GET OUT OF DENVER

I’m stuck in Denver, and I can’t even see the Rocky Mountains, which, really, is the whole point of Denver, right? But the same Pacific winds that blow across Hawaii and make the islands an idyllic sun-splashed sort of paradise are blowing across California, the northern half of which is on fire—again. The windblown smoke drapes over Denver and the Rocky Mountains like a butterscotch-colored tablecloth, blotting out the scenery but not the ungodly heat, which these crazy locals call “a dry heat.” Like a hundred and seven is some kind of special, acceptable, hot.

I’ve seen enough of this place over the last three days, mostly the inside of an airport hotel room and, when I dared venture out, smelled enough weed to understand that whole “Mile High City” thing.

I’m waiting on Charlie “The Plumber” Frazetti to swoop by this chain-hotel dump and get me the hell on my way to Las Vegas. Charlie is called “The Plumber” because, among his numerous skills, his best is the ability to sniff out leaks and pinpoint who has been talking to the feds. And then of course making sure they stop talking to the feds. Like, forever. He’s very good at his job.

I haven’t been talking to the feds. I’m not even a wise guy like Charlie. But I am avoiding the feds, namely the IRS and the FBI. That’s what I call a good business practice in my line of work. I’m a certified public accountant. And one of my clients is the boss of the Miami mob.

I have a good life, one that befits a CPA in South Florida. Money has never been a problem for me. Well, that’s not entirely true, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I have a house in Ocean Ridge, Florida, worth five million. Gorgeous little spread: marble floors, balcony off the master bedroom overlooking the pool and my dock on the Intracoastal Waterway. The boat, a Formula 380 Super Sport, costs more than some houses.

My wife, Diane, loves the place. And our life—socials, charity events, church. Over ten years, we’ve donated plenty to charities and political candidates, and we’re well-known at church—Diane’s Episcopalian and I’m happy to sit beside her each Sunday.

But Diane doesn’t know about my mob client, because she doesn’t know anything about how I got there. And I’m trying to keep it that way. And stay alive.

Four years ago, I took a break from work for a flight to Atlantic City. It was summer, and with football season on a break, I had the itch. But not to bet. I wanted to play poker—for real. I checked into a beachfront casino for the weekend, had a steak and a couple of martinis, then got comfortable in the quiet, dark poker room.

I sat at the table for three hours, and, for me, it was a disaster the likes of Hurricane Katrina. I was down big-time. Tens of thousands of dollars down.

“Mr. Franks? Marty Franks?”

I turned my head, and my attention, away from the table. A tall man in a suit was leaning over my shoulder, his face neutral but his brown eyes fixed on mine. “Yes?”

“A word, please,” the man said.

I glanced at the dealer, a short fat man across the green felt table. He stared at the deck of cards in his hands. The other players, all men ranging in age from about twenty-one to about eighty-five, peered at me from the semi-circle of the game.

“I’m in the middle of a hand,” I said.

The man at my shoulder leaned closer. “A word, please. Now.”

I swallowed. I really needed this hand. An hour ago, the knot in my stomach turned into a raging brush fire. So, I needed this hand to work out. My first upcard had been a queen, same as the two in my hand. But the tall man at my shoulder had not moved. He wasn’t going anywhere. The dread I felt ran down my temples in acid sweat.

I tossed my cards onto the table.

“I’m out,” I said to the dealer without realizing the announcement was completely unnecessary. Pushed my chair back and stood. The tall man stepped back and swept his arm to one side, toward the main floor of the casino.

We rode an elevator to the top floor, and the higher we went, the lower my morale plummeted. The tall man walked down a long, carpeted hallway on the top floor until we reached set of double doors. He tapped on the door, then went through, motioning for me to follow him.

The penthouse room had been fashioned into an office with a breathtaking view of the ocean and a deep blue cloudless sky. However, distracting me from this view was a man in a gray suit standing by the window who looked like he’d been carved out of teak. Broad shoulders, massive, manicured hands. A jaw right out of 1950s Hollywood and slate-gray eyes that matched his suit. His black hair was shot through with silver and swept back in a longish pompadour.

