R Is for Ricochet

Beck? Are you out of your mind? You have to tell Vince. Bring in the cops or the FBI."
    "No way. This is my only chance to get even with that son of a bitch."
    "Oh, I get it. This isn't about Marty. It's about you and Beck."
    "Of course it's about
Marty,
but it's also about settling the score. It's like a test. Let's see what Beck's made of. I don't think it's such a bad deal – Marty in exchange for this. The fact the feds want it is what makes it so valuable."
    "There are more important things in life than revenge," I said.
    "Well, that's bullshit. Name one," she said. "Besides, I'm not talking about revenge. I'm talking about getting even. Those are two different things."
    "No, they're not."
    "Yes, they are. Revenge is you hurt me and I grind you underfoot until you wish you were dead. Getting even restores the balance in the Universe. You kill him, I kill you. Now we're even. What else is capital punishment about? Getting even is just what it sounds like. Tit for tat. You hurt me, I hurt you back. We're square again and all's right with the world."
    "Why not get even by turning him over to the IRS?"
    "That's business. This is personal, between him and me."
    "I don't get what you want."
    "I want him to say he's sorry for what he did to me. I gave up two years of my life for him. Now I have something he wants so let him beg for it."
    "That's asinine. So he pulls a long face and says sorry. What difference will that make? You know what he's like. You can't ever do business with a guy like him. You'll get screwed."
    "You don't know that."
    "I do. Reba, would you listen to me? He'll work you over the first chance he gets."
    Her face was set. "Why don't you go get your car and bring it around? I'll wait for you here."
    I shut my mouth and closed my eyes. Why argue the point when her mind was made up? "You want help with this garage door?"
    "I can handle it."
    I returned to the office. I locked the back door behind me, then moved down the hall turning off lights as I went. I grabbed my shoulder bag and went out the front door, pausing long enough to lock up. I stood for a moment, scanning the darkened street. All the cars in range belonged to neighbors, vehicles I'd seen before and could identify on sight. I let myself into my car and fired up the engine. I drove around the corner and nosed my VW into the alleyway.
    Reba had closed and padlocked the garage. She opened the passenger-side door, put the suitcase in the backseat, and got in. I reached over into the rear and grabbed my denim jacket. "Here. Put this on before you catch cold."
    "Thanks." She shrugged into the jacket and locked her seat belt in place.
    "Where to?"
    "The nearest public phone."
    "Why not my office, as long as we're here?"
    "I don't want you tied into this in any way."
    "Tied into what?"
    "Just find a phone," she said.

Chapter 31
    Reba wanted me to make the call to Beck. We found a phone booth outside a supermarket. The store was a bright island, icy fluorescent lights reflected in the shiny paint finish of the dozen or so cars in the parking lot out front. This was the store where I did my weekly shopping, and I longed for nothing so much
as
to buy milk and eggs and then wend my way home.
    Reba put a handful of coins and a slip of paper with Beck's home and office numbers on the metal shelf under the phone. "Try his home phone first. If Tracy answers, maybe she'll think he has a girlfriend," she said.
    "He does. Her name is Onni."
    "She probably knows about her. I'm talking someone new. Might as well bug the shit out of her while we can."
    "That's not nice. I thought women were supposed to be nice."
    "I wouldn't bet on it if I were you."
    I picked up the handset. "So what am I supposed to say to him?"
    "Tell him to meet us at the East Beach parking lot in fifteen minutes. As soon as he hands Marty over, he gets his computer."
    I held the handset against my chest. "Please don't do this. I'm begging you. What's to prevent him from snatching the damn thing? You don't even have a gun."
    "Of course I don't have a
gun.
I'm a convicted felon. I can't carry," she said, as though offended by the very idea.
    "What if Beck has one?"
    "He doesn't even own a gun. Besides, we'll be right out in plain sight. Anyone driving along Cabana Boulevard can see us. Here, give me that."
    She grabbed the handset and put it against my ear, picked up some coins, and dropped them in the slot. In addition to the dial tone, I could have sworn I heard the buzz of electricity