Dance for the Dead Read online

  Mary Perkins barely had time to slide to the passenger seat before Jane was inside and wheeling the big car out into the loop. She drove fast to be sure the two men thought it was worthwhile to keep her in sight. She swung to the right on Las Vegas Boulevard. The Strip began just past the airport entrance, and already she was gliding past big hotels: Excalibur, Tropicana, Aladdin, Bally’s on the right, the Dunes on the left. They stopped for the light at Flamingo Road, but she still couldn’t pick out the car that must be following somewhere in the long line of headlights. The light changed and she drove the two hundred yards with the bright moving lights of the Flamingo Hilton on her right and Caesar’s parking lot on the left, then pulled into the long approach to the front entrance.

  The blonde said, “How do you make any money on four dollars a trip?”

  Jane shrugged. “Lots of hotels, lots of flights, and nothing shuts down, so we work long hours. We take turns driving.” She turned to Mary Perkins. “That reminds me. If you want to take a nap, this is a good time.”

  Mary took the hint and leaned back in the big front seat. “Thanks,” she said. She arranged herself so that her head didn’t show over the headrest.

  Jane stopped the car at the Caesar’s front entrance and ran to open the trunk. The doorman opened the back door for the two passengers while a bellman picked up their suitcases. The doorman made a move to reach for Mary Perkins’s door, but Jane stopped him. “She’s not getting out.”

  The blond woman said “Thanks” to Jane, handed her seven dollars, and followed the suitcases toward the lobby.

  Jane said to the doorman, “I saw a couple of creeps pick those two out at the airport and follow us. I didn’t want to scare them, but you might want to tell Security.”

  The doorman said seriously, “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll do it.” He went to his station at the side of the door and picked up a telephone.

  Jane slipped behind the wheel and started the car. “Keep your head down,” she said. “No matter what happens, stay down and out of sight.” She watched for the two men as she glided back along the driveway to the strip. When she saw a dark blue car stop at the side of the building, she kept it in the mirror until she saw the men from the airport get out. They would waste the next few hours trying to find the two women in the enormous hotel complex, then watch them for a while. They would receive no help from anybody who worked at the hotel, and sooner or later two or three polite men in dark suits who had been watching them through the network of video cameras and the see-through mirrors in the ceilings would ask them what they wanted.

  “Can I get up yet?” asked Mary Perkins.

  “Yeah,” Jane said. “I guess it’s okay now.”

  Mary Perkins sat up and looked through the windshield. “That’s the airport up ahead. I thought we were going to drive out.”

  “We’re not.”

  “Why not? It’s dark and empty, and we could go a hundred.”

  Jane sighed. “It’s the logical thing to do.”

  They returned the car to the rental lot, walked into the terminal, and bought two tickets for the next flight out. It happened to be to New York with a stop in Chicago. They had to walk quickly to get to the gate in time. It was almost three A.M. now, and any watchers would have had to be disguised as furniture to escape Jane’s notice.

  As soon as they had taken their seats, Mary Perkins whispered, “I can’t believe it. By now those guys don’t know where they are, let alone where we are.”

  “We’re alive,” said Jane quietly. “Now I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me up until we’re in Chicago.”

  She closed her eyes and prepared herself for the unpleasant experience of having the past few days run through her mind all over again. There were a few bright, crackling images that flashed in her vision, but they weren’t in order or coherent, so they didn’t cause her much pain. After she had dozed for a short time, she saw the fist coming around just before she had flinched to take the force out of it. The spasmodic jerk woke her up, but when she relaxed her muscles again, she dropped into a deeper animal sleep that put her in darkness far out of reach of recent memories.

