The Double (14 page)

“It’s a jungle out there,” said Waldron. “In Georgetown.”

“Yeah, how’s it feel to be back in uniform, Waldron?”

This came from Tom Kaniewski, seated on the other side of the bar, five beers deep into the afternoon. Kaniewski was in his late forties, a marine who had participated in an infamous Reagan-era military action. Waldron had been a PFC in the army, posted for recon at a firebase in the Korengol Valley of Afghanistan. The animosity between the branches of the service was real for some, almost a tradition, but Waldron plain didn’t like Kaniewski, a decent guy ordinarily whose mouth overloaded his asshole when he drank. As for Lucas, he had nothing but respect for the guys in the army. They’d caught it in Fallujah, and dealt it back.

“Fuck you,
Tommy,
” said Waldron.

“I’m just playing with you,” said Kaniewski.

“Play with this,” said Waldron. “I should be more understanding of you, I guess. You’re still living with the posttraumatic stress of that Grenada invasion.”

“That again.”

“The climax of
Heartbreak Ridge
had me on the edge of my seat.”

“Excuse me,” said Kaniewski to the guy seated next to him, and clumsily got off his stool and headed toward the bathroom.

“Where you goin, Kaniewski?” said Waldron. “Is it time to change your tampon?”

A couple of the men at the bar smiled charitably. Then they kept drinking.

“I’m gonna catch a smoke,” said Waldron, and he headed for the side door, which led out to a patio and yard.

“What’s eating him?” said Lucas, after he was out of earshot.

“Bobby’s just ornery like that,” said Marquis. “You gonna hit him up for some iron?”

“I don’t think so,” said Lucas. “Not yet.”

Waldron had an arsenal of firearms, ammunition, knives, combat gear, and body armor he sold and rented out to select people he could trust. He bought the hardware at gun shows and from private dealers. The ammo and armor had been easily purchased over the Internet.

“So this thing you called me about,” said Marquis. “Should I be updating my will?”

“I don’t know. We’re dealing with three guys. One’s an Internet scammer, the other’s a thief and, when it comes to women, probably a sociopath. The third one, I’ve got nothing on him. But I’m not looking to bring a gun to this party. You pull a gun, you have to shoot it.”

“What you gonna do if
they
have guns? Point your finger and go
bang?
”

“If it works out like I want, I’m just gonna piss this guy off enough for him to leave.”

“And me?”

“We’ll take two rentals. I’ll go in for the meet, you hang outside the perimeter. When he leaves, tail him or his crew to wherever they go. I need to find out where these guys stay. Once I do that, I can figure out a way to get into their crib and steal back the painting.”

“You make it sound like a picnic in Rock Creek Park.”

Lucas shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

“What about the lay of the land?”

“The dude just gave me the location this morning. It’s over there in Ward Nine.”

After the increased migration of east-of-the-river residents from the 7th and 8th Wards of D.C. into Maryland, and the attendant rise in crime, some folks had been describing PG County as Ward 9. It was not a term of endearment.

“We Prince Georges County residents don’t like it when you describe our home in that derogatory way.”

“Sorry. The spot he picked used to be a strip mall in Oxon Hill. Now it’s a bunch of empty stores with no tenants.”

“A deserted strip mall.”

“He wants me to meet him around back.”

“Where it’s even more deserted. This gets better the more you talk about it.”

“We’re gonna check it out first, of course.”

“Of course.”

Lucas drank some Bud and placed the bottle on the bar. He looked at Marquis’s outfit and grinned. “Can’t touch this.”

“Huh?”

“MC Hammer’s closet has some empty hangers in it today.”

Marquis reached over and flicked the leg of Lucas’s Dickies. “I used to have a pair of trousers like that.”

“And then your father got a job.”

“You should own
two
pairs.”

“One to shit on, and one to cover it up with.”

“You heard all those, huh? And here I was, thinking I was gonna make you smile.”

“Let’s finish these beers,” said Lucas. “Go have a look at that mall.”

Billy King sat in a window booth of Captain John’s, overlooking a marina and sound. The restaurant was located on the mainland side of Cobb Island, Maryland, around fifty miles from D.C., down Route 5 and 254, where the Wicomico and Potomac Rivers meet.

