***
“You look at me like you know me, Mr. Deal,” Anthony Gargano said.
“Who doesn’t?” Deal said. Earlier that summer, the face before him had graced the front pages of most of the country’s newspapers, as well as the covers of half a dozen major newsmagazines. “Crime Boss Calls Summit.” “Feds Bust the Party.” Et cetera.
Padilla winced, but Gargano seemed to find Deal’s comment amusing. “Maybe it’d bother you, working for someone such as myself?”
Deal took a moment, watching a squadron of gulls whistle overhead, sail on toward the spot where the old guy was still working his fishing line in the dying light. Finally, he turned back to Gargano. “Do you pay your bills on time?”
The two bodyguards stared impassively, but Gargano laughed outright. “Padilla told me you were all right.” He clapped Padilla on the shoulder and the little man had to shift his feet to keep his balance in the sand. “Ugo and I go back a ways, did he tell you?”
Deal shook his head. He was wondering how many times Padilla had been cuffed on the shoulder while hosting occasions of state in Cuba. Maybe Ernest Hemingway would have gotten away with it, he thought. He couldn’t imagine anyone else.
“President Padilla told me that he represented an important client, that’s all.”
“Makes sense. Ugo is the soul of discretion.” Sweeping his arm around their surroundings, Gargano continued, “So what do you think?”
That question again. “I thought I was going to meet some people, talk about an office building.”
Gargano nodded. “Yeah, well, we got an office building or two in the pipeline, too. Right now this is what’s on my mind. I want to build a hotel, right on this very spot. Place is perfect for it. Makes me sleepy just standing here.”
Deal glanced up the beach. “Right next to the Hilton?”
“Right the fuck next to it,” Gargano said. “Competition is good for business, don’t you think?”
“I’ve heard it said,” Deal told him.
“Thing is, we had intended to purchase the site north of here,” Gargano continued, “but Mr. Hilton got wind of it somehow and managed to ace us out.”
“The broker handling the acquisition,” Padilla interjected, shaking his head. “People get greedy.”
“Don’t ask what else he got,” Gargano said, giving Deal a meaningful look. “Anyway, I went to Mr. Hilton himself, explained how this project was a union undertaking, we’re seeking to invest the pension contributions of thousands of little people all over the country. All they want is just to retire one day without going in the hole, et cetera.…You know what he told me?”
“I can guess.”
“So many words, he said go shit in your hat.”
Deal thought he heard honest disbelief in Gargano’s voice. “So that’s when you bought up this tract?”
Gargano nodded. “With Ugo’s help. And we’ve already got a set of drawings.” He nodded at one of the thugs, who went back to the limo, ducked inside, returned with a rolled-up sheet of blueprints.
“We managed to get a look at the plans for the Hilton,” Gargano said. He smiled at Deal, tapping the fat roll against his palm as if he were holding a bat. “I had the architects work it out, angle of the sun, certain months of the year, all that.” He smiled. “Where we’re going to put our main tower, the shadow’s gonna fall in that direction, cover up Mr. Hilton’s entire swimming pool for about 95 percent of the tourist season.”
“Like a permanent eclipse of the sun,” Deal said.
Gargano stared at him for a minute, then his face lit up. “I like that,” he said, beginning to laugh. “I like that a lot.”
“So why me?”
Gargano’s laugh had segued into a rasping cough, and he held up a hand to Deal until he could get his breath. “What kind of question is that?”
“Why bring this to me?” Deal persisted.
Gargano glanced at Padilla. “Because you’re the best around,” he said. “Ugo says so. He vouches for you one hundred per.”
Padilla gave Deal a thin smile and nodded.
“I’ve never built a hotel,” Deal said.
“So what?” Gargano said. “A hammer is a hammer, a nail’s a nail. You saying you’re not interested?”
Padilla was shifting from foot to foot, looking more nervous by the second, Barton Deal thought. “Of course I’m interested,” he said. “As soon as you’ve got working plans, I’ll go over them, work up a bid—”
“We don’t have to bother with all that,” Gargano said. “Ugo says you’re right, then you’re right. Whatever it comes out to, that’s fine.”
