“Dyson,” Jimmy said. “You told us about the FBI and all that. What’s the upside? There’s always an upside, isn’t there?”
“You mean besides the money? The FBI has never solved more than thirty or forty percent of the armored truck robberies committed in any given year, so the odds are slightly in your favor. Unlike with a bank, there’s little chance that the money will be marked. Also, you get to hit the truck at a time and place of your own choosing. If you work it right, you can do it where there are no witnesses. Or at least fewer witnesses than in a bank—no tellers, cashiers, customers, no security cameras. The problem is, it’s an armored truck, emphasis on armored. The only way to get into the rear compartment where they keep the money is with a carefully guarded key, which requires an inside man that we don’t have, or with explosives. Have you ever seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where they accidentally blow up the train? You want to avoid that, which means the best way to do it is when the guards are outside the truck. Except these guys are macho men. They’re like Roy here; they all think they’re tougher than Israeli commandos. You can’t expect them to give up the money without a tussle.”
“It can be done, though,” Skarda said.
“If it’s done right.”
“You can teach us,” Josie said. “You need real money. We need real money. We can do this together.”
“Sounds like a marriage made in heaven,” Skarda said.
“Shut up, Dave,” I said.
“Dyson.” I turned to face Roy as he spoke. “I don’t like you, but if you agree to help us, I’ll do everything you tell me to do. No arguments.”
Will you stop beating your wife? my inner voice asked.
“We will all do what you tell us,” Josie said.
I looked at them, one after another, my gaze sweeping from Josie to Skarda to Jimmy to the old man to Roy and finally to Jill. She was the only one who didn’t look me in the eye.
“Roy,” I said. “The AK-47. Where did you get it?”
“That’s for me to know.”
“Well, we’re off to a great start.”
“Roy,” Josie snapped. “Tell him.”
“I can’t say.”
Can’t or won’t? my inner voice asked.
“Unlike what you might have heard, we’re not going to do this with slingshots,” I said. “We’re going to need firepower. Maybe AKs, maybe more—we might even need plastic explosives, Semtex 10, I don’t know yet. The question is, can you get it or are you just blowing smoke?”
“I can get it.”
“How much lead time do you need?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“It’s going to be expensive.”
“It always is. When the time comes, I’ll need to meet with your people. I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with them, and I certainly don’t want to put you on the spot, but if this is going to happen, I’ll need a face-to-face. Can you arrange that?”
“I think so.”
“Okay.”
“We’re going to do this, then?” Josie asked.
Off in the distance I could hear Bobby Dunston laughing.
The evening after I met Harry, Bullert, and Finnegan at Rickie’s, I went to Bobby’s house in Merriam Park, the blue-collar neighborhood in St. Paul where we were both raised. Bobby bought the house from his parents when they retired to a lake home in Wisconsin; growing up I had spent almost as much time there as he had.
“This is insane,” he told me while I paced the living room floor. Shelby Dunston was sitting on a blue mohair chair in the corner, her right leg tucked beneath her. Nina sat like that sometimes, I could never figure out why.
“You’re not seriously considering doing this?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah…”
“McKenzie, you’re not police anymore. You would be so exposed.”
“That’s why I have the letter explaining my actions on behalf of the Justice Department, why I had Finnegan sign it—five copies. One to you, one to G. K., one to Kelly Bressandes—”
“That tramp?” Shelby said.
“The others I’ve squirreled away for safekeeping. Nina insisted.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you need the letters?”