Two for the Money

by Steve Zettler

Genres: Financial Thrillers; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

★★★★★ “Tough rat-a-tat-tat prose speeds the reader through a wild search for missing millions.” Jonathan Santlofer, author of The Last Mona Lisa

What happens when millions in cold cash evaporates into thin air? And the only people aware of its disappearance are a collection of misfits, bunglers and crooked CIA agents? The one person on earth who knows exactly where that cash is located is a legless, ex-Navy SEAL, confined to a wheelchair.

It’s an icy Christmas Day in Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love. Sam Christie has come to South Philly to visit the grave of a former Secret Service Agent, Pete Macaluso. Drive into town, place some flowers on Pete’s grave, and head home – piece of cake…

Not so fast; unbeknownst to Sam, he’s walking straight into a sinister trap; a trap that will take him to the exact spot where the Americas meet, and pit him against ruthless mercenaries, an unrelenting cop, and rogue CIA agents.

“It’s Panama, Sam… There are no rules.”

 

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Release date: October 17, 2023

Publisher: Vine Leaves Press

Print pages: 310

Sample

PROLOGUE

Christmas Day, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1998

7:45 a.m.

The trouble is, when God deals, He doesn’t give everyone the same damn cards, or for that matter, the same number of cards. He cheats. And why not? God invented the game and made the rules—God can break the rules. Anytime. He’s got the ultimate power, and He, or She depending on one’s frame of mind, gets a real charge out of seeing how His creations will behave once they have their backs against the wall. Human beings are just one of God’s many toys. But His favorite toys, bet on it. Wind ’em up, watch ’em go. Run ’em into a brick wall just to see what happens. See if they bounce back. Again, why not? He’s got time on his hands. Lots of it. But sooner or later God gets careless and breaks one of His toys; sometimes he does this on purpose—just for the hell of it. He clearly has a wild sense of humor.

That’s basically what was sifting through Ike Hinton’s throbbing head on this frigid Christmas morning as he rolled his wheelchair past the long metal, glass and red brick building that was home to the Liberty Bell.

“Yep, cracked, broken, like every other friggin’ thing in this damn city.”

He laughed despite his status amongst the mortals. His perfect teeth sparkled a neon-white and jumped from behind his chapped and weather-beaten lips. His eyes shone whiter yet, but they had long since recessed deep into his skull, making this legless star of Manuel Noriega’s downfall appear far older and wiser than his birth certificate would indicate.

“Fucking Panama.”

The temperature in Philly had plunged to a biting twenty-six degrees, and the thin snowflakes that drifted from the gray-black clouds were beginning to stick to Philly’s uneven brick sidewalks and pot-holed streets. A sharp wind kept many of the flakes aloft, whipping them down Chestnut Street and off toward a half-frozen Delaware River.

And although another man with a soul just as gnarled as Ike’s, a man with a determination just as potent, wasn’t yet there to witness Ike’s pain, or the beginnings of this weather system, the God they shared was playing games with his head at the very same moment as He was playing games with Ike’s. However, the other man’s torment stemmed from South America.

“Fucking Colombia.”

Their collision course had been set in motion.

As Ike waited for the streetlight to jump green, he adjusted his gloves, placing additional padding between his calloused palms and the chrome drive-rails. His fluorescent yellow wheelchair seemed the only touch of color on this miserable day. Even Ike’s coal-black complexion appeared to mimic the color of the asphalt, and the backs of his fingers had turned an ashy-gray in sharp contrast to the pink of his fingernails.

The light turned, and Ike pushed off. He gave his wheelchair a superhuman burst of speed, curled the collar of his weathered jacket around his exposed neck, and glided past the plaza gracing Independence Hall before skirting down Sixth Street. The Park Rangers had started early with the rock-salt, and Ike’s gloves began to soak up the slushy refreezing water. The salt granules flew from under his wheels, sticking to the backs of his arms. He pushed on. Spruce Street. Delancey. Panama Street was next. The irony was not lost on him.

“Fucking Panama,” he muttered once more. Then Pine Street. Lombard Street. At South and Sixth he took a breather. Checked his pocket watch. It was a black US Navy SEAL dive watch and was connected to his belt loop by means of a link of rotor chain lifted from an Apache AH-64 gunship that had been downed in Grenada—with Ike on board.

