Part 23 (1/2)

”So who got it all?”

”Friends. It's not important.”

”Not to us, maybe.” Bud Schwartz nodded toward the bathroom. ”I got a feeling your old lady might be interested.”

Kingsbury lowered his voice. ”The reason I use the credit card, h.e.l.l, who carries that much cash?”

”Plus the insurance,” said Danny Pogue, pawing through Mrs. Kingsbury's jewelry. ”Stuff gets broke or stolen, they replace it, no questions. It's a new thing.”

Great, Bud Schwartz thought; now he's doing commercials.

”There's some excellent s.h.i.+t here. Very nice.” Danny Pogue held up a diamond solitaire and played it off the light. ”I'm guessin” two carats.”

”Try one-point-five,” said Kingsbury.

”There were some dinners on your card,” Bud Schwartz said. ”And plane tickets, too. It's handy how they put it all together at the end of the year where you can check it.”

Kingsbury asked him how much.

”Five grand,” Bud Schwartz said, ”and we won't say a word to the wife.”

”The file, Jesus, I need it back.”

”No problem. Now let's talk about serious money.”

Kingsbury frowned. He pulled on the tip of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, as if he were straightening it.

Bud Schwartz said, ”The Gotti file, Mr. King.”

”Mother of Christ.”

” 'Frankie, The Ferret, King.' That's what the indictment said.”

”You got me by surprise,” Kingsbury said.

Danny Pogue looked up from an opal bracelet he was admiring. ”So who's this Gotti dude again? Some kinda gangster is what Bud said.”

”How much?” said Kingsbury. He leaned forward and put his hands on his bare knees. ”Don't make it, like...a game.”

Bud Schwartz detected visceral fear in the man's voice; it gave him an unfamiliar feeling of power. On the other side of the bathroom door, Francis Kingsbury's wife shouted something about wanting to get out. Kingsbury ignored her.

”The banks that made the loans on Falcon Trace, do they know who you are?” Bud Schwartz affected a curious tone. ”Do they know you're a government witness? A mob guy?”

Kingsbury didn't bother to reply.

”I imagine they gave you s.h.i.+tloads a money, Bud Schwartz went on, ”and I imagine they could call it back.”

Francis Kingsbury went to the bathroom door and told Penny to shut up and sit her sweet a.s.s on the can. He turned back to the burglars and said: ”So what's the number, the grand total? For Gotti, I mean.”

Danny Pogue resisted the urge to enter the negotiation; expectantly he looked at his partner. Bud Schwartz smoothed his hair, pursed his mouth. He wanted to hear what kind of bulls.h.i.+t offer Kingsbury would make on his own.

”I'm trying to think what's fair.”

”Give me a f.u.c.king number,” said Kingsbury, ”and I'll G.o.dd.a.m.n tell you if it's fair.”

What the h.e.l.l, thought Bud Schwartz. ”Fifty grand,” he said calmly. ”And we toss in Ramex and the rest for free.”

Excitedly Danny Pogue began excavating a new pimple.

Kingsbury eyed the men suspiciously. ”Fifty, you said? As in five-oh?”

”Right.” Bud Schwartz gave half a grin. ”That's fifty to give back the Gotti file...”

”And?”

”Two hundred more to forget what was in it.”

Kingsbury chuckled bitterly. ”So I was wrong,” he said. ”You're not such a putz.”

Danny Pogue was so overjoyed that he could barely control himself on the ride back to Molly's condominium. ”We're gonna be rich,” he said, pounding both hands on the upholstery. ”You're a genius, man, that's what you are.”

”It went good,” Bud Schwartz agreed. Better than he had ever imagined. As he drove, he did the arithmetic in his head. Five thousand for the American Express file, fifty for the Gotti stuff, another two hundred in hush money...rich was the word for it. ”Early retirement,” he said to Danny Pogue. ”No more d.a.m.n b-and-e's.”

”You don't think he'll call the cops?”

”That's the last place he'd call. Guy's a scammer, Danny.”

They stopped at a U-Tote-Em and bought two six-packs of Coors and a box of jelly doughnuts. In the parking lot they rolled down the windows and turned up the radio and stuffed themselves in jubilation. It was an hour until curfew; if they weren't back by midnight, Molly had said, she would call the FBI and say her memory had returned.

”I bet she'll cut us some slack,” said Danny Pogue, ”if we're a little late.”

”Maybe.” Bud Schwartz opened the door and rolled an empty beer can under the car. He said, ”I'm sure getting' tired of being her pet burglar.”

”Well, then, let's go to a t.i.ttie bar and celebrate.” Danny Pogue said he knew of a place where the girls danced naked on the tables, and let you grab their ankles for five bucks.

Bud Schwartz said not tonight. There would be no celebration until they broke free from the old lady. Tonight he would make a pitch for the rest of the ten grand that she'd promised. Surely they were square by now; Molly had been so thrilled by the contents of the Ramex file that she'd given him a hug. Then she'd gone out and had eight copies made. What more could she want of them?

Back on the road, Bud Schwartz said: ”Remember, don't say a d.a.m.n thing about what we done tonight.”

”You told me a hundred times.”

”Well, it'll screw up everything. I mean it, don't tell her where we been.”

”No reason,” said Danny Pogue. ”It's got nothin' to do with the b.u.t.terflies, right?”

”No, it sure does not.”