Naked Greed

39

Al sat at the poker table and glanced at his hand again. He raised. The dealer dealt another card, and Al watched his face instead of his hands. He had already learned that the guy was too good a mechanic to make a move you could see. His face was something else, though. As he dealt Al’s next card there was a tiny smile.

Al forced himself not to look at his watch, on being completely caught up in the game. He wanted to be as surprised as everyone else at the table. When the two doors were simultaneously kicked in, he flinched with the best of them and looked around. Two men in masks and black clothes came into the room, one with a semiautomatic pistol held out in front of him and the other with a mean-looking sawed-off shotgun.

“Hands on the table, everybody!” Ryan shouted, and for emphasis, he cocked both hammers of the shotgun.

Al went back to looking at the dealer, and as he placed his hands on the table, the butt of a pistol revealed itself under his jacket. Oh, no, Al thought.

Vinny was methodically emptying the pockets of the players, while Ryan moved the shotgun back and forth, as if spraying the men at the table.

Al saw a flicker of a move of the dealer’s right hand, and he caught the man’s eye and slowly shook his head. That stopped the man long enough for Vinny to discover the pistol. It was a snub-nosed .38, and he thumbed open the cylinder and shook the cartridges out onto the table. Al heard somebody say, “Shit!” but he wasn’t sure who.

Vinny began wrapping the money, the cards, and the cartridges in the blanket, then he nodded at Ryan, who let go a single, deafening round into the ceiling, showering everyone with pieces of acoustic tiles. The two men ran out the rear door, and a moment later, Al heard the car’s tires squeal as it drove down the alley.

People seemed reluctant to move for a moment. “They’re gone,” somebody said.

Al turned to face the dealer. “You,” he said, “you nearly got somebody killed.”

“Fuck you,” the dealer snarled.

After a change of cars and a dumping of their clothes, Ryan let them into his apartment and tossed the bundle onto the couch.

“I want to see it,” Vinny said, making a move.

“Not until Al gets here,” Ryan said. “That was the deal.”

“He’s going to be at least an hour,” Vinny said.

Ryan switched on the TV and found an old movie. “Watch and learn,” he said. “It’ll make the time fly.”

Al arrived at the apartment just before two AM. “Sorry,” he said, as Ryan let him in, “I had to drink with them, or they’d have suspected something. A couple of them were looking at me funny, until I pointed out to them that I was the big loser.”

He opened the blanket, and they stared at the pile of money. “I had twenty grand on the table,” Al said. “I get that out first.” He quickly counted the money, while Ryan and Vinny sorted the bills by denomination and kept a running tally on a shirt cardboard.

“I make it two hundred and twenty-two grand,” Ryan said, “give or take.”

“Vinny,” Al said, “you just made yourself forty-four grand.” He counted out the money.

“You guys made more,” Vinny said.

“You set up the jobs and do the planning, and you’ll make more,” Al said.

“Somebody give me a lift to my mom’s house?” Vinny said, getting to his feet.

“Sure,” Al said, getting up. “We’re all beat. Remember, no flashy spending for a while. Give it a month before you buy anything noticeable.” He led Vinny to his car and told him to get into the rear seat. “Stay down,” he said. “I don’t want anybody seeing us together.”

“Right,” Vinny said. “You got something else for us soon, Al?”

“Maybe,” Al said. “You don’t want to pull a rash of jobs. You got cash, take your girl to the city for dinner and a show.”

“Right.”

Al deposited Vinny on his doorstep, after a good look around, then drove away.

Ryan still wasn’t ready to sleep. He turned on New York One, the 24/7 cable news channel. He was half asleep when he heard a name that jerked him awake.

“Police Commissioner Dino Bacchetti worked late tonight,” the reporter said, “and got home late to his Park Avenue apartment.” Ryan watched as Bacchetti got out of a black SUV and walked under an awning into his building. He saw the building number on the awning. This was Barrington’s buddy, who rousted him outside the restaurant and made him spend a night in the can. Barrington had been hard to find lately, but now he knew where to look for his friend.

Bacchetti would do.