The Concrete Smile Page 4

  “Sounds complicated,” Sam cautioned. “We’ve got the earnest money, free and clear. The rest of the deal…”

  “Is just as easy,” Finch assured him. “Why do you think I threw that four percent charity bit into the mix?”

  “A small detail that sells the big lie,” Sam replied dutifully, echoing Finch’s favorite pet phrase back to him.

  “Of course, that,” Finch said. “But there’s another reason. By retaining four percent, Jacobsen isn’t buying the company en toto. He’s buying into the company for a ninety-six percent share.”

  “Which is essentially the same thing.”

  “No,” Finch said, grinning. “It’s not. This way, no real estate holdings change hands in a deal like this. Instead, it all stays with the existing company. There’s no title transfer, Sam. Which means no title company, no need for a title clearance, nothing. If we sold him one hundred percent, all of that would have been required. Instead, we cut out all that work, and all that risk. And more importantly, we made it just as easy to take the whole sale price from him as it was to take his earnest money.”

  “Clever,” Sam muttered in appreciation. He glanced over at Rachel, then back to Finch. “It’s really that simple?”

  Finch smiled at them. “In the end, Jacobsen will sign papers for a business that doesn’t even exist and wire us money to an account that will immediately lily pad to something else I’ll set up offshore. Just like clockwork. We’ll be set for life.”

  Sam was quiet, thinking. It was tempting. But there was always risk. “A guy like Jacobsen might not call the cops over the earnest money. But if we take him for three million, those numbers might outweigh his pride. He might report it.”

  Finch scoffed. “Three million is a bigger blow to his pride. Hell, he’s less likely to report it.”

  Sam didn’t argue. Finch was probably right. Human psychology wasn’t very logical.

  Rachel didn’t reply right away, either. When Sam finally looked into her face, he didn’t bother voicing his question. He just waited.

  After a long while, she nodded slowly. “It’s worth the stretch,” she said.

  Sam wasn’t as sure as she was, but he held up his hands in defeat. “All right. We stay the course and get the other three mill.”

  Finch grinned and actually clapped his hands together once in excitement. “All right. I’ll get to work.” He headed toward the desk in the corner of the suite and started making notes.

  Rachel kept her eyes on Sam for a moment, then returned to separating the take.

  Sam arrived at the Stone Pilgrim only a few minutes ahead of Jacobsen. When the big man sauntered in, he gave Sam a wave and joined him. “Jack-a-reno!” he thundered.

  It just never gets old.

  “Barry-be-good.”

  “Barry-be-rich, you mean.” He slapped Sam on the shoulder and waved to the bartender. “These are on me,” he announced.

  “Thanks,” Sam said.

  Jacobsen settled into his seat, beaming. “Damn, it feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Winning, Jackie. Winning!”

  “It does,” Sam admitted.

  Oh, it does.

  “Al called me and asked for an expedited close,” Jacobsen said.

  Sam feigned surprise. “He did?”

  “He sure did. And I gave it to him, too. Why wait?”

  “You’re not going to send the contract to a lawyer?”

  Jacobsen shook his head. “I hate lawyers, Jackie. You know that.”

  “I hate government,” Sam said. “But I like roads and bridges and power grids, so I put up with them. They’re useful that way. Lawyers can be, too.”

  Jacobsen laughed. “True enough. But I don’t need a lawyer. I know what I’m doing. Besides, you looked it over, and you’re a lawyer.”

  “Not technically.”

  “No, I know. But you already did the same thing a lawyer would do in this situation, so why should I pay someone hundreds of dollars an hour to repeat your work?”

  Sam shrugged. “I guess that makes sense.”

  “If the deal crashes or whatever, I’ll get a lawyer when I sue. But that’s not going to happen.”

  No, it’s not.

  “When do you close?”

  “Two days from now. You want to be there for the big finale?”

  Sam smiled. “That’s gracious, but it’s your moment. I might take a victory lap with you here at the Pilgrim afterward, though.”

  “Sounds good. If I’m not hip deep in a dark-haired beauty about then.”

  Sam forced himself to continue smiling. “If that’s an option, you should go with it.”

  Jacobsen seemed flush with his success. “It’ll be a repeat performance, that’s what it’ll be.” He glanced at his watch. “She’s meeting me here in about forty minutes and we are going to celebrate.”

  “You deserve it,” Sam said.

  “I do,” Jacobsen. “I do.”

  The bartender brought them another round, and they toasted success. Sam made small talk, letting Jacobsen do most of the talking. Then he feigned receiving a phone call. He glanced down at the screen of his flip phone. “Oh, hey, I’ve got to take this, Barry,” he said, standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure. Hey…you know they make smart phones now, right?”

  “This does everything I need it to do,” Sam said. He didn’t add that it didn’t leave much of a trace, either, when he threw it away at the end of a job.

  Jacobsen shrugged and turned his attention back to his drink.

  Sam slipped out the front door of the Stone Pilgrim and immediately texted Rachel a single word—Now. Then he dialed Patti’s phone. She answered on the second ring.

