problems of being a small businessman. Did I miss something and accidentally enroll in an economics course?” When Farraday didn’t answer—which he knew he wouldn’t—Grant crossed his arms and impatiently said, “Okay, you’ve got one minute. Make it good.”
Farraday straightened his frame. “I got a cousin who got himself into some trouble.”
“That’s what cousins do. Get in trouble. Cousins and brothers-in-law.”
“Believe me,” said Farraday, without a trace of a smile, “if this was my brother-in-law in trouble, I wouldn’t be coming to you—or anyone—for help.”
Grant figured that Farraday’s long-ago ugly divorce was still an open wound, so he stayed quiet and let him continue.
“Anyway, my cousin Leonard was working for this big church—one of them mega-churches, I think they’re called—and got fired because they thought he was gay.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “And is he gay?”
“Well…yeah. That’s why I wanted to discuss it with you and Chase.”
Grant didn’t really like being the go-to guy whenever one of his acquaintances had a gay-related problem, and it came out in his voice.
“Sounds like he needs a lawyer. And we’re not lawyers, Farraday. Remember? We’re criminals. Which is not the same thing, at least mostly. So how could we help?”
“Grant,” Chase whispered in his partner’s ear, just loud enough for Farraday—but no one else—to hear. “He said his cousin got fired from a mega-church. Which means a big, big church, like the ones on Sunday-morning TV. A lot of those places have money.”
“Yeah,” Grant agreed. “But we’re not lawyers.”
“You’re not getting what I’m saying.”
Farraday stepped forward. “Chase is right, Lambert. This ain’t about the law. It’s about the money.”
Grant considered that. “I think I’m beginning to follow.”
“Figured you would eventually. Anyway, he’s talked to lawyers, and they can’t do a damn thing. Or maybe they don’t want to. So now Cousin Leonard wants to get back at the church, and since he can’t do it legally, he’s willing to do it illegally.”
“He knows how to get his hands on their money?” asked Chase.
“Some of it,” Farraday confirmed. “Enough to make this worth our while.”
“You’re sure?”
“He’s sure. Or at least he says he is. And he was the bookkeeper before they fired him, so I figure he knows what he’s talking about.”
Grant was silent for a few minutes while he pondered the situation. Finally he said, “Okay, Farraday, let’s talk.”
2
After Farraday’s divorce—the details of which were unknown to anyone but Farraday, not that anyone wanted to know the details because even the generalities were ugly—he’d been forced to abandon his modest apartment for an even more modest furnished basement studio in a part of Brooklyn that would probably never gentrify. In short order, the man and the apartment had become a good fit, equally gloomy and rough around the edges.
It hadn’t always been that way. In the increasingly distant past, Paul Farraday had been a legend—and an anomaly—among New York City cab drivers: honest, courteous, and seemingly born with a sixth sense that guided him effortlessly through even the worst traffic tie-ups. But he’d also had a weakness for hard liquor, a problem that grew more severe in the wake of his divorce, and soon the time came to hand in the keys to his cab. It was that or quit the bottle…and Farraday was not a quitter.
But he still had to make a living, which was how, in time, he found himself doing odd jobs like boosting cars for Charlie Chops and occasionally working with people like Grant Lambert and Chase LaMarca when they needed a wheel man. He liked the flexibility—he could pretty much set a work schedule around his handful of non-drinking hours in the day—and he also liked the fact that the income was entirely off the books. Meaning there was no way his bitch of an ex-wife
Farraday straightened his frame. “I got a cousin who got himself into some trouble.”
“That’s what cousins do. Get in trouble. Cousins and brothers-in-law.”
“Believe me,” said Farraday, without a trace of a smile, “if this was my brother-in-law in trouble, I wouldn’t be coming to you—or anyone—for help.”
Grant figured that Farraday’s long-ago ugly divorce was still an open wound, so he stayed quiet and let him continue.
“Anyway, my cousin Leonard was working for this big church—one of them mega-churches, I think they’re called—and got fired because they thought he was gay.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “And is he gay?”
“Well…yeah. That’s why I wanted to discuss it with you and Chase.”
Grant didn’t really like being the go-to guy whenever one of his acquaintances had a gay-related problem, and it came out in his voice.
“Sounds like he needs a lawyer. And we’re not lawyers, Farraday. Remember? We’re criminals. Which is not the same thing, at least mostly. So how could we help?”
“Grant,” Chase whispered in his partner’s ear, just loud enough for Farraday—but no one else—to hear. “He said his cousin got fired from a mega-church. Which means a big, big church, like the ones on Sunday-morning TV. A lot of those places have money.”
“Yeah,” Grant agreed. “But we’re not lawyers.”
“You’re not getting what I’m saying.”
Farraday stepped forward. “Chase is right, Lambert. This ain’t about the law. It’s about the money.”
Grant considered that. “I think I’m beginning to follow.”
“Figured you would eventually. Anyway, he’s talked to lawyers, and they can’t do a damn thing. Or maybe they don’t want to. So now Cousin Leonard wants to get back at the church, and since he can’t do it legally, he’s willing to do it illegally.”
“He knows how to get his hands on their money?” asked Chase.
“Some of it,” Farraday confirmed. “Enough to make this worth our while.”
“You’re sure?”
“He’s sure. Or at least he says he is. And he was the bookkeeper before they fired him, so I figure he knows what he’s talking about.”
Grant was silent for a few minutes while he pondered the situation. Finally he said, “Okay, Farraday, let’s talk.”
2
After Farraday’s divorce—the details of which were unknown to anyone but Farraday, not that anyone wanted to know the details because even the generalities were ugly—he’d been forced to abandon his modest apartment for an even more modest furnished basement studio in a part of Brooklyn that would probably never gentrify. In short order, the man and the apartment had become a good fit, equally gloomy and rough around the edges.
It hadn’t always been that way. In the increasingly distant past, Paul Farraday had been a legend—and an anomaly—among New York City cab drivers: honest, courteous, and seemingly born with a sixth sense that guided him effortlessly through even the worst traffic tie-ups. But he’d also had a weakness for hard liquor, a problem that grew more severe in the wake of his divorce, and soon the time came to hand in the keys to his cab. It was that or quit the bottle…and Farraday was not a quitter.
But he still had to make a living, which was how, in time, he found himself doing odd jobs like boosting cars for Charlie Chops and occasionally working with people like Grant Lambert and Chase LaMarca when they needed a wheel man. He liked the flexibility—he could pretty much set a work schedule around his handful of non-drinking hours in the day—and he also liked the fact that the income was entirely off the books. Meaning there was no way his bitch of an ex-wife
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