Wicked Prey

methamphetamine was his drug of choice. He could no longer fuck on reefer or cocaine, but crank would still do it for him. Enough crank, and Ranch tipped over the edge into sexual insanity, and other kinds of insanity, for that matter: Whitcomb once saw him run full-tilt, face-on into a garage door, as a joke. He’d never flinched or slowed down. The impact had knocked him out, and somebody had to call an ambulance to come get him.
    “What if we have Juliet call her up and pretend she’s a friend whose car broke down . . .”
    Whitcomb came up with a half-dozen plans and Juliet and Ranch took turns punching holes in them: like, how would they find out the name of a friend of the girl?
    Finally, Ranch rubbed his throat, then smacked his lips. “Wonder where George is?”
    George sold crank outside the X Center, but his business had been displaced by the Republicans.
    Randy’s brain switched tracks. Formerly on the Letty track, now it was on the crank track. “Probably down by the park. When they get too many cops at the X, he walks over to the park.”
    “Maybe we could find him,” Ranch said.
    Randy pretended to consider the idea, to make it clear that it was his choice, but he was now far down the crank track and he said, “Okay. Let’s go find George.”
    * * *
    COHN AND CRUZ and McCall and Lane sat in the condo and argued about the next move: Cruz had worked a way to do the last hit with the three of them inside, and she wanted to stay down until it was time to make the final move.
    Cohn was entranced by the money they were taking from the political guys.
    “We’ve got three million dollars,” he said, waving at a pile of cash in the middle of the condo floor. “No problem: not a word about it in the newspapers or on TV. And it’s so easy. The money is there. We take it away.”
    “We know they’re looking for us, for you,” Cruz objected. “Somehow, they got onto us . . .”
    “And two years from now, or five years from now, they pick me up down in South Africa or Australia or somewhere, how are they gonna be able to prove any of it?” Cohn asked. “They can’t. These political guys can’t even admit that I got the money. What are they going to charge me with? Random terrorism? They got nothing. Nothing. They don’t even know about Tate or Jesse or you. They don’t have a clue. Look at this money—it’s like picking apples.”
    “But they’re looking . . .”
    Cohn said to McCall and Lane, “One more. You guys up for one more?”
    Lane shrugged and McCall said, “Rosie’s got a point. We could let it cool off for a day or two. Or we could say fuck it, cut up the money and go home.”
    “Three million just isn’t gonna do it, boys,” Cohn said.
    “But we got the hotel,” Cruz said. “God only knows how much that’s worth, but if we pull it off, it could be four or five times what we’ve got.”
    “What if we hit one more guy, and that guy had two million?” Cohn asked. “Then we could be talking about retirement.” Cohn got two shares, everybody else got one. They all did the numbers in their heads: if they got two million on the next score, one share would be worth a million dollars in cash, and Cohn would get two. Cohn continued: “This hotel deal is pretty complicated. I’d say if we could pick off two more of these political guys, maybe we could skip the hotel. Say fuck it, and go home.”
    “Not going to get two,” Cruz said, shaking her head. “The guys are already passing out the money—some of them might not have any left.”
    “It’s only the first day of the convention, I bet they’re saving up until the big shots get here, make more of a splash,” Cohn said.
    Lindy was sitting on the floor next to the pile of cash, and she reached out and picked up a bundle of fifties. “You know what I think? I think we ought to go to New York and spend some of this. Like, right now.”
    They all looked at her for a moment and then McCall laughed and said, “That’s one idea.”
    Cruz said, “Brute, let’s go over the hotel. Let’s work that through. We really need to be on it, if we’re going to do it. These guys, the moneymen, they were supposed to be the cherry on the sundae; they weren’t supposed to be the whole goddamned sundae. I’ve already got other stuff running on the hotel.”
    “One more,” Cohn said. “Come on, Rosie, work it out for us. One more. Which one’s got the most? I swear to God, whatever he’s got, he’ll be the last