The Giveaway Read Online Free PDF Page A

negotiating a transfer of black-market pearls into the hands of a terrorist, who would then get arrested at the airport while smuggling them into the States and I’d get to interrogate him for a nice long night.
    Ah, the good times.
    “I’m just saying,” I said, “that I want you to be careful. People might come through you to get to me. Just be vigilant.”
    “Just so we’re clear,” she said, “this is actually about you?”
    “No,” I said.
    Fi looked at me for a second, and I couldn’t tell if she was taking all of this seriously or not. I wasn’t sure if I was at first, but I was by the end. “That’s terribly sweet, Michael,” she said softly. And then she slapped me. “And that’s for not being sweet enough to pay attention in the first place and forcing me into this weird serious conversation with you.”
    My face hurt. “You feel better?”
    “Somewhat.”
    We drove in silence for a few minutes while I did jaw exercises to get my bite back in line and Fiona calmed down from her brief flirtation with actual human emotion and physical violence; her two basic states of being.
    I turned down a palm tree-lined side street just off of 207th and parked in front of Zadie Grossman’s house. All around the home were the long shadows of the high-rise condos, which gave the street an eerie darkness even in the middle of the day. The house also seemed anachronistic compared to the luxury we’d passed on our way here—one- and two-million-dollar homes, driveways lined with Lincolns and Cadillacs, all the plastic surgery a ninety-year-old needs in order to feel seventy—in that it just looked like a poorly decorated starter home. There were the flamingos, of course, but also a rock lawn and palm trees that looked closer to dead than paradise. It seemed oddly familiar.
    And that station wagon, too.
    “If he’s a bank robber,” Fi said, “why does his mother live in such a hideous home?”
    “He’s been in prison for twelve years.”
    “How long has he been out?”
    “Six months,” I said.
    “That’s plenty long to get a decent score. At least get rid of those flamingos. Dreadful taste.”
    This could have been my childhood home, I thought. I suppose I could have ended up robbing banks, too.
    “And why am I here?” Fiona asked.
    “To keep Bruce honest,” I said. “Crook to crook.”
    “You might not like what you hear,” she said.
    “I’m prepared for that.”
    Fi got out of the car and I followed her up the walk, but even before we got to the door, Bruce Grossman opened it up, stepped out and closed it quietly behind him. “My mom’s sleeping,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
    He was tall—at least six-three—and had a body roughly the shape of a pear. His head, neck and chest were skinny, but his stomach slouched over his belt line and his legs were chubby, too. He wore a button-down blue shirt that he’d tucked into cargo shorts. On his feet were sandals and socks. He looked, essentially, like a tourist. I couldn’t fathom him robbing a stash house, much less one belonging to a motorcycle gang.
    Bruce reached into his back pocket and pulled out a photo and handed it to me. It was of an old woman, her hair gone, sitting poolside reading that morning’s Miami Herald .
    “What’s this?” I said.
    “Barry said you might want a proof-of-life photo,” Bruce said. I handed it to Fiona, who looked at it for a moment, shook her head and gave it back to Bruce. “Do you want a lock of hair or something?”
    “The picture is fine,” I said.
    Bruce looked at the photo for a second and a smile crossed his face. “When I was a kid? She had a perm. One of those tight ones, remember? Crazy, right?”
    I nodded.
    “And now she’s bald. She always said I made her pull her hair out, but this isn’t my fault,” Bruce said. He laughed then, though it wasn’t very funny. “Anyway, I appreciate you coming by. Do you want to see all the loot? And then, what, we just drop it