“What’s in it for me?”
“My everlasting friendship.”
“Been trying to shake that for years.”
“Come on. You owe me one.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Don’t break your neck. Just want to make sure he’s legit, you know?”
They talked about women for a few moments and rang off.
Henry began thinking about the cash. He’d been paid $20,000 to blow up Jesse Rudy and he should have asked for more. Taking out a high-profile elected official was worth twice that much. Who in the world was worth $50,000? And, if the guy was really loaded and offering fifty grand as a starting point, then he could certainly go higher. Greed entered his thoughts, along with survival.
He began to smile and nodded off.
* * *
The skinny on J. W. Gross was satisfactory. Solid reputation, nice little firm with himself at the helm and a couple of younger guys in the office. Worked high-end divorces and did some corporate security. No law enforcement background.
Henry was obsessed with the money. He called the number on the business card and arranged a meeting in the parking lot of a softball field on the east side of Union City. No traffic, no witnesses. It was early January, so no softball.
It was cold and the wind was blowing. J.W. followed Henry, using a cane, to the concession stand where the door was unlocked. They stepped inside to get out of the wind.
“How do I know you’re not wired?” Henry asked.
Again, J.W. spread his arms and said, “Go ahead.”
“Mind taking off the coat?”
Gross looked frustrated but took off his coat. Under it was a cheap black blazer. Henry stepped forward and began tapping his chest and belt. He stopped at the right hip. “Got a piece?”
J.W. pulled back his blazer and showed Henry an automatic pistol in a holster. “Always carry it, Mr. Taylor. Want to see the permit?”
“That’s not necessary. Turn around.”
Gross did as he was instructed and Henry patted down his neck, underarms, and waist. “Okay, looks like you’re clean.”
“Thank you.” Gross put on his coat.
“I’m listening,” Henry said.
“I don’t know the man with the money, don’t know his real name, so let’s call him Mr. Getty. He’s about sixty years old, lives somewhere in this state, but has a collection of fine homes around the country. His wife is twenty years younger, number three I think. Typical setup—older guy with money, younger gal with a body. The good life, except she’s got a boyfriend on the side, actually one of her ex-husbands she’s still quite fond of. Mr. Getty is upset, heartbroken, angry, and not the kind of man who’s accustomed to getting dumped on. Even worse, he also suspects she and her stud might be planning a number on him to get his money. It’s complicated. A few years back, Mr. Getty and some rich pals developed a resort near Gatlinburg, in the mountains.”
“I know Gatlinburg.”
“His wife loves the mountains, likes to spend time there with her girlfriends, sometimes alone. Sometimes with Mr. Getty. And often with her boyfriend. It’s their favorite little love nest.”
“The job is to blow it up.”
“And her. And him. Mr. Getty wants a dramatic event, preferably when they’re in the bed.”
“That might present timing problems.”
“Understood. I’m just passing along the info, Mr. Taylor.”
“What about the building?”