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? And the one person on earth who knows exactly where that cash is located is a legless, ex-Navy SEAL, confined to a wheelchair.
Itâs 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 Peteâs grave, and head home â Piece of cakeâŚ
Not so fast; unbeknownst to Sam, heâs 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.
âItâs Panama, Sam⌠There are no rules.â
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? And the one person on earth who knows exactly where that cash is located is a legless, ex-Navy SEAL, confined to a wheelchair.
Itâs 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 Peteâs grave, and head home â Piece of cakeâŚ
Not so fast; unbeknownst to Sam, heâs 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.
âItâs Panama, Sam⌠There are no rules.â
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 DCâs Union Station,
bought a cup of black coffee from Claireâs CafeĚ on the inside and The Washington Post from the kiosk on the outside. He then boarded Amtrakâs 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 heâd 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 donât deliver on Christmas and quite possibly, they donât even print a Christmas edition. Who knows?
Samâs concept in the past had always been to arrive at Saint Maryâs Roman Catholic Church on Christian Street in South Philadelphia before the 10 a.m. Mass had let out. But Amtrakâs 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 heâd 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. Macalusoâs assessment, seemed to have become Sam Christieâs 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 didnât 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 hadnât 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 Samâs case, it didnât 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 theyâre from Philly and are sick and tired of hearing, âHow âbout them Boys.â
Truth be known, Christmases hadnât become any easier for Sam than they had for old Mrs. Macaluso. Her son Pete, a fellow agent of Samâs, had been born on December 25th. He was a Christmas baby. Or had been. He was now dead. It should have never happenedâbut it had. Pete was gone. Nothing would change that. The news never hit the papers, and why would it? Who cared? Nobody. Nobody cared. Thatâs the crazy thing. Certainly not the politicians whoâd 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, âJesus, Pete.â On the bad days heâd follow up, âJesus, Pete,â with, âWhy you, and not me?â 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 wasnât 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. Itâd 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. MedelliĚn, Colombia had been the end of the line for Pete Macaluso. One false move and heâd 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 Samâs last partner before Sam walked out. Before heâd left the service in the dust; folded his cards and got out of the game. Peteâs 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 downsideâthe pastâs a barrier. And a tough one to crawl over. âThings donât always make sense, and the survivors waste a lifetime attempting to scratch out an answer on some sandstone theyâd be better off letting erode with the wind.â This could be considered Comanche philosophy. Something he got from his mother. But itâs always open to interpretation, this Comanche stuff.
Three things could be said about Pete Macaluso: There was not a person on earth who didnât think he was one of the worldâs all-time great human beings. He was one of the best agents the service had ever turned out. And heâd died too young; twenty-nine.
So, every Christmas since his death, Sam Christie came to Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, met his ex-partnerâs mother after the ten oâclock Saint Maryâs Mass, and took her to the big brunch at the Rittenhouse Hotel.
âItâs the least I can do.â
Heâd then ensure that Mrs. Macaluso was returned home safely, go back to Saint Maryâs Church, visit Peteâs grave, place three roses on it, shake his head, and almost drop a tearâbut not quite.
âI donât know, I canât seem to cry anymore.â
What made this Christmas different was, Sam had rented the car, which in turn, placed him at Saint Maryâs 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 whoâd fallen from the one who still stood.
âHappy birthday, Pete,â he mumbled under his breath.
Sam then ambled across the street toward Saint Maryâs 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 womenâyoung and old. They were all laughing and blushing bright red after their brief exchanges with the Good Father. If Sam didnât know better, he mightâve 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.
âYou must be Mr. Christie?â she said, continuing to smile.
âYes?â He seemed a little unsure of himself for some reason. âDo I know you?â
âNo. Flo asked me to look for you.â
âFlo? Whoâs Flo?â
âMrs. Macaluso.â
âAhh, right. I never call her that. Just Mrs. Macaluso. I forgot she
was a Florence.â
âShe said you were, and Iâm quoting here, this is not me talking, itâs Flo, âPerfect. Very tall and extremely good looking with beau- tiful dark hair,â and would be easy to recognize because, again Iâm quoting, âYou stand out so much in a crowd, just like Gary Cooper.â Flo thinks rather highly of you, Iâd say. Iâve only seen a few Gary Cooper movies ... I think ... Maybe two ... But he is an old actor, right?â
âWas. Heâs gone beyond the old portion of life. Women seemed to be attracted to him. Was Mrs. Macaluso right about the other stuff, since you donât seem to be buying the Gary Cooper analogy?â
âYouâre not that tall.â
âIâm taller than you. And youâre wearing heels.â She eyed him up and down.
âWhat? Six two? Three?â
He shrugged. âTwo,â and followed it with, âHow was Mass?â âOkay. Not great. Too many kids for my liking.â
âUndoubtedly a Christmas phenomenon, letting kids in church.
You could probably report it to the diocese if you like. Maybe theyâll make some adjustments for next Christmas. Is Mrs. Macaluso still in there?â
He glanced to the churchâs 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.
