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Authors: John Sandford
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right.”
“I’ve got a project,” I told him. “It’s illegal. They could put you in jail if you were caught. I’ll cover for you, but there aren’t any guarantees.”
“Doesn’t sound so good,” he said morosely, rattling his ice cubes.
“There are two good reasons to do it,” I said.
“Tell me.” He held a finger up to the waitress and pointed at our glasses.
“One: we fuck over some of those guys who tore you up with the Post, or guys just like them. Two: you get a quarter million in cash. Nobody knows where it comes from, nobody knows how much. You can spend the rest of your life in Mexico. Do six books.”
“Jesus, who do we kill?”
“Nobody. You do research, take care of some logistics. Write some press releases and get them to people who’ll read them. Figure out a way to cover us, so nobody will know where they’re coming from. Do some light typing.”
“What the hell are you into, Kidd?” His next drink was forgotten, and he was watching me closely.
“First, tell me what you think.”
He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “If it’s like you make it sound—I know you haven’t given me the details, but if it’s morally like you make it sound—I’d buy it,” he said. “I’d need to know the details.”
The second round came, and when the waitress went away, I gave him a few.
Chapter 6
T HE WHITEMARK JOB, if I took it, would be the first time I worked with a team. Teams are bad news; if a team is tracked and caught, there’s always the possibility that a teammate will turn. The police have powerful persuaders; talk can get you a free ticket out of jail; silence can buy you five to ten, if another player talks first.
LuEllen was a solid choice. She was cool, action-oriented, decisive. A pro. She methodically calculated the possibilities and consequences of her work. She had rehearsed what she would do in virtually any situation. She didn’t have to rationalize what she was doing. She knew she was a thief; she focused on being a good one.
Dace was a riskier proposition. He was good at what he did, but he lived on dreams. Dreamers lose track of what’s going on around them; dreamers try to outrun bullets and outshoot cops. They move from one act to the next with no assessment of consequences. In the phony story that killed him at the Post, Dace never stopped to think, “What if these people are wrong? What if this is all bullshit?” He had fame at his fingertips. He was hot. He was on a roll. He knew he was right. A phone call might have saved him.
He had some problems, but I would take him anyway. He would not get a lot of pressure; he would mostly do paperwork. I also chose him for one of the oldest and least honored of reasons among thieves. He was available.
When I got back to St. Paul the computer was signaling that it had been accessed. Bobby. I dumped the file to the printer, and twenty feet of paper spewed out. With the exception of a few things pilfered from the Anshiser computers, it had all come from public databases. Most of it had been published in various magazines and newspapers.
Anshiser was a tough guy, Bobby’s report said, but he’d gotten that way on his own. He’d never had to fight, never been on the streets, never been poor. His father was a German immigrant who started out at the turn of the century collecting scrap metal in a horse-drawn wagon. He wound up as the owner of the biggest junkyards in Chicago, a couple of steel reprocessing mills, and a small airplane company that he let his son play with. There was nothing about the way he’d jumped from wagon to steel mill, but it wasn’t important. The old man had been dead for more than forty years.
World War II turned the airplane company, which he had given to his son, into a defense industry. Rudy Anshiser came out of the war with more money than the old man. When the war ended, Anshiser moved into the service fields, the hotels, the vending companies, the restaurant
“I’ve got a project,” I told him. “It’s illegal. They could put you in jail if you were caught. I’ll cover for you, but there aren’t any guarantees.”
“Doesn’t sound so good,” he said morosely, rattling his ice cubes.
“There are two good reasons to do it,” I said.
“Tell me.” He held a finger up to the waitress and pointed at our glasses.
“One: we fuck over some of those guys who tore you up with the Post, or guys just like them. Two: you get a quarter million in cash. Nobody knows where it comes from, nobody knows how much. You can spend the rest of your life in Mexico. Do six books.”
“Jesus, who do we kill?”
“Nobody. You do research, take care of some logistics. Write some press releases and get them to people who’ll read them. Figure out a way to cover us, so nobody will know where they’re coming from. Do some light typing.”
“What the hell are you into, Kidd?” His next drink was forgotten, and he was watching me closely.
“First, tell me what you think.”
He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “If it’s like you make it sound—I know you haven’t given me the details, but if it’s morally like you make it sound—I’d buy it,” he said. “I’d need to know the details.”
The second round came, and when the waitress went away, I gave him a few.
Chapter 6
T HE WHITEMARK JOB, if I took it, would be the first time I worked with a team. Teams are bad news; if a team is tracked and caught, there’s always the possibility that a teammate will turn. The police have powerful persuaders; talk can get you a free ticket out of jail; silence can buy you five to ten, if another player talks first.
LuEllen was a solid choice. She was cool, action-oriented, decisive. A pro. She methodically calculated the possibilities and consequences of her work. She had rehearsed what she would do in virtually any situation. She didn’t have to rationalize what she was doing. She knew she was a thief; she focused on being a good one.
Dace was a riskier proposition. He was good at what he did, but he lived on dreams. Dreamers lose track of what’s going on around them; dreamers try to outrun bullets and outshoot cops. They move from one act to the next with no assessment of consequences. In the phony story that killed him at the Post, Dace never stopped to think, “What if these people are wrong? What if this is all bullshit?” He had fame at his fingertips. He was hot. He was on a roll. He knew he was right. A phone call might have saved him.
He had some problems, but I would take him anyway. He would not get a lot of pressure; he would mostly do paperwork. I also chose him for one of the oldest and least honored of reasons among thieves. He was available.
When I got back to St. Paul the computer was signaling that it had been accessed. Bobby. I dumped the file to the printer, and twenty feet of paper spewed out. With the exception of a few things pilfered from the Anshiser computers, it had all come from public databases. Most of it had been published in various magazines and newspapers.
Anshiser was a tough guy, Bobby’s report said, but he’d gotten that way on his own. He’d never had to fight, never been on the streets, never been poor. His father was a German immigrant who started out at the turn of the century collecting scrap metal in a horse-drawn wagon. He wound up as the owner of the biggest junkyards in Chicago, a couple of steel reprocessing mills, and a small airplane company that he let his son play with. There was nothing about the way he’d jumped from wagon to steel mill, but it wasn’t important. The old man had been dead for more than forty years.
World War II turned the airplane company, which he had given to his son, into a defense industry. Rudy Anshiser came out of the war with more money than the old man. When the war ended, Anshiser moved into the service fields, the hotels, the vending companies, the restaurant
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