“Chris! Hey, great to see you, man!”
On the floor, cross-legged, Angel sat. Her shirt was wet, her hair was plastered down. She glanced at Eddie and she rolled her eyes.
He, meanwhile, had spotted McAvoy.
He levelled a finger at him, closed one eye.
He made a gunshot noise. “You can run but you can’t hide, motherfucker.”
McAvoy said nothing.
I said, “Your old man’s got some explaining to do here, I think.”
“Relax, Chris. Take a seat.”
He jumped down from his perch, went to clap me on the shoulder but I moved away.
“It’ll all work out,” he said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of . . .”
I sat on the floor with Angel. She’d taken off her shoes and they lay beside her on the carpet. A little pool of water had spread around them.
“OK?” I said.
“Hurt pride. You?”
“I’ll live. Ballington Senior’s downstairs. I mean, what is this, anyway? Die Hard does Vegas?”
“Junior here says Senior’s bought the place. No one else agrees.”
“He’s bloody wrecked it, not bought it.”
Shwetz’s voice rose to an industrial pitch. “You will fucking find it for me now, you understand? Or I will personally sue you, you and your fucking company. Then I will come and break your legs. You hear?”
“That’s been going on for fifteen minutes,” she whispered. “He’s talked to his boss, his boss’s lawyers, about half a dozen other people.”
“Sounds like they’re giving him the runaround.”
Eddie had been listening in through all of this. Now he broke in, like he’d been part of the conversation. “I told him. You heard me tell him, right?” This last was to Angel. “Dad-o’s impatient these days. Lawyers. Paperwork. You know the saying, legal takes too long? Well, that’s Dad-o, sure enough.” He jerked a thumb at McAvoy, sat on a plastic chair and flanked by guards. “This guy, he’d have gotten clean away, we’d waited for the legal folks.”
He clapped his hands together. To me, he said, “Now, you relax. Recall I once made you an offer? We’ll tell you when we’re ready for you, man.”
I took Angel’s hand. We sat there, without talking. McAvoy was maybe six feet off. After a time I realized he was staring at me. Just sitting there, his thin legs stretched in front of him, and drilling holes into my skull.
I don’t think that he even blinked.
So finally, I met his stare.
He did not look good. His face was thin and undernourished, rock star cheekbones jutting in a pale, unhealthy skin.
“You lied to me.”
I said, “I didn’t lie.”
“You’re not control.”
“No.”
He said, “So how do you intend to get me home?”
Shwetz threw his phone across the room, just missing one of Ballington’s guys. He lumbered to his feet. He hunched up, hid his face. His striped shirt stretched across his shoulders, wet with sweat. His back heaved, tensed, and fell.
A croupier retrieved his phone. He took it, and, his moment’s fury over, went back to the desk. He held the phone, lifted his eyes towards the ceiling. Then he punched another number.
I said to McAvoy, “I was at GH9.”
“I don’t remember you.”
“I heard you died there.”
“Uh-huh.” He had what might have been a herpes in the corner of his mouth. He pressed his knuckles to it.
Then he said, “I want a cigarette.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“Anyone?” he called out. “Cigarette?”
I’d seen him only briefly on the CCTV but he’d looked cocky, self-assured. Now he whined.
“Cigarette . . . ? Please?”
One of the guards passed him a smoke and lit it. McAvoy sucked greedily. He shut his eyes.
I said, “So tell me how you got out.”
“Out?”
“GH9. You survived it. Tell me how.”
“Best way there is.” He lolled his head back, smiling with a new calm. “I wasn’t there,” he said.
“You swiped in. There’s a record of your ID.”
The cigarette was going quickly.
I said, “Tell me. I’m interested.”
“Can’t work it out? Oh, too bad. Too fucking bad.”
I felt a little nag of anger in me, but I pushed it down, tried to act friendly.
“One week on, and one week off,” he said. “But say it’s not that week you want off. Say you want another week instead.”
“Spell it out for me.”
“We swapped badges. Clever clever clever, weren’t we? You have my badge, I’ll have yours. You couldn’t guess that? Really?”
“So you’d be there—what? Two, three weeks, sometimes?”
He nodded.
Christ, I thought. No wonder you’re nuts.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You were at GH9. And you were skimming. Right?”
He didn’t answer.
“Just you? Or others, too?”
He said nothing.
“Well,” I told him, “it’s impressive, anyway. Most people steal office supplies. You went for the big one.” I was looking right at him. “You stole the gods.”
Silence.
“So,” I said, “indulge me. I’m wondering how you did it. And why.”
His cigarette was down to the filter now. He took a final drag, then ground it out under his shoe.
“You weren’t at GH9.”
“Actually, I was.”
“You’d know then.”