Deal glanced over at him. “So you have a title page to some book. Congratulations.”
“You get a map of that coastline,” Driscoll said, unfazed. “Draw yourself a line from that piece-of-shit boathouse straight south, you’ll come to Vicente Torreno’s waterfront estate. That’s where the rest of that book is.”
“So we’ll just go knock on the door, see if we can borrow it, right?”
Driscoll gave him a dark look but said nothing.
Deal fell back in his seat, weary, his thoughts a jumble. What if Torreno had blown up the Marquez estate to destroy the manuscript or cover its disappearance? They still couldn’t prove it. And nothing they had heard or seen suggested any link to the fire at his fourplex. Driscoll was mistaken about that, at least. He had to be.
Deal glanced out the window, felt a start. In his daze, he hadn’t paid much attention to Driscoll’s driving. Now, he realized, they were heading away from the Grove, away from the little gardener’s shack and the swaybacked bed he so desperately craved.
“Where are you going, Vernon? I’ve had enough for one night.”
Driscoll shook his head. “I figure you can come on back, spend what’s left of the night with me, pardner.” He looked over as they dropped back down off the expressway onto Flagler Street, heading west toward the fourplex. He’d pushed his grading hair straight back from his forehead where it had dried in an irregular pompadour. There was a big scratch on one cheek and a smear of mud on the other. Deal wondered momentarily what he must look like.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea, you sleeping all by your lonesome out in the middle of that jungle.”
Deal struggled up in his seat. “Goddammit, Driscoll. I have to be at the hospital early tomorrow. They’re taking Janice in for a skin graft. I want to go home and get some sleep.…”
“We’re going to your home,” Driscoll insisted. “You built the goddamned place. And you put a nice foldout couch—Castro’s Convertible, wasn’t it—right there in my living room.”
“You don’t seem to get it, Vernon. This doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
But Driscoll was resolute, using his jaw to point them down the broad street through a series of traffic lights that were reduced to clicking yellow at this time of night. “Maybe you’re right,” he said as he turned down the side street toward the fourplex. “But why don’t you just humor me a little while longer. I’d feel a whole lot better if you just bunked with me the next couple of days. Is that a whole lot to ask?”
Deal felt a headache mounting over his right eye. He wasn’t going to argue anymore. He was going to stay calm, wait until Driscoll stopped. He would simply call himself a taxi and…
“Well, kiss my ass,” Driscoll blurted, his eyes widening at something in front of them.
Deal turned, following his gaze. Impossible, yes, but there it was. A bulky Metro-Dade fire rescue van pulled up at the curb in front of the fourplex, its red and white flashers spinning wildly. He shook his head, sure he’d been sucked into a dream now, into some horrendous time loop.
It was all alive for him, instantaneously—running from the burning fourplex toward the rescue team at the curbside, Isabel clutched tightly in his arms, his eyes scanning the crowd desperately for any sign of Janice—the whole terrible night rushing before him in a series of images…
…and then they were sliding to a halt at the curb, Driscoll flinging the door open while the car was still moving, making a dash for his half of the fourplex. A technician was backing out of the hallway, guiding one end of a steel gurney toward the waiting van. There was another medic on the other end of the gurney and a third by their side, that one holding a bottle of fluid attached to the person on the stretcher.
“Isabel?” he cried as he ran toward them, the sound rising involuntarily from his throat. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t. His limbs had gone heavy with dread. He felt as if he were trying to run through molten lead.
“Señor Deal! Señor Deal!” He heard Mrs. Suarez’s voice and spun about. He paused and stared, feeling relief sweep over him. Mrs. Suarez, her face drawn, tears streaking her cheeks, stood there at the curbside, Isabel gathered up in her arms.
“Dah,” Isabel called, her face radiant. “Dah!” She had her arms outstretched.
Deal ran toward them, pulled his daughter into his arms, smothering his face with the reality of her. “Oh, sweetie, oh, honey,” his voice thick with emotion. Finally he turned back to the old woman.
