Thick as Thieves

21

Water gurgles in the shower drain as Howard Bessemer presses a towel to his face, and then he hears his front door open. He leaves damp footprints on the tiles as he steps cautiously out of his bedroom, and a puddle forms where he stands frozen and stares openmouthed at the men in his entrance foyer.

Carr hands the laptop to Latin Mike. “Set it up in the living room,” he says, and Mike nods and walks off. Carr looks at Bessemer. “You want to get your pants on, Howie, or are you good like that?”

Bessemer wraps his towel more tightly about his waist. His mouth closes and opens again and a sound comes out, but it’s not a word.

“Pants, Howie.”

Bessemer squints, and takes a step backward. “Wha… What?”

Carr points to the bedroom. “Pants.”

“Who… Who the hell are-”

“Get your fucking pants on, Howie,” Carr says, smiling, and he unbuttons his blazer and lets Bessemer see the Glock in his belt. Bessemer backs slowly into the bedroom, and Carr counts to twenty. When he walks to the bedroom door, he finds Bessemer holding the telephone handset, staring at it.

“Just out of curiosity, Howie, if the phone was working, just who do you think you’d call?”

Bessemer drops the phone and stumbles on the edge of his towel. Carr waits in the doorway while Bessemer dresses in Madras shorts and a polo shirt that’s too tight across the gut. Then he walks him into the living room.

It’s a long, bright space, with Persian rugs on the floor, equestrian sketches on the walls, and teak and rattan furniture that is old but still solid. Latin Mike is standing at a black lacquer cabinet whose doors are open to reveal barware and bottles. He pours two fingers of Glenlivet into a tumbler and offers the bottle to Carr.

“Not just now,” Carr says. “You have the disk?” Latin Mike produces a DVD case and scales it across the room. Carr plucks it from the air. “Collect his cell phones. They should be in the office.” Mike downs the scotch and nods, and Carr carries the DVD to the laptop that is open on a low teak table by the sofa.

“Have a seat, Howie,” Carr says.

Bessemer draws himself up and takes a deep breath. “Just who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re doing in my house?” The teddy bear face is damp and pink, and the voice is shaky.

Carr puts a hand on Bessemer’s shoulder, spreads his fingers across Bessemer’s collarbone, and digs. Bessemer cries out and collapses to one knee. “What the fuck!” His face is red and there are tears in his eyes.

Carr yanks Bessemer to his feet again. “On the sofa, Howie. Shut up, and watch the movie.”

Bessemer perches unsteadily on the edge of the sofa and Carr slips a disk into the laptop. It whirrs and hums and a video starts to play. And Howard Bessemer goes pale.

Carr stands silent for several minutes, watching the video and watching the teddy bear split at the seams. When he sees Bessemer’s hands tremble and his chin quiver, Carr clears his throat. “Guess it’s true what they say about the camera, Howie-it adds ten pounds, at least. But still, it’s easy to tell it’s you. Easy to identify your friends too: Brunt and Scoville, Tandy and Moyer, and if you wait just a minute you’ll see Lamp and the Grigoriev brothers as well. See-you can even make out their license plates. And the audio is good quality-nice and clean-you all sound like yourselves.”

Bessemer moans, and Carr puts a hand on his shoulder, gently this time. “This is just the highlight reel, Howie. We’ve got hours more of you guys-phone conversations, payments being made, dope being delivered, girls… lots of stuff.”

Bessemer waves his hands, as if he’s shooing away gnats. His voice is a frightened whisper. “You… you’re cops,” he says.

“Oh no, Howie.” Carr laughs. “We’re much worse than that.”