I was face to face with the boss of the Atlantic City mob.

“Mr. Franks,” he said, “I’m—”

“—Antonio Bufalino,” I said.

Bufalino smiled with his perfect teeth, but not his eyes. “Then, you know why you’re here, Mr. Franks.”

“I have an idea.” I tried to say it calmly, but I could feel a river of sweat flowing down my spine like a dam had broken.

Bufalino slid his hands into his pockets and froze me with his gaze. “You’re an accountant, are you not?”

Twenty minutes later, the tall man waved me into the elevator and pressed the button. Didn’t smile even as the door closed and left me alone, weak and scared, in the elevator.

I was now Bufalino’s accountant. Which meant I was his money launderer, as payback for the $130,000 I owed the casino. A debt I could not pay back. So, I got to work. I’m a really good accountant, but as it turned out, I’m a better money launderer. Gifted, even. I was able to not only get Bufalino’s money squeaky clean, but to hand him a profit off his newly clean cash.

I also got rich. In addition to my own clientele, the mob paid me—mostly to keep my mouth shut—and “garnished my wages” as Charlie Frazetti put it. I was also skimming a tiny percentage from Bufalino’s profit. Never the dirty “principal,” just the profits. And I never got greedy. I took only what could be taken safely. But that tiny percentage paid for the boat, among other things.

Charlie was working Miami at the time, and he was “assigned” to me to, essentially, indoctrinate me into the mob world and keep an eye on me. I wouldn’t say we ever became friends. More like close associates. But Charlie was at least trustworthy. And honest, even if it was “mob honest.” We never talked business, at least not directly. But we had common interests—deep sea fishing, football, and the Bahamas. Charlie made sure I stayed in my lane and didn’t do anything stupid. And I made sure to pick up the bill whenever we went to a restaurant.

And I kept gambling, a secret that I alone knew. Mostly losing, but never enough to get me in trouble. Never enough to raise eyebrows at home and in such a way that it would never get noticed by the bank or the feds—and especially not Bufalino or Charlie. And I always paid off the bookies.

Until recently.

I was already behind after the latest Super Bowl, and I only made matters worse with a terrible bet on a NASCAR race of all things. And bookies, by nature, are impatient and prone to violence when you owe them a six-figure debt. There’s no way I could skim enough to pay off the debt without being noticed. Three hundred grand tends to stick out in one way or another.

On top of all this, Bufalino’s organization was being bird-dogged by the IRS, and nothing makes a mobster more batshit crazy than the thought of feds and rats. Bufalino already suspected that one of his accountants was singing to the feds; he just hadn’t figured out which one. I knew it wasn’t me, but I also knew Bufalino’s weird logic about rats and accountants: kill them all. That way you get the right one. If I went to him and told him, “Hey, boss, I’m not a rat, but I owe more than a quarter mil to some bookies,” he’d shoot me himself just on principle. It looked like I was going to get shot either way I turned.

But then Charlie called. He’d been “reassigned” to Denver a couple of years earlier, and we’d stayed in touch. I’d been sitting on the edge of the pool, feet in the cool, clear water, and a glass of whiskey in my hand. I watched Diane, in a blue bikini, swim laps from end to the other, a serene mermaid gliding through the water without a care in the world. I received no serenity from watching her. When I looked at my phone and saw Charlie’s name on the screen, I scurried inside.

“Smarty Marty, how you doing?” Charlie said.

“What’s going on, Charlie?”

“What do you mean? Can’t a guy call a guy without there being something going on?”

“Sorry, I mean, hello Charlie, how are you doing?”

“That’s better.” Charlie chuckled on the other end of the phone. “You got any trips to the Bahamas planned anytime soon?”

“No, why, you looking to go?”

Charlie sighed. I could picture him, face like a bulldog, a little tired, a little sad. “I could get away from this town.”

“Why’s that?”

“This fucking place, man. It ain’t Miami, let’s just say that.”

