.”

“But,” Chase reminded him, “you pulled it all together. And two million ain’t exactly nothing.”

“I guess not. But no more people.”

Chase agreed. “Everything is in place. Now it’s time to go to the Virginia Cathedral of Love and make some
real
money.”

Grant grunted and slumped back onto the couch.

Lisa Cochrane worked fast, especially when she had more than two million dollars on the line. Which was why just two days later, on another swelteringly hot morning, Paul Farraday was driving a stolen ’98 Cadillac with Connecticut plates down Old Stone Fence Post Road in Nash Bog, Virginia, looking for the house numbered 455.

The owner—a corporate lawyer—had been sent to Hong Kong for three months to negotiate some sort of deal none of them would ever be able to understand. All that mattered was that Lisa had rented it for the duration, reasoning that Grant’s track record wasn’t always perfect on the first attempt.

Or the second or third, for that matter. Meaning it might take them a little bit of time, but the payoff would be worth it. In any event, any extra money out of pocket would come back on top of her twenty thousand dollar investment, so she didn’t care.

As Farraday followed the winding road, Grant looked out from the passenger seat at a succession of houses, each one remarkably, if not exactly, like the others. There were slight variations in exteriors and landscaping, but it was apparent the homebuilder of this subdivision gave buyers only a handful of options, all virtually identical to the naked eye.

From the backseat, Chase said, “McMansions.”

“What’s that?” asked Grant.

“Big houses. Small lots. All kinda the same. McMansions.”

“If you say so.”

“Like burgers at McDonald’s. One in New York’s the same as one in San Diego.”

“Yeah, I figured that’s where you were going. Now…”

“Actually,” said Farraday, “the New York McDonald’s ain’t that good. You want good fast food, go to Jersey.”

“Really?” said Chase. “There’s that big a difference?”

Farraday nodded knowingly. “Oh, yeah. If you take Route 46 off the George Washington Bridge…”

Grant interrupted. “I’d like you both to shut up now.”

Chase leaned forward, straining against his seat belt. “See, if these houses looked a bit different and had bigger lots, you’d consider them regular mansions. Or at least, uh, big houses. But they’re built close to each other, which makes them—”

“McMansions,” Grant said. “I got that.”

“Exactly.”

“And now
I’ve
said the word, so we can
all
stop saying the word.”

“Why?” asked Chase.

“I dunno. The word just annoys me, and I don’t wanna hear it anymore.”

“And all
I
know,” said Farraday, behind the wheel, “is it’s good I’m driving, ’cause no one else could find this place in the daylight, let alone after dark. Not unless they live here already.”

“I thought you could drive anywhere,” said Grant.

“
Drive
anywhere, yeah. Asphalt, I know. But there ain’t any landmarks around here. All these McMansions look the same.”

“Don’t say that word.”

A squirrel darted across the road and Farraday muttered an expletive. “I’m worried about pulling into the wrong driveway and having someone take a shot at me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Chase. “This subdivision is full of doctors and lawyers, not gun-slingers.”

“This neighborhood,” Farraday reminded him, “is in
Virginia
. Need I say more?”

To which Chase said, “Don’t worry, Farraday. The doctors and lawyers of Virginia are probably more afraid of crooks from Brooklyn than you are of them.”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Farraday maneuvered the car around yet another curve in the road. Before them, another two dozen almost-identical McMansions lined both sides of Old Stone Fence Post Road, bricked front façades and pale yellow siding and rear façades almost blending together.

Grant pointed at a mailbox just ahead of them.

“Four-fifty-five.”

“So it is.” Farraday slowed the car and turned into the driveway.

When the engine was off, they sat in the car for a moment, staring at the house.

“Nice place,” Grant finally said.

“McMansion,” said Chase.

“Shuddup.”

They took their bags from the trunk and followed a slate walkway to the small concrete porch. Grant fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. Their entrance was greeted by a loud chirp; Grant found the security alarm panel on the wall behind the door and punched in the code Lisa had given him. A mechanical voice of indeterminate gender cheerfully announced, one evenly spaced syllable at a time, “A. Larm. Off. Wel. Come. Home.”

Grant picked up at the point the alarm’s voice left off as they stepped into the foyer. “Welcome to our living quarters for the next several weeks, gentlemen.” He flipped a light switch and a chandelier glowed, barely noticeable in the sunlight already flooding the atrium stretching two stories above them.

They eyed the foyer warily, as if afraid the legitimate owner would show up and call the cops. To the right, a wide curved stairway ascended to the second floor; to the left and straight ahead, arched openings led to the house’s interior; left-center, a carpeted stairway led downstairs.

“I don’t know if I can handle this many ways in and out and up and down,” said Grant.

“Think of ’em as escape routes,” said Chase.

“I guess if we have to hole up, this is as good as it’s gonna get.” Farraday selected the opening under the center archway to start his exploration of the house, then made a sharp left.

Chase followed. “Yeah, you only wish you could live in a place like this.”

Grant followed Chase. “I know
I
do.”

Farraday said, “Might as well get familiar with the place, since it’s gonna be home for the next—Holy crap!” He stopped so abruptly that Grant and Chase walked into him.

“What’s this?” asked Chase, trying to make out the dark room.

Farraday said, “I think it’s a kitchen. A
real
kitchen, not a New York kitchen.”

Grant found the light switch. It was indeed the kitchen. “Did this lawyer guy run a restaurant out of the joint or something?” He gawked at the room, mentally tallying the number of cupboards, stoves, and pantries, instinctively working out how much they could hide and how well they could hide it. “The kitchen’s bigger than our apartment. It’s almost a shame we’re gonna mostly use it for takeout pizza.”