1
On a cool night in late June the traffic on Highway 101 was not heavy—not for a Saturday, anyway—and moved along at a steady clip, people cruising out to restaurants or movies or to spend the evening with friends.
There was one car traveling north from the city, a midnight-blue Lexus. An old man was driving, his considerable belly pressed up against the steering wheel, and the passenger seat was only partially filled by a blade- thin boy who looked to be in his late teens.
As the Lexus rounded a curve, it broke away from the rest of the traffic and veered across an entire lane. A sharp left, and then it bounced into the parking lot of a gas station and made a swift circle so that it came around again and stopped, nose pointed toward the highway. Inside the car, the boy took his hand from the dash, where it had been bracing him against becoming a highway statistic, and said, "Would you mind telling me what that was all about?"
"Final wardrobe check."
"We already did that, Max. Why do we have to do it over again?"
"It's your hide I'm looking out for, Owen, me lad. You know I never give a thought to myself; I've been accused of it many times. ‘Max,' the doctor said to me—cardiologist, I hasten to point out, knows a thing or two about this sorrowful organ we call the human heart—‘Max,' he said, ‘the fact is you are suffering from magnacarditis. Your heart's too big. An albatross borne down by giant wings. You care too much for other people, and it's driving you to an early grave."
"The only thing getting bigger on you," the boy said, "is your gut, and if you had a decent doctor—not that I believe you ever went to see a doctor—he'd tell you to cut back on the Guinness and the single malts, not to mention the hamburgers, the milkshakes, and the shepherd's pie."
"It pains me to hear such cynicism from one so young." Max placed a hand over his heart as if to protect that overworked organ. "The world is a barren, comfortless place when a seventeen- year-old—"
"Eighteen."
"—when an eighteen- year- old addresses his mentor this way, insulting the sage and learned man who's raised him up as his own and taught him everything he knows."
"I know lots of stuff you didn't teach me. The capitals of Africa, the rivers of South America, how to calculate the area of an irregular surface."
"Trivia," Max said. "Tell it to Roscoe. But you wound me, boy." He tapped a plump finger on his heart and sighed. "I'm a gentle creature, beset by a heartless teenager, no doubt an incipient gangbanger. You, of course, are a warlike American, whereas I remain your humble Warwickshire yeoman and ever shall."
"I'd like to visit Warwick one day. I'd love to hear from somebody other than you what you were like as a kid. I have a feeling they'll be telling a very different story about Max Maxwell over there."
"Nonsense. They would recall a heroic figure, just as you see me today."
The boy examined himself in the rearview mirror. "Okay, so how do I look?"
Max squinted at him, ginger eyebrows furrowing. "Terrifying. Perfect young Republican."
They had decided on a dark wig and vigorous curls for Owen, and neatly trimmed sideburns. A gorgeous black Armani jacket and pants were set off by an expensive white T-shirt that showed off his fat- free abdominals. Owen's first draft of the look had been red hair, freckles, and polka- dot bow tie, but Max overruled him: too on- the-nose, he called it, a parody. And besides, it was important to make optimal use of Owen's heartthrob potential. The curls did give the boy's profile a touch of the Greek god, not that Owen believed that heartthrob business for one minute.
"You don't think the hair's too curly?"
"It's perfect. Gives you a bit of the Kennedy—to which even the most granite- hearted Republican is not immune. And me?" Max smoothed his ginger mustache. Even up close it looked completely natural.
"I'd say you were a real bastard. Kind of guy who owns several mines and seriously mistreats his workers."
"Thank you."
"Hey, Max, I bought you a little present."
"No time, boy, no time." Max started the car again. "We must get a wiggle on."
"Hang on. You're gonna love this." Owen pulled it from an inside pocket and held it out.
"A cell phone?" Max furrowed his new ginger brows. "Why in
the name of heaven would we need another cell phone?"
"We don't. Try to make a call from your cell."
Max gunned the motor, eyeing the traffic whizzing by. "Owen, time is of the essence."
"We've got plenty of time. Try to make a call."
Muttering, Max extracted his cell phone and dialed Owen's number. "Nothing happening," he said. "Completely dead." He showed the tiny blank screen to Owen.
"Exactly," Owen said. "Because what I have here is not a cell phone. It's a cell phone jammer. Good for up to five hundred yards."
