Free Kings of Midnight by Wallace Stroby Page B

rid of her, but she has other talents.”
    The driver laughed. She looked at him. He was big, Hispanic. She could see tattoos on the fingers of his right hand as he drove—a crucifix, ace of spades. On the back of his wrist, the letters MS in gothic script.
    â€œRomero,” Cavanaugh said. “Let’s go uptown. Take your time.”
    To her, he said, “It’s Lisa, right?” That was the name she’d given him on the phone. “Good enough for purposes of conversation, I guess. I won’t ask your last name. That was too bad about Hector Suarez. I heard what happened. How long did you know him?”
    When they’d first spoken, he’d wanted a contact, someone she’d known. She given him Hector’s name, but then regretted it. It had felt like a betrayal.
    â€œLong enough.”
    â€œOur paths crossed every once in a while, but he never mentioned you. You’re a pleasant surprise.”
    â€œI made a mistake,” she said. Then to the driver, “Pull over here. I’m getting out.”
    â€œHold on,” Cavanaugh said. “Romero, keep going, it’s all right.” He turned to her. “Sorry. But hey, we don’t really know each other. You can’t blame me for trying to sound you out a little. How do I know you’re not a law enforcement officer?”
    â€œI could ask the same.”
    â€œFair enough.” They turned into Central Park on the transverse road, Romero watching her in the rearview.
    â€œSo, let’s talk,” Cavanaugh said. “You implied you had some funds you’re looking to invest, short term.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHow much are we talking about?”
    â€œSix figures.”
    â€œLow six or high?”
    â€œLow.”
    He thumbed his soul patch. “This isn’t my main line of the work, you know. I just do it as a sideline sometimes, for friends.”
    â€œWe’re not friends.”
    â€œNo, but that could change. How temporary an investment are we talking about?”
    â€œShort as possible. I need a quick turnover.”
    â€œThat’s always a problem. It’ll affect the exchange rate.”
    She didn’t respond. She was liking it less every minute.
    â€œWhat’s the heat level?” he said.
    â€œBills are untraceable for the most part. Unsequenced. But the majority of them are new.”
    â€œAcquired where?”
    â€œDoes that matter?”
    â€œIf it was around here, it does.”
    â€œIt wasn’t.”
    â€œDenominations?”
    â€œTwenties mostly. Some tens.”
    â€œIf the heat’s low, why exchange them?”
    â€œI like to be careful.”
    They’d come out on the other side of the park. Romero got on the West Side Highway north. They passed the Ninety-sixth Street exit, and she thought about her apartment at 108th and Broadway, where she’d lived as Roberta Summersfield only four months ago. It felt like years.
    â€œAs I said, this isn’t my main line. And even though I believe everything you’re saying, I can’t be certain, you know? There might be an issue with the money you’re not telling me.”
    â€œThere isn’t.”
    â€œAnd a rush job, too. It increases my risk, because—”
    â€œName the rate.”
    He stroked his chin again. They passed Grant’s Tomb, the George Washington Bridge looming in the distance.
    â€œWell,” he said. “Quick turnaround, that amount, I’d say ten cents on the dollar. That’s all I could give you.”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œYou think you can get a better deal, go find it.”
    â€œFor ten cents on a dollar, I’ll take my chance with the bills.”
    â€œYou could do that.” He looked out the window.
    â€œYou’ll come out way ahead on this however it goes,” she said. “You know that. Fifty and we keep talking.”
    â€œFifty?” He looked back at her.