Tremanty, in the earbud: “That was good, Lucas. That was great.”
—
LUCAS DROVEout to Howard Hughes Parkway and turned right. Tremanty said, in his ear, “Okay, the box is rolling, you’re in the box. The Cessna’s up on top of you, thank God for that yellow car. And, yeah, we got you on the GPS.”
Deese: “Drive on up to Sands. Don’t drive too fast. Don’t go gettin’ stopped by no cop.”
Lucas: “I want to talk to Gloria.”
“When we got the money, Gloria will call you from a gas station,” Deese said. “We’ll turn her loose three blocks from the station.”
“That doesn’t sound real to me,” Tremanty said in his ear. Lucas couldn’t reply without Deese hearing it. And Tremanty, talking to somebody else, said, “Let’s stretch the box a bit, stretch it out a vertical block on both ends. They’ll do that tricky thing now.”
Lucas was looking in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t see anybody obviously tracking him.
Deese: “I don’t know exactly where you’re at now, but you gotta be close to Paradise. Take a right on Paradise.”
“I’m still on Sands,” Lucas said. “I’ll take a right on Paradise.”
“Got that,” Tremanty said. Lucas could hear him talking to the FBI agents driving the box.
He came back to Lucas. “They’re starting to worry me. Nothing tricky yet. But if they take us way out in the desert, we’ll lose the box.”
Another voice, in the background, maybe the AIC. “Yeah, but they’d never be able to lose the Cessna or the chopper out there. I don’t think that’s it. I think they’ll do the trick here in town.”
Lucas could see the intersection of Paradise Road coming up. “I’m at Paradise,” he said into the cell.
Deese said, “Take a right and keep going.”
“I’m going,” Lucas said. “Where am I going?”
“You’re going until I tell you to stop.”
Tremanty: “That road runs down to the airport and stops. Something’s got to happen in the next minute or so.”
Deese said, “You should be coming up to Harmon Avenue. Take another right. Tell me as soon as you do. The second you make the turn.”
Lucas came up to Harmon and said, “Taking the right on Harmon.”
“That’s the Hard Rock Hotel on your right. Go past it, you’ll see some grass and trees, and shit, and you’ll see a bridge with a red balloon tied to one end of the railing. Turn there onto the bridge and stop. Tell me when you have.”
Tremanty: “Tighten the box. Get tight. This is the tricky part. Cessna says there are some people in a drainage channel, farther down. He can’t see what’s going on.”
Lucas turned at the red balloon. “I’m on the bridge. I’ve stopped.”
Deese: “Get out, walk to the bridge railing on the driver’s side, throw the money off the bridge into the ditch. Get back in the car and drive away.”
“We’re tight on you, around the corner, ten seconds,” Tremanty said in Lucas’s ear.
Deese: “Throw the money, throw the money, motherfucker. Get out of the car and throw the money in the ditch.”
Lucas got out, carrying the bag. He looked down to the drainage channel, could see people a hundred yards away to his left. It looked like there was a homeless camp under the bridge—piles of trash, wrecked shopping carts, plastic sheets rigged as tents.
“Throw the money, motherfucker, then get back in the truck. We’re watching, Gloria’s got the gun in her mouth right now.”
Lucas threw the bag down into the channel and stepped back to the car but didn’t get in. A second later, he heard a harsh buzzing coming from under the bridge, and then an Army-green dirt bike rolled out from under it and buzzed up to the bag. The rider was wearing a helmet with a blacked-out faceplate. He glanced up at Lucas, snagged the bag with one hand, and roared off down the channel toward the homeless camp.
And then the bike and rider disappeared under the bridge.
