The Retirement Plan

Chapter 18

The roads were empty; the storm keeping folks indoors. At least they had that going for them. And, Mr Greene had called, so they were okay on that end, too. But Reggie couldn't relax, wouldn't be able to relax, until he got far away from here. Take his share of the money and head down south somewhere.

The shares; another part of the plan that had gotten screwed. The original idea being that he would collect the money, let Ricky and Chris make the hand-off, giving Reggie enough time to take sixty grand from the pile. Divide that up with Chris, and later he and Ricky would sort out the rest. But now, he had Chris sat two feet away from him.

The Londoner had been quiet as a Carthusian monk until that call from Mr Greene. But now, he was chattier than a talk-show host; the conversation coming off like an interview, Chris asking all the questions.

"I know you and Rick go way back," Chris said. "You meet back in Boston, right?"

"Nah, man, watching a Celtics match in Alicante," Reggie said, making conversation while he mulled over ways to prevent Chris from claiming an equal share.

"Here? I didn't know that. Same as. Fella, I did some business with put me on to him. Fella turned out to be a wrong 'un. I found out later he's a grass, gets garrulous 'round a copper, know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, him and Rick were tight as a knot. Now, I know Rick's straight-up, but it did make me wonder. Birds of a feather an' all that jazz." Chris let that one sit.

The rubber windscreen-wipers squeaked over the pane.

"So, who vouched for him with you?"

"Ain't nobody vouch for him," Reggie said. "Ain't nobody have to. When you done been in this game long as I have, you can spot a rotten apple quicker than a cider maker."

"No, sure, I'm not—"

"Ricky's family, you feel me?"

Raindrops splattered against the windscreen.

"I would've taken care of her," Chris said, hands on the wheel. "No sweat. I've no qualms about offing a bird. Bloke, bird, it makes no odds to me, I'll do it. Ain't nothing I never did before."

"But you didn't," Reggie said, in no mood for listening to his horseshit. "Did you? So, this conversation is moot."

"I would've done," Chris said. Still sour. "If the maniac hadn't pulled his piece on me. I see him again, I'll..."

"You'll what?"

"Who does that? We're partners. It's not on. He's going to threaten to put one in me over some Asian tart he don't even know, what's that—"

"Asian?" Reggie getting that feeling like his stomach was about to drop. "Cutie, wear her hair in a blonde bob?"

Chris turned his head to give Reggie a long look. "You know her?"

Reggie stared out the windscreen, eyes cold and hard.

"Bruv, I didn't want to say nothing, 'cause I ain't no grass, but Rick must've dropped your name at least three times in front of her."

"You playing."

Chris let go of the wheel and held his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't hate the messenger, hate the message."

"That stupid—" Reggie inhaled deeply. Gotta keep calm. Stay focused. Exhaled.

"You need to have a word with your boy."

"Don't tell me what I need to do. I know what I need to do. You need to keep your eyes on the motherfuckin' road."

Chris knocked the radio on, fiddled with the buttons, oblivious to Reggie's death stare. Took his damn time in finding a channel, finally settling on one just as Reggie's temper was about to explode. A local dance station. Set the volume on high, the industrial sound of the thumping bass drum vibrating through the speakers. Reggie wondered if his accomplice possessed even an ounce of cop-on. Cop-on, a phrase he had heard Ricky use over the years. Could the Irishman be running a game on him? He thought he knew him, but how well do you know anyone?