“You’d award a job this size without a bid?”
“Some jerkoff comes to me, pulls a figure out of the air, what’s that supposed to mean?” Gargano waved his hand. “I do business on the basis of trust.” He gave Padilla, who had stopped jittering about for the moment, a knowing smile. Then he turned back. “So tell me, Mr. Deal, can I trust you?”
“You can trust me,” Deal said, “but what’s the catch?”
“The catch?” Gargano lifted his brows and Padilla resumed his antsy two-step. After a moment Gargano shrugged. “The catch is, you agree to build a hotel the way it says here in the plans. You tell me how much it’s gonna cost, what you want to make for your trouble, then you go to work. Hammer and nails, that’s all you have to worry about from that point forward.”
“Who keeps the books?” Deal asked.
“Now that’s an item we take care of,” Gargano said. “Frees you up to concentrate on what you do best.”
“That’s not exactly how I’m used to doing it,” Deal said.
“People change,” Gargano said.
“Do they?”
“I’ve seen it happen. Put a large sum of money in a person’s hand, whole new emotions are born.”
Deal had to laugh. “Say down the line, someone, a union trustee maybe, finds there’s a problem with the books. Who would be liable?”
Gargano shook his head. “You are looking at the union trustee, my friend. The trustee, the trustor, and everybody in between. So there isn’t going to be any problem down the line. The buck stops with me.”
Deal nodded, but it didn’t mean he was convinced. He had a flash of those long columns of numbers he’d been adding up back at Wolfie’s, then glanced off to where the geezer had been casting. The old guy had his pole planted upright in the sand now, was sitting in a webbed lawn chair at the edge of the surf, staring out to sea. Sure, he could take this job, make those figures balance in a flash. But would he ever get the chance to finish his days like that old guy up there, farting around, watching the sun going down, trying to catch a fish? Maybe. Or maybe he’d just as easily end up swimming with them.
“It’s something I’d have to think about,” he said, turning back to Gargano.
Gargano glanced at his watch. “Sure,” he said. “Take your time. I don’t have to be at the airport for another half hour.”
Deal stared at him. “You mean you want an answer now?”
Gargano put a hand on his shoulder. Maybe it was meant to be a friendly gesture, but Deal didn’t feel anything tender in Gargano’s touch. “You’re a stand-up guy, Mr. Deal. I didn’t know that about you, we wouldn’t be here talking. But you don’t want this job, that’s all you have to say. Goodbye, good luck, and we’re done. I’ll find somebody else. I don’t have time to waste, that’s all.” He took his hand from Deal’s shoulder and stood back, his hands clasped, evidently waiting for his answer.
Deal turned to Padilla, who held up his hands as if to ward him off. Thees ees up to you, my fren’.
Deal ran a hand through his hair. “I’m stretched pretty thin, right now. I’d have to hire a couple of people just to gear up…”
Gargano nodded at the second thug, who handed over a thin briefcase he’d been holding. Gargano hefted it, seemed satisfied, then extended the case to Deal. Deal stared
at the case, uncertain.
“That’s two hundred grand,” Gargano said. “Form of a retainer. You can hire yourself a couple of guys, a couple of girls, whatever you like. Money is not going to be an issue here. All I care about is that we”—he paused and smiled again—“lay an eclipse on our friends over there. You make that happen, Mr. Deal, you and I will be friends for life.”
Deal couldn’t remember actually reaching for the briefcase, but he must have, for there was no mistaking its heft, its thick handle resting in his grip. Gargano and his entourage had already turned and were walking toward the limo.
He felt a moment of giddy panic—as if he were about to fall from a great height and could stop himself only by catching hold of a high-tension line. He glanced at Padilla, who stared back from behind his dark glasses like a Havana pimp. A voice in Barton Deal’s head told him to rid himself of that briefcase—throw himself in front of Gargano’s limousine, explain it was all a mistake. Another part of him was already gleefully adding and reading long columns of figures, every total accompanied by the satisfying ka-chung of a cash register.
