Free Kings of Midnight by Wallace Stroby Page A

the bouquet of yellow roses he’d brought. Her favorite. He tugged at some of the grass around the headstone, tossed it away. The wind took it.
    Years ago, when Rachel had first suggested buying plots, he’d refused. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. So this one had been bought after she’d left him, by her or Hersh maybe, when the end seemed near. But it was a single plot. There was no room for him, in the ground or on the headstone.
    He stood, his bad knee aching, wiped wet dirt from his pants. I’m sorry, girl, he thought. You were too good for me, always were. Why you put up with me so long, I don’t know.
    He couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken. The day she’d left, he’d been too drunk or stoned—he wasn’t even sure which—to process it. He’d come home late to a silent house, a note on the kitchen table. In a haze, he’d walked the empty rooms, looking for signs of them. Then he’d gone out and sat on the front steps in the cold, looked up at the starry sky over the cornfields, too numb to feel much of anything.
    He found a flat stone near the fence, carried it back. He tucked the roses against the side of the marker, laid the stone atop it.
    Finally got the chance to say good-bye, honey, he thought. Sorry it took so long.
    The wind blowing around him, he limped back to the car.
    *   *   *
    Driving back to the motel, Marta said, “We shouldn’t stay out here.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIt’s not good for you being here, getting mixed up in all this again. We should go somewhere. Florida, maybe. California. Someplace you’ve never been, where nobody knows you.”
    Light rain was spotting the windshield. He turned the wipers on.
    â€œAngel, I don’t have enough money to get us anywhere. Not to live, anyway.”
    â€œYou can get a job again, cooking. I can always waitress. God knows I did it long enough. We’ll make it work.”
    â€œWe will. Soon. There’s something else I need to look into first.”
    â€œWhat? What’s more important than you and me?”
    â€œThose guys in Indiana,” he said. “They were after me because of some money that was hidden away a long time ago. A lot of money. They thought I knew where it was.”
    â€œAnother reason we shouldn’t be here.”
    â€œWell, that’s the thing…”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe money. Knowing where it is.”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œI think I do.”

SEVEN
    She didn’t like it. Here was this big BMW, smoked windows, rims, cruising up Lexington Avenue in the middle of the afternoon, slowing as the driver looked for her. She was where she was supposed to be, the corner of Sixtieth, but now she was getting nervous. It all felt too exposed, too open.
    She wore thin black leather gloves. In her left hand was the cup of coffee she’d gotten from a street cart. In her right was the .32, deep in her coat pocket.
    The BMW steered to the curb, rear window powering down. The man inside gestured to her.
    She sipped coffee, looked up and down the street. Lots of people, but no one watching her. The rear door opened. She dropped her cup in a trash basket, stepped off the curb, got in.
    New car smell, shiny leather. As she shut the door, the driver pulled back into traffic. The window slid up silently, the doors locked with a click.
    Cavanaugh was in his midthirties. Hair cut short, neatly trimmed soul patch. He wore a black leather duster over a white shirt, a skinny black tie. He slid over to give her room. His cologne was musky, strong.
    â€œI thought that was you,” he said. “But the description you gave was a little off. You’re much more attractive in person.”
    She let that pass. “This car a good idea?”
    â€œBetter we talk here than the office. Carlita, my secretary, gets a little nosy. Jealous, too. I’d get