I wished I could disappear in the Bahamas with Charlie as my shield. I had an idea, though. I’d been pondering it for a few days, scared to death to actually decide to do it.

“Hey, Charlie, I can trust you, right?”

“Kind of question is that? You know you can trust me.”

I drew in a breath. “Nobody knows this. Not my wife, not Bufalino, not you. All right?”

“Yeah, yeah, calm down and tell me what’s eating you.”

“I owe three hundred large to some bookies here in Miami and I can’t pay them and I can’t tell Bufalino or he’ll kill me or think I’m the rat that got the fucking IRS on his case and the bookies want their money like right now, you know what I mean, and I need to get to Las Vegas because I need a big score and I can hit a big score because I got a scheme that’ll work at the blackjack table.”

“Whoa, settle down, Marty,” Charlie said. “Take a goddam breath.”

I took a breath and felt more than a little stupid.

“When you gotta pay?” Charlie said.

“A week.”

“A whole seven days?” Charlie said. “Hmm. I’m glad to hear you say you’re not the one yapping to the feds. The boss already put me onto finding this weasel.”

My blood chilled for a moment with the thought of Charlie even considering me as a suspect. “And what’s this so-called scheme?” Charlie said. “And so help me, Marty, if you say card counting, I’ll fly down there and slap you myself.”

I winced. “No, no, not counting cards.”

“Good.”

“I mean, not exactly. Not in the strictest sense.”

“Goddammit, Marty,” Charlie said, this time with an edge to his voice.

“Listen to me, “I said. “I’m a numbers guy, right? I’m smart that way. Everybody knows this. So, blackjack is a matter of ratios, high cards to low cards.”

“Stop,” Charlie said. “You’re hurting my head.”

“It’s math, Charlie, but it’s almost science. I know how to do this. All I need is to get to Vegas, find a table with the right conditions and go to work. I can clean house out there, pay off my debt, and be back home before anybody knows anything different.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

“I think you know your numbers and ratios and all that shit, sure,” Charlie said. “But you’re absolutely crazy if you think you’re going to clean house in Las Vegas. This ain’t the Rat Pack days. Or the 1970s.”

“I’ll take that chance, Charlie,” I said, keeping an eye on Diane’s laps in the pool.

Charlie sighed. I could hear his fingers drumming on a table or a desk. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Get a rental car and start driving to Denver.”

“Driving?” I said, a little too loudly. Another look toward Diane. Jesus, what was I going to say to her? “Didn’t you hear me? I got a week.”

“Fuck that,” Charlie said. “You want a plane fare that can be traced with your credit card? Get a rental car, pay cash, and start driving. Call me when you do.”

“Why Denver?”

“Because you are a lost ball in high weeds when it comes to Las Vegas, Marty. Get here and we’ll work on your scheme before we go to Nevada. Got it?”

“Got it.”

I did what Charlie said. An hour out of Atlanta, I called, left a voicemail, then pointed the rental car toward Memphis, where I stopped for the night at the Peabody Hotel and a plate of ribs at a downtown restaurant. Just as the waiter slid the plate of dry-rub ribs in front of me, I noticed a man sitting alone in a booth across the aisle. He’d been there when I walked in. No food. No drink. Just a few not-too-casual glances my way. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I scarfed down my dinner and left way too much cash on the table, then hauled ass out of the building, through a darkened parking garage and into the hotel lobby, checking over my shoulder several times. Never saw that guy again.

I drove the rest of the way in a caffeine-fueled panic, my eyes constantly flickering to the rearview, but I made it to an I-70 no-tell motel somewhere in Kansas on the second day. On the third day, the Great Plains went by in a blur, up and over the Great Divide. I called Charlie again when I was an hour east of Denver and The Rockies. He answered on the third ring.

“You drive fast,” he said.

“What’d you expect? I’m not on vacation.”

“Where are you?”

“On the interstate, man, about an hour away.”

“Meet me at Pete’s Kitchen.”

“And how am I supposed to know where that is?”