Deal watched silently as the limo made its turn and began to purr through the dunes back toward Collins Avenue. He noticed that the sun was nearly gone and that the old geezer who’d been surf-fishing had packed it in. He had his webbed chair folded under his arm and was headed down the beach their way toting his tackle box and his poles.
“Why didn’t you tell me who we were going to meet?” Deal asked Padilla.
“Would it have made a difference?”
“You’re damned right it would have,” Deal said. He brandished the briefcase between them. “Nobody does business this way.” He stopped and glanced helplessly toward the dunes.
“It does not matter,” Padilla said. “You have acquired the job.”
“I haven’t acquired anything,” Deal protested. “No papers were signed. I give him his money back, the whole thing’s off, simple as that.”
“I do not think so,” Padilla said.
“Bullshit,” Deal said. The briefcase seemed to have grown much heavier, as if it were filled with concrete now. The breeze was whistling in off the water, and with the sun gone, it should have seemed cooler. But Deal felt feverish, felt a slick of sweat beneath his arms, on the back of his neck. He thrust the briefcase toward Padilla. “Take it back. Tell him it’s too much for me to handle. Gargano’s a businessman. He’ll understand.”
Padilla stared back at him. His mouth drooped as if he were sad, but with his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses, it was difficult to tell. “We have moved past that point now, my friend.”
“Take the fucking thing,” Barton Deal insisted.
“We have moved to a different plane, you and I,” Padilla said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The old geezer had made a turn away from the line of the surf and was moving their way now. Even in the dying light, Barton Deal could see that he’d been wrong about the guy. He wasn’t a geezer at all. All the trappings were there: floppy hat, white plastic nose protector, an untucked checkered shirt flapping over a mismatched pair of plaid Bermuda shorts. But the face was unlined, the eyes keen, the movements of the legs graceful and pistonlike as he came steadily up the slope of the beach toward them.
The man stopped a few feet away and nodded at Padilla, who returned the gesture. The man turned to Deal, removing the ridiculous nose beak and then the floppy hat. No, not a geezer at all. Burr-cut blond hair, pale brows, steely blue eyes, an athlete’s body hidden behind the loose-fitting clothes.
“Looks like you got a lot of money there,” the guy said, nodding at the briefcase in Deal’s hand.
Deal gaped at him. He felt like he’d been rabbit-punched. After a moment, he turned to Padilla, feeling his mouth moving before the words would form. “Who is this?” he finally managed.
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” the man said. “Padilla didn’t have a choice in this.”
If Deal had felt unease moments ago, he had moved toward full-fledged dread now. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of it all. They meant to kill him, take the money, flee to the Caribbean in a fishing boat? But where were the weapons?
The man dropped his chair in the sand, plopped his tackle box on the seat, stabbed his fishing rod into the soft sand at the edge of the packed roadway. He gave Deal something of a smile, flipped the lid of the tackle box open, and gestured at what was inside.
“We’ve got it all on tape, Mr. Deal,” the man said. “A bit noisy with all the wind out here, but with the pictures and all, it’ll make a convincing package.”
“Pictures?” Deal was shaking his head. Instead of the innards of a tackle box, he was staring at what looked like a radio transmitter.
“There’s more wire on Ugo than a Wyoming fence,” the man said.
When Deal started toward Padilla, the blond man stepped forward. “I told you, he didn’t have a choice.”
Deal stared over the man’s shoulder at Padilla, whose mouth had not lost its downward pooch. He spread his palms in front of him in a gesture of helplessness.
“I knew who he’d been doing business with,” the blond man continued. “I made him a deal he couldn’t refuse.” He stopped and stared at Barton Deal for a moment. “Now it’s your turn, I’m afraid…no pun intended, of course.”
