Free The Giveaway by Tod Goldberg

Ghouls’ stash house.”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “He had to pay him off for a prison favor and the Ghouls’ drugs worked out well for that,” I said. “I have a feeling the Ghouls found that upsetting.”
    “There were plenty of people who’d like to kill Nick Balsalmo. He sold drugs for a living. It’s a very unstable work environment. Praise the Lord.”
    “Barry,” I said, “there was more of him on the outside than on the inside. I’m going to guess that whatever someone wanted to get from Nick, they got. Maybe that included your name, maybe it didn’t, but I’m going to guess known associates of Bruce Grossman might be wise to keep a low profile.”
    “Praise the Lord.”
    “Really?”
    “I’m just trying to fit in over here,” Barry said, his voice low again. “I sit in a pew talking on a cell phone in here, people might find that disrespectful.”
    “But laundering their money is right with God?”
    “No sin in getting ahead.”
    I thought that was actually wrong, canonically, but opted not to press Barry on the issue. “I’m picking Bruce and his mom up and taking them somewhere safe. I’m happy to extend you the same courtesy. Consider it a returned favor for this great job you found for me.”
    “Fortress inside of a moon crater?”
    “My mother’s house,” I said.
    “That’s sweet,” Barry said, “but I’ve got a safe house. It’s called a boat. On the Atlantic. Do you know how hard it is to drive a motorcycle over water?”
    “What’s also nice is that no one can hear you screaming on the Atlantic, either.”
    Barry didn’t respond for a while, so I just sat there and listened to him breathe. It was sounding a bit more labored than usual. He’s not a skinny guy, but he’s also not one of those wheezing fat guys, either. I definitely noticed a quickening of his intake, however.
    “I’ve got a sick friend in Montana I could visit,” he said.
    “Try one of the Dakotas,” I said.
    “I hear South Dakota is nice this time of year.”
    “Don’t limit yourself,” I said. “Try them both.”
    “Mike, you’re scaring me here.”
    “Praise the Lord,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
    Barry was silent again. In the background I could hear an organ being played. Maybe he was already in heaven.
    “When you say there was more of Balsalmo on the outside than the inside,” Barry said, “you meant that literally, right?”
    “Yes.”
    Silence.
    More organ music.
    “I don’t vacation enough,” Barry said.
    “No time like the present.”
    “You’ll call me if, you know, there’s something I need to know?”
    “I will.”
    “And maybe now would be a good time to use an alias?”
    “Now would be that time, yes.”
    Silence again. I’ve never thought of Barry as a particularly pensive guy.
    “You need money or something?” he asked. He sounded hopeful again. If there’s one thing Barry knows, it’s money.
    “I’m fine, Barry. Down the line, I’m sure we’ll tip the scales again.”
    “I appreciate that, Mike,” Barry said.
    “Future reference,” I said, “I’d like to avoid going to war with a biker gang.”
    “Praise the Lord,” Barry said.
    “Praise the Lord,” I said and hung up.

7
    There is no such thing as a safe house. Any fixed location is, by definition, a waiting target. Hide long enough and no matter how safe you feel, you will eventually begin to create a traceable root system. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a log cabin in Lincoln, Montana, or a spider hole outside of Tikrit, stay in one place long enough and the people looking for you will find you.
    If you really want to ensure that no one can find you, you have to keep moving. Adhere to three simple rules and maybe you’ll live long enough to outlast whoever is chasing you:
    1. Never spend more than twenty-four hours in the same place.
    2. Pay cash for everything.
    3. Sleep during the day, travel during the night.
    Even still, this plan requires financial