"You actually found one?" Max said. "Sweet boy, you are my very Ariel."
Owen put on a thin, reedy voice—he was good at voices, and this one made him sound like a tiny alien. "All hail, great master! I come to answer thy best plea sure, be it to fly, to swim, to dive into the fire!"
Max laughed. "You're a good lad, Owen. Truly, it's not every boy who's cut out for a life of crime."
The old man slid the gearshift into drive, and the Lexus eased back onto a highway peopled with innocent civilians.
2
The home of Margot Peabody was lit up like a Chinese lantern, all four stories of it, a beacon to the rich, the Republican, and the reprobate. It was an ornate wooden structure located in the most exclusive segment of Belvedere, purchased by pulp and paper magnate Cyrus Peabody (now defunct) some ten years previously for a comparative song. Expensive automobiles gleamed in a semicircle of driveway, their uniformed drivers absorbed in the sports pages.
Owen's usual stage fright kicked up a notch.
"We're gonna be coming right back out," Max said to the teenager directing traffic. His accent was now American, a touch of the East Coast in it, but not much. "Put us somewhere we can make a fast getaway."
"Sure thing, sir. Just park it over there under that tree. I won't
let anyone block you."
"First class, kid." Max handed him a rolled- up bill. "First class."
At the door they were met by an Asian house boy in white livery. His hair was so slick, his skin so flawless, he looked as if he had escaped from a waxworks.
"Good evening, sir. What name shall I say?"
"Carter and Christopher Gould, but it's hardly worth the bother," Max said. "We can't stay."
In the vast cathedral of space before them, men in dinner jackets mingled with well- tended women too thin for their hairdos. Owen looked up at the beautiful redwood beams supporting a ceiling that had to be at least forty feet high, but Max had taught him never to comment on such things, to act as if he took luxury and ser vice for granted. Under massive skylights, a redwood mezzanine ran around the entire great hall.
The butterflies in Owen's stomach took flight up into his chest. But he loved this moment, this sense of balancing on the edge of the high dive, poised to plunge into triumph or disaster. It would be a hard thing to leave behind.
"Turn around, kid," Max said to the house boy. "Just let me use your shoulder. I'll write a check right now and we'll be out of your hair."
The house boy obligingly turned, tilting his head slightly, and Max whipped out a checkbook.
"This state has had a Republican government for nearly eight years and I want to make sure it stays that way. Twenty thousand should help. If it was legal to give more, I'd do it in a shot. Carter, your turn."
Owen pulled out a checkbook and wrote out a similar figure, signing it Carter P. Gould with a flourish.
"Now, where do we drop these?"
"In the large bottle by the stairs, sir, but I must tell Ms. Peabody
you're here."
"Relax, kid, put your feet up. Margot!"
Max waved to a woman just emerging from the crowd in an ivory summer dress tied at the waist. The sandals laced elaborately round her ankles hinted at ancient Greece, besotted fauns, and massive hedge funds.
"How lovely to see you," she said, with a smile that gave no hint that they had never met. Max, always meticulous about his research, had assured Owen that Margot Peabody was renowned for a spectacular collection of jewelry. It was not much in evidence to night: a single strand of pearls, perfect milky spheres, circled her throat.
"Come and have a drink on the lawn. I'm sure you'll find scads of people you know."
"Sorry, Margot. Can't stay. Gotta be in the capital first thing in the morning." He waggled the check at her and popped it into the bottle.
"Oh, stay for one drink, I insist. I'm trying to remember where it was we met."
"Hah! You've got me there. The Leonardo drawings?"
"The Getty! Of course, of course! And is this your son?"
"Nephew. Carter Gould—doesn't like to use the numerals. Grumpy teenager, way they all are."
"A handsome teenager nevertheless." She reached out a hand that was pure gristle. He gave it a brief squeeze. "Are you really such a grump?" she asked.
"Not at all, ma'am," Owen said. "Plea sure to meet you." He inserted his check into the mouth of the bottle and tapped it home.
"You're both too, too kind. Now follow me."
She led them through the crowd toward a pair of French doors. Owen noted earrings, necklaces, brooches, watches; your honest God- fearing Republicans were not averse to a little ostentation. What's the point of owning diamonds if you never wear them?
