Thick as Thieves

33

Howard Bessemer is a vision in seersucker: clear-eyed, pink-cheeked, hair slicked and shining-an altogether healthier vision than his recent diet should allow. He sits erect and alert in the passenger seat, scanning the approaching coast, the whitecaps, the immaculate sky, as Carr bears left off Frank Sound Road onto North Side Road. Bessemer’s window is down and his face is turned into the salt breeze, and he reminds Carr of a dog out for a ride.

“Day like today, you see why people move here,” Carr says.

Bessemer smiles. “Wait till you see Curt’s place. It’s not quite San Simeon, but it’s a hell of a spread.”

Carr nods. “Prager live there all by himself?”

“Him and the staff. Every now and then he sets up a girl in the guesthouse.”

“Girl as in girlfriend?”

“As in hooker,” Bessemer says, smirking. Carr lifts an eyebrow. “Always pricey, though. Very high-class.”

“No doubt,” Carr says.

They ride on in silence, Bessemer watching the sea, and Carr, despite their destination and the mounting tension, failing to keep his mind from the night before. Lack of sleep casts a dreamlike scrim over his memories of the evening-burnishing the images and shuffling their order.

Even from across the room, Valerie’s voice was close in his ear. “You want this job done, and so do I. I did what I had to do.”

Her hands were cold under his shirt. Her hair was wet and smelled like lilac and an airplane cabin.

“All I know about what happened down there is what Bobby and Mike told us. The first Mike said anything to me about euros was the day before we went to Miami.”

Her mouth tasted of airline wine, and it seemed to be everywhere at once.

“Bobby and Mike talked about Nando sometimes, and so did Deke, but I never met him until that day in Miami.”

Her dress was wet, and it peeled away like a shedding skin. She left it in a pile beside the minibar.

“Amy’s gone for two days, up in New York. I’m booked on the first flight back to Boca tomorrow morning.”

Her legs were smooth and slick, and the hollows of her neck were full of rain.

“Mike was going to pull out of the job if I didn’t help him wash his money-and he was going to take Bobby with him.”

Her room was on the third floor, overlooking treetops and a loading dock. She kept the lights off and opened the drapes.

“Bobby told Mike that you knew, and Mike told me, and then I got on a plane down here. I didn’t want to talk to you about this on the phone.”

Her lips were searing.

“The e-mail from that coffee bar? That was to Nando. He said no cell phones-messaging only. He was superparanoid.”

In the dim light, her skin was like matte gold.

“That afternoon, with Mike, that was the only time. You want this job done, and so do I. I do what I have to, and I’m not going to apologize for it.”

The rain grew heavier, and it made a tearing sound as it fell through the leaves.

“Have you thought any more about afterward-where you want to go, what you want to do? ’Cause if you haven’t, I’ve got ideas.”

North Sound Road becomes Rum Point Drive, and Bessemer clears his throat. “We’re coming to it,” he says, and a surge of adrenaline drags Carr from his reverie.

Prager’s property announces itself to their right, with a wrought-iron fence and high, dense shrubs that obscure the ocean view. A while longer and they reach the gate.

It’s tall and steel and topped with cameras, and adjoined by a green pastel bungalow. There are two men inside and Carr recognizes one of them from the airport tail. The man comes out wearing a trained smile and a Glock on his hip. He’s carrying an iPad and Carr sees two pictures on the screen: his own and Bessemer’s. The guard glances at the photos and at them and rests a hand on the car roof.

“Mr. Frye, Mr. Bessemer, welcome. Mr. Prager will meet you at the main house. Just stay on this drive-you can’t miss it.” As he speaks, the gate opens and he steps aside and waves them in.

The drive is crushed shell and it’s bordered by close-cut lawns and ironwood trees sculpted by the constant winds. It curves gently west and rises up a hillside that he knows, from the broader topography, must be man-made. Another curve and they’re at the top, where the drive empties into a wide circle of pavers, set in a herringbone pattern. There’s a fountain in the center, marble, pale pink, like the inside of a baby’s ear. A marble fish stands on its tail within, and the braid of water falling from its mouth makes a prosperous sound. Across the circle is the house.

Its architectural pedigree is indeterminate-an uneasy hybrid of Italianate, Spanish Colonial, and Georgian-with big the only unifying principle. Beneath the tiled roof, its stone walls are yellow-goldenrod in the main parts, going to a butter color for the arched colonnades and the ornament work around the windows and doors. There is a portico in front, and two glossy black doors. They stand open, and Curtis Prager is in the threshold, in sandals, linen trousers, and a pale pink polo shirt. Kathy Rink is at his side, in a green golf skirt and with a smile fastened on her face.

Carr glances at Bessemer, who is smiling oddly and humming softly, tunelessly. Carr wonders if he’s taken something. “Shit,” Carr whispers, but when he pulls up to the portico, Bessemer sharpens.

Bessemer is out of the Toyota before Carr has switched off the engine, a big smile and a big hand extended. There’s a clumsy hug and biceps squeezing, and then Prager holds Bessemer at arm’s length. He’s taller than Carr expected, with more ropy muscle on him. He seems to dwarf Bessemer.

“Jesus, Bess, you look like shit. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

Bessemer grins and ducks his head almost shyly. “Just the usual misdemeanors. But what about you-you keep a special portrait in the attic, or something? Drinking pints of virgin’s blood? You look twenty years younger.”

“ Virgin’s blood. ” Prager laughs. “That’s the pot calling the kettle. I just do a day’s work once in a while, and then I get on a tennis court or in a boat. Get some oxygen in my blood, instead of pure ethanol.”

