Irish Eyes by Mary Kay Andrews

Author:Mary Kay Andrews [Mary Kay Andrews]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780062039705
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2000-09-21T16:00:00+00:00

24

I parked over on the side of the Kroger, near a cluster of shopping carts, turned off the motor, and rolled down the windows. It was still cold, but there was a damp green scent in the air; spring. An elderly man in a red apron came out and corralled all the carts into a row, rolling them slowly toward the front of the store.

After fifteen minutes, Bishop drove up in a burgundy colored Dodge Aerostar minivan with a bumper sticker that read: “My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student.”

He parked in front, looked around, shrugged, then went inside. He came out of the store a short while later, lugging two plastic bags and a gallon of milk.

I whistled softly. He looked, nodded, unlocked the van, and put his groceries inside. Then he walked over and got in my vehicle.

“Is now good?” I asked.

He swiveled his head around, surveying the parking lot. Besides his own van, there were two or three late-model sedans, a beat-up red Toyota, and two old clunker cars that looked as though they might have been abandoned there.

“My luck, somebody will probably come along and think this is a drug deal,” Bishop said, popping a piece of gum into his mouth and handing a piece across to me.

“Give me some credit here,” I said, batting my eyelashes. “Maybe they’ll think I’m a hooker and you’re my john.”

“And then if my old lady finds out, I’ll really be dead,” he said.

I unwrapped the gum and folded the foil into a tiny square. “So, what have you heard?”

“It’s nothing,” Bishop protested. “I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

“But you didn’t,” I pointed out.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You know Amy Greene? Works the lunch shift at Manuel’s on weekdays? Blond ponytail? Nice-looking?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t usually stop by there during the day.”

Bishop waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, she’s putting her husband through Georgia Tech. He’s got a night job working for Alliance Bank. He reloads ATM machines. All over the city. Drives around in a little white van with these stashes of tens and twenties and fifties that he loads into ATM machines when they’re fixing to run out.”

“I always wondered how they reloaded those things,” I said, “especially the ones that are in those freestanding kiosks in grocery store parking lots.”

“Fiske, that’s the husband’s name, he doesn’t talk a lot about it,” Bishop said. “Some big security risk, I guess. He came in the bar Thursday night to grab some dinner. We got to talking, I was asking him how it was going driving the money mobile—that’s what Amy calls the bank van, the moneymobile. And Fiske says he quit. That very morning.”

“Why’d he quit?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Wednesday night, he got ambushed,” Bishop said. “He was down on the Southside, around seven P.M., had six machines he was supposed to service. He pulls into this little shopping center, drives up to the kiosk, gets out, and before he knows it, there’s a gun growing out of his ear.

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