“Wait a second,” Laura began. She concentrated hard, trying to remember exactly. “David came here to get some cash right before we left for Australia.”
“Then that’s your answer, Laura. He made the transfer when he picked up the cash and just decided to tell you about it later.”
She shook her head. “Something is still not right. David could barely balance his checkbook.”
“That’s true, but—”
Laura stopped suddenly. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“Corsel said that David made the transfer over the phone, not in person. He mentioned that there was static on the line.”
“So?”
“Don’t you see?” Laura almost shouted. “That means that David must have transferred his money while we were in Australia.”
STAN sat up and watched the television. Nothing on. Fat Oprah (or was she skinny this week?) was talking to some group of slobs who sexually assault their plants or something like that. Stan wasn’t really listening. He was thinking. He needed to think up a score. A big one. And he needed to think of one in a hurry.
He was also thinking about the B Man.
The solution to his current money problems was obvious: get the money from David’s estate. But how? Everything was left to Laura. He could ask her for it, but that would arouse her suspicion. She might be a bit naive, but she was far from stupid. Plus Stan was sure that fucking T.C. was filling her head with all kinds of nonsense about the past. No, Stan decided, he could not ask her directly. He would have to make her offer the money to him.
But how?
Knuckles rapped on the door.
Terror ran through Stan. He had used a fake name when he registered. No one knew he was here. He closed his eyes as the knock came again. Maybe it was just the maid. Maybe it was—
“Open up, Stan. I want to talk to you.”
—the B Man.
Stan stood as though hypnotized. He was on the fourteenth floor, so a window escape was out. But what the hell? He and B Man went back a long way. B Man had never hurt him before. He knew Stan was good for the money, and once Stan explained that he had a chance of getting his hands on serious money, B Man would give him more time. Stan turned the knob and opened the door.
“B Man!” Stan greeted with a smile. “How the hell are you, man? You look great.”
The B Man stood in the doorway and smiled coolly. “Thanks, Stan. It’s nice to see you, too.”
Stan was always surprised by the B Man’s appearance. He hardly looked the part of a rough gangster. He had long, bleached blond hair, a year-round tan, and teeth that were white enough for a tooth-polish commercial. His height and weight were average, maybe even a little on the small side. Even more unusual, the B Man had an ivy league education and had lived for three years in Korea, where he had trained six hours a day in kung fu or some shit like that.
That was his specialty: hand-to-hand combat. You could put three bruisers twice his size against him and the B Man would slaughter them without breaking a sweat.
“Come in, B.”
“Thank you.” He stepped in and closed the door. His voice remained pleasant. “What are you doing in Boston, Stan?”
“I told you I was going to go to my brother’s funeral.”
“That was quite a while ago.”
“I know that, B Man, but I’m very close to scoring big.”
“I’ve heard that from you before.”
“No, really.”
B Man stood directly in front of Stan, their faces no more than six inches apart. “You wouldn’t be trying to avoid me, would you, Stan?”
“No way,” Stan argued. “I would never do that.”
B Man just stared.
“Wh-what brings you to Boston, B?”
B Man strolled around the room. “I have a little business here. One of my wrestlers is in town.”
“Roadhouse Rex?” Stan asked.
B Man nodded.
“Roadhouse is great,” Stan continued, trying to keep B Man’s attention on the gruesome wrestler and off himself. “He can take a dive like nobody’s business.”
“Roadhouse is the best,” B Man agreed with a hint of a smile. “You should see him backstage. His trunk is filled with blood capsules, phony casts for whatever ailment he plans on faking, you name it.” The B Man turned and moved toward Stan. “But we’re getting off the subject, aren’t we?”
“Off the subject?”
B Man just smiled. “Stan, have you been trying to hide from me?”
Stan swallowed. “You know me better than that, B Man. Like I said before, I told you I was coming to Boston.”
“True,” B Man agreed, “but you forgot to mention that you were going to use an alias.”
“I just needed a little time. You see, my brother—”
“I know all about your brother.”
“Well, he was loaded. I’m going to get some of his money.”
B Man laughed. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I know what you did to him. I was there, remember? Your brother would never leave you a cent.”
“I know that, B Man. I’m going to get the money from his widow.”
“That model?”
“Yeah, B Man. She’ll give me the money.”
“Fifty thousand dollars?”
“Right. No problem.”
B Man calmly walked toward the bed. “But, Stan, you’re already very late.”
“Just tack on interest.”
“Oh, I will. But you’re past that now.”
“Come on, B Man. You know I’m good for it.”
B Man shook his head slowly. “No, that’s where you’re wrong. I think you’re good for it. But I don’t know for sure. Perhaps a little incentive would help.”
“Incentive?”
There was no time for Stan to react. With frightening speed, B Man’s hand shot out. The blow landed in the center of Stan’s belly. The breath whooshed out of him. Stan fell to the ground, struggling to get oxygen back in his lungs.
B Man watched Stan writhe in pain. He calmly reached down and grabbed Stan’s right hand. For a minute or two, he held the hand and waited for Stan to begin catching his breath.
“I’m sorry about all this, Stan.”
“Please . . .”
B Man clamped his hand over Stan’s mouth. Then he pulled Stan’s middle finger back until it nearly touched his wrist. The finger snapped like a twig. Stan felt the jagged edges of the bone rip into his skin. His head swam.