Prager claps Bessemer on the shoulder once more, and Bessemer ducks his head again, and it occurs to Carr that he’s witnessing a sort of theater: an imitation of camaraderie, an acting out of Bessemer’s subordination. He’s not sure who the intended audience is. Maybe himself. Maybe they do it for each other.

There’s a final lockjaw laugh, and Prager turns to Carr. His eyes, in his lined, brown face, are the color of sleet. His hand is cool and wiry. “And you must be Mr. Frye-at long last. Sorry for the scheduling screwup, but this week has been one fire drill after the other.”

“There are worse places to kill time,” Carr says. “And call me Greg.”

Prager nods. “I’m Curt. Now, I hope you’ll bear with me a bit longer, Greg, before we sit down.” He looks at Kathy Rink, who looks inside the house and beckons.

Two men appear, both stocky with crew cuts, one holding something that looks like an old-fashioned walkie-talkie. He smiles politely and approaches Bessemer, while his partner waits, eight feet off.

“Mr. Bessemer, if you could spread your feet apart and hold your arms straight out from your sides, I’ll sweep you down real quick. Mr. Frye, you’ll be next.”

There are platters of shrimp, crab legs, and scallops on crushed ice, a tureen of ceviche, bowls of gazpacho, frosted pitchers of iced tea, and plates of sliced fruit, all on a linen-covered table, under a wide awning. Beyond the awning, there are trees with songbirds in them, and a hillside descending in terraces to the beach and the swaying sea.

“Kathy insists on a frisk,” Prager says, smiling across the table at Carr and Bessemer. “Personally, I think she likes it.”

Rink smiles just as brightly. “It’s what you pay me for, Curt, and I’m sure Mr. Frye-Greg-understands.”

Carr nods and raises a glass of iced tea. “I’m all for hobbies.”

Howard Bessemer squeezes a lemon wedge over his plate. “That other fellow you had-what was his name-he never saw the need to have me felt up.”

Carr watches over his glass as Rink seeks out Prager’s eye, and Prager nods to her minutely. “See what you were missing?” Prager says, and he dips a shrimp in red sauce and eats it.

“When it comes to security, Howie, it’s smart to change things up now and then,” Carr says. “Otherwise your boys get stale.” He looks out at the ocean, the sand, two patrolling guards; then he looks at Prager. “Your private island?”

Prager smiles. “Not an island, but private.”

“It’s nice, but don’t you miss home?” he asks Prager. “The States, I mean.”

Prager eats another shrimp. “This is home to me. It’s the only place I miss.”

“But there’s no issue with you going back stateside?”

“I go back when I need to,” Prager says. “And what about you, Greg? And you are Greg today, right-not Glenn Freed, or Gary Frain, or Craig Farley? Is Boston still your base, Greg, or are you resettling in Palm Beach?”

Carr knows he’s supposed to be impressed that Prager knows Greg Frye’s aliases, and intimidated, and he lets his face tighten. “I do business in a lot of places. People come to me if they need to, and they don’t seem to care much where I am or what I call myself, as long as I meet my obligations. Palm Beach is okay, though. The real estate market’s still plenty soft.”

Kathy Rink pats her mouth with a linen napkin. “That what you’re doin’ there, Greg, bottom-feeding?”

“That’s real estate, right? Making money off somebody else’s stupidity. Or their shit luck.”

“Too true,” Prager says approvingly. “But property’s just a sideline for you, isn’t it? I mean, you didn’t come to talk to me about mortgage financing?”

“I need a banker. And maybe it’s possible a banker could need me.”

Prager’s smile is indulgent. “They always need customers, otherwise they’d have no business. But strictly speaking, I’m not a banker, Greg-I run a holding company. And I don’t have customers, per se, I have investors-typically, quite large ones. That said, Isla Privada does own several financial institutions in Florida. If you need an account set up, I’m sure we can help you out.”

Carr spears a fat scallop on his fork. He dips it in a dill sauce and pops it whole into his mouth. “I really like your paranoia, Curt,” he says, chuckling. “But it’s a fucking conversation killer. Would it help if she pats me down some more? Maybe a cavity search?”

Kathy Rink’s laugh is throaty and loud. “Can it wait till after lunch?”

Carr winks at her and looks at Prager. “I think you have some idea what I do, and what I’m looking for. I came here to do business, not to hang out by the pool or tiptoe around.”

Prager shrugs. “As I told Bess, I’m happy to listen. But doing business is something different, Greg. The truth is, I don’t know you from Adam.”

“Howie’s not a good reference?”

“You’re here only because of his introduction. But with all due respect to Bess-and he knows I love him-an introduction is not quite the same as a reference. Bess doesn’t actually do business with you, whatever that business is-he can’t vouch for you that way. So you don’t come with the same kind of pedigree most of my new clients come with.”

“The fingerprints didn’t tell you enough?”

Prager glances at Rink. “They tell names and dates and places, Greg,” Rink says. “Which could add up to somebody interesting, or could be somebody who’s a little vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what?” Carr asks.

“To being squeezed.”

“Squeezed? By who?”

Rink chuckles. “It’s a long fucking list of acronyms. We’ll run out of daylight before I get through ’em all.”

Carr smiles and works some incredulity into his voice. “You think I’m a cop?”

Prager smiles back. “I don’t know enough about you to think anything at all, Greg. That’s why, for now, it’s better that I just sit and listen. If what you have to say is interesting, I may decide to spend the time and money to find out more about you-pretty much all there is to know. If not, we will have had a pleasant lunch and we’ll say good-bye.”

Howard Bessemer partly stifles a belch. He looks at Carr and shrugs. “I think that’s your cue, Greg.”