Charlie had briefed them, somewhat, on his plan. Shepherd liked plans. Shepherd’s brain felt like it finally worked when there was a plan in place, with a backup plan, and another one, just to be safe, all collated, laminated, and bound. But Charlie’s “plan” was …
Well, it was more like a couple of half-finished thoughts strung together. First, get into the building—“I can’t do it,” he said, “because they know my face, the bastards”—and try to find the safe hidden behind a picture of a sad clown. As if meth-making, gun-smuggling, money-laundering bikers weren’t scary enough, there had to be clowns involved, of course. At least these were of the two-dimensional variety.
The next phase was to go back the next day. They were having a big summer blowout for all the different … whatever. Charters? Shepherd didn’t have a great grasp on the hierarchy of biker gangs, but they were having a bunch of people over tomorrow for barbecue and booze. So he was going to just … roll up. Charlie said he’d arrange costuming, which was not a comforting thought.
“I’ll slip in through the back when a distraction is in place,” Charlie had said.
“What’s the distraction?” Shepherd asked, a giant lump of dread settling deep inside his gut, as if he already knew what the distraction was.
“Let me worry about that part,” Charlie said. “I’ve got it all figured out.”
And now, here he was, binoculars in one hand and a phone in the other, as Ginny strolled through the bikers’ HQ with a giggle in her voice and a spring her step. One of the bikers followed close behind, showing everything off, taking special care to mark all the rooms that could be bigger, should have been bigger, but the darn city took property from them that was rightfully theirs. It was scary how quickly the bikers believed that particular fairytale, but at least it worked to Ginny and Shepherd’s advantage.
The clown painting caught him and Ginny by complete surprise. When it crept up from the side of his screen, he almost dropped the entire phone. Ginny covered her gasp with an “Oh! How colorful!” and kept on with the tour, lingering a little longer than strictly necessary to survey the den.
It had a sunken floor, like a living room from a seventies sitcom, with a couch big enough for a small army. There wasa bar, covered in bottles of various sizes and liquids, and above the bar was possibly the biggest painting of a clown in existence, at least in South Florida.
Shepherd pinched the bridge of his nose hard, swallowed down the sigh. How, just how, on planet earth were they supposed to walk into the clubhouse during a party and steal cash from behind a painting in the middle of the orgy den?
“I really think you have a case here,” Ginny’s voice came from the center of his despair: his phone. “What do you think, Mr. Rogers?”
“Yep,” Shepherd said, thumping his knuckle against his twitching right eyebrow. “They sure got something, all right.”
“I think it’ll work.”
“No way.”
“It’s good, Shepherd.”
“It’s the dumbest thing anyone has ever attempted.”
“Shepherd, come on. We were inside! OrIwas. Did you see how quick they were to believe me? And they invited me to the cookout. We’re practically holding the money right now!”
Shepherd sat in the middle of Ginny’s bed, feeling like an idiot, and not just for the way he was sitting in the middle of her bed. “Look. OK. Wait.”
She sat down on the edge and crossed her legs. “I’m waiting.”
“We are not practically holding the money right now. Holding the money means—and I can’t believe I haven’t backed out of this already—it means me driving a motorcycle, and rolling in, and then taking the money. Me. During a giant party.”
She moved to sit against the headboard and stretched out her legs. Her painted toes poked him in the thigh. “Charlie says he has that figured out.”
“Right. Sure. But he hasn’t told ushowhe has that figured out.”
Ginny bit her bottom lip and smiled. Shepherd refused to look directly at her face. That was why he got in this mess in the first place. Looking directly at her was a mistake. Had been a mistake since he hired her off the street.
“Shepherd, listen. Charlie didn’t make his money from the mafia. At least, not at first. He made his money doing these kinds of heists with his ex-wife, Bee. But that is confidential information, and I expect you not to spread that around.”
“Who would believe me if I did?” He spread like a starfish, arms and legs outstretched and taking up as much space as possible on her bed. “This is nuts, Ginny. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“You’re doing this,” she said, crawling over to him. Crawling, on all fours. She was trying to kill him. Or if not, she wanted him to die. “Because you’re a good man.”
He huffed.
She held herself above him, one perfect hand on either side of his face. There was nowhere to look now but directly at the pretty face that had got him into all this trouble. So he closed his eyes.
She kissed his nose. His cheek. His jaw.
“Ginny.”
