“What about it?” she said. She lifted her glass to his and sipped.
“You were miscast,” he told her. He could hear the faint slap of waves on the pilings beneath them. A few degrees cooler here, right by the water. A faint tinge of ammonia drifted in, from exposed flats somewhere out there. Tide going out, he thought.
“You think I should have played the ingenue,” she said, no question in her voice. She had another sip of her drink, staring at him over her martini glass.
He laughed. “No. It’s just that I had a hard time believing the Good Squire Egan wouldn’t have done anything you asked him to.”
She raised her eyebrows. “That’s all I have to do, huh, just ask?”
Deal felt his ears burning.
“You are something else,” she said.
Deal had a sip of his own martini, which he had asked for after hearing her order. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ordered such a drink.
“See-throughs,” he said, holding up his glass. “That’s what my old man used to call these.”
She nodded and held her glass up to a string of tiny lights that bordered the railing at their side. “You can’t hide anything in a martini,” she agreed.
He turned to face her then. “What I’ve really been wondering is this: How come you didn’t tell Stone we knew each other?”
“That’s a good question,” she said. “I meant to, of course. But when I opened my mouth…well, you heard what came out.”
“You’re not married to him…”
She laughed, a sound so sudden and sharp that it startled him. “Of course not,” she said. She tossed her hair back and glanced out at the dark water for a moment, then turned back to him.
“I’ve been with Franklin on and off for three years now, but it’s not quite what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?” Deal asked.
“That he keeps me.” Her eyes were steady on his.
“He doesn’t?”
She shrugged. “In a manner of speaking,” she said.
Deal had a healthy swallow of his own drink. “Franklin Stone wants to make me a rich man,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Doing what?” she asked coolly. “We’re old friends. We’re having a drink together.”
“You should come have a talk with my daughter,” he told her. “I’ve been having trouble convincing her that there really is a Santa Claus.”
She gave him a humorless stare in return. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
It stopped him, as surely as if he were a high school kid cut dead by the prom queen. Of course she was right. Just because he’d tied himself up in knots didn’t mean she saw things the same way at all.
He tipped his glass at her. “I’m sorry if I sounded presumptuous,” he said, glancing around. After a moment, he turned back to meet her gaze. “I guess I’m just happy to see you.”
It got a smile from her. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.” She turned and signaled toward the idling bartender for another drink.
“I met Franklin through a man he conducted some business with, a man named Grosjean,” she said when she turned back. She stared at Deal for a moment before continuing. “Grosjean was the one who showed up backstage down in the Village one night, a few years ago.” She gave Deal a smile that was more like a grimace. “He claimed to be a businessman, but I came to realize it wasn’t the sort of business that traded on the stock exchange.” She shrugged, toying with her glass. “Over time, things got complicated between Grosjean and me, and Franklin stepped in to help me out of a jam.” She stared at Deal neutrally.
“There’s more to it, of course, but that’s enough for now.” She lifted her glass and drank deeply, then stared off. “Let’s just say that I’m grateful for everything that Franklin has done for me.”
Deal stared. He’d always imagined his own past—including his tortured relationship with Janice—as one for the books, but the things that Annie hinted at—French gangsters, fleeing to Florida for safety—made his history seem downright ordinary.
“Besides.” She turned back. “You mentioned a wife, if I’m not mistaken. Maybe we should be talking about her.”
“We’re separated,” he said. “I already told you.”
“Right,” she said. “She’s in Colorado, you’re in Key West. I meet guys in the lounge every night: ‘I’m separated,’ they say. ‘My wife’s up in the room asleep, I’m down here.’ Who can argue with them?”
“It’s not that way with us,” Deal said, trying to avoid her gaze. “I told you it was a long story.”
“Do you have somewhere to go?” she persisted.
The bartender was there with their drinks, then. The guy picked up Annie’s empty and waited while Deal slugged what was left in his. As the bartender walked off, Deal noted that Annie had been rummaging in her bag and now appeared to be lighting a cigarette. There was a flash of flame and she took a deep drag, then exhaled.
Not a cigarette, Deal realized, as the smoke rolled over him. “Jesus, Annie.” He turned in alarm to the bartender—a short guy with a Sonny Bono haircut and mustache—who was back at his post inspecting his nails. The blue cloud of smoke drifted over the guy’s head, then out to sea.
“Don’t worry about him,” she said as Deal turned back. “Who do you think I bought this stuff from?”
She was leaning forward, offering him the smoldering joint. Deal stared at it for a moment. The last time he’d smoked marijuana had been with Janice, three years or more ago. They had still been together then, but barely. She’d come home from a session with her acupuncturist with a couple of joints and a series of very specific notes on how to restore the bliss to their union. Deal had given it a shot, but he had fallen asleep somewhere around Step Fourteen.
Annie was about to stub out the joint when he put his hand atop hers. What the hell.
He tweezered it out of her fingers with his own and held it up to his lips, dragging until sparks flew into the dark before his eyes. He exhaled and handed what was left back to her. “It usually doesn’t do anything to me,” he said.
