Liars & Thieves Read Free Page B

“I nearly vomited up my toenails.”
    “Remember this happy day,” I remarked, “the next time somebody wants you to star in a fuck movie.”
    “Did you get the tapes?”
    “I got something. I’ll go back in a couple of days and get whatever it is.”
    “I’ll go with you. I want those tapes.”
    “Those women have seen you for the last time. When I get the tapes, I’ll call you.”
    She didn’t like it, but she was in no condition to argue.
    When I went back Wednesday afternoon, Harriet gave me a strange look. “How’s your wife?”
    “Better, thank you. You gotta be tough to have a baby.”
    She obviously had something on her mind. “After you and your wife left Monday, I had the strangest call from our security officer.”
    “Oh?”
    “Apparently the surveillance camera in the vault stopped working while we had your wife in the restroom.”
    I shrugged. “Did it break?”
    “Oh, no! Merely stopped working for a few minutes. They monitor them from our main office in Silver Spring.”
    “That is odd,” I admitted. “While you were in the bathroom I used the time to put the items I brought into my box.”
    “The master safe deposit key was still in the lock of your box after you left.”
    “You have it now, I hope.”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “I really appreciate the way you and the other lady helped my wife,” I said warmly. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but you know how these things are. I’ve written a letter to the president of the bank. I feel so fortunate that the bank has such wonderful employees.”
    Harriet beamed.
    We opened the locks, and I pulled my box from its shelf. I carried it to a privacy cubicle. There were a dozen videotapes, four whopping big stacks of cash with rubber bands around them, and a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, which was loaded. I put a hand-
    kerchief around my fingers as I checked the pistol. The box was the best place for it, I decided; I left it there. The money and tapes I put in the attache case.
    Harriet and I chatted some more while I put the box away, then I left.
    I played the tapes on a VCR I had at home. Dorsey was on three of them. The same men were on all twelve. I didn’t recognize any of the other women. When I finished with the nine tapes Dorsey wasn’t on, I smashed them with a hammer and put them in the garbage, where they belonged.
    The cash amounted to twenty-seven grand in old bills. I held random bills up to the light, fingered them, and compared them to some bills I had in my wallet. It was real money, I concluded. Tough luck for Carroll Kincaid—easy come, easy go.
    I met Dorsey that Friday evening in downtown Washington at a bar jam-packed with people celebrating the start of the weekend. As the hubbub washed over us, I gave her the three remaining tapes. I put my mouth close to her ear and asked, “Is any of these men Carroll Kincaid?”
    “No.” She refused to meet my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “For whatever it’s worth, you weren’t the only one.”
    She grunted and slugged her Scotch down as if it were Diet Coke.
    “A thank-you would be in order,” I said.
    She laid a hand on my arm, tried to smile, got up, and walked out.
    I drank a second beer while I contemplated the state of the universe. On my way home I stopped by the first church I saw—it was Catholic—and went in to see the priest.
    “Father, I have unexpectedly come into some serious money. I won’t burden you with an explanation, but I wish to donate it to the church to use in its ministry to the poor.”
    The priest didn’t look surprised. People must give him wads of cash every day. “As you probably know quite well, the need is great,” he told me. “On behalf of the church, I would be delighted to accept any amount you wish to donate.”
    I handed him the money, which I had put in a shoebox and wrapped in some Christmas gift wrap I had left over from the holidays.
    He hefted the box and inspected my wrapping job. “Do you want a