“What is it, Mrs. Suarez? What’s happened?” In her halting English, she explained how a neighbor had heard the shot and summoned her.
“Is terrible,” Mrs. Suarez said, sobbing freely now. She pointed at the approaching gurney, a handkerchief clutched in one of her gnarled hands. “Terrible. He shoot himself!” Her face twisted in anguish.
Deal turned, caught a glimpse of the form as the medics folded down the gurney wheels, slid it into the back of the van.
He caught his breath. The face swollen, slathered in blood, disfigured in the angled lights. But unmistakable.
“Poor Tommy,” Mrs. Suarez wailed behind him, as the ambulance doors slammed shut. “Pobrecito Tommy!”
Tommy. Now it was Tommy.
Who else, Deal found himself thinking as the vehicle gained speed down the narrow avenue. And what else? What else could happen in this awful, forlorn place?
Chapter 33
“Sometimes I am sitting out here, Coco,” Torreno said, feeding another page to the fire, “and I can imagine that it is our homeland.”
They sat in low-slung canvas chairs in a clearing near the lake. Coco turned from the considerable blaze, one he had built from deadfall and scraps of lumber, and stared out across the lake at the pines marking the farthest reaches of Torreno’s estate, silhouetted against the waning moon.
To him, the vast, flat landscape, dotted here and there with hammocks of taller trees, looked more like Africa, or at least like the pictures he had seen of that place. He would not have been startled to see a herd of giraffes come thundering across the plain toward them. A howl from one of the creatures that Torreno kept behind the tall fences only confirmed his impression. Much more like Africa.
“You have done good work,” Torreno said, brandishing a sheaf of papers in his hand. Coco turned back and nodded impassively. Torreno tossed the rest of the papers into the blaze, watched them curl into nothingness.
“Our enemies are many, Coco. We must be vigilant.” How many times had Coco heard the refrain repeated? His employer was staring into the fire as if the ghosts of those he feared danced among the flames. Finally he turned back, thoughtful.
“I have spent all my life as an exile, Coco. My entire life, when you think about it, has been determined by the whim of a madman.”
Coco stared at him, waiting. While Torreno pretended to philosophize, he did not require discussion. From Coco nothing would be required save an attentive ear. And Coco did not mind. Coco had ceased searching to justify his own actions a long time ago. “Perhaps you do not feel as I do, Coco,” Torreno continued. “You are a vagabond, a mercenary. As the Americans like to say, ‘Home is where you hang your hat.’”
Coco lifted an eyebrow in response. The fire was making him sleepy. He had worked hard this day. The fact was, he was comfortable here, in this chair, before this fire, which, though hot, had the advantage of keeping the insects away.
He shifted irritably in his seat, wondering why Torreno could not be content with all that he possessed. He had left Cuba with nothing and become a titan in this country. Now he would not be content until he was an even bigger titan, returned to the country he had left. The concept of such ambition tired Coco even further. And brought another annoyance to his mind.
“The woman,” he said. “She is still alive somewhere.…”
“She means nothing now,” Torreno said, emptying the box of papers onto the fire. They watched one sheet swirl up in the draft above the
flames. For an instant it seemed that the paper might escape unscathed, flutter aloft, rise out into the world. It wavered in the updraft, then abruptly burst into flame. Torreno smiled. “You see,” he said as if the little drama were proof of something, “it is done.” His eyes glittered in the reflection of the fire, and he settled back, returning to his theme.
“I could have allowed myself to accept a terrible injustice, Coco. Most men would have compromised. Made accommodation. I have seen it in those who have worked alongside me. Over the years, as their comfort has grown, their zeal has faded. Every year it has become more difficult for me to convince them of the need to support the struggle. Men like Dagoberto Real.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But now it is different. I will no longer need to beg, Coco.”
He turned to Coco, his face half-shadowed. “I have dedicated every particle of my being to the redress of that injustice, Coco. I have not relied upon the courts, or armies, or quavering politicians.” He paused. “I have done it myself,” he added fervently. “And I will have my reward.”