She gave him a skeptical look, then flicked the roach over the rail into the water. “I think you were about to tell me a story,” she said.
“I was indeed,” Deal said. He had picked up his drink, to chase the bitter taste from his tongue, when he saw the bartender rounding the service counter and heading their way, a no-nonsense expression on his face. So much for disregarding the guy, Deal was thinking, as the bartender bore down on them.
What was next? he wondered. A scolding? Ejection from the premises? A phone call to Deputy Conrad?
He was about to say something to Annie, when the guy reached for something at his belt. Were they about to be shot? Deal wondered.
“You’re John Deal?” the guy asked, staring at him intently.
“That’s me,” Deal said, his mind a jumble of possibilities. It had begun to occur to him that his thoughts were leaping in strange ways.
“It’s for you,” the guy said, thrusting his hand forward. Deal found himself gazing down at a portable phone, a little green light pulsing on its face.
“A phone,” he said.
The bartender nodded wisely. “Just press the button that says talk.”
Deal thought the bartender was rolling his eyes as he turned away.
Chapter Eleven
Deal gave Annie a look as he raised the phone to his ear, but she raised her expressive eyebrows in a “who knows?” fashion.
“It’s John Deal,” he said into the receiver. After a moment, he remembered to press “Talk.” Annie turned away, either giving him a measure of privacy or trying not to laugh.
“This is Deal, right?” Deal heard the familiar voice. Still, it took him a moment.
“Dequarius?” Deal said finally. “Dequarius Noyes?”
Annie heard something in his voice and turned in her seat,
her smile fading.
“Same one,” the kid’s voice came back. He sounded subdued, not at all the bullshit artist Deal had become accustomed to. “I been trying to find the brother that was with you.”
“You mean Russell,” Deal said.
“Whatever,” Dequarius said. “I need to talk to him, right quick.” His voice was urgent but guarded, as if he were worried someone might overhear.
Deal gave a humorless laugh. “Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Dequarius.” He glanced at Annie. What was he supposed to say? Your man is shacked up with our former cocktail waitress. “Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll have Russell call you in the morning.”
“Fuck a bunch of morning, man,” Dequarius said, his voice rising. “We got a situation here.”
Deal shook his head, trying to shake off the wooziness. Two martinis with a marijuana chaser, he thought. Not exactly the Bruce Jenner diet.
“Russell said you had something to tell me,” Deal said wearily, “but this really isn’t the time—”
“You don’t have to tell me what time it is, motherfucker,” the kid cut in. “I wasted too much time on you already. I’m on my way out of Dodge, right now. I called to tell Russell you two better do the same, unless…” He broke off for a moment, then Deal heard him curse, “Aw, shit…”
There was a crashing noise in the background, followed by a clattering that suggested the phone had been dropped. There was the sound of a door slamming, then a muffled explosion, followed by another and another. Gunshots, Deal realized. Shotgun blasts, he guessed.
“Dequarius?” Deal called into the mouthpiece. Annie was looking at him strangely now.
“…phone,” Deal heard a voice call out on the other end of the connection. There was a curse, the sound of approaching footsteps. “Who is this?” a voice growled. Whoever was speaking, it was decidedly not Dequarius.
“Who is this?” Deal countered. And then the line went dead.
Deal pulled the phone away from his ear, staring dumbly at it for a moment. No Caller ID, of course, it being a business phone.
“What is it?” Annie asked, her face a mask of concern.
Deal willed away the haze that seemed to lap at his consciousness. A part of his mind willed him to do the automatic thing. Dial 911, tell the sheriff’s dispatcher what he’d heard. Then again, he had no idea where the call had come from, nor could he be sure what had happened—not really.
And there was something else holding him back, though he couldn’t pinpoint it at first. Who is this? He heard the voice echo in his mind, and along with it came the vision of Deputy Conrad with the tip of his heavy black oxford aimed at the temple of Dequarius Noyes.
Deal felt a chill run through him. He’d only heard the deputy utter a few strangled curses—no way he could be certain it was the same voice on the phone—but even the thought had momentarily frozen him with fear.
“Russell,” he said, his eyes focused at a point somewhere in the distance.
“Something’s happened to Russell?”
Annie’s worried voice brought him back. He glanced at her, shaking his head. “I need to find Russell,” he told her. He gripped the edge of the table, ready to leap up, though he had nowhere to go.
“He’s with a woman who waited on us in the lounge last night,” he blurted. “Tall, blonde, attractive…”
Annie was nodding. “Denise,” she said.
“Where does Denise live?” Deal said, impatient.
She looked at him blankly. “I don’t even know her last name.”
Deal rolled his eyes in exasperation. What next? he wondered. Hurry back to that street corner where he’d parted ways with Russell, start knocking door-to-door?
Annie was staring at him uncertainly. “This is important, right?”
Deal gave her a look. Annie nodded and took the phone from him, then stood and strode purposefully to the bar. She beckoned to the bartender, who nodded at whatever she said. Annie handed the phone over and the guy punched in some numbers, said something to someone, then jotted down a note on a pad. In a moment Annie was back, notepad in hand.