Under a snow- white canopy out back, a cover band was doing an earnest version of "Born in the U.S.A.," the singer sounding in imminent danger of aneurysm. Sausalito glittered across the black water, and off to the south the arc of the Bay Bridge. In the dark of the waterfront, the house seemed to blaze and shimmer.
Ms. Peabody led them to the bar and made sure they got their drinks—gin and tonic for Max, Coke for Owen. She introduced Owen to a busty debutante who shook his hand and smiled shyly. He tried to engage her in conversation, but she blushed and looked at her feet.
"To be perfectly honest," Margot Peabody said to Max, "I don't think we're in much danger of losing in November, but we do want to be on the safe side, don't we."
"Absolutely," Max said. "Have to generate a healthy investment climate, get those returns growing again."
"Well, yes. And property values."
"Excuse me," Owen said, "back in a minute." He headed into the house at a clip that suggested serious discomfort.
"Poor kid," Max said. "Ever since the accident he's had the bladder of a little girl."
"Accident?"
"High- strung filly. Took a nasty tumble."
Ms. Peabody spread that gristly hand, fanlike, over her heart. "A riding accident! He's lucky he didn't end up paralyzed or in a coma."
"He was wearing the regulation helmet, thank God."
"He was playing polo? There's nowhere near here, is there?"
"Cirencester, U.K. Charity match. Three princes there that afternoon, and I guarantee you not one of their horses balked. I was ready to blow a gasket, but you know you can't say anything to a royal—raise an international stink. They did send a nice card, I'll give 'em that."
"The least they could do, under the circumstances. You probably could have sued them."
"Nah," Max said. "Polo's a tough game. Have to expect to get knocked around a little."
"How delightfully macho," his hostess said, and gave a musical laugh.
Inside, Owen bounded up the front stairs two at a time.
"Sir! Sir!" the house boy called after him. "There are plenty of restrooms down here."
Owen found a sumptuous bathroom halfway along the hall. He stepped in and checked himself out in multiple mirrors. The black Armani looked great, he had to admit, and the new curls seemed to be working wonders with the female element. He flushed the toilet and set the tap running in the sink so the bathroom would sound occupied, then shut the door from the outside. At the end of the hall a pair of double doors was closed. Under Max's tutelage he had developed an instinct for such things.
If you want to rob a Republican, your best time is suppertime, Max had taught him. They always have company, the place is full of strangers, and every alarm is exactly where you want it: off.
Five minutes, he wouldn't need more.
The master bedroom was all rustic wood and white fabric, but Owen made straight for the dressing room, a compact chamber redolent with aromas of cedar, Guerlain, and shoe leather, and got it right on the first guess: the set of library steps gave her away. He reached up into the space between the ceiling and the top shelf and pulled out a high- quality wooden chest secured with a paltry lock that he snapped in less than two seconds.
Inside, there was a diamond brooch that had to be worth thirty or forty grand, an exquisite jade cameo, and a gold and ruby bracelet. But the real showstopper was a pair of emerald earrings, emeralds being more valuable even than diamonds. Both gems looked free of inclusions and were at least twelve carats, the light and clear green of a cat's eye. Hundred and twenty grand on a bad day.
Owen lifted the tray out of the chest. Underneath, he found two fat packets of hundred- dollar bills. He had no idea why Margot Peabody would be stashing approximately thirty grand in her jewelry box, but he certainly wasn't about to complain.
"God, I love this job," he said softly. He stuffed his pockets, closed the doors, and returned to the bathroom to shut off the water.
When he emerged, a somewhat off- kilter babe in a shimmery blue dress was having trouble making it up the last few stairs, pressing a cell phone to her ear with one hand and clutching a martini in the other. She snapped the phone shut, eyeing Owen.
"What are you doing up here?" she said, an edge in her voice.
"Bathroom."
"There are bathrooms downstairs," she said, slurring a little.
"They were occupied."
"Yeah?" She looked him up and down, taking her time about it. She was pretty in a hard way; her frown looked like it might be permanent. "Who are you? Why haven't we met?"
Owen put out a hand. "Carter Gould. Who are you?"
"Melinda Peabody. Unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately?"
She waved a limp hand. "Long story. How old are you, anyway? I'm twenty- five." She looked ten years older.
