The Prince of Risk

63

Midnight on the Jersey Turnpike.

Astor sat in the passenger seat of the Sprinter, peering out the window at the rotting hulk of industrial America. Newark, Trenton, New Brunswick. All were beaten down by time, neglect, and obsolescence. Rusted factories and abandoned plants loomed in the distance, specters of a hopeful, prosperous past. Astor was no doomsayer. He believed that the American dream was alive and well. He just didn’t understand why no one cared that it had been snuffed out here.

“Everything feel okay?” he asked Sullivan. “No problems steering or anything like that?”

“You mean am I driving it myself and not some asshole with a remote control a thousand miles away?”

“Something like that.”

“So far, so good. First sign of the body snatchers, I’ll let you know. Till then, why don’t you get some sleep? You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m good.”

“You want, I can pull over and let you climb in the back. The bed’s nice.”

“You’ve tried it?”

“Sneaked in one night after I’d had a few too many. Knew the Mrs. would kill me and I didn’t want to shell out for a room at the Athletic Club.”

“Cheapskate.”

“You try bringing up four kids on a cop’s salary.”

“What did you make your best year?”

“A hundred, maybe one-oh-five with overtime. ’Bout what you dump in a month.”

“That’s about right. Tough raising a kid on my salary.”

“With all due respect, fuck you.”

“Get in line, Sully. Get in line. But seriously, how much did you put away?”

“The wife was good about saving. Her brother was a broker. We handed him the nest egg. He wasn’t so good about investing.”

“Lose it all?”

“Not all, but in dribs and drabs. He was always putting us in the next hot stock. Me, I’m a Mick from Queens. What do I know?”

“How much you got with me?”

“Everything I got left.”

“Nothing in the bank?”

“And what, earn one percent per year? I hear what you and your buddies are pulling down. I figure I’ll stay with the master. What did that magazine call you? ‘The prince of risk’?”

“Where are you now?”

“We started at two twenty-five. Think you got us up to four and a quarter. Thank you.”

“That’s something.”

“Not like I can stop working. I’m sixty-seven. I’m feeling pretty good. Who knows how long before I crap out?”

Astor saw a shadow pass over Sullivan’s features. “Don’t worry, Sully. I won’t screw the pooch.”

Sullivan nodded, but he didn’t say anything.

Astor sat up straighter and yawned. “How long we got?”

“Two hundred miles to our destination, though I have no idea what you want to do when we get there at four in the morning.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Astor looked away so Sullivan couldn’t read the doubt in his face. For the first time, Bobby Astor wasn’t sure if he would.