CHAPTER TWO
Fitz tapped his cigarette on an ashtray and looked over the bar.
The Red Fox was dead. A few lowlifes nursed their drinks, but except for Mona and her crew of divas— who left in a huff when Conor didn’t show—it was a quiet night.
That was a good thing as far as Fitz was concerned.
It gave him and Sully a chance to talk over the next job, which turned into lots of ideas for penny-ante heists, but nothing with a big payout.
He stubbed out his cigarette and looked around.
Old timers everywhere. His gaze drifted across the front of the bar.
Two old men playing cards caught his attention.
He glanced at Sully, holding a red plastic cup of beer.
Reaching for the pack of Marlboros in front of Sully, Fitz pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
Smoke drifted into his eye. He blinked, and then leaned across the table toward Sully.
“Hey,” he said. “Isn’t that Duck and Artie playing cards up front?”
Sully wiped beer off his chin. He craned his neck for a look. “Yeah. So what?”
“I’d bet my left nut that if anyone knows about a big job, it’s those two.”
“How you figure?”
Fitz sucked in a lungful of smoke and stared at the two men.
Duck had been a union rep at Swan Manufacturing back in the day.
Word was he barely did a lick of work, but somehow managed to get a big payout when the plant moved overseas.
What he did now was anyone’s guess. But he drove a nice car, had a big house, and was never short on cash.
Artie was less conspicuous—just an old bald guy who smoked, drank, and kept a seat warm at the Fox.
But there had been rumors for years. Whispers about the two of them doing more than playing cards and sipping rum and cokes.
The truly deluded swore they ran the criminal underworld.
Fitz wasn’t about to give them that much credit, but there was something not right about them.
Like they stayed too far under the radar for it to be real.
Fitz turned his attention back to Sully. “You know what people say. Maybe it’s true.”
Sully rolled his eyes. “Maybe twenty years ago they stole somebody’s wallet. Look at them. They can barely breathe.”
Fitz stubbed his cigarette. He stood up and drank the rest of his beer. “Well, I’m gonna get a beer and take a seat up front. Maybe I’ll hear something interesting.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” said Sully.
Fitz shrugged. “I don’t know. Watch the game. Hit on a girl or something. I’ll be back after one beer.”
As he walked down the length of the bar, Fitz watched Duck lift a cigarette to his mouth.
The old man’s head was covered in a lion’s mane of thick, white hair, the same color and style he’d worn for the past twenty years.
His pal Artie had a head that shined like a newly waxed car except for the thin gray fringe of hair that wrapped around his ears and the back of his head.
It was funny how both of them never seemed to age.
They were old and had always been old. Fitz slipped into a seat at the end of the bar.
He ordered a draft. His back faced the old men who sat maybe eight feet behind him.
The bartender filled a mug and handed it over. Fitz sipped the beer and leaned back.
At first, all he heard was the shuffling of cards, slurping of drinks, and an occasional curse word.
It took him a minute before he heard their murmur of conversation.
They tried to keep it between themselves, but their old ears betrayed them, forcing them to whisper loud enough for him to hear.
A continual low banter. Apparently, they’d already heard about the theft of the cash boxes at the football game.
That pricked Fitz’s radar. There was no way that information had gone public yet.
Either they’d heard about it from someone who’d watched it go down, or they were told about it from a friend inside the police department.
Either way, it confirmed that the talk was at least a little bit true—Duck and Artie were somehow connected.
Fitz could barely wait to go back and tell Sully.
Not like the old geezers had whispered the combination to Fort Knox, but still, it would be fun to gossip.
He lifted his mug to drain it, eager to talk to Sully, and then lowered his beer, focusing his attention.
The mumbled whispers of the two old men had moved to a new subject.
Something that didn’t sound real—couldn’t be real.
The more Fitz listened, the more his whole body tightened.
His heart pounded. When they’d finished, he forced himself to sip his beer and stay put.
It wouldn’t look right if he jumped up right after hearing that.
He made a show of finishing his beer and watching the game on the flat screen over the bar.
Then he got up, put a couple bucks on the bar, and walked calmly toward Sully.
A girl with long blonde hair and piercings in her nose and bottom lip sat next to Sully. Sully had his hand on her leg while he whispered in her ear, oblivious to everything around him. Fitz tapped Sully on the shoulder.
“We need to talk,” he said.
The girl turned. “We’re busy.”
Fitz looked at Sully, glanced back at Duck and Artie, and then stared at Sully with raised eyebrows.
Sully didn’t look happy, but he lifted his hand from the girl’s leg and reached for his wallet. “Go get me a drink,” he said, handing her a twenty. “I’ll be right over.”
The girl took the money, flashed a look of displeasure at Fitz, and then headed for the bar.
Fitz took a seat. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack on the table. His hand shook while he lit it.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“What?” whispered Sully.
“I think I got something,” said Fitz. He glanced around, his whispers coming out in curls of smoke. “It’s big. But we have to move fast. Real fast.”
Sully leaned closer. “What is it?”
Fitz reached out, grabbed Sully by the back of the neck, and pulled him close.