The driver finally got off the highway and took North Avenue all the way across the North Side, until Mason could see the shores of Lake Michigan. The water stretched out in blues and grays forever, blending into the rain clouds. When they turned on Clark Street, Mason was about to say something. You bring me all the way up to the North Side for what, pal? A Cubs game maybe? Good luck with that one.
Mason hated the Cubs. He hated everything about the North Side. Everything it represented. When he was growing up, the North Side was everything he didn’t have. And never would have.
The driver made his last turn, onto the last street Mason thought he’d see that day. Lincoln Park West. It was four blocks of high-end apartment buildings overlooking the gardens and the conservatory and the lake beyond. There were a few town houses between the apartment buildings, still tall enough to look down at the street and on everyone who passed by. The driver slowed down and stopped right in front of one of those town houses. It sat at the end of the block, rising three stories above the heavy front door and the garage bays, the upper-floor windows all covered with iron latticework. Built out to the side was another one story with a balcony on top, overlooking the cross street, the park, and the lake beyond it. Five million for this place? Hell, probably more.
The driver broke the silence. “My name is Quintero.” He made the name sound like it came from the bottom of a tequila bottle. Keen-TAY-ro.
“You work for Cole?”
“Listen to me,” Quintero said. “Because everything I’m about to say is important.”
Mason looked over at him.
“You need something,” Quintero said, “you call me. You get in a situation, you call me. Don’t get creative. Don’t try to fix anything yourself. You call me. Clear so far?”
Mason nodded.
“Beyond that, I don’t give a fuck what you do with your time. You were inside for five years, so go have a drink, get yourself laid, I don’t care. Just understand, you need to stay out of trouble. You get picked up for anything, now you’ve got two problems. The one you got picked up for . . . and me.”
Mason turned and looked out the window.
“Why are we here?”
“This is where you live now.”
“Guys like me don’t live in Lincoln Park,” Mason said.
“I’m going to give you a cell phone. You’re going to answer this phone when I call you. Whenever that may be. Day or night. There is no busy. There is no unavailable. There is only you answering this phone. Then doing exactly what I tell you to do.”
Mason sat there in his seat, thinking that one over.
“The phone is in here,” Quintero said, reaching behind the seat and bringing out a large envelope. “Along with the keys to the front and back doors. And the security code.”
Mason took the envelope. It was heavier than he expected.
“Ten thousand dollars in cash and the key to a safe-deposit box at First Chicago on Western. There’ll be ten thousand more on the first day of each month.”
Mason looked over at the man one more time.
“That’s it,” Quintero said. “Keep your phone on.”
Mason opened the passenger’s-side door. Before he could get out, Quintero grabbed his arm. Mason tensed up—another prison reflex, someone grabs you, your first reaction is deciding which finger to break first.
“One more thing,” Quintero said, holding on tight. “This isn’t freedom. This is mobility. Don’t get those two things confused.”
Quintero let him go. Mason stepped out and closed the door. The rain had stopped.
Mason stood there on the sidewalk and watched Quintero’s vehicle pull away from the curb, then disappear into the night. He reached into the envelope and took out the key. Then he opened the front door and went inside.
The town house entranceway had a high ceiling, and the light fixture hanging over Mason’s head was a piece of modern art with a thousand slivers of glass. The floor was large tiles laid diagonally in a diamond pattern. The stairs were polished cherry. He stood there for a moment until he noticed a beeping noise. He saw the security panel on the wall, took out the code from the envelope, and entered it on the keypad. The beeping stopped.
The door to his right opened to a two-car garage. In one space he saw a Mustang. He knew exactly what this was. It was a 1968 390 GT Fastback, a jet-black version of the car Steve McQueen drove in Bullitt. He’d never stolen a car like this because you don’t steal a masterpiece and take it to the chop shop. You don’t steal a car like this and drive it yourself no matter how much you want to. That’s how amateurs get caught.
The other spot in the garage was empty. He saw the faint outline of tire tracks. Another car belonged here.