He took Coco’s shoulder and shook it. “Soon all this will come to an end. We will return in magnificent victory, will we not?”
Coco nodded again, feeling the heat of the nearby flames, of his employer’s intense gaze. He was nodding, but he felt resistance deep within. That nagging voice that he had heard before, and had ignored, and would ignore again, despite its incessant refrain. “Never,” the voice crooned. “Never. It will never be.”
Chapter 34
“Rise and shine, pardner.” Driscoll’s voice drifted to him as if down a well. “They’re coming out of surgery.”
Deal blinked awake, pulling himself up by the arms of the waiting room chair. He was on a surgical floor somewhere in the bowels of Jackson Memorial, the sprawling public hospital complex just west of the city. There was a television playing in front of him, its sound turned down low. It looked like a group of bikers on a talk show. One guy was pointing out a tattoo on his shoulder to the female host.
Driscoll stood in front of him, glancing down a nearby corridor impatiently. He looked fresh, as though he’d showered and changed, though he wore the same kind of white shirt and shapeless gray pants as the day before. Maybe he had a dozen outfits like that.
Deal shook his head groggily. His vision was foggy and his head felt as though it had been filled with cement. He stared at Driscoll, still trying to connect.
He’d been dreaming. Isabel was in the hospital, needing an operation. A doctor explained patiently that he was overdrawn at the bank, that there could be no operation. Deal had pulled out his wallet, wanting to prove to the man that he could pay, but there was nothing inside. No money. No driver’s license. No credit cards. No pictures of his family. Nothing.
His hand went automatically to his hip pocket. He felt the familiar shape of his wallet there and repressed the urge to take it out, inspect the contents. He massaged his face, his fingertips tingling with exhaustion.
Relief at the dream’s dissipation was fading quickly into the dread of his actual life. He had a brief image of Janice, could feel her weak fingers in his grip…then just as quickly remembered Tommy. Poor, miserable Tommy, who’d put a gun to his temple last night and tried to blow his addled, paranoid brains out. Deal should have insisted that Dr. Goodwin institutionalize him the very day they’d been in the psychologist’s office: get him in a hospital, run tests, find some medicine that might even him out…
Deal broke off, just awakened and already exhausted, thinking of yet another thing that he should have done, like the little Dutch boy, except he didn’t have enough fingers for all the holes in this world’s dike.
On the television screen, another biker had stood to drop his pants, point out a tattoo on one of his buttocks.
Deal glanced up at Driscoll. “What time is it?”
“Almost noon,” Driscoll said. His gaze stayed fixed on the hallway. “I just got back, brought you some clothes.” He waved his hand and Deal saw a paper sack in the chair next to him. “When I came past the station, the nurses told me they were about done with Tommy.…”
He broke off as a group of doctors in scrub greens and soft-soled shoes emerged from a set of swinging doors. Deal pushed himself up and hurried down the hallway after Driscoll.
One of the doctors saw them coming. He left the group and turned to Deal, who had forged ahead.
“I’m John Deal,” he said. “I’m…” He broke off, searching for the right explanation.
“Tommy lives with him,” Driscoll said.
“I know,” the doctor said. “I read the story in the paper.” The doctor gave Deal a nod. “I do some work with the homeless with Joey Greer, over at the Camillus House. That was a kind thing you did, Mr. Deal, taking Tommy in.”
Deal nodded. He knew it was supposed to make him feel good, but it only seemed like the doctor was stalling, holding off more disastrous news.
“How’s he doing?” Driscoll said.
The doctor gave Driscoll a look, then turned back to Deal, his face grim. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive,” the doctor said. “We were able to relieve some of the fluid pressure, get him breathing on his own, which is a good sign…” He trailed off. “It’s anybody’s guess, Mr. Deal. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
Deal shook his head, putting his hand against the wall for support. “Poor Tommy,” he said, hearing himself echoing Mrs. Suarez. “The poor sonofabitch.”