  When the plane began to descend, the pressure on Jane’s ears increased and she woke up. The engines changed their tone, and she pushed the button to let her seat back pop up again. The sleep had left her feeling stiff in the shoulders, but she was alert. The Old People believed that the place to obtain secret information was in dreams. Sometimes a dream would be an expression of an unconscious desire of the soul, and at other times a message planted there by a guardian spirit. Those were two ways of saying the same thing. If there were such a force as the supernatural, then the soul and the guardian both would be supernatural. If there were no such force, then the soul was the psyche, and the guardian spirit was just the lonely mind’s imaginary friend.

  This time Jane could not remember any impression that had passed through her mind in three hours. Maybe that was the message from her subconscious: enough. She had stored enough tragedy and violence in her memory during the past few days to trip the circuit breaker and turn the lights out. The rest had helped: she was thinking clearly again. As they walked into the terminal at O’Hare she glanced up at a monitor that had the schedule of arrivals and departures on it.

  “More tag?” asked Mary Perkins.

  Jane kept her moving. “Once a game starts, you have to play to win. That means remembering all the moves. We sent two men to New York with a stop in Chicago. The two we left in Las Vegas can look at the schedule and see that a plane left for Chicago about the time we did. When you start sending the chasers across your own path, it’s time to get off the path.”

  They walked along with the crowd heading for the baggage claim until it passed the car-rental counters, and then Jane led Mary Perkins aside. Within minutes they were in a white Plymouth moving along the 294 Expressway toward Route 80.

  Jane drove fast but kept the pace steady, always in a pack of cars that were going the same speed. She counted as she drove: two men fooled into boarding the flight to New York, three left at the gate in L.A., two following the wrong woman in Las Vegas. Seven. The one who had made a phone call before he had boarded the plane to New York must have been reporting to somebody, so it was more than seven. Who were they, and why was Mary Perkins worth all this trouble?

  “Where are we going?” asked Mary Perkins.

  “Detroit,” said Jane. “It’s about three hundred miles.” She turned her head and pointedly studied the right-hand mirror to check for headlights coming up in the right lane. “In the airport you said you didn’t have time to tell me anything and I didn’t have time to listen. We’ve got about five hours.”

  Mary Perkins sat in silence for a long time. They passed an exit where a blazing neon sign towered above a building much bigger than the gas stations around it. Mary gave a little snort that was the abbreviation for a laugh. “Jimmy Fugazi’s End Zone Restaurant. Did you ever notice that all those guys who get too old to play buy restaurants?”

  This time Jane did look at her. Mary was probably in her thirties, but she was already paying too much attention to her hair and skin and clothes. “I guess they have to invest their money somewhere,” she said.

  “All professional athletes want to own restaurants,” Mary Perkins pronounced. “It doesn’t have to do with money. It has to do with not being able to give up having people look at them and pay attention. Even the dumbest jock in the world knows he can do better by putting bets on any ten mutual funds, but all professional athletes want a restaurant. Every crook already has one. What he wants is a casino. A crook is basically lazy, and that way people come to him to get robbed, and they bring it in cash so he can take it and screw the government at the same time. There’s only one game bigger than that.”

  Jane could sense that Mary Perkins was backing closer to whatever she had been concealing, so she waited patiently.

  “What happened to me,” said Mary Perkins, “well, not exactly to me—but what happ
ened was that one day in 1982 Congress passed the Garn-Saint Germain Act. It pretty much got rid of all the rules for savings and loan companies. They could charge what they wanted, pay what they wanted, buy and sell what they wanted, take deposits in any amount from anywhere, and then lend it to whomever they wanted, or even forget about lending and invest it themselves. I could see that this was maybe the first great opportunity in American life since the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill, so I jumped at it.”

  She glanced at Jane to see if her expression had changed, but it had not, so she went on. “It wasn’t only that the rules had changed, but that there was nobody to enforce them. That was part of the program. If you don’t have regulations, you don’t have to hire regulators. Reagan was cutting the size of the government payroll.”

  Jane had finally learned something true about Mary Perkins. She was a thief. But until she knew more about what Mary Perkins had stolen, there would be no way to know who was after her. “What did you have to do with savings and loans?”

