Marked Man

62

We were traveling east, toward familiar turf. If all was going as planned, by now Skink would have led my tail through Baltimore and toward Washington, D.C. I figured two more thugs in the nation’s capital wouldn’t make much difference. Elect them to the Senate, turn them into whips, we might actually get something done.

“It would be quicker if we take the expressway,” said Joey.

“No, this road is perfect,” I said, and it was, a two-lane jobber heading through small towns and farmers’ fields, past small produce markets selling tomatoes and leeks. We went slowly, and every now and then we pulled over to the side of the road and let people pass. No one seemed to be hanging back with us.

“I ain’t seen Charlie for fifteen, twenty years,” said Joey. “He’s been more memory than real, a wisp of smoke. Don’t know if I should hug him or slug him in the face.”

“A little of both, I expect,” I said. “I talked to the prosecutors about you, Joey.”

“And what did them little darlings say?”

“They agreed to a deal. They’ll give you immunity if you tell them everything you know about the robbery.”

“Just the robbery?”

“And the girl.”

“Yeah, I figured she would be involved. What does immunity mean?”

“They can’t do anything to you.”

“Then maybe, after all is said and done, I don’t deserve no immunity.”

“There’s a lot of ways you can make amends for whatever happened, other than going to jail.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me how, Reverend.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Thirty years ago you tried to save your life through a crime. That didn’t work out so well. Maybe this time you can save it by looking clear-eyed at what you are and what you did. Maybe you can make amends by becoming something better based on the truth.”

“I’d rather do the time.”

“You know what it’s like inside better than I do.”

“You made that deal for me?”

“Yes.”

“What do I owe you?”

“You’re paying it off as we drive. Pull in over there.”

“It’s empty.”

“Perfect,” I said.

We were at an abandoned farmer’s stand on the left side of the road. Schmidty’s Farmer’s Market was long deserted, the stand falling in on itself, the signs advertising summer corn and vine-ripened tomatoes weathered and worn. I got out of the taxi and did a quick inspection. The weeds and trees on either side of the lot had encroached upon the center, leaving it like an oasis within the middle of an overgrown woods. Between the collapsing structure and the road was a gravel lot, and behind the stand was another parking area, this second lot overgrown with high grasses and stalky weeds. To the side of the stand was a picnic table that was still in decent shape. Apparently the place was now used as a rest stop for travelers caught in Sunday-evening traffic driving home from the shore.

“About how far are we from the ocean?” I asked Joey.

“Maybe twenty,” said Joey.

“Okay, I have to make a call.”

“Does he know I’m with you?” said Joey.

“He will,” I said.

I went off to the side of the stand, looked around again and flipped open my phone.

“Let’s go,” I said when I had climbed back into the cab. “Keep heading east and follow the signs to Ocean City.”

CHARLIE WAS sitting on a bench on the boardwalk. He was wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses and his usual socks in sandals. His idea of a disguise. After what happened last time, this would not have been my first pick for a meeting place, or my second or my third, but Mrs. Kalakos told me to find Charlie at the same location and hadn’t given me much choice about it, so here I was.

“Nice costume,” I said as I sat beside him and handed over a vanilla custard I had bought him.

“I look like I drive NASCAR. Do I look like I drive NASCAR?”

“The sandals cinch it. Couldn’t you have picked someplace different?”

“Who would think we’d be dumb enough to meet at the same corner of the boardwalk?”

“Not I,” I said.

“Everything arranged?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What’s the deal?”

“You answer all their questions, don’t hold anything back, tell them everything you know about the Warrick gang and the robbery, especially about your old friend Teddy Pravitz, and you’ll be given protective custody with no more than a couple of years. After that, if you want witness protection, you can get it.”

“Can they back out once I show up?”

“Not really. I have the offer in writing, and I’m going to take a precaution to make sure they keep their word.”

“I have to tell them everything?”

“Yes.”

“Even about the girl?”

“That’s the most important part.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’ve been holding it in for a long time now, haven’t you, Charlie?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You once told me your life had turned to crap. I think it’s because of what happened to the girl and the way it’s twisted you around, the way it twisted all of you. You wanted to do that robbery to start a new life, but look at the life you ended up with, more crime, more filth. And then flight, turning yourself into a vagabond. It’s all because of the girl. You can’t start anew without coming to grips with the crimes of your past.”

“What does my mom say?”

“She just wants you home. To say good-bye.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She looks pretty chipper, actually. She wanted to show me her knife.”

“I told you from the start she’d outlive us both. What about that guy you set me up with? What was his name? Lilac?”

“Lavender.”

“Right.”

“Here’s the story. I set it up so that your agreement with the government does not require that you give them the painting. The only thing that can screw up your deal with the government is if you don’t tell them the entire truth. Selling the painting to Lavender Hill could constitute a crime not covered by the agreement. Lying about selling the painting could screw up your plea deal. But the amount of money realized could be enormous. I can’t make the decision for you, but I can relay any message you want to send to Mr. Hill. Put it in an envelope without showing it to me, and I’ll get it to him. What’s in the message and how it works out after that is up to you.”

“So you’re saying I could tell him where the painting is and not tell you and then lie to the cops.”

“That would put your plea agreement at risk, but it could be done.”

“How many years could I get for selling the painting?”

“A few more.”

“It might be worth it.”

“That’s your decision.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“It’s a lot of money, Charlie. There’s a lot you could do with that money.”

“Let me think on it.”

“Okay. We have to make one stop, and then we’ll see your mother.”

“I’m shaking.”

“Happiness or fear?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you didn’t eat your ice cream cone.”

He looked down at the vanilla cone in his fist, with its dripping frozen custard and its smear of sprinkles. He stood and tossed it into the trash can by the bench.

“You ready?” I said.

“No.”

“Good, then let’s go and start your life all over again.”