license and he filled out his information on the contract. He was left-handed, and his script looked like he was performing a surgery. He had perfect cursive handwriting. He paid for three days’ rental with a gold credit card. In his wallet I could make out two faded photographs of his children tucked into the flap.
As we walked away from the desk and into the parking lot, he said, “We’ve taken the liberty of booking you a room at the Chelsea. We know the staff there. Your name, whatever it is, won’t go on the register, and there will be no record of your stay. All charges will be forwarded to us. The name they’ve got is Alexander Lakes.”
“When do you get paid?”
“Call me when you are ready to leave, and we can arrange a meeting. If that isn’t possible, I can arrange a cold drop or a wire transfer directly with your employer.”
“Do you take Visa?”
“Cash or wire transfer only.”
“Good.”
We stood there for a moment until one of the parking-lot attendants pulled up in a blue Honda Civic, a couple of years old, with one of those bolt-on GPS devices above the dashboard. A kid got out and handed me the keys.
Alexander said, “I could’ve paid for any car on the lot, sir.”
“This one is fine.”
It used to bother me to drive an economy car, but it doesn’t anymore. More expensive cars get noticed, and that’s counterproductive. When you rent a car for a job, you want something invisible. Angela taught me that. There is hardly anything more invisible then a Honda Civic. They do their best to advertise them as unique and youthful, but they’re not. They’re cheap and identical. There are dozens of model years on the road and nobody can tell them apart. I’ve grown to like that. The Civic didn’t have any bells or whistles or odd shapes or fancy colors. It was just a cheap little import, plain and simple.
I looked back at Alexander. “You drive here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then drive back. I need some supplies as soon as possible. I need prepaid cell phones, a locksmith set, a knife, a change of clothes and a slimjim. Do you know what that last one is, other than a piece of jerky?”
“A strip of plastic used to break into cars, right?”
“Most people prefer to say ‘keyless entry.’ ”
“Give me an hour. I’ll have your items waiting at the hotel.”
“Do you have a phone on you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give it to me.”
I waited for him to fish a black smartphone out of his pants pocket. It was one of those new ones with the touch screens that feel like they have buttons, but they don’t. I took a look at it, flipped through the lastcouple of calls he’d made and didn’t see any numbers I thought looked suspicious. I put the phone in my pocket.
Lakes stared at me for a beat.
“Did you just steal my phone?” he said.
“It lets me know you trust me.”
“And?”
“And I need a phone with a local number.”
“You should have my business line, then.”
He thrust a card in my face with his name and number on it. Executive Concierge Services . I memorized the number and gave it back to him.
“No thanks,” I said.
I got in the car and shut the door. Alexander Lakes looked at me for a moment before walking back toward the terminal. I saw him pull out around the corner in a black Mercedes. It was a new model with tinted windows and it looked like a shined-up paperweight. I followed him on the highway heading downtown from the airport until I turned off into the salt marsh. I thought as I drove. He was the perfect lip man. He spoke his employer’s words almost better than he did. Almost certainly better. Time was ticking away.
Thirty-seven hours to go.
10
I followed the old two-lane highway to Route 30 through the salt marshes, next to where the Absecon Bay twisted through the flatland like a junkie’s vein. Driving toward Atlantic City felt the same as driving into Las Vegas. The highway to both places was empty and lined with the faded billboards
As we walked away from the desk and into the parking lot, he said, “We’ve taken the liberty of booking you a room at the Chelsea. We know the staff there. Your name, whatever it is, won’t go on the register, and there will be no record of your stay. All charges will be forwarded to us. The name they’ve got is Alexander Lakes.”
“When do you get paid?”
“Call me when you are ready to leave, and we can arrange a meeting. If that isn’t possible, I can arrange a cold drop or a wire transfer directly with your employer.”
“Do you take Visa?”
“Cash or wire transfer only.”
“Good.”
We stood there for a moment until one of the parking-lot attendants pulled up in a blue Honda Civic, a couple of years old, with one of those bolt-on GPS devices above the dashboard. A kid got out and handed me the keys.
Alexander said, “I could’ve paid for any car on the lot, sir.”
“This one is fine.”
It used to bother me to drive an economy car, but it doesn’t anymore. More expensive cars get noticed, and that’s counterproductive. When you rent a car for a job, you want something invisible. Angela taught me that. There is hardly anything more invisible then a Honda Civic. They do their best to advertise them as unique and youthful, but they’re not. They’re cheap and identical. There are dozens of model years on the road and nobody can tell them apart. I’ve grown to like that. The Civic didn’t have any bells or whistles or odd shapes or fancy colors. It was just a cheap little import, plain and simple.
I looked back at Alexander. “You drive here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then drive back. I need some supplies as soon as possible. I need prepaid cell phones, a locksmith set, a knife, a change of clothes and a slimjim. Do you know what that last one is, other than a piece of jerky?”
“A strip of plastic used to break into cars, right?”
“Most people prefer to say ‘keyless entry.’ ”
“Give me an hour. I’ll have your items waiting at the hotel.”
“Do you have a phone on you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give it to me.”
I waited for him to fish a black smartphone out of his pants pocket. It was one of those new ones with the touch screens that feel like they have buttons, but they don’t. I took a look at it, flipped through the lastcouple of calls he’d made and didn’t see any numbers I thought looked suspicious. I put the phone in my pocket.
Lakes stared at me for a beat.
“Did you just steal my phone?” he said.
“It lets me know you trust me.”
“And?”
“And I need a phone with a local number.”
“You should have my business line, then.”
He thrust a card in my face with his name and number on it. Executive Concierge Services . I memorized the number and gave it back to him.
“No thanks,” I said.
I got in the car and shut the door. Alexander Lakes looked at me for a moment before walking back toward the terminal. I saw him pull out around the corner in a black Mercedes. It was a new model with tinted windows and it looked like a shined-up paperweight. I followed him on the highway heading downtown from the airport until I turned off into the salt marsh. I thought as I drove. He was the perfect lip man. He spoke his employer’s words almost better than he did. Almost certainly better. Time was ticking away.
Thirty-seven hours to go.
10
I followed the old two-lane highway to Route 30 through the salt marshes, next to where the Absecon Bay twisted through the flatland like a junkie’s vein. Driving toward Atlantic City felt the same as driving into Las Vegas. The highway to both places was empty and lined with the faded billboards
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