“We had to leave the bullet in his brain,” the doctor continued. He hesitated, as if he was trying to find the right words.
“But when we were prepping him, we found something…” The doctor paused, shaking his head. “It’s the strangest thing,” he said. He reached for something in a pocket of his greens. “Incredible, in fact. I’ve certainly never heard of anything like it.”
“What are you talking about?” Driscoll said.
The doctor held up what looked like an oddly shaped pebble. “We picked it up on the initial X-rays,” he said.
Deal shook his head, puzzled. His head was still fuzzy, his eyes burning from fatigue.
“It’s another bullet,” the doctor said. “Lodged in the tissue between the skull and the brain itself.” He gave them a look. “It was in the way,” he shrugged, “so we took it out.”
“Wait a minute,” Deal said, bewildered. “You’re saying he shot himself twice?”
“Of course not,” the doctor said. “This thing was encased in a good deal of old scar tissue. It had to have been in the man’s head for some time. Months, at the very least.”
Deal shared a look with Driscoll.
“That’s what I meant,” the doctor continued. “For a man to suffer two serious gunshot wounds to the head at different times, well…” He glanced at them. “What would you calculate the odds to be?”
Deal shook his head. He was remembering his visit to the psychologist, could see Dr. Goodwin’s expression: “I wouldn’t rule out tissue trauma entirely, of course.…”
He took the doctor’s sleeve. “Could this earlier gunshot…” He broke off, trying to phrase it the way he wanted. “Could that injury have accounted for Tommy’s mental state?”
The doctor thought about it a moment. “It’s hard to tell,” he said finally. “I never actually observed his behavior, of course. And now, under the circumstances…” He gave Deal a helpless look. “Tommy never talked about this injury to you? Never mentioned it?”
Deal glanced at Driscoll, who shook his head.
The doctor shrugged. “It’s possible, of course. He might have been a normally functioning adult before he was shot the first time…” He turned and gestured toward the operating room. “It would be difficult to determine, but if he ever regains consciousness…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang.
“You mind if I take that old bullet, Doc?” Driscoll said finally.
Deal turned, saw with disbelief that Driscoll was holding out his phony sh
ield. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it at Driscoll’s warning glance.
“I don’t see why not,” the doctor said. “It’s certainly not connected to this incident.”
“I’ll get it back to you,” Driscoll said.
The doctor nodded and dropped the slug in Driscoll’s palm. He checked his watch, seemed to remember something. “If there’s nothing else then?”
“No,” Driscoll said. “Thanks for your time.”
“Thanks,” Deal added. He gestured toward the nurses’ station. “You’ll tell them to keep me posted on Tommy’s condition?”
“Sure,” the doctor said. “We’ll see how he does. Maybe we can let you see him a little later on.” He paused. “If you want.”
“I’d like that.” Deal nodded.
The doctor clapped him on the shoulder then and started off down the hall.
When he had disappeared, Deal turned to Driscoll. “Christ, Vernon. Suppose he tells someone.”
Driscoll shrugged. “What do you think the boys at Metro would do with this slug? As far as they’re concerned, old Tommy tried to kill himself last night and botched the job. You tell them he had an old bullet in his noggin, they’d just figure he was king of the screwups, screwed up twice in a row.”
Deal shook his head, trying to understand where Driscoll was headed. “They found a gun beside his head, his prints all over it.”
“I know they did,” Driscoll said.
Deal stared at him. “But you think someone tried to kill him?”
“You tell me,” Driscoll said. “I’m supposed to believe a guy like Tommy goes down to the pawnshop, buys himself a Colt and some high-velocity loads? I can’t see it happening.”
Deal considered it. “Maybe he had it all along.”
Driscoll gave him a look, refusing to grace the remark with a reply.
Deal turned, looked off down the hallway. The doctor had disappeared. A maintenance man worked his way slowly down the corridor with a mop, sending a peppermint odor their way. Deal could feel the pieces trying to mesh together in his own foggy brain.
Raw Deal Page 25