“It’s the modern world, Marty. Google it. It’s on Colfax.”

Sure enough, the map on my phone took me right to the diner, on a corner somewhere in the heart of Denver. I parked across the street and stared at the neon lights on either side of the door, the pink and green glow blending into the purple of dusk. It looked like the kind of place that had once been just a diner where locals hung out, but since the saturation of social media had become a photo stop for tourists.

I pushed through the glass door, stopped at the end of the marble counter, and scanned the room. Four hipsters, all men, hunched on stools at the counter. Booths on the left, only half full. I took a seat in a corner booth under a scuffed white wall festooned with black-and-white photos of people I didn’t recognize and plucked a menu from between the condiment bottles. I became aware of movement across from me as I perused the all-day breakfast menu.

“You made good time,” Charlie said from the seat opposite me. He flashed an easy grin and looked comfortable in a peach golf shirt. Thin gold necklace around a very tan neck. He laced his fingers together and leaned across the table. “What the hell are you screwed up in, Marty?”

I waved a waiter away from the table. Met Charlie’s eyes. “I thought I had it covered.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Right,” I said, wiping my face with my hand. Came away sweaty. “I’ve been betting for years, with a few bookies up and down the coast. Never been a big deal, really, but I kept it out of sight. From Diane, from Bufalino, from everyone. For obvious reasons, you know? But I had a bad run. Really bad.”

“Three hundred thousand bad,” Charlie said. His brown eyes bored into mine.

“Anyway, I know I can get it back. Like I said, I got a system that I know will work, because I can essentially run the algorithm in my head. I just need to get to Las Vegas. Quietly.”

Charlie held up a hand, one decorated with a gold pinkie ring. “Stop. You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making my head hurt. Listen, you’re in some deep shit, that I know. I also think of you as a friend, you know? I can get you to Las Vegas, Marty, but you’re going to have to chill the fuck out for a couple of days while I get things set up.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. I didn’t have a couple of days, and I told Charlie that.

“I don’t care,” he said. “We do it my way or not at all. This shit cannot, will not blow back on me in any way. Or anybody else, if you know what I mean.” He looked at me the way I’m sure he has looked at many men in his life, right before he caused them grievous bodily harm.

“Ok, Charlie,” I said. “Now what?”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, checked the door. Old habits, I reckoned. “Now I stash you in a hotel room while I get everything ready for you.”

I last spoke to Charlie forty-seven hours ago, and it feels like forty-seven days. The hotel room feels like a prison cell. And I’m running out of time. I’ve paced so much there should be a hole in the dark blue carpet. Through the dirty window, my view is a construction site that looks like a village in Ukraine after a Russian missile strike. A thin blanket of brown smoke hangs over the sky, held up on one end by what I suppose are the Rockies and blurry city buildings on the other. I’ve called Charlie, several times, but he’s not answering, which only ramps up my stress and worry. I’ve spent most of my hours—and I’m not sleeping much—visualizing my play in Las Vegas. It gives me the confidence I need to stand another hour in this godforsaken room and its shitty TV, bad a/c, and mind-numbing boredom. I check the window and the door peephole a thousand times an hour. Am I being watched? Targeted? Where the hell is Charlie? This must be what solitary confinement feels like. Without the amenities, of course.

When my cell rings, I dive toward it on the bed. It’s Charlie.

“Be downstairs in five,” he says.

Before I can answer, he’s hung up. I quick-check myself in the bathroom mirror, shove all my stuff back into my carry-on, then slam the door behind me.

In the car, Charlie doesn’t talk much, which only amps up my anxiety, because I need human interaction after being locked up for two days.

“Where we headed?” I say. The sun has dropped below the mountains, spreading a black apron of gloom across the streets that hiss with the sound of early evening traffic.

“Gotta make a few stops before the airport.”

Charlie steers the car toward downtown Denver, which I happen to know is the opposite direction from the airport. But he knows what he’s doing. Always does. We drive toward town for half hour, then Charlie pulls to the curb in front of a bland white hotel. The Warwick. He doesn’t even look my way, just climbs out and heads toward the door. I follow him, catch up at the elevators.

