BooksBarbecue
Back The Deal Goes Down
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Other Titles
  3. Dedication
  4. CHAPTER ONE
  5. CHAPTER TWO
  6. CHAPTER THREE
  7. CHAPTER FOUR
  8. CHAPTER FIVE
  9. CHAPTER SIX
  10. CHAPTER SEVEN
  11. CHAPTER EIGHT
  12. CHAPTER NINE
  13. CHAPTER TEN
  14. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  15. CHAPTER TWELVE
  16. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  17. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  18. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  19. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  20. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  21. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  22. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  23. CHAPTER TWENTY
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  33. CHAPTER THIRTY
  34. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  43. CHAPTER FORTY
  44. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
  45. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
  46. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
  47. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
  48. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
  49. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
  50. CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
  51. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
  52. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
  53. CHAPTER FIFTY
  54. CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
  55. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

He shrugged and his fixating eyes locked on me with a look that rolled “What are you, stupid?” and “Do you think I’m stupid?” together as neatly as a Frenchman rolling tobacco and weed in the same joint. How did he know? The same way owls know to hunt after the sun goes down, that trees know to turn their leaves from green to red and gold, and the gods know to trifle with us.

“What’s he look like?”

“A narc.”

“White? Black?”

Sly thought for a second. “Very white.”

“Tall? Short?”

“Like you plus a couple of inches.” His eyes got a far-off look. He was processing data. Then he returned with the result. “He’s a Fed.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s got out-of-state plates. He’s not fat.”

—

I’d once had to go into exile. It was a matter of not having the right financial records and the existence of the IRS.

I’m not complaining. I went to the Alps. In France and Austria. If you’re going into hiding, I recommend it. My daughter was born there. I got married there. I skied in the winters, climbed in the summers. I went into Czechoslovakia and Hungary as the Soviet system fell. It was a time of hope and joy. In which the seeds of gangster capitalism were quickly planted.

If someone was watching, I’d better make sure the money part of what I’d been up to was done right.

I thought I’d been very clever in pushing Madelaine and Elizabeth for more than they’d first offered, but I hadn’t thought about taxes. If I declared the money, the bite would be big enough that I probably couldn’t pay off the mortgage entirely, something I very much wanted to do. If I didn’t declare it and it somehow came to the attention of the IRS, I’d be in a replay of 1984 with my lawyer saying to me, “Leave the country, and while you’re at it, change your name,” as the great Yogi Berra put it, “déjà vu all over again.”

What would be worse, far worse, was if someone came at it from another direction. Looking at me in regard to the death of Mick McMunchun, just because I’d been in the vicinity. Then noticing the money. Discovering that I’d become financially whole almost immediately afterward and then tracking the funds to the widow and her financial backer.