"I'm eighteen," Owen said. "Just turned."
"Too young. Which is too bad, because you're so cute you're making me dizzy." She steadied herself against the wall.
"That must be the martini," Owen said. "I better be getting back downstairs." Max would be wondering where the hell he was. A missed cue could ruin the whole show.
"No, really," Melinda said. "People must tell you that all the time, right? That you're totally fucking devastating?"
"Never," Owen said. "This is the first time."
"Liar. Get out of here before I jump you." She flung open the bathroom door, nearly toppling herself, and shut it behind her.
Owen stopped at the mezzanine on the way down. The band was taking a break, and Margot Peabody was herding everyone into the great hall below, where a bulky bear of a man in a tux was seated at a grand piano. Max looked up at Owen, and Owen pulled out the jammer and flipped it open. He pushed the On button and held it to his ear as if answering a call. Then he scowled at it and put it back into his pocket.
When she had got the crowd quiet, Ms. Peabody told them they were in for a terrific surprise. "We are honored to have a very special guest with us to night, one who needs no introduction, seeing how she's come here straight from the stage of New York's Lincoln Center. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Evelyn del Rio."
Max was always hauling Owen off to the theater—he'd seen more productions of Hamlet than he cared to think about—but Owen had never been to an opera. Even so, he knew who Evelyn del Rio was. He was disappointed that she was not fat. She was a trim blond woman in a plain black skirt with a sparkly top that drew attention to her chest. When the applause died down, she nodded at the piano bear and he began to play a set of dark, dour chords. Over these the famous voice came hovering, floating at first and then sweeping upward into the ceiling, sending a thrill up Owen's spine. It was something, a voice of pure silver at such proximity; he'd never heard anything like it. One of the great things about robbing the rich was you got to see some first-class entertainment.
It was a sad aria, not too long, and when it was over the audience couldn't stop grinning and applauding. Melinda Peabody had made her way back downstairs and was off in a corner, stabbing repeatedly at her cell phone and frowning. Owen looked around. Max's caterers, as he called them, were in place at the two exits. They wore livery much like the house boy's and stood with folded arms, looking serious and professional.
Before the applause had quite ended, Max stepped into a spot right below Owen and raised his hands. Owen's adrenaline shot up several levels, his heart hammering.
"Well, that was stupendous, wasn't it?" Max said to the crowd. "Beautiful music, beautifully rendered. But before we go any further, I also have an announcement to make, and I want you to promise not to be upset. It's the kind of thing people can get hysterical about, so let me tell you up front that such a reaction is totally unnecessary. You are here to part with money, after all. And so this gathering is being robbed. That's right, you heard me—robbed."
The great hall seemed to darken, although the lights stayed on. There were murmurs and catches of breath and questioning, worried looks.
"Rest assured that I myself, not to mention the able assistants you see at various points around the room, are fully—by which I mean lethally—armed. Still—"
A couple of men started to speak up, but Max silenced them by pulling out a .38 Special, which he did not point at anybody. He didn't have to.
"Still," he continued, "there is no reason in the world why this has to be a totally negative experience. I urge you—strongly urge you—to simply drop your valuables into the sack we'll be bringing around. Watches, brooches, necklaces, jewelry of any kind. We're not brutes—wedding rings are not required unless extraordinarily valuable—worth, say, over five thousand."
"Bullshit," someone said. Owen didn't see who it was; he was more worried about a small, lean man moving slowly, almost imperceptibly toward Max from behind. Owen unhooked the elegant velvet rope that reached upward to the skylights all the way from the lower floor. He took a pair of leather gloves from his pocket, put them on, and slowly slid down the rope to the floor below, planting himself firmly between Max and the approaching man. Pure Errol Flynn.
"Don't even think about it," he said, and the man went still.
Max handed Owen a sack emblazoned with a red Republican elephant. Owen began going to each of the women in turn, holding it open.
"No tricks, mister," Max said to the man, still in his East Coast accent. "The usual rules will be strictly enforced. Nobody moves, nobody leaves. This'll only take a few minutes."
The lean man was now edging toward a door.
"Don't spoil it for everybody," Max said to him, gesturing with the gun. "This is very much a money- or- your- life situation."
"Try and stop me."