“Home phone, cell phone, address,” Deal said, glancing at the information, then up at her. “Your guy wired into the phone company or something?”
Annie shrugged and handed over the phone. “She’s one of his customers,” she said.
Deal gave her a look as he punched in the home number. The phone rang three times without an answer, and Deal was about to try the cellular number when he heard a voice. “No way am I coming in. I don’t care who quit, how crazy it is, I am off tonight, and that is that—”
“Denise,” Deal cut in. “It’s not your boss. I need to speak to Russell.”
There was a pause. “Russell who?”
“Cut the shit,” Deal said. “Tell him it’s Deal on the phone.”
Another pause, then some murmured conversation. In a few moments Russell was on. “How’d you get this number?” he asked, his voice edged with annoyance.
Deal glanced at the bartender, who was propped on his elbows staring out toward the dark sea. Probably thinking about where to buy his retirement home, Deal thought. “Just listen to me,” Deal said into the phone.
“I’m here,” Russell said patiently.
“I need that number Dequarius Noyes gave you.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I need it now,” Deal said.
Russell’s sigh was profound, but he must have heard something in Deal’s voice. “What’s up?” he said, grunting as if he might be dragging himself out of bed. Deal heard what sounded like chair legs dragging across a wooden floor.
“The kid called me in a sweat a minute ago,” Deal said.
“So what? I told you he wanted to talk.”
“So, I think that someone shot him in the middle of our conversation,” Deal said, replaying the scenario in his head.
During the pause that followed, Deal watched Annie Dodds’ eyes widen at the news. “You call the cops?” Russell asked.
“Not yet,” Deal said. He wasn’t going to bother with an explanation. Not yet, anyway.
“Good,” Russell said.
“Do you have that number or not?”
“I got it,” Russell grumbled. “Stuck right here to the back of my license all along. Got a number and an address.”
Deal picked up the pen Annie had brought back with the notepad and scribbled down the information. “Thanks, Russell,” Deal said, about to hang up.
“What are you gonna do?” Russell’s voice came.
Deal brought the phone back to his ear. “Call back,” he told Russell, gazing down at the address. “If nobody answers, go over to this address, see what’s what.”
“I’ll meet you over there,” Russell said.
Deal tried to imagine just what scene he might have interrupted. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“You go to that part of town at this time of night, you want me with you,” Russell said.
Deal glanced at the address again, then shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.” Indeed, it probably was, he thought. He’d misheard everything somehow, imagined any connection between Conrad and the voice on the phone.
Just as likely it was some disgruntled customer Dequarius had ripped off. People probably shot at guys like Dequarius all the time. He’d seen this assailant coming and had simply ducked out without bothering to say goodbye.
On the other hand, Dequarius had saved him from a beating at Conrad’s hands. Maybe even worse.
“You don’t hear from me in the next minute,” Deal heard himself say into the phone, “I’ll meet you there.”
“Was a nice night up until now,” Russell said. Deal hung up, then dialed.
Chapter Twelve
“What kind of car is this, anyway?” Annie asked as they rumbled southward down Whitehead Street.
“It’s a Cadillac,” Deal said.<
br />
“I didn’t realize they made pickups,” she said, glancing through the windowed partition that separated the driver’s compartment from the Hog’s customized cargo bed.
“A client of mine who owned a dealership fixed it up this way,” Deal said, glancing at her. “He kept race horses and liked to run out to the stables with the occasional bale of alfalfa. He just wanted to do it in a gentlemanly way.”
Annie nodded dubiously. “So why do you have it?”
Deal paused, thinking of Cal Saltz, one of his father’s fondest friends, yet another ally long since dead. “The guy couldn’t come up with what he owed me on a project,” Deal said. “I took the Hog instead.”
“The Hog?”
“Janice named it.”
Annie glanced around the rumbling passenger compartment. “Seems appropriate,” she said.
Deal nodded. Everything about the vehicle—its weight, its throbbing engine, its throaty exhaust—suggested bulk and power. He’d never have gone looking for such a car, but now that it was his and his doting Miami mechanics had fallen in love with the machine, continually refining its suspension, steering, and engine—even its coachwork—Deal had developed something of an appreciation for its singularity.
They passed a bar called the Green Parrot, an open-air place where the late-night crowd had spilled out onto the sidewalk. A sheriff’s cruiser was pulled up in front, facing the opposite direction, two wheels on the curb, its blue and red flashers popping silently. A pair of deputies—neither of them Conrad, Deal noticed—flanked a big man wearing nothing but a bathing suit and a pair of rubber flip-flops. The guy’s skin glowed lobster-bright, no doubt from the combined effects of vast quantities of sun and alcohol. His eyes were glassy, seeming to stare off at nothing while the deputies spoke earnestly up at him. Most of the other patrons milled about, seemingly indifferent to the confrontation.
“Why don’t I drop you off at home?” Deal said, glancing at Annie as they rolled past the scene.
“I don’t feel like going home,” she said. “Besides, you need a navigator.” She held up the pad with the address Deal had jotted down.
Bone Key Page 10