“What’s going on, Charlie?” I say. This isn’t getting me to Vegas any faster.

“Crossing the T’s and whatnot,” Charlie says as the doors rattle shut.

On the top floor, we turn right, walk to the end of the corridor. Charlie knocks on the door, which opens immediately. An alarm goes off like a siren in my head. Inside the room, Charlie steps out of my way, and I’m face to face with Bufalino. He’s standing by the window, drink in his hand, his face like a Halloween mask. Grim and frightening. And furious.

The boss turns to me. “Sit.”

I feel the familiar sweat. Again. I glance around the posh room, then stumble to an easy chair and sit. Bufalino does not. I dare a glance at Charlie, who looks back at me placidly, like he does this sort of thing all the time. And only then do I realize Charlie, the only person I trusted, has betrayed me. Standing next to him is another man, a younger version of that actor from The Hulk. Mark Ruffalo. The door opener.

“Marty,” Bufalino says, still staring out the window at the glittering lights of downtown Denver, “what am I going to do with you?”

Charlie has told Bufalino everything, I know. And Charlie told me he was supposed to be finding the accountant who was talking to the feds. “I’m not a rat, Tony. Swear to God.”

Bufalino’s mouth pulls tight across his face in a scowl-smile. “I know that.”

I look at Charlie. He nods. “We know. I found the rat. But you been misbehaving.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I realize that whatever I have to say is pointless.

“Why didn’t you come to me, Marty?” Bufalino says. He sounds almost genuinely hurt.

I wipe a hand across my face. “Come on, Tony, you know why.”

“This makes me look weak and stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What should I do with you?”

I feel like a tire slowly leaking air. “I don’t know,” I say, feeling myself get smaller and smaller in the chair.

Bufalino rattles the ice in his glass. He walks closer to me but doesn’t sit. He towers over me, and I’m paralyzed in my chair. I look up at him, this man who reminds me of one of those Easter Island statues, the man who holds my life in his hand the way he’s casually holding onto his drink.

“Here’s what I’m going to do, Marty,” he says. “I’ll cover your debt. Paid in full. But you are going to owe me. Big time.”

I don’t know what this means, but I nod. What other choice do I have? “Okay, Tony.

Sure.”

Bufalino takes in a seat in a chair opposite mine. “And you’re going to pay me back by taking the fall for this IRS bullshit.”

I feel like all my blood just left my body. “What? Are you serious? You said you already know who the rat is.”

“We do,” Bufalino says.

I know what that means, but I’m still confused. “I don’t understand.”

Bufalino glanced at Charlie, who cleared his throat.

“We were onto Goodman for a while,” Charlie said. “And he’s told the feds that he knows there are other accountants cleaning money.”

“When was this?” I ask.

“Couple days ago.”

My head drops to my chest. “And he gave them my name.”

“Not yet,” Charlie says.

I look up at the boss. Bufalino fixes me with his mob-boss stare. He’s serious. “There have to be consequences for a transgression like yours.”

“But I’ll go to prison,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound like a whine.

“You will, but I can take care of you.”

“But I’m not the rat,” I say. I lean forward in my chair, realizing I look insubordinate and probably terrified. But I’m not the rat.

“Goodman will be dealt with, Marty,” Bufalino said. “Much more harshly than you. But the IRS wants a live body. An indictment and a conviction. You know, headlines and shit. What I need is those clowns off my back.”

I suddenly realize that the max sentence for money laundering, a federal charge, is twenty years. When I point this out to Bufalino, he shakes his head.

“You’re a Boy Scout, Marty. Clean as a whistle. Most you’ll get is six, out in two. You won’t even be in max security. You’ll skate at a country club joint for a couple of years, then we will be even.”

Holy shit, I keep telling myself. I stare at Bufalino, but his face is a leather mask of impassivity. He’s not budging, and I know it. I think, briefly, of Diane. Of my life. Of my stuff. I have no way out. No other choice.