  “I started working in one right out of college. When I got there, the regulators still knew all the players and all the rules were fifty years old. The money coming in was all from local people with passbooks, and the money going out was for mortgages on local one-family houses.”

  “I take it you were one of the ones who changed all that?”

  “No, not little me. I just came to the party. That’s what it was like—a party. You have to understand what was happening. One day the rules change, so each savings and loan sets its own rates. The next day, deposit brokers start taking money from everywhere in the world, breaking it down into hundred-thousand-dollar chips and depositing the chips in whatever institution anywhere in the country had the highest interest that day. So if Bubba and Billy’s Bank in Kinkajou, Texas, gives an extra quarter point, suddenly it’s got millions of dollars being deposited: Arab oil money, skim-off money from business, drug money from L.A. and Miami, Yakuza money from Japan, money the C.I.A. was washing to slip to some tyrant someplace, and lots of tax money.”

  “Wait. You did say ‘tax money’?” Maybe Jane had been wrong about the men in the airport. If they were federal agents of some kind, they might be prepared in advance to follow a woman like this.

  “Sure. You think they keep it in a big box under the president’s bed? Say there’s a billion-dollar budget for some program. It’s got to be in short-term CDs so they can use it when they need it. A loan broker pops it in wherever the interest is highest. Half a year’s interest on a billion dollars at eight percent is forty million, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “And this is money that can’t rest. It can’t stay put if there’s another bank that’s offering higher interest. One point of interest on one billion is ten million dollars. There were all kinds of city-government funds, college budgets, whole states that got their money a few months before they spent it. They counted on the timing and figured the interest in as a way to stretch it. And it didn’t matter if the money was in the Bank of America or the Bank of Corncob, Iowa, because it was all insured.”

  “How did this create an opportunity for you?”

  “Forget about me for a minute. A few other things had to change first. Glockenspiel City Savings is suddenly a happening thing.”

  “What’s Glockenspiel City Savings?”

  “You know, the little storefront with a million in assets built up over twenty years. One day they offer a nice rate on their CDs; the next week they’ve got four hundred million in deposits. That happened a hell of a lot more often than you’d think. There are little pitfalls, though. They’re offering, say, nine percent. That means they’ve got to turn maybe ten, even twelve to make a profit. There’s very little in Glockenspiel City that you can invest in that pays ten percent, and nothing at all that you can invest four hundred million in. So you’ve got to invest it the way you got it, in the great wide world outside Glockenspiel City.”

  Mary Perkins was telling all this with relish, as though she weren’t sitting in a car speeding across the dark Midwest to keep her alive. She seemed to be calming herself by wandering in territory that was familiar to her, a place that was filled with numbers. Jane let her talk.

  “Glockenspiel Savings is run by a guy named Cyrus Curbstone. He goes along for years and years, paying three percent on savings, charging six percent on loans. He knows his limits because they’ve been written down in a law since the thirties. He’s honest. He was born there, and he’s got two plots in the cemetery for him and Mrs. Curbstone, right behind Great-grandma and one row over from Colonel Curbstone, who got shot in the ass at Gettysburg. But I know Cyrus Curbstone is vulnerable.”

  “You said he was honest. What’s his weakness?”

  “One day Cyrus wakes up and finds himself on another planet. He’s got to pay nine percent and charge twelve. His million-dollar bank suddenly has four hundred million in deposits. He can’t invest it fast enough in the usual way to make the forty or fifty million he needs to turn a profit. In walks a nice person: maybe me. Maybe I’ve been referred to him by a deposit broker who’s been putting lots of those hundred-thousand-dollar chips in the bank. Or I simply happened to meet one of his regular customers socially. Anyway, I’m a developer, or the general partner in a limited partnership. I’ve got a piece of land that’s been appraised for twenty million, I want to develop it as a resort, and I need a loan of ten million to finance it.”

  “Is the land real?”