“Fucking Grenada.”

Ike coughed and spit on the street, then looked skyward as the snow bashed into his jet-black eyes.

“Got to catch the man—got to set the trap.” he called into the grayness. Those pedestrians who might have heard him, ignored him. He repeated it, “Got to catch the man.” But only in a whisper the second time. “Got to set the trap.”

He pushed his wheelchair farther down Sixth Street. Another block until he crossed Passyunk Avenue. There he cut to his right and headed for Christian Street. His fingers were starting to go numb. His wet gloves were beginning to stiffen and freeze. As they did, his ability to grip his drive-rails faltered. A sharp pain jabbed like a hot iron into his gut, and he contorted his midsection inward to relieve the burning pain.

He remained in that position for three minutes. No passersby offered any assistance, despite it being Christmas. After the pain subsided, Ike straightened with renewed vigor. He tore his half-frozen gloves from his hands and tossed them under a fuel truck. He then moved his grip directly to the slushy tires of his wheelchair. He clamped down and entwined his numbed fingers within the wide aluminum spokes. He was off again. This time with a determination that seemed to defy human endurance. It nonetheless doubled his speed.

The three long blocks turned into two, which then turned into one. Eventually he found himself at the foot of the white marble steps that led to the entrance of Saint Mary’s Roman Catholic Church. It was Saint Mary’s graveyard Ike was so anxiously pursuing. He wasn’t the only one and he knew it. Sam Christie was bound to return. And Ike would be waiting.

He wheeled around the church to the left and through the iron gates, long since rusted to an open position. There were now two inches of snow on the ground. None of it had been shoveled.

Fearing the worst, Ike rolled himself toward the rear of the graveyard. His stomach knotted as he approached. He knew where the grave was. Hell, he’d been to the funeral five years earlier; but no one really noticed him. He was a different man back then. He had two legs back then. He pushed across the hard earth, but the snow gave way under his tires, forcing him to slide left then right. His chair ricocheted off a toppled gravestone, which in turn, angled him toward a freshly dug, tarped-over, empty grave.

As Ike slid toward the grave, anyone in the clouds, like God for instance, would have seen it coming; God knew full-well what was coming. Ike slammed his shoulder into a marble cross and spun to his right. By the time he realized what was happening, it was all over. His chair slid out of control, traveling a foot and a half up the fresh mound of dirt. The left tire wedged firmly between two small stones and the chair rocked onto its side; pitching Ike through the tarp and into the grave; leaving him unconscious, seven feet below the earth’s surface.

It took nearly four minutes, but Ike eventually regained consciousness. Then another minute for

to figure it all out. And he laughed.

“Ain’t this a bitch?” he said after his laughter died. “God damn it.”

He sat up, stretched his arms full length, and realized that even if he stood on what remained of his legs, it would be impossible to reach the edge and freedom. There was no way in hell he was getting out of the hole. He opened his mouth to call for help but found himself laughing again. No one was there—not this early. The graveyard was nothing but air and snow and aberrations of the dead he was soon to join.

Ike sat and contemplated his situation for nearly fifteen minutes. It was the end of the road, and he knew it. He laid back down, crossed his hands over his chest, closed his eyes against the sleet, and thought, Fuck it. It wasn’t a half-bad ride… While it lasted. Merry Christmas, motherfuckers… Ho, ho, ho.

 

ONE

Every Christmas since 1993, five years, come hell or high water, Sam Christie had done pretty much the same thing: rolled out of bed, showered, shaved, taken a cab to DC’s Union Station, bought a cup of black coffee from Claire’s Café on the inside and The Washington Post from the kiosk on the outside. He then boarded Amtrak’s Patriots Limited for Philadelphia. There never seemed to be a Christmas newspaper, which he routinely failed to remember, thus ending up with a day-old rag. As a result, he was left with reading the same crap he’d read the day before; though he was generally too bleary-eyed to notice any of this until he reached the cartoons. As a result, he no longer bought newspapers from the kiosk, and in The Year of Our Lord 1998, he changed the routine altogether. He rented a car and drove to Philly; having grown weary of explaining to the aging Mrs. Macaluso why he was eternally late. Amtrak and Sam were officially divorced, and he now was the proud owner of a subscription to The Washington Post, which had ultimately solved nothing because they don’t deliver on Christmas and quite possibly, they don’t even print a Christmas edition. Who knows?