I suck in a deep breath, let it rattle out. I’m clammy with sweat. “So, now what?”

“Charlie will take you back to your room. In twenty-four hours or so, you’ll be arrested, based on a tip from inside my organization. From Goodman himself.”

“Great. Just great.”

Bufalino pushes himself to his feet. “It’s going to be just fine, Marty.” He opens his arms, and I stand. He embraces me, mob style. I want to cry, scream, run, hide, but I just stand there, sweaty and empty.

Charlie leads me out of the hotel, and we don’t speak on the drive back to my room. I don’t know whether to be disgusted with Charlie for selling me out or thankful that he hasn’t killed me yet. I settle on the latter.

I unlock my door and push it open. Charlie stays in the hall, his face bland, but I can see a

little sadness, too.

“You coming in?” I say.

“No. Boss got me setting all this up now.”

“So, what the hell am I supposed to do.”

“Sit tight. I’ll call you with the details. Do not use a phone. Do not use a computer. You sit right here and wait for me to call you with instructions.”

“Can I at least call my wife?” I feel awash in guilt with the realization that until this moment, I hadn’t considered the effect of this crisis on Diane.

“No, Marty. Call no one. You’ll have time for that later. But right now, you do nothing.”

“So, I sit here like a condemned man.”

Charlie gives me a lopsided grin. “Don’t be dramatic. We will have your back the whole time.”

I don’t know what to say, so I shrug and let the door slam shut. I listen to Charlie’s footsteps fade down the carpeted hallway. Sit here my ass. I have to get out of Denver.

I shower off the sweat—and try to wash off the shame and fear—and scrub myself nearly raw. Grab clean clothes out of my carry-on, then repack. Making up a plan on the fly. I’ll grab an Uber to Coors Field, just to make sure I’m not followed, and if I’m not, another Uber to the airport. Screw driving back to Florida. My passport is in my suitcase, and I’ll take the first flight out of the country. Canada, Belize, Thailand, I don’t care. Anywhere but here.

I check my phone. No calls. Slide it in my pocket. Grab my bag and check the peephole. Clear. I half-trot to the elevator and push the button. The doors open right away.

A tingle goes down my spine, and I think better of being shut inside a closed space, even if it is a twenty-second ride down to the lobby. I turn and head for the stairs as the elevator doors slide shut.

I’m huffing by the time I get to the bottom of the four flight of stairs, but I lean into the metal door and go through to the oven-hot outdoors. I’m at the back of the hotel, so I look both ways. I’m alone. My ride should be here in two minutes. I set off on a jog through the parking lot, staying close to the half dozen cars.

Ten feet from the corner, something slams into the left side of my head, and my brain explodes in pain. I stagger to my right, then stumble forward. The blacktop parking lot is undulating like waves on the ocean, and my legs give out. I lurch forward, staggering like a drunk, then hit the hot asphalt face first, skinning my knees and palms. I can’t see anything except black and green circles that squiggle across my field of vision behind my eyelids. I groan and try to breathe. Roll over onto my back and blink tears from my eyes. My vision is still blurry. Across the lot, near the street, I see a fuzzy outline of a man trotting away. The fuzzy outline looks suspiciously like Charlie. I push myself to my feet, test my balance. My ride should be here now.

“Mr. Franks?”

I start to turn, but a stab of pain in my temple stops me. I shuffle around to see two men in front of me. Feds straight out of Central Casting. One gray suit, one black. Standard haircuts, clean-shaven. Archetypal white guys, Jon Hamm from Mad Men types.

“Marty Franks?” says the one on the left. He holds up his badge. IRS.

I drop my suitcase at my feet. Bufalino said twenty-four hours. He lied. My ears are ringing, and I can’t think straight. I glance over my shoulder and see Charlie’s car moving out onto the street, slowly, casually.

Charlie lied, too.

I hold out my wrists.

“You boys didn’t waste any time,” I say as the cold steel smacks my wrists.