âNo, Flo didnât come at all,â she said. âThatâs what she asked me to tell you. When the TV predicted snow for today, she decided to go to the midnight service last night.â
âAhh ...â
âSo ... Where were you all last night?â
âPardon me?â
âFlo 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 centuryâs almost over, Mr. Christie.â She gave him an unusually warm smile. A smile that might have said, Itâs Christmas, I just went to church by myself, and it wasnât really that much fun, and you look like a nice guy... Actually, quite a bit like Gary Cooper, even though Iâve only seen black and white publicity shots of him, and I didnât want to boost your ego, and donât tell me you had a date on Christmas Eve. Because if you did, I donât want to hear about it because I think Iâm 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. âMrs. M. must have dialed the wrong number; wouldnât be the first time. And I do have a cell phone, but she doesnât have the number. And you can call me Sam if you like. Any friend of Floâs, is certainly a friend of mine.â
âOkay, Sam.â She removed the glove from her right hand and extended it. âIâm Tess. Tess DiLionetti.â
âSomething told me you werenât going to have a cutesy name like Bunny or Miffy. Not in this neighborhoodâand looking like you do.â
âLooking like I do?â
âDare I say ... alluring? Yeah, alluringâs a good word. Youâre 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?â
âDonât ask.â
A broader smile found its way across his face. âIâm asking. I have an idea, since I speak Italian and this is South Philly, and Iâm probably right, but Iâm asking anyway.â
âMy dad picked my name. Donât ask.â
âTestarosa. The redhead? Am I right?â
She laughed, and they shook hands. The touch, along with the
energy passing between their eyes, more than acknowledged an immediate attraction.
âYouâre a very perceptive man.â
âI try to be. How do you know Mrs. Macaluso?â
âPete and I went to college together. Temple.â
âI donât remember seeing you at his funeral. Were you there?
I think I wouldâve remembered you. Actually, I know I wouldâve remembered you.â
âI was out of the country. I didnât hear about it until a month after the fact. But it devastated me.â
In an instant she seemed to change into a grief-stricken child, tempting Sam to place an arm over her shoulder. But he didnât. He diverted his eyes and said, âIt was tough sledding ... On everyone.â Then trying to move it onto something else, âListen, I usually take Peteâs mother to the Christmas brunch at the Rittenhouse when I come up here. Did she mention if it was still on?â
âNot to me.â
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.
âFeel like joining us?â he said finally. Oddly feeling shy. âWe can swing by her house and pick her up. She looks forward to this brunch. Iâm sure itâs still on.â
She stood still. Seemed to be thinking it over. Good sign.
âCome on, itâll be fun. You know how she is. Itâll be good for a few laughs. Thereâs no telling what sheâll say. Itâs the highlight of the Christmas season; watching her flirt with the waiters.â
âYouâre right. You talked me into it.â
He gave her another smile, and they began to walk down the wide white steps. But on the last one Tessâs 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.
âNicely done.â It came out a bit more flippant than he probably intended.
She brought her eyes into a narrow slit and furrowed her brow. âYou know, I donât even know you, but thereâs a very strong tempta- tion to tell you to go screw yourself. That hurt like hell, fella.â
âAre you all right?â
âIâll live.â
âYouâve got snow all over your ass. You want me to brush it off for
you?â
Tess glanced over her shoulder. Then laughed. It settled into a
surprisingly inviting smile while her violet eyes locked onto his. âWhat the hell, go for it. Any friend of Mrs. Macalusoâs certainly
is a friend of mine.â
Two for the Money by Steve Zettler is an adventure, crime thriller novel split between Philadelphia in the United States and Panama City.
Former Secret Service agent Sam Christie returns to Philadelphia every year to lay flowers on the grave of his best friend Pete Macaluso who was killed on active service.
This year it doesn't go according to plan. First he meets a mutual friend of Pete's and between them they rescue an ex-navy SEAL, Ike, who has taken a tumble from his wheelchair into an empty grave.
Ike, it turns out, has been waiting for Sam in the churchyard with a proposition.
An encounter with a Philly mobster followed by a trip to Panama City on the trail of a large amount of cash hidden in Panama Bay kicks off a roller coaster journey that could cost Sam and his friends their lives.
Throw in some local criminals and a rogue CIA agent to mix things up and you've got a cracker of a story that is very difficult to put down.
The plot is perfectly paced with plenty of twists and turns. Reveals are ideally placed to maximise their shock value.
The main characters are nicely described and get the reader rooting for them. The bad guys are suitably villainous. They give a feeling that anything could happen and that not everyone is going to get out of the situation alive.
I enjoyed the descriptions of the locations and also the bits and pieces of relevant Panamanian history.
Too few books these days have the ability to capture my attention and entertain throughout, but this one really hit the mark. I loved the characters, the plot and the writing style.
I'd recommend this to anyone who enjoys action / adventure stories, well paced thrillers or just loves a great story that is well told. In parts this reminds me of some of the early Clive Cussler novels before they became too convoluted