Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(35)

The static wasn’t going to like being inside a hospital.

His phone rang. It was Lewis.

“I got three Fast Money stores in Eugene where I can get you up to twenty thousand without approval from corporate. That work?”

“Yeah, that works. Make it five in cash and five each on three different cards.” That would be enough to pay for an ER visit, Peter hoped, with some left over for walking-around money.

“Got it. I’ll put it in the name of Peter Smith. But they close at nine. How far are you?”

Peter frowned. “I don’t think we’ll make it.”

“They charge a pretty fat fee, something like five percent of the total. They might stay open late for that. You want to add a sweetener?”

“Sure, add another five hundred cash to the manager to keep the doors open until nine-thirty.”

“If that don’t work, we’ll find something else. I’ll tweak the numbers to include the commission and max your payout. They’ll prob’ly want some kind of ID number. I’ll use the first four digits of your Social.”

Peter didn’t want to know how Lewis got his Social Security number.

He said, “If your financial empire doesn’t work out, you could always get a job as a personal assistant.”

“I ain’t wearin’ no French-maid costume,” said Lewis. “Call me tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I dug up on that other thing.” June’s mom and whoever might be connected to her.

“Thanks, Lewis. Seriously.”

“Damn, Jarhead. What else I got to do?”

Peter hung up and turned to look at June, who had her eyes firmly on the road ahead. But he was sure she’d heard every word.

? ? ?

IT WAS HARD FOR PETER to get a sense of Eugene at night, but in general, he liked college towns. Smart people, good cheap food, plenty of oddballs. There was always this weird undercurrent, too, of people who fed off the college crowd, which was simultaneously na?ve, demanding, and easy pickings. Dope dealers, sex providers, professional gamblers, thieves.

Fast Money was a payday loan and check-cashing place, a vacuum cleaner into the pockets of the working poor and immigrants both legal and illegal, taking a significant percentage of every transaction. The commission for accepting an electronic money transfer and disbursing the funds was astonishing but not unusual. Peter was willing to pay the premium for speed.

Their location on West Seventh was a newer stand-alone building on a busy commercial strip like any other in the American West. Maybe nicer than most, with the buildings in decent repair and mature trees lining the streets, but still a testament to the creative destruction that was American Capitalism.

He didn’t want to go inside, but it wasn’t negotiable.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, pulled on a baseball hat, and climbed out of the car. June shut off the engine and got out after him. She wore her new fleece, zipped up. Peter looked at her across the front of the van.

“What?” she said. “Of course I’m coming. You’re sweating already, and you’re still outside. They’re going to think you’re here to clean out the register. The cops will be here in three minutes.”

Peter thought about the inevitable security cameras. Every contact June made with the modern world was problematic. Dealing with hard cash in quantity, Fast Money would be a magnet for armed robbers and likely had state-of-the-art technology. High-res cameras archived off-site for weeks or months. And it was corporate, so that video was likely easily accessed by law enforcement, and maybe also by professional hunters in black Explorers. Any picture of June could be used to track them.

He didn’t even want to think about security in the hospital.

But she was right about how he looked. He’d be automatically less suspicious with June beside him. “Do you have a hat in any of those bags?”

“Waaay ahead of you.” She held up a big floppy rain hat and put it on with a flourish. If Peter wore it, he’d look like a serial killer. On June, it looked like a fashion accessory.

“Very stylish,” he said. “Just don’t look for the cameras. That’s the best way for them to get a good picture of your face.”

The Fast Money door was locked when Peter tugged on the handle, but the lights were still on. Through the barred window, he saw someone hustling out from behind the counter.

“We’re closed,” the man called through the heavy glass. Only a few years older than Peter, he had a drinker’s face, with sunken eyes, puffy skin, and the bloom of broken veins in his nose and cheeks. He wore a polo shirt with the Fast Money logo, a dollar bill with wings.

“My name is Peter. You have something for me?”

“Got a last name?”

“Smith.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, come on back.” The chain rattled as he released it and stepped away from the door. “Let me lock this behind you.”

Peter and June stood at the plastic counter while the man let himself through a heavy steel door into the employee area, protected by thick security glass and at least six cameras that Peter could see. June leaned her back on the counter with her head down and studied her fingernails. Riot Grrrl was a natural.

The man studied Peter. “You got ID?”

“You know who I am,” said Peter. “Let’s get this over with.” His shoulders were climbing up to his ears. Fluorescent lights, vinyl floor, the chemical stink of industrial cleaners.