Inside Out

60

Richmond, Virginia

Wire Dog found a space and parked his cab a block from the Second National Bank of Eastern Virginia. Sean walked to the bank's entrance and strolled inside. When it was her turn, she handed the young teller a one hundred-dollar bill.

“Could I have that in tens and fives?”

The teller reached into her drawer and swiftly counted out ten fives and five tens.

Sean asked, “Is Paul Gillman still with the bank?”

“Mr. Gillman's our president.”

“Is he in today?”

“I think so.” The teller looked up and across the lobby. “There he is.”

Sean turned. She saw Paul Gillman standing in an office door holding some papers. Paul had gained a few pounds in the five years since she had seen him, the blond hair was thinner on top, and he looked as though he didn't smile as much as he once had. Tucking her money into her purse, she started across the lobby, and her old friend from college looked straight at her, or through her, then turned and went back to his desk. She stopped at a kiosk, scribbled a note on a deposit slip, and crossed to Gillman's secretary.

“Excuse me. I'm an old friend of Paul's. I know he's busy, but could you give this to him?”

The secretary stared at Sean with a look teetering between hostility and curiosity. Sean suddenly realized how alien she must look to the middle-aged woman who spent her days focusing on numbers. It amused and excited Sean to see how people responded to superficial differences between themselves and others. Had Sean Devlin, instead of Sally McSorley, appeared in the bank, the secretary would have been tripping over herself to accommodate her.

The secretary took the note reluctantly and went into his office.

Paul Gillman beat his secretary out of the room. Looking right past Sean, he scanned the lobby with a hopeful look on his face.

“Paul,” Sean said. “Here.”

The banker turned and stared at her. “Sean?” he stared in disbelief.

“Who else?”

He grinned with delight. “God, you look like Billy Idol!” He hugged her and actually lifted her off the floor.

The secretary stared down at her desk and shuffled some papers.

“What brings you to Richmond?” Paul remarked, finally setting Sean back down.

“Business.”

“How's Olivia?”

“Mother passed away.”

“Sorry. I really liked her.”

Sean smiled. “She liked you, too.”

“How long will you be in town?”

“I'm on the ground for three hours and I thought I'd say hello, take care of a loose end.”

“Come into the office.”

“The presidential office.”

“What's with you and the getup?” he demanded as she settled into a leather chair. “What happened to Sean Marks, the little debutante?”

“I married this guy a while back. I was crazy about him. He's a federal agent whose temper is legendary.” She touched her bruised lip and grimaced.

“Son of a bitch. Aw, Sean, I'm sorry. What can I do?”

“I need to get something from my lockbox.”

“Of course.” He reached into his desk and sifted through the contents until he found an envelope with SEAN MARKS typed on it and an address over a year out of date. “I labeled it so you'd get it back if the sky fell on me or something. You never know.”

“The address is no good,” she admitted. “Guess I haven't been much of a friend, not staying in touch.”

“You always were mysterious, Sean. But this punk thing is quite a departure from your old look.”

He handed her the envelope, which she opened and removed the key. “You and Ally still happily married?” she asked.

“Well, I am as happy as a man with three little boys running amok all over the house can be. Everything is great. But I'd throw it all away and do something insane if you only crooked your little finger.”

Sean smiled warmly at her old friend. “I envy you.”

Before they entered the vault, Paul asked Sean to sign her name on an index card. She had signed it once before, five years earlier, so the signature could be verified. The signature above was looser, from a less stressful time. He located the box, inserted his and then her key, opened the door, pulled out the box, and carried it to a cubicle. “Take as long as you want. I'll be right outside.”

She opened the box, which she had in case of an emergency. At the time it had seemed silly, but her mother had insisted. Olivia Marks had subscribed to the belief that everyone should have mad money, a secret stash in a safe place to draw on. Olivia Marks had been a woman who had lived her entire adult life in quiet terror.

No one but Paul knew Sean had the lockbox, and she alone knew what was inside it. Paul had never asked about its contents. She had made few very close friends-had rarely let anyone get close emotionally. She listened carefully, patiently, but she rarely volunteered information. She evaded. If pressed, she lied. And she lied with an ease that prevented her friends from being certain they ever really knew her. Sean had been raised to be a survivor. There had been a price and she had paid it. For the first time in her life she was glad she had.

There were only two objects inside the box. She lifted out the stack of fifty hundred-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. The second object was a passport in the name of Sally McSorley. She reached into the bottom of her jacket pocket and took out the wedding band Dylan had given her fourteen months before, whose design matched the one Dylan had worn. She felt a surge of relief as she dropped it into the box and closed the lid.

While she had been inside the cubicle, Paul had straightened his tie and carefully combed his hair. She felt a pang of guilt. As she handed him the box, she caught the scent of breath spray. All of her life, she had been an actor. Affecting and manipulating men had been an effortless exercise, but she had never before consciously manipulated people who cared about her.

“Can't you lay over and have dinner with us tonight? Ally would sure love to see you. You could meet our children: the Grub, Splashy-cat and Goop-slinger.”

Sean laughed. “I wish I could, Paul, but I have an appointment with an attorney in California,” she lied. “Next trip through, we can all get together and I can finally meet those boys of yours, whose given names, I am sure, aren't what you said.”

“Jacob, Stephen, and Murray. They'd like you a lot, Sean. You know, if there's ever anything you need, you can ask me. I really mean it.”

She smiled sincerely at her friend. There was one thing. “I don't think anybody could possibly show up here, but if anyone asks after me

…”

“I'll say I haven't seen Sean Marks in five years. I'll just date today's signature on the card for a week after you rented the box. I'm a banker, but I've always been terrible with numbers. Don't be a stranger, okay? We care about you.”

“Thank you, Paul. You can't imagine how much your friendship means to me.”

What was life without friends, family? Without those connections strengthened by shared experience, life became mere survival. She was abruptly conscious of the weight of the pistol in her jacket pocket, a heavy reminder of the fact that she would never again be the girl Paul Gillman once knew.

Wire Dog jerked awake when she opened the cab door. Sean had called him for a number of reasons. He was a perfect addition to her disguise, and she didn't want to have her face seen by other cabdrivers. Wire Dog didn't strike her as someone connected to illegal activities-a real consideration when it came to cabbies. Every dark enterprise inevitably had some connecting point to organized crime, to the network Sam Manelli manipulated from his nest in New Orleans.

When Wire Dog pulled up outside the Hotel Grand, Sean handed him the fare with a ten dollar tip added, despite his unconvincing protest that it was excessive.

“I'm glad you called,” he told her. “You wouldn't want to go hear some music sometime, would you?”

“Too much work to do,” she said.

“Work your fingers to the bone, and know what you get?” he asked.

“No.”

“Bony fingers.”

She laughed.