Captain John’s large, open dining room was crowded with locals, powerboaters, and day-trippers. King was eating steamed crabs spiced with Old Bay. A pitcher of beer, a mug, a paper cup holding vinegar, a wooden mallet, and a nutcracker sat on the table, which was covered in brown butcher paper. The attaché case and gym bag containing the coins were locked in the trunk of his black Monte Carlo SS, parked in the lot.

King pulled the claws off the crab, flipped it over, tore open the envelope, separated the top shell from the body, broke the body in half, discarded the “mustard” and intestines, and found the treasured back fin. He dipped this in vinegar and ate it. He’d get to the claws later. God, it was good. For a while he’d lived in Louisiana, where they boiled their crabs, and they were okay, but there was no comparison to steamed blue crabs from Maryland, properly spiced. He tossed the inedible stuff in a pile that was heaped in the middle of the table and wiped a paper towel across his face. All the beer he’d drank, he had to take a piss.

On the way to the head he walked by the bar and saw a woman seated alone. A lot of hair, midforties, nice ass in a white pair of jeans, a strong sit-up rack from what he could tell. She was drinking clear liquor in the afternoon. That was good.

On the way back he walked slow and easy, and waited for her to get a look at him in full. Some women were scared off by a guy his size, but just as many craved it. Her eyes nakedly appraised him, and he knew he was in. He got beside her and touched his forearm to hers as he leaned on the bar.

“’Scuse me,” said King.

“That’s all right,” she said, with a smile. “No harm done.”

Up close she looked closer to fifty. Long as she was on the wet side of menopause and her motor ran, that was all right by King.

To the bartender, King said, “A shot of Jamie. That would be neat, professor. And please give my friend here whatever she’s having, on me.”

“That’s kind of you,” said the woman.

“My apologies for being so clumsy. I’m not the delicate type.”

“I can see that, hon.”

“Billy Hunter,” he said, and extended his hand. She took it, and he squeezed it firmly. Now she’d know his strength.

“Lois Wilson. Pleased to meet you.”

King smiled, showed her his white teeth. He brushed his blond hair back off his forehead. Women liked that move, too. “Pleased to meet
you,
darling.”

She blushed. Lois the Ho-ess, thought King. I’m gonna peel you back and turn you inside out.

“What are you doing in these parts?” said Lois. “I know I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Meeting a man at the marina. I’m looking to buy a boat. It’s a sickness.”

“Don’t do it,” said Lois.

“I know,” said King ruefully.

“I have a twenty-two-foot Whaler. It belonged to my ex. It’s a money pit, Billy. The gas alone…”

“I just can’t help myself,” said King, liking the way the conversation was going. “Look, I was hoping to get a drink later on, maybe someplace, you know, more of a real bar than a restaurant. You know of any?”

“There’s a little spot on Neale Sound Drive, on the island proper.”

The bartender served Lois her vodka tonic and King his Jameson, straight up. King knocked his back at once and placed the empty shot glass on the bar.

“Maybe I’ll see you over there tonight,” said King, dropping cash on the stick.

“Maybe,” said Lois coyly.

King walked back to his table to finish his crabs. Wasn’t no maybe about it. She’d be at that bar, waiting on him. And soon after that, he’d look down and there she’d be. Hanging on the end of his dick, panting like a grateful dog.

Another crab house was set just across the road. King met a man named Arthur Spiegel in its lot. Spiegel wore gray slacks and a white short-sleeved button-down shirt with an oxford collar. His eyeglasses had bifocals and thick black stems. He looked like a math teacher. In fact he was a bridge man to black marketeers who dealt in coins and gold. King and Spiegel were in the front seat of Spiegel’s Lincoln Town Car, facing the water. Spiegel was inspecting the goods in the open attaché set on the armrest between them.

“These Liberty five-dollar gold pieces are barely in the fine category,” said Spiegel.

“And the Indian heads?” said King.

“Same. At retail, they’d go for four hundred and change. It’s not even worth the risk for my buyer. I can have them melted down. With the price of gold right now, you’re better off doing that. Just take the ounce value.”

“What about the Saint Gaudens?” said King. “They’re nineteen-o-eights, uncirculated. That’s a sweet collection right there.”

Spiegel picked up the set of coins, encased in hard plastic, from the attaché, and inspected it. “You did your homework.”

“Yeah, and they’ve been authenticated. The papers are in that gym bag at your feet.”