Roscoe, one of Max's caterers, reared up to his full height, which was considerable, and the man veered toward a different exit. Pookie, Roscoe's colleague, stepped forward. The man kept coming. Pookie reached for his weapon, but Max fired first, a single shot into the ceiling that made an enormous noise. The smokeless blanks they always used were even louder than the real thing and made Owen jump every time.
The man stopped and turned back to face them, very pale.
"The next one won't be a warning."
"Look," Evelyn del Rio said. "I think everybody needs to calm down. Especially you, sir."
"Your humble servant, madam," Max said with a bow. "Consider me becalmed."
"If we're going to be robbed anyway," she added, "we should at least have some music. Giorgio?"
"You expect me to play?" said the bear. He seemed more shook up than his diva.
"What else are we going to do?" she said. "I'm damned if I'm going to crumple up and cry."
"Marvelous," Max said. "And I know that a woman who sings like you has just got to be a magnificent dancer. I beseech you, Giorgio—a waltz."
The bear shook his head but turned back to the keyboard and started to play. Owen recognized the tune, though he couldn't have named it.
Max put his gun away and took Evelyn del Rio's hand. As Owen stepped from guest to guest accepting "donations," Max twirled around the floor with the soprano, who looked as cool as ivory.
"The ring, too," Owen said to the girl in front of him. She was about twelve—a red- haired vision in Calvin Klein who started to cry and handed it over.
"It's just a ring," Owen said. "A material object. There's no reason to get so worked up."
"My daddy gave me that ring," she said, a Southern girl, maybe Arkansas, " 'fore he died. It was my momma's engagement ring."
"Well, why isn't your mother wearing it, then?"
"Because she's dead too, you snake."
Owen took her hot little fist and opened it, placed the sparkling ring into her palm, and folded her fingers over it. "You don't know me well enough to call me that," he said.
Max was still spinning around the floor with Evelyn del Rio. There was an abstracted air on his face that worried Owen. Lately the old man had been having spells of vagueness—usually not more than a few minutes—during which he forgot where he was and what he was doing. Max should have been collecting loot in a second bag, thus doubling their speed, but instead he was dancing with an opera star. Not good.
A couple of the men glared as if they would take him apart, but the rest were exceedingly cooperative. One of the things that had surprised Owen when he had first become involved in the lively pursuit of robbery was that men were generally as terrified as women. They didn't cry and carry on, but they trembled a lot. He wished they wouldn't; he wished they understood how truly safe they were, provided they didn't try anything.
"I suppose you want credit cards too," said one fellow—he had a lot of freckles. He looked like the type of guy you'd enjoy tossing a Frisbee with.
"Just cash and jewelry," Owen told him. "But thank you for asking."
"Fuck you."
"Settle down, man. It'll all be over soon, and you'll have a great story to tell your grandchildren."
Another two minutes and it was done. Owen signaled to Max, but Max was still lost in his dancing, a blissful smile on his face. Pookie had to bull his way through the crowd and take Max by the elbow to get him back down to earth. Max bowed deeply and kissed Evelyn del Rio's hand.
They took the Lexus at a stately pace along Shore Road, until Pookie said, "Turn here, turn here." They drove around a mock Tudor house, which was empty and up for sale, and abandoned the Lexus behind it. They jogged down to the private jetty, where Pookie and Roscoe had moored the motorboat that, like the Lexus, they had stolen earlier in the evening. They heard sirens and saw police lights flashing on Shore Road, but by then they were plowing across the bay toward the lights of San Francisco.
It was cold on the water. Owen pulled the lapels of his dinner jacket together against the wind. The boat was a midsize outboard, a seventy- five horse on the back. Pookie and Roscoe were up front, since they knew where they were going. Max was in the rear, shouting over the racket of the motor.
"Evelyn del Rio," he yelled, once again in his own English accent. "What grace is seated on her brow! I'll tell you, lad, if I was ever to completely lose my mind and marry, Evelyn del Rio is the woman for me. What poise! What self- possession!"
"She hated you," Owen yelled back. "I saw her face! She was wishing you were dead the whole time!"
"A palpable lie! She was cool as a waterfall. Fresh as a crystal stream!"
Pookie swerved the boat into a deserted city maintenance wharf. They tied up and climbed into the Taurus he had rented. Here they all removed their various wigs and mustaches and dropped them into a garbage bag.
