Kisser (2010)

paying bills, then on to the lower level of his apartment.
    He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, grabbed a handle inside, and rolled the big unit away from the wall. Behind it was a cutout in the Sheetrock, with the cutout replaced. He took a small knife from his pocket and pried out the loose area, revealing a large Fort Knox safe. He entered the code into the keypad, spun the wheel, and swung open the double doors. Inside were stacks of tightly packed plastic bags in the lower half and papers and stacks of cash above. He opened his briefcase, removed the brown envelope, and stacked the newly earned money on a shelf. Then he took a ledger from the safe and made a coded entry. He closed the door, replaced the Sheetrock, wheeled the big refrigerator back into its place, and then leaned against it and mopped his brow.
    He was getting paranoid, he thought. He had never made such a large delivery so far from his base, and the experience had wrecked him. The thought of the money in the safe made him feel better, though. How could he have thought that Mitzi Reynolds could be a cop?
    Sharpe went upstairs and changed into paint-stained work clothes, then he went back to the studio, where he found Sig Larsen seated next to Hildy on the old sofa waiting for him. “Hildy, make yourself scarce,” he said to her. “Sig and I have to talk.”
    Hildy left the room without a word.
    Sharpe collapsed on the sofa. “Jesus,” he said, mopping his brow again. “I must be getting old.”
    “What’s wrong?” Larsen asked.
    “I made that delivery to Mitzi uptown,” he said, “and every cell in my body was in alarm mode. Once I was there I thought I’d be busted with all that product. For a minute, I even thought that Mitzi might be a cop.”
    “That’s called paranoia,” Larsen said. “If Mitzi is a cop, then I’m Warren Buffett.”
    “Or maybe Stone, who used to be a cop,” Sharpe said. “He was there for the buy, but he was in the kitchen. He must have stayed the night.”
    “But you got out okay?”
    “Yeah, but then I thought every car I saw was the cops.”
    “Derek, you need to take some time off,” Larsen said. “Why don’t you take Patti to a hotel and fuck her for a couple of days? She could use it and, apparently, so could you.”
    “So could Hildy, but it’s so boring with her, why bother?”
    “When does she come into the money?”
    “In a few weeks. She’s cagey about when her birthday is, so I don’t know exactly.”
    “I can’t wait,” Larsen said. “I want her out of our lives.”
    “So do I,” Sharpe replied. “You can’t imagine.”
    “I can imagine. Patti’s got to go, too; she’s beginning to take being called my wife seriously. If we can scam both Hildy and Mitzi we’ll have enough to get out of this town to some place with nice weather and no extradition treaty with the United States.”
    “And where is that going to be?”
    “How does Brazil strike you?”
    “I could never learn to speak Portuguese,” Sharpe replied.
    “How about Spanish?”
    “I’ve got my Tex-Mex from back home; I could get by on that.”
    “Let me do some research.”
    “You’d better research some passports for us, too.”
    “The trick is to leave legally, with our own passports, before the Feds or the cops shut us down.”
    “We’ve got to move some cash soon,” Sharpe said. “The safe is full.”
    “Sell the product that’s in there, and I’ll take a couple of suitcases down to the Bahamas and make the hop to the Caymans.”
    “Not without me, you won’t,” Sharpe said. “Anyway, the jet charter is cheaper per person, if you have a few people aboard.”
    “You don’t think like an accountant, Derek.”
    “Have you sent that prospectus to Stone Barrington?” Sharpe asked.
    “It’s on the way uptown as we speak.”
    “You think he has any money?”
    “Not enough for us to bother with,” Larsen said.

41
    STONE HAD MADE IT HOME and was at his desk when Joan buzzed him.
    “A man to see you. He says he’s from Sig Larsen,” Joan said on the intercom.
    “Send him in,” Stone replied.
    The man did not look like someone from a messenger service; he looked like someone from the Russian mob, tall and thick. “Good morning,” he said in unaccented English. He handed Stone an envelope. “Mr. Larsen says you can read this, but you can’t copy it; I have to take it back with me.”
    “Would you like some coffee?” Stone asked.
    “Yes, thank you.” The