“Well…”

King smiled. “Don’t try to put it in my dirt chute, Arthur.”

Spiegel did not like to look King in the eye. It unsettled him. He stunk of alcohol and spices, and his bulky frame loomed in the car.

“I wouldn’t,” said Spiegel. “But the manner in which you obtained the goods, well, this wasn’t an ordinary event. The newspapers and wire services have picked up the story. It’s on the NCIC website.”

“An old man got some stitches in his head. So what?”

“He detailed the missing goods to the press,” said Spiegel. “It’s going to make it hard to move the coins.”

“How much?” said King, tiring of the game. “Roughly.”

Spiegel removed his glasses. “Let’s say…”

“Careful.”

“Twenty thousand for everything.”

“Fuck you.”

“Inclusive of my cut.”

“Fuck
you.
There’s a nineteen twenty-six D in there, too. That’s worth twelve grand all by itself.”

“I was counting that.”

“Maybe I’ll shop around.”

“That’s up to you, Billy.”

King looked down at his big hands, folded in his lap. He was powerful, crafty, and slick, but he wasn’t smart. All his life, he’d managed to get by with the strong-arm and some degree of charm. But guys like Spiegel, physically inferior but with real brains, would always take him to school in the end. King knew who he was.

“What do you think?” said Spiegel. “I’ve got the cash in the trunk. We can do the deal right there.”

“I bet you brought exactly twenty, too.”

“I don’t overspend, if that’s what you mean. Do we have a deal?”

Twenty thousand split three ways: six thousand three hundred and thirty-three each. Bacalov and the kid didn’t need to know what he’d got for the coin collection. So maybe he’d take ten or twelve for himself. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And he still had the paintings. Once he moved the Loretta Browning he’d be flush. Maybe buy himself a boat. A nice, seaworthy Grady-White, or a sweet Bayliner. Or a Parker, twinned-out with Yamahas.

“Gimme the money,” said King.

By the time they finished, it was night.

King drove over the bridge spanning Neale Sound and cruised around the island until he found the bar Lois had mentioned. It was a small place for locals, smelling of spilled beer, outfitted with a couple of televisions, Keno screens, a pool table, and an electronic jukebox. She was there at the bar, talking to a guy in a sleeveless shirt with arm tats. King crossed the barroom floor as a Jim Lauderdale cover of a Johnny Paycheck song, “I Want You to Know,” came from the juke. The pedal steel landed pretty on King’s ears.

“Did you buy that boat?” said Lois, as King sidled up to her left and slid onto a wood stool. The guy with the tats was seated to the right of Lois and stared straight ahead. He’d worn the sleeveless shirt to show off his sculpted guns, but he had chicken legs. He needed to work on his beer hump, too.

“I’m gonna sleep on it,” said King. He signaled the bartender and asked for a Heineken, which in this place was asking if it was all right to date the man’s daughter. But the bartender served it without comment, along with a fresh vodka tonic for Lois, at King’s instruction.

Lois thanked him and said she had to go to the “little girl’s room,” and when she was gone, King leaned over to the guy in the sleeveless shirt, who had uttered not one word, and said amiably, “I’d appreciate it you’d give us a little privacy.”

“I’m not botherin anyone,” he said weakly.

“Beat it, fella.”

The guy got up off his stool, paid his tab, and left the bar.

Lois returned, smelling like she’d splashed something on. They had a couple of rounds and talked about what was going to happen without saying it. Lois was drunk by then, slurring what she thought were clever double entendres about “size” and “stamina.” King thinking, Why do we need to talk? Though he smiled and nodded, and pretended he gave a shit. It was hard to act interested, but he had his needs.

They went to her spot back on the mainland, a creek-front colonial on Dyer Road that she’d snagged in her divorce settlement. Later, when he was putting his clothes back on, she was crying. She’d been begging him while he was fucking her, saying “please,” over and over again. He complied in every which way he knew. At the end she was flopping all over the bed like a fish on a dock. Then, when
he
was ready to finish, he put it in her mouth. Her eyes had bugged, trying to take it in, King thrusting as hard as he would if he was plunging it into her hole. He really did wonder, Why did they always cry? He was only giving them what they wanted. What did Ho-ess think they were gonna do, back when she was talking all that funny stuff back at the bar? Exchange Hallmark cards?