Chapter Six
Miami
The Present Day
John Deal stared hard at the man seated behind his desk. He wasn’t sure what expression was on his face, but he noted that Tasker had edged a bit closer to his chair.
“It was you, huh?”
Sams gave him a brief smile. “You’re a quick study, Johnny-boy.”
“You don’t get to call me that,” Deal said.
“Your father was fond of the phrase,” Sams said.
Deal glanced at Tasker, the tendons in his neck and arms gone taut as stretched cable. He’d go one-on-one with either one of these men without a thought, take them both on, if no weapons were involved. But with both of them packing, he didn’t stand a chance. He willed his hands to unclench from the rails of his chair and caught the hum of late homebound traffic out on Old Cutler when the breeze shifted.
“That’s quite a story,” Deal said. “Grifters usually have one.”
Sams grunted, giving Tasker a look. “That’s what you think I am, a grifter?”
Deal shrugged. “You tell me my old man was in bed with a mobster, you and some Cuban politician cut yourself in on the action. If it’s true, I’m guessing that you crawled in here wanting to arrange something of the same with me.”
“You’re close,” Sams said.
Deal studied the man’s face. If things had happened the way he’d said, Sams would have to be in his sixties. Possible, he supposed, but the man in front of him still looked a decade away from geezerhood. “So what is it?” Deal said. “They don’t have a retirement home for conmen? You want my help providing for the golden years?”
Sams gave his man Tasker a thin smile.
“I’m not a criminal, Mr. Deal.” He reached into the pocket of his suit coat, withdrew a leather case. The case fell open and Deal found himself staring at a silver shield, along with an ID card that bore Sams’ photograph.
Deal studied the ID. “Department of Justice?” He heard the skepticism in his voice.
“That’s correct.”
Deal glanced up at Tasker. Sams nodded. Tasker reached grudgingly into his pocket and produced his own shield. Deal glanced at it. “The picture makes you look almost human.”
Tasker curled his lip. “You’re lucky I’m on the clock, pal.”
Deal turned back to Sams. “Is this the way you normally conduct your business?”
Sams shrugged. “It’s a sensitive matter, Mr. Deal. It behooves us to be discreet.”
“Discreet? I’m not sure that’s the term I’d use.”
“Write your congre
ssman,” Tasker said.
“Shut up,” Sams said mildly. He turned back to Deal. “I’m here because I need your assistance.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Deal said.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Mr. Deal? Your father was of great help to our efforts. It took awhile, but Anthony Gargano ended up in federal prison for tax evasion as a result of our collaboration. The government was happy, your father was happy. He could have gone to prison. Instead, DealCo fulfilled its contract with the various International Brotherhoods that Gargano represented. Your father’s company not only built the Eden Parc, it grew and prospered far beyond that. Barton Deal redeemed himself, and he was handsomely rewarded for it. He continued to work hand in hand with this agency for many, many years, in fact.”
Deal stared back at the man, a terrible worm of doubt having crept into his mind. “You kept him on the string?”
Sams pursed his lips by way of reply.
“You had your hooks in my father all his life?”
Sams looked down at the desk, shaking his head as if he were a school-master dealing with a particularly recalcitrant student. “I’ve been trying to convince you that this is a matter of value for us both—”
Deal was out of his chair again without thinking. He was halfway across the desk when the heel of Tasker’s hand shot toward his chest.
The man had meant to drive him straight back into his chair, but Deal’s reach was even quicker. He caught Tasker’s arm at the wrist before the blow could land, his fingers digging into the soft flesh and tendons there. Deal was no bodybuilder, hadn’t been in the gym since his college days, but years of carrying steel, lifting partitions, driving nails with a twenty-ounce hammer, thousands of blows a day, thousands of days in a career as a hands-on contractor, had built a grip that the young guys at the fern-festooned Nautilus salons could only dream of.
Tasker groaned, his knees buckling. He sank to the floor, his face pale, and Deal would have backhanded him aside on his way around the desk if it hadn’t been for the pistol that Talbot Sams had produced.
Deal with the Dead Page 7
