But violence wasn’t on his mind. He barely remembered that night in Cedarhurst or even Marian’s last name (the girl he wanted to take to Die Hard in his father’s Ferrari). It was all lost in a Tangerine Dream–like haze, the band whose album he’d been listening to when the cops found him sitting between his shotgun-blasted folks.

It was probably a good thing that the reporter pulled a no-show. Timothy was pretty certain he didn’t have a grand’s worth of memories for the man.

A horn tooted behind him.

He turned to find a midnight blue Hyundai Sonata pulling up. The car braked to a halt and the passenger window slid down. “Mr. Leeds?” It was the same English accent he’d heard on the phone. “Sorry, I got stuck getting out of the blasted city.”

“I thought I was getting stood up. So, is this happening or not?”

“I’m ready if you are—as you can see.”

Timothy approached the passenger side and leaned inside the window.

Colorful bills were spread on the console between the two seats.

Timothy’s eyes flickered. “What the hell is that? Monopoly money?”

“It’s eight hundred and fifty British pounds. You’d do well on the exchange rate—probably make an extra hundred. I’m sure your bank will convert it for you.”

“I don’t have a bank. I just got out of prison after thirty years.” Timothy was getting cold feet and not just because the wind was picking up and the temperature dropping. “Maybe we should just forget the whole thing.”

Timothy straightened up and started to turn away from the Sonata.

“Mr. Leeds, wait,” came the plea. “I’m sorry. I just got to the States and arrived ill-prepared. My bad, as you would say. Why don’t we go to a bank together, get the money exchanged, and then go about the interview as planned?”

Timothy hovered by the window. It wasn’t like he had many options.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

He opened the passenger door and climbed inside. As Timothy buckled himself in, the other man pointed to the money on the console.

“If it’ll make you feel any better, hang on to that until we get to the bank.”

Timothy reached for the money, then shook his head. “Not necessary.”

Timothy looked up just in time to see an elbow come flying at his face.

There were very few things Chet Wilson couldn’t break in to. Be it a private home, an auto parts store, a bank vault, or a neighborhood bar’s till, finding a way to gain entry had rarely posed a problem for the petty thief.

Sticking around afterward was usually Chet’s downfall. It had resulted in three prison terms, the last a ten-year stint that ended with his release six months ago and led to him occupying a small room in the Far Rockaway halfway house.