  “We’re on,” he told her. “Come by the bar in about ten minutes. Make him happy.”

  “I make all my clients happy,” she purred.

  Sam hung up and went back inside. As he sat down, he pretended to just then notice that Jacobsen was on the phone. He made motions to ask if Jacobsen wanted him to leave, but the man scowled and shook his head.

  “Of course, I understand,” he said in a tone of barely concealed irritation. “It’s family. You gotta do what’s right.” He listened for a few moments, still scowling, then made a series of replies. “Just let me know when you’re back in town. Okay. No, I understand.” He hung up and dropped the phone on the table. “Well, hell.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My date. She had to cancel.”

  “The one from the office, right?”

  Jacobsen nodded. “The one I’ve been chasing for weeks. Tonight was supposed to be…well, it doesn’t matter. She’s not coming.”

  “What happened?”

  “Her mom fell and they think she broke her hip. She has to go home and take care of her.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Nevada, I think.” Jacobsen shrugged. “Maybe Utah. I forget. But she’ll be gone for a few days at least.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Barry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, but I’m afraid I’m going to add to the parade.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have to go, too. That was a client with an emergency.”

  Jacobsen’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of an emergency?”

  Sam smiled indulgently. “The kind that is confidential to my client.”

  Jacobsen raised his hand, half-smiling. “Hey, just asking.”

  “I know.” Sam rose and shook Jacobsen’s hand. “Stay and enjoy a couple of drinks, Barry. Wash away the disappointment. It’s nothing compared to the deal you made.”

  Jacobsen nodded slowly in agreement. “You know what? You’re right. See you, Jack-o.”

  “See you.”

  Except I won’t.

  The next morning while he and Rachel ate an early breakfast, Sam called Patti.

  “How’d it go?�
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  She was immediately defensive. “I hope you don’t expect me to give your money back.”

  “What?”

  “Because you’re paying for my time, just like when I was with you those times.”

  “That’s fine,” Sam said. “But what are you talking about? What happened?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I went to the bar and let him buy me a few drinks. I gave him all the signals, and for a little while he went along with them. But when it was time to leave, he went his way and I went mine.”

  “He wasn’t interested?” Sam found that hard to believe. Patti was most men’s rock ’n’ roll fantasy girl.

  “He was very interested,” she said. “But he said he couldn’t do it. He had a code.”

  Sam thought about it for a few seconds. “Wait. He didn’t go with you because of me?”

  “That’s the line he laid on me, anyway,” Patti told him.

  Sam hesitated, considering the possibilities.

  After a short silence, Patti interjected. “I’m keeping the money. It’s for my time, no matter what.”

  “Of course,” Sam said, absently. “Thanks again.” He hung up.

  Rachel was looking at him across the breakfast table, so he relayed the information to her.

  She raised a brow, surprised. “A code, huh? More likely, his ego won’t let him go where you’ve been.”

  Sam shook his head. “No. I told him I was still working on it with her. He even saw her get mad at me and leave the bar one night.”

  She smiled. “You mirrored his experience with me. Nice.”

  “Thanks.” He thought for another moment, then said, “The only way going with Patti violates any code is if he considers me a friend. Not just a drinking buddy, but an actual friend.”

  Rachel nodded in agreement, then smiled. “Unless he’s saving himself for me.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s a little funny.”

  “Not even a little.” Sam took a sip of his coffee, now almost cold. “Interesting.”

  “You’re just too good at your job,” Rachel suggested. She reached across the table and took his hand. “Now, what shall we do all day? I mean, after we go back to bed?”

  By noon, they’d left the motel room and drove out into the suburbs. At a mall, they wandered around aimlessly, people watching. They stopped at a national bank branch and Rachel deposited most of her take into her dead aunt’s account. Then they went to a different bank at the other end of the mall, and Sam made a deposit under one of his safe names. After that, they took turns making up backstories for different people, a game Rachel was much better at than Sam.

  “The advantages of growing up in a big city,” she told him.

  While they sat, Sam casually glanced around, an awareness habit he’d learned from Rachel. She saw him doing it, and asked, “You feel it, too?”

  “Feel what?”

  “This one is taking too long, like I said.”

  “It’ll be finished soon. In two days.”

  “It should already be finished. We should be hundreds of miles from St. Louis.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “If that’s what you think, why did you agree to Finch’s proposal?”

  “I told you why.”

  “But your gut…”

  “Says we’ve overstayed.” She sighed and stretched. “I can always tell when it’s been long. I start to feel like I’m being watched, and I can’t shake it.”

  “You feel that way now?”

  “I’ve felt that way for days.”

  Sam thought about it, then shrugged. He’d learned to trust instinct, his and hers, but he knew it wasn’t a perfect art. How many times had they cut and run on instinct, never to know for sure if it had been the right thing to do? It cost them plenty of money, but it was also why they weren’t dead or in prison.

  “Maybe it’s because of how you’ve had to play Jacobsen,” he suggested.

  She laughed. “No, he is always watching me, all day long. This is different.”