  “Sure. That doesn’t mean I own it, or that it’s worth anything like twenty million.”

  “Didn’t they look at deeds?”

  “Sure. The owner is Pan-Financial Enterprises of San Diego, or Big Deals of Boca Raton. I’m an officer.”

  “How did you make it look like it was worth twenty million?”

  “In those days there was no licensing law for appraisers anywhere in the country. So I’d get an appraisal that said what I wanted. Then we’d do a land-flip.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Buy it for a million. Sell it to your brother-in-law for six million. He sells it back to you for ten. You sell it to Big Deals, Inc., for twenty.”

  “That worked?”

  “Of course it worked. They’ve been doing it since the Romans.”

  “If it was that stale, wasn’t it risky?”

  “You’ve heard of the term ‘motivated seller’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the day after Cyrus Curbstone starts getting these brokered deposits, he becomes a motivated lender. He’s got four hundred million to lend out. If he makes ten percent, that’s forty million a year. He pays his depositors nine percent, or thirty-six million, pays his overhead, and he’s got maybe two million left in profit. He’s part owner, or at least a big stockholder. The others are local people, friends of his. He wants that profit. But if he lets the deposits sit in the vault, he’s losing three million a month. That’s a hundred thousand a day. That’s almost forty-two hundred an hour. I mean, it’s costing this guy thirty-three thousand dollars to sleep eight hours.”

  “You’re saying Cyrus fooled himself.”

  “No. Cyrus had never played for big numbers before, but he wasn’t stupid. I was a nice, personable businesswoman. I dressed well. I smelled good, I smiled, I had money. I had a hot business and I wanted to expand. Hot businesses need banks. Banks need hot businesses. He got fooled because he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do: for the first few years, a great company looks exactly like the company I was showing him. So he cut a check.”

  “But what if—”

  “What if he said no? If Cyrus didn’t bite, I’d leave him to somebody who had a pitch he liked better, and I’d go after his buddy Homer in the next town, who by now has five hundred million to move. But we hardly ever had to do that. Cyrus would have had to hunt pretty hard for a reason to turn me down, and he knew he didn’t have time to hunt. He had to find jobs for his dollars.”

  “So you got a loan. What the
n?”

  “Big Deals, Inc., got a loan. Big Deals spent it: building expenses, salaries, et cetera. But Big Deals neglected to pay the interest.”

  “What did Cyrus do about it?”

  “I’ll skip a few phone calls, meetings, and threats. Usually that went on for months. At some point Cyrus sees that he’s got a problem. He can do several things. One is to foreclose on the land. Fine with me. I just sold a one-million-dollar chunk of Manitoba for ten million. Another is to accept my excuses and roll over the loan into a new one that includes the interest I owe him. Now it’s a new loan for eleven million. Some of these banks carried loans like that for five years.”

  “What for?”

  “Because Cyrus hasn’t lost any money until he reports the loan as nonperforming. If he makes a new loan, he not only hasn’t lost the ten million, he can put out another million as an asset. This satisfies the regulators, if any should ever get around to Cyrus with all the work they’ve got. It keeps the bank looking healthy, so Cyrus has breathing space.”

  “Why does he need such expensive breathing space?”

  “Because he didn’t make the forty million he needed to turn a profit. If he was a very quick learner, he made maybe thirty-five million: eight and three-quarters percent. He’s still got to pay nine percent to the depositors, so he’s maybe a million in the hole at the end of the first year. From one point of view that’s not bad. It cost a million dollars to make his bank four hundred times as big as it was last year. But now he’s on a treadmill that’s going faster and faster. He needs to attract more brokered deposits so he can make more loans. If he gets another two hundred million, he can bring back maybe fifty or sixty million next year and easily absorb the million dollars he lost. As I said, he’s not stupid. He knows that he looks great on paper as long as he’s moving fast. But if somebody takes a photograph—that is, stops the action and studies it—his bank is insolvent. So now he’s interested in keeping the system in motion.”