Sam’s concept in the past had always been to arrive at Saint Mary’s Roman Catholic Church on Christian Street in South Philadelphia before the 10 a.m. Mass had let out. But Amtrak’s inability to run a train on schedule had inevitably forced him to be a half hour late each and every Christmas morning for the last five years. Which in turn, left Mrs. Macaluso standing out in the frigid winter air, alone, wondering if he was alive or dead, or if he would ever show his face ever again.

But he showed his face. He was showing his face this year just as he’d showed it last year, and the year before that. Like he would show it again the next year and the year after. Reliability, at least by Mrs. Macaluso’s assessment, seemed to have become Sam Christie’s middle name, although the hospital records listed it as Houston. Full printout: Samuel Houston Christie.

He was born in Texas to an Air Force test pilot with a screwed-up sense of humor and a former Miss Arizona who was half Comanche but didn’t tell people because she was white enough to get away with it. Though she had altered this stance as of late now that more mileage can be gained at cocktail parties by going with the Native American thing. His father often told Sam that he was damn lucky he hadn’t named him Corpus Christie; apparently the thought had seriously entered his mind. They were older folks by 1998, but God knew they loved each other, had for decades, and Sam loved them for that alone. And in Sam’s case, it didn’t make a bit of difference that his old man had been transferred out of the Lone Star State to Edwards AFB in California when Sam was only two years old, and that he never had a chance to pick up the accent or get an education there; he was Texas born. He liked to get things like that out of the way. Some people have this thing about Texas, which is perfectly understandable, especially if they’re from Philly and are sick and tired of hearing, “How ’bout them Boys.”

Truth be known, Christmases hadn’t become any easier for Sam than they had for old Mrs. Macaluso. Her son Pete, a fellow agent of Sam’s, had been born on December 25th. He was a Christmas baby. Or had been. He was now dead. It should have never happened—but it had. Pete was gone. Nothing would change that. The news never hit the papers, and why would it? Who cared? Nobody. Nobody cared. That’s the crazy thing. Certainly not the politicians who’d set it all up; then pulled the double-cross, leaving both Sam and Pete hung out to dry. Sam might be reliable, but he was also kind of bitter about this remote corner of his life.

No, only Mrs. Macaluso and Sam really cared about Pete at this point. Every time he thought about what happened to Pete for too long, he mumbled a disgruntled, “Jesus, Pete.” On the bad days he’d follow up, “Jesus, Pete,” with, “Why you, and not me?” and too much Wild Turkey, which was usually the case on Christmas Eve, and why he ended up bleary-eyed at Union Station

the next morning and not paying any attention to The Washington Post kiosk offering up a day-old newspaper.

Pete Macaluso and Sam had been DPD. Government agents with one function and one function only: Escorting visiting dignitaries safely into the United States, babysitting them while they were there, and then making certain they got back to their own countries in one piece. In the beginning Sam handled the work just fine, but over the long haul he wasn’t cut out for it. He tended to see things on a different level than the government. Maybe it was the Comanche blood that kept him forever mistrustful of politicos and bait-and-switch government offers. It’d been going on for centuries, as any Native American Indian understood all too well.

But Pete? He seemed to eat up the job. Lots of travel. Lots of first-class hotels. Lots of exotic women. Pete had been a live-and-let-live kind of guy and had little trouble turning a blind eye toward some of the sleazy bastards they were expected to take a bullet for. Medellín, Colombia had been the end of the line for Pete Macaluso. One false move and he’d come home in a tin box. Then thrown into the ground on a chilly February morning not much different than this one.

Pete had been Sam’s last partner before Sam walked out. Before he’d left the service in the dust; folded his cards and got out of the game. Pete’s death had done it for him. The Colombians had done it for him. It had been the final straw. And had closed a nasty chapter in his life. But he did get the hell out. Chucked it. Just in time to retrieve his brains from the meat-grinder. He was grateful for that.

The downside—the past’s a barrier. And a tough one to crawl over. “Things don’t always make sense, and the survivors waste a lifetime attempting to scratch out an answer on some sandstone they’d be better off letting erode with the wind.” This could be considered Comanche philosophy. Something he got from his mother. But it’s always open to interpretation, this Comanche stuff.