  Sam didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Two days.”

  “Two days,” she repeated.

  They saw a light-hearted movie, then got back in the car and went looking for someplace to have an early dinner. Rachel spotted a tiny Italian restaurant and they tried it. The bread was good but the sauce could just as easily have come from a jar. Neither of them finished their entrée.

  They caught up with Finch the next day. He look harried and exuberant at the same time, and he nodded enthusiastically to their questions.

  “I’ve got the legit paperwork in order. It looks good. And the banking is set up. I just need to go over everything one more time, then confirm my appointment with Jacobsen.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Rachel said.

  “I’m a professional, beautiful,” Finch told her. He turned to Sam. “Will you be there at the closing?”

  “I don’t think so.” Sam considered a moment, then said, “But just in case, let’s put a couple of small errors in the paperwork. If he calls me in, I can find those and point them out to him. Make him feel smart for bringing me in.”

  “Or dumb for missing it himself,” Rachel cautioned.

  “No, if he calls me in, I’ll get first crack at the paperwork. And if he doesn’t call me in, then maybe he’ll find them. That’s good for us, too. Either way, nothing fatal, Finch. Just something worth arguing about and changing. Can you handle that?”

  “Can I…?” Finch shook his head. “How many times have you worked with me? Have I ever not been able to handle something?”

  “Never,” Sam admitted.

  “That’s right. Don’t forget who came up with the four-percent gambit, son.” He made shooing motions with his hands. “Now get out of here. Go have some fun while I labor.”

  They left.

  Rachel convinced him to drive back out to the suburbs and cruise around until they found a bar with live music. They had to wait well over an hour for the music to start, but it was worth it. The small bar band played only covers, but nailed each one. They danced, drank a couple, and laughed.

  “I want a cigarette,” Rachel told him after a Cheap Trick song.

  Sam looked at her. “Lips that touch a cigarette…”

  She waved his words away. “You believed that? Maybe you’re not as good at this as I thought. I started smoking when I was fourteen.”

  “But you quit.”

  “I did. Years ago. And now I want a cigarette. Are you coming?”

  “Sure. You have cash?”

  She raised a sheaf of ones.

  “All right. Let me hit the restroom first.”

  “I’ll buy the cigs and meet you out front. You can put that lighter to use. And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you have a drag.”

  “Sounds good.” He kissed her, and made his way to the bathroom. The band started playing a 1970s’ ballad, and he almost returned to grab her for one more dance, but saw she was already headed to the cigarette machine. He went to the tiny bathroom instead, waiting for the two men in front of him for his turn at the urinal.

  The faucet water from the sink was ice cold and the paper towels were thin, but he didn’t care. He wiped the residue of the cold water on his face and left the bathroom.

  The ballad had ended. The band was rollicking through a classic Eagles hit that got most people out of their chairs. Sam wove around tables and chairs, making his way to the exit.

  The cool air was clean and felt good on his damp cheeks. He took a deep breath. Rachel was nowhere in sight, so he walked to his right and around the side of the building. There were a couple of smokers near a Camaro with an open passenger door, but no Rachel.

  He returned to the front of the building and around the other corner. He immediately ran into fencing that enclosed the dumpster. The sharp, acrid smell of garbage wafted toward him, but no cigarette smoke.

  Sam pau
sed, letting his eyes adjust to the comparative darkness. Then he took another few steps forward, resisting the urge to call out to her. He had the insane thought that she was teasing him, but knew she would never tease him this way.

  “Yo, that’s far enough, fuck-o.” The voice came out of the darkness, laced with a distinct Philadelphia accent.

  Sam slowed, but stepped a little further, edging around the corner of the dumpster.

  “I said, far enough,” growled the voice.

  He stopped.

  Sam could see the outline of their shapes now. Rachel’s curvy form in front, the man’s burly arm wrapped around her chest and pulling her body close to his. The gun dangled casually from his right hand.

  “Let her go,” he said, reflexively.

  The man let out a slow, poisonous chuckle. “Okay, hero. Why don’t I do that? Then you can give me cab fare to airport, and we can just forget everything, right?”

  Sam swallowed, his heart pounding, but seized on what he’d heard. “We can do better than cab fare. A lot better.”

  “Oh, really?” His voice raised, as if in interest. “How much are we talking about?”

  “How much do you want?”

  The gun came up. Sam tensed, but the man brought the back of his hand to his cheek and rubbed.

  “Let’s see, how much?” He took a deep, dramatic breath and let it out. “Well, I figure about a million ought to do it.”

  “Okay. I’ll need a couple of days.”

  “You don’t have a couple of minutes, hero.”

  “I don’t carry a million dollars on me. Be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?” the man sneered. “After what you pulled, you expect anyone to be reasonable about anything?”

  “That’s over,” Sam said, keeping his voice calm. “And far away from here.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. It ain’t so far away, and it’ll never be over.” The man shook his head. “You know, Vincent didn’t want to believe what the two you tried to do. He wanted to think it was just Little Carmine and Angela, and that they were trying to lay it off on you.”