Naked Greed

53

Stone got a call from Dino on Wednesday morning.

“Hey,” Dino said.

“You sound better.”

“I’m fine, pal, and the best part is that Viv never knew I wasn’t.”

“Are you at home?”

“No, I’m at the office — I told you I’m fine.”

“Not tired anymore?”

“I’m just fine, trust me!”

“Okay, you’re fine. Any news on Ryan?”

“Yeah, Harrigan finally figured out that he has a cell phone. We checked his calls, but he hasn’t made any for a while.”

“What’s the billing address?”

“His old place, in Queens.”

“I don’t know why it’s so hard to find a guy who doesn’t seem to be hiding.”

“Neither do I, believe me.”

“What’s his cell phone number?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I just want to know, okay? Maybe I’ll call him, and we’ll chat.”

Dino gave him the number. “Don’t call it,” he said, “you’ll just fuck things up, and Harrigan would love to have somebody to blame.”

Stone ignored that. “When are you going to feel like having dinner?”

“I feel like it right now!” Dino yelled. “Can’t you get it into your head that I’m fine?”

“Great, then call Viv, and let’s go to Patroon tonight.”

“Viv’s back in Chicago, this time overnight.”

“See you there at seven-thirty.”

“Right.” Dino hung up and so did Stone.

Stone called Bob Cantor, his general all-around tech guy.

“How you doing?” Bob asked.

“Just fine,” Stone replied. “I’ve got a little thing for you.”

“What do you need?”

Stone gave him Ryan’s cell number. “I need to find the owner of that cell number. His name is Gene Ryan. It’s still listed under his old address, but he’s moved to New Jersey.”

“I’ll see what I can do. You want to know about his calls?”

“Sure, anything you can learn about the guy.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

The Silver Meteor pulled into Pennsylvania Station on time. Ryan, out of an abundance of caution, didn’t get off until there were a lot of people on the platform. He’d managed to keep some soup down at lunch, and he was getting hungry, which he regarded as a good sign. What had that bitch put in his drink?

He joined the crowd on the platform, burdened only by his small suitcase. He was about to look for a cab when he realized he had no money. He found an ATM and got five hundred, then he succumbed to hunger and went into a fast-food restaurant and got a burger. He was standing at a tall table, taking his first bite, when he noticed two men walking quickly toward his train. They were clearly looking for somebody, and they didn’t act like cops. They were burly, wearing suits but no ties, and one of them had a bulge under his left armpit. They walked on toward the train.

Ryan began to wonder if he’d waited too long to throw away the throwaway cell phone. They’d have found Charlie’s, and his number would have been in that, and they might have traced it to the moving train before he pulled the SIM card and dumped it.

He reluctantly left the burger and began walking toward the exit where the cab stand was, still chewing. He was unarmed, not having taken anything to Florida, and he had dumped the bank guard’s Glock. He felt vulnerable.

There was a line at the cab stand, and he waited impatiently. He was almost at the front when the two men emerged from the station and began looking around. He turned his back to them and moved up one more place. He was almost into a cab when he heard somebody shout, “Hey, you!” A cab pulled up, and he dived into it. “Lincoln Tunnel!” he said to the cabbie. “I’ll direct you from there.” He looked over his shoulder and saw the two men standing in the road. One of them was writing down something, probably the cab’s plate number.

“Never mind the tunnel,” he said, “just drop me at the Port Authority bus terminal.”

“Make up your mind,” the driver muttered.

At the terminal, he found another cab. “Through the tunnel,” he said, “then take 3 West and 17 North.”

“Teterboro?”

“Near there. I’ll direct you.”

He had the driver drop him a block from his apartment house and walked the rest of the way, checking constantly for tails. He approached the building carefully but saw no threats. Once inside his apartment he called the neighborhood joint and ordered a pizza. He was still ravenous, and he unpacked and turned on the TV while he waited, sucking on a beer from the fridge.

He paid for the pizza and ate straight from the box, wolfing down two slices before he slowed down. Just when he was beginning to relax there was a hammering on his door. He put the pizza box aside and checked the peephole. UPS. He opened the door. “Mr. Ryan?”

“Yes.”

“Sign here.”

He signed; it was a pretty big box, and he kicked it inside. He had to get a knife to open the thing, and when he did, he found his suitcase inside. He set it on the coffee table and opened it. Inside was some of his cash and a note written with marker on a shirt cardboard:

You seemed like a nice guy, so I only took half. You made my year! Love, S.

Ryan was flabbergasted. He counted the banded cash, and there was a hundred thousand there. He sat down on the sofa and cried.