He opened the briefcase and took out four stacks of money, a new driver’s license, and a passport and burned his old ones in the kitchen sink and ran the ashes through the disposal. Then he went back to the living room and counted out a thousand—no, he thought, make it two thousand. He measured the height of the stack with his fingers and compared it to the rest. He reckoned he had close to a hundred grand. He put all but the two thousand back into the briefcase and packed some clothes into a large bag. The doorbell rang.

Frank let Charlie in and gave him the two thousand. “I can spare two, until you can get your hands on your stash. You got some extra ID?”

“Yeah, I’m covered. I’ve got a credit card in another name, too.”

“Okay, here’s my plan: I’ve got a car downstairs in the garage, and the tank’s full. I’m gonna drive to Philadelphia and take a plane to L.A., then lose myself. You can come with me, or you can make your own plans—up to you.”

“Can I hang out here a few hours?”

“Sure.” Frank gave him a key. “Stay as long as you like.”

“I think I’ll wait until the middle of the night, then sneak into the house and get my stash, then I’ll make tracks somewhere.”

Frank went to a drawer, took out two throwaway cell phones, and gave Charlie one. “Give me your cell.” Charlie handed it over. Frank went into the kitchen, took a hammer out of a drawer and smashed both phones thoroughly, then scraped the remains into the garbage can. He went back to the living room and they entered each other’s new numbers into their phones. “All right, I’m outa here,” Frank said. He offered his hand, and Charlie took it.

“Thanks for everything,” Charlie said.

Frank grabbed his bag, let himself out of the apartment, and took the stairs down to the building’s garage. He pulled the cover off the car—a ten-year-old Mercedes station wagon. He removed the trickle charger, closed the hood, tossed his bags into the rear seat, and started the car, which ran perfectly.

He drove out of the garage, parked nearby, and made a call to a Florida number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe, it’s me.”

“Frankie!”

“I’m coming to see you.”

“When will you be here?”

“I think I’m going to drive all the way, so maybe three days.”

“I’ll be ready for you. There’s steaks in the freezer, too. How long can you stay?”

“Long time, baby, maybe forever.”

“Forever is good for me.”

Frank hung up, put the car in gear, and aimed it at the Lincoln Tunnel. He paid cash at the booth; no E-Z Pass record. Fifteen minutes later he was headed south on I-95, the cruise control set at sixty-five.

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