Three things could be said about Pete Macaluso: There was not a person on earth who didn’t think he was one of the world’s all-time great human beings. He was one of the best agents the service had ever turned out. And he’d died too young; twenty-nine.

So, every Christmas since his death, Sam Christie came to Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, met his ex-partner’s mother after the ten o’clock Saint Mary’s Mass, and took her to the big brunch at the Rittenhouse Hotel.

“It’s the least I can do.”

He’d then ensure that Mrs. Macaluso was returned home safely, go back to Saint Mary’s Church, visit Pete’s grave, place three roses on it, shake his head, and almost drop a tear—but not quite.

“I don’t know, I can’t seem to cry anymore.”

What made this Christmas

different was, Sam had rented the car, which in turn, placed him at Saint Mary’s twelve minutes early. He used the time wisely, leaned against a parking meter across the street and reflected on depressing incidents from the past; there were enough of them. It was the church bells, signaling the Mass had ended, that returned him to the here and now. Sam brought the fingers of his right hand up to meet his right eyebrow, then let his hand drop to his side. If someone had seen it, the move might have been mistaken for a very sloppy salute. There was nothing sloppy about it. It was a gesture of respect to the one who’d fallen from the one who still stood.

“Happy birthday, Pete,” he mumbled under his breath.

Sam then ambled across the street toward Saint Mary’s white marble steps. Parishioners were exiting slowly. Each taking time to exchange a greeting and handshake with their overly rotund priest before they scurried off in the fresh snow. The priest was young, with a neatly trimmed blond beard, fat pink face and genuine smile. He seemed to have a good way with women—young and old. They were all laughing and blushing bright red after their brief exchanges with the Good Father. If Sam didn’t know better, he might’ve suspected that the priest had skipped over the celibacy requirements when he signed up to take his vows. And even though the women wore long coats that covered their backsides, he checked each of them carefully to be certain they got down the steps safely.

One woman; tall, thin, with shoulder-length and wavy auburn hair, probably in her early thirties, still crimson from her discourse with the priest, came across the wide steps, and walked directly up to Sam.

“You must be Mr. Christie?” she said, continuing to smile.

“Yes?” He seemed a little unsure of himself for some reason. “Do I know you?”

“No. Flo asked me to look for you.”

“Flo? Who’s Flo?”

“Mrs. Macaluso.”

“Ahh, right. I never call her that. Just Mrs. Macaluso. I forgot she was a Florence.”

“She said you were, and I’m quoting here, this is not me talking, it’s Flo, ‘Perfect. Very tall and extremely good looking with beautiful dark hair,’ and would be easy to recognize because, again I’m quoting, ‘You stand out so much in a crowd, just like Gary Cooper.’ Flo thinks rather highly of you, I’d say. I’ve only seen a few Gary Cooper movies … I think … Maybe two … But he is an old actor, right?”

“Was. He’s gone beyond the old portion of life. Women seemed to be attracted to him. Was Mrs. Macaluso right about the other stuff, since you don’t seem to be buying the Gary Cooper analogy?”

“You’re not that tall.”

“I’m taller than you. And you’re wearing heels.”

She eyed him up and down.

“What? Six two? Three?”

He shrugged. “Two,” and followed it with, “How was Mass?”

“Okay. Not great. Too many kids for my liking.”

“Undoubtedly a Christmas phenomenon, letting kids in church. You could probably report it to the diocese if you like. Maybe they’ll make some adjustments for next Christmas. Is Mrs. Macaluso still in there?”

He glanced to the church’s double-arched wooden doors. But only for a second. In her stillness, this woman had a magnetic quality that held him. Perhaps it was the red hair. Almost violet eyes. Maybe the combination of the two. Beautiful shape. A backdrop of snow. A Christmas spirit saturating the air. The vision of two naked people on a bearskin rug in front of a raging fireplace? Who knew? It could have been anything, but he was getting himself into trouble. He could feel it in his chest.

“No, Flo didn’t come at all,” she said. “That’s what she asked me to tell you. When the TV predicted snow for today, she decided to go to the midnight service last night.”

“Ahh …”

“So … Where were you all last night?”

“Pardon me?”