"Evelyn del Rio." Max sighed, wiping the last of the glue from his eyebrows. "I feel love's keen arrow. Evelyn del Rio and Magnus Maxwell. We'd be the envy of the world."
"You old lecher," Pookie said. He had been disguised with a dark wig, thick eyebrows, and a too- long mustache that made him resemble a Wild West sheriff. But now he was the old Pookie, with his baby face, pale blue eyes, and alopecia so thorough that he was entirely devoid of eyebrows—indeed, of hair of any kind. "You're so insensitive, you can't even tell when a woman is harboring negative thoughts against you."
"I was robbing her, Pookie. Of course she was harboring negative thoughts. But she would have warmed to me over time," Max said. "Even granite warms in sunlight. She would have come to appreciate my intelligence and sense of humor."
"Hah!" Pookie said. "Good one."
"Pay the thug," Max said to Owen. "It's this kind of negative thinking that keeps you down, Pookie. Cynicism is the flag of despair."
Owen handed over ten hundred- dollar bills and Pookie counted them slowly. He had a big gaudy pinky ring on his right hand—a death's head with fake ruby eyes that flashed under the streetlight. Like Roscoe, Pookie was not a partner, he was strictly freelance: a fee was agreed upon up front and that was what he received, no matter how the job went. But he worked with Max and Owen every year.
"How'd you do upstairs?" Pookie asked.
"Not bad," Owen said. "Pretty good, in fact." There was no point lying about it. Thieves were obsessive about reading up on their crimes. Pookie would hear about the jewels in a day or two.
"You mean I'm underpaid again, right?"
"Pookie," Max said, "think of all the times we've paid you your exorbitant fee even when we came up empty. I've paid you for jobs where I lost thousands. Those occasions found you oddly mute."
Pookie, like many criminals somewhat childish, stuck out his tongue.
"Which country gave the world the Panama hat?" Roscoe said out of the blue. He was a trivia addict, and you couldn't spend more than ten minutes with him without being questioned on points of geography, history, or entertainment. He was six- four and built like a linebacker, but his only true passion in life, as far as Owen could determine, was Jeopardy!
"Panama?" Owen said, counting out another thousand.
"Ecuador," Pookie said.
"Ecuador is correct," Roscoe said solemnly.
"Had some business in Ecuador once," Max said. "Sullen little country. No sense of humor."
"I thought the jammer worked well to night," Owen said.
"It's not the worst idea," Pookie said. "But those sirens still came up awful fast."
"Yeah," Owen said. "I guess we should still collect all the cell
phones."
Roscoe folded his money into his pocket. "Smooth job, I thought."
"Our shows are always smooth," Owen said. "It's called preparation."
"Preparation," Max agreed, "and a friendly, respectful attitude. Respect the other man and he'll respect you; it's as simple as that."
"Most people don't recognize being robbed as a mark of respect," Pookie said. "You were too busy dancing your fat ass off to—"
"Fat! The bald bandit dares to call me fat! I am goodly portioned. I am what in better times was referred to as a fine figure of a man."
"If you believe that," Pookie said, "you're living on your own small planet."
"He is a small planet," Owen said, and they both laughed.
"Haw- haw- haw." Max mimicked them. "Haw- haw- haw. O thou monster ignorance. I tell you, aside from courtesy in action, it's being willing to spend money to earn money that makes a successful thief."
"His Munificence speaks," Roscoe said.
Owen was impressed that Roscoe knew the word, but Roscoe Lukacs knew lots of things you wouldn't expect from a criminal.
"O base Hungarian," Max said, raising a plump forefinger, "how many men do you know who will hire goons like yourselves simply to stand in front of the exits and look menacing? I'm out of pocket, I tell you. I won't see a dime out of the whole venture. I'll have to pull another job to buy my way out of this one."
This brought a chorus of derision that even Max couldn't shout down.
A few minutes later, Pookie dropped Max and Owen at the entrance to a public parking lot. There they got into their own car, another Taurus, and drove themselves to the Redwood Trailer Park, lot 61, and parked beside an enormous and aged Winnebago they referred to affectionately as the Rocket. Max had won it years ago in a poker game.
