“By the time he does you’ll be long gone. Trust me.”
Trust me. I nod even though she can’t see it. “Okay.”
“Put the phone somewhere it won’t be picked up on a sweep,” she adds, pragmatic to the end. “Then breathe. Drink water. Don’t puke if you can help it. It’ll make you shaky.”
A weak laugh escapes. “I’ll do my best.”
“Call me if anything changes. Otherwise, wait for my text.”
“Trina?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you. For being on my side.”
There’s a long pause, then something like sorrow slips into her voice. “Always,” she says, and hangs up.
CHAPTER 33
VLAD
Tonight, Jack’s the target.
Dmitri’s been tailing him all day and has a line on every place he’s been. Jack’s been busy, off to Atlantic City for whatever it is a man like him does there.
Now, it’s just simply a matter of following his path, checking out security footage, seeing what kind of life Teresa’s brother has been leading when he hasn’t been paying hitmen.
I don’t take a convoy. Just a gray Tahoe, Dmitri at the wheel, no silver ties, no noise. We slide onto the highway under a pewter sky, wipers ticking like a metronome. I text Teresa.
More work, back by morning.
I receive a heart emoji in return. It lands too hard in my chest for how small it is.
“Place your bet,” Dmitri says. “If he’s going to AC, he’s not sober.”
“Something tells me he hasn’t been sober for a long time.”
Off-season Atlantic City is all sea salt, gulls, and neon. Wind knifes through the avenues. The boardwalk is bleak.
First stop is a pawnshop two blocks off the water, a place Angeloff money rescued twice and therefore owns. But Jack doesn’t know that.
The proprietor nods like he’s been expecting me. A bill, a logbook, and there it is. Jack W., last week, traded a vintage Jaeger-LeCoultre watch from the Winslow estate for $7,500 cash.
“Addiction’s a hungry pet,” Dmitri murmurs as we step back into the wind.
“And it always bites the hand that feeds it.”
Next stop, Ocean Casino.
Getting through casino security is easier than it should be. Ocean’s pit boss owes me a favor. He lets us into a closet with monitors, the scent of stale coffee in the air. We scrub through hours of footage until the cameras catch Jack buying chips, losing fast, pupils blown, sweating profusely. Four ATM pulls at four hundred apiece. He doesn’t look sober, he looks hollowed out.
Next is Petya’s bar off Atlantic Avenue. Petya runs a quiet book. He owes me. His ledger says: Jack Winslow—minus forty-eight thousand in two months; college football, NBA props.
We catch Jack on motel security at Seabreeze Motor Inn, room with a view of a wall. He’s face-down on a bed while a woman in yesterday’s makeup fingers his wallet. An hour later he’s up, jittery. He tells the person on the other end of the phone, “I said I have it.” He doesn’t have it.
At four in the afternoon, a car pulls in front of the Motor Inn. He hops in and is gone.
Dmitri and I stop at a diner on the way out of the city, the kind that smells like fryer grease and burnt coffee, the kind that doesn’t ask questions. Dmitri orders two black coffees and we sit in a corner booth that lets me keep eyes on both exits. The waitress drops mugs like she’s mad at them. The coffee is hot enough to burn, bitter enough to remind you you’re alive.