“Flo said she tried to call you, but there was no answer. She says you should get yourself an answering machine. At least a cell phone. Everyone has one. The twentieth century’s almost over, Mr. Christie.” She gave him an unusually warm smile. A smile that might have said, It’s Christmas, I just went to church by myself, and it wasn’t really that much fun, and you look like a nice guy… Actually, quite a bit like Gary Cooper, even though I’ve only seen black and white publicity shots of him, and I didn’t want to boost your ego, and don’t tell me you had a date on Christmas Eve. Because if you did, I don’t want to hear about it because I think I’m feeling this thing in my chest, and maybe you can not go back to DC and instead spend the night in Philly.

Okay, Sam was making all that up, but she was incredibly good-looking. So, why not, he thought? He gave her half a smile. “Mrs. M. must have dialed the wrong number; wouldn’t be the first time. And I do have a cell phone, but she doesn’t have the number. And you can call me Sam if you like. Any friend of Flo’s, is certainly a friend of mine.”

“Okay, Sam.” She removed the glove from her right hand and extended it. “I’m Tess. Tess DiLionetti.”

“Something told me you weren’t going to have a cutesy name like Bunny or Miffy. Not in this neighborhood—and looking like you do.”

“Looking like I do?”

“Dare I say … alluring? Yeah, alluring’s a good word. You’re alluring. But you must know that. The snow and the church backdrop have sort of a Hallmark Christmas card thing going for you. Tess, huh? Short for Theresa?”

“Don’t ask.”

A broader smile found its way across his face. “I’m asking. I have an idea, since I speak Italian and this is South Philly, and I’m probably right, but I’m asking anyway.”

“My dad picked my name. Don’t ask.”

“Testarosa. The redhead? Am I right?”

She laughed, and they shook hands. The touch, along with the energy passing between their eyes, more than acknowledged an immediate attraction.

“You’re a very perceptive man.”

“I try to be. How do you know Mrs. Macaluso?”

“Pete and I went to college together. Temple.”

“I don’t remember seeing you at his funeral. Were you there? I think I would’ve remembered you. Actually, I know I would’ve remembered you.”

“I was out of the country. I didn’t hear about it until a month after the fact. But it devastated me.”

In an instant she seemed to change into a grief-stricken child, tempting Sam to place an arm over her shoulder. But he didn’t. He diverted his eyes and said, “It was tough sledding … On everyone.” Then trying to move it onto something else, “Listen, I usually take Pete’s mother to the Christmas brunch at the Rittenhouse when I come up here. Did she mention if it was still on?”

“Not to me.”

They stood like two five-year-olds as the new snow settled into their hair. Neither one spoke, but she made no attempt move off.

“Feel like joining us?” he said finally. Oddly feeling shy. “We can swing by her house and pick her up. She looks forward to this brunch. I’m sure it’s still on.”

She stood still. Seemed to be thinking it over. Good sign.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You know how she is. It’ll be good for a few laughs. There’s no telling what she’ll say. It’s the highlight of the Christmas season; watching her flirt with the waiters.”

“You’re right. You talked me into it.”

He gave her another smile, and they began to walk down the wide white steps. But on the last one Tess’s high heels slipped out from under her and she landed squarely on her backside. He reached down, took her arm, and helped her back onto her feet.

“Nicely done.” It came out a bit more flippant than he probably intended.

She brought her eyes into a narrow slit and furrowed her brow. “You know, I don’t even know you, but there’s a very strong temptation to tell you to go screw yourself. That hurt like hell, fella.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll live.”

“You’ve got snow all over your ass. You want me to brush it off for you?”

Tess glanced over her shoulder. Then laughed. It settled into a surprisingly inviting smile while her violet eyes locked onto his.

“What the hell, go for it. Any friend of Mrs. Macaluso’s certainly is a friend of mine.”

 

TWO

As always, Mrs. Macaluso was tickled pink to see Sam. She had a terrible habit of saying, “If Jesus ever came back for another earthly visit, I know exactly what he’d look like. He’d look like you, Sam Christie. Second time around Our Savior wouldn’t have the beard and he’d wear a decent suit and shoes. And he’d get a haircut. I’m sure of it. He’ll look just like my Angel-boy, Sam Christie.” She’d then reach up and pinch his cheek.

Mrs. Macaluso was also thrilled to be once again having the big Christmas brunch at the Rittenhouse. And despite the fact that there were too many white people at the Rittenhouse, which Tess commented on more than once, ...