They were surrounded by acres of trailers—trailers of every manifestation, from the kind that fold out into semi- tents to massive wheeled bungalows. But few could boast the dog- eared grandeur of the Rocket. It was the size of a semi, deep blue with bands of stainless steel in blinding diagonals, a giant Adidas running shoe. Thirty- five feet long, eight and a half wide, give or take. Inside, Star Trek–size leather seats faced the windshield. Behind these, the interior stretched in a glory of gold and tan. A couch was fitted to one side, and across from this a set of stairs led to a roof deck that could be furnished with chaise longues, table, umbrella, and even a few plants, should they ever stay in one place long enough to warrant it.
The Rocket also boasted a Hitachi hi- def TV with built- in satellite; deep- pile carpeting of a marmalade color; a fold- up kitchen table; a fridge, store, and stove and washer- dryer; and a cozy wooden dining booth across from a set of bunk beds. Owen always slept on the top bunk; Max slept in splendor on a queen- size bed in the bedroom at the rear of the coach.
This was how they traveled every summer across America, towing the car behind them like a faithful goat. At the end of the trip, car and trailer went into storage on what ever coast they happened to finish.
Owen dumped the swag onto the dining table to survey the take. They had netted roughly six thousand in cash from downstairs and maybe sixty thousand in jewels. Owen's upstairs haul was thirty grand in cash—"My personal best!" he said, waving the packets at Max—and about $200,000 in jewels, but they would not receive anything close to that from their fence, the discount on stolen merchandise being severe. Max looked all set to pout until Owen pulled the emerald earrings out of his pocket.
"Oh, my." Max held one up to the light. "Can't even put a price on these beauties. Never seen their like." He examined the setting. "You see each of these tiny diamonds? These are not chips, my son—no, no, no. Each one of these is perfectly cut, perfectly identical. This is work of brilliant, painstaking craftsmanship. It makes my heart glow to look on 'em."
"Too bad they're going to be so hard to fence," Owen pointed out.
"Thou sayest right, lad. Setting's utterly unique, and therefore recognizable. Split these dazzlers up, they lose eighty percent of their value. Shame."
"Still, great show to night. How about my entrance? I finally get why you showed me all those pirate movies."
"A touch over the mark, lad. Spectacle over substance."
"I'm over the mark? We could have been out of there twice as fast if you hadn't got lost in dreamland."
"Rubbish. I was sharp as a laser."
"Max, it looked like you forgot where you were."
"Bollocks. I engineered another exceptional show—worthy of the Pontiff himself."
They took off their eve ning wear and changed into more casual clothes. Their dinner jackets went onto hangers and into dry cleaning plastic. Max was a stickler for keeping kit in good shape, particularly wigs. The black curls and the ginger rug went onto Styrofoam heads and then into boxes. Max's cover, should he be required to produce one, was wig salesman and distributor, and he'd already visited several customers. San Francisco was home to some of his biggest accounts: theater troupes, gay cabarets, and college drama classes.
"If the Pontiff's so damn brilliant," Owen said, hanging up his white T-shirt, "how come he's in prison and we're out here on the road?"
"He's not in prison anymore. I told you, they've put him in hospital, where he's probably going to die."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Why did he end up in the brig? Very simple. An ill- chosen associate made a colossal blunder. Gun goes off, and a security guard ends up dead. Not John- Paul's fault. But what a string of successes the man had! Wells Fargo, Chemical Bank, Lufthansa—no one can touch him. And character! The Pontiff is your quintessential gentleman of the road. No friend of his ever went hungry while he had a dime in his pocket. Looked after families when his brothers went up to Oxford. A great soul, that man, a great soul."
Owen combed his hair, naturally brown, and inspected his face for any remaining traces of spirit gum. "I don't know about you, but I was ready for dinner about an hour ago."
Max turned to him from the mirror: tweed jacket, khaki pants, polo shirt. "How do I look?" he said. "Old money?"
"Old perv is more like it."
"Nonsense. I'm a splendid specimen of manhood." He slapped his belly. "Not bad for sixty- four."
"Sixty- four!"
"Doubting your loving uncle yet again. Tsk, tsk. Suspicion is the habit of a guilty mind. Causes ulcers, cancer, all manner of plague and carbuncle. A healthy mind is free and open, willing to be informed."
"Max?"
"What, boy?"
"Can we please go eat?"
