“What’s the matter?” Russell said.
“Did you go by the room I was in?”
Russell nodded warily. “It’s posted,” he said. “That’s when I went down to the front. One of those brain-dead parrot-heads told me what went on.”
“I have to get in there,” Deal said.
“As in where?”
“My old room,” Deal told him.
“That might be a problem,” Russell said.
“I left something important,” he said.
Russell shrugged. “Call the cops.”
“It’s not that simple,” Deal told him.
“It never is.” Russell sighed.
“I’ll get in the shower,” Deal said. “Go tell Stone’s driver we’ll be a few minutes late.”
Russell nodded. “Either that or a couple extra years,” he said, and walked ponderously toward the door.
***
“It don’t look like they meant for anybody my size to walk on that,” Russell Straight said, glancing down at the narrow ledge that ran along the rear facing of the wing where Deal’s old room had been.
“That ledge is a good six inches wide,” Deal said. “If I laid a six-inch-wide board down on the ground, could you walk on it?”
“All the way to China, man, but that ledge ain’t on the ground, now, is it?”
Deal glanced out over the railing where they stood. His former room abutted the breezeway, its balcony rail visible only a few feet away. Just swing out onto that ledge, he thought, a couple of quick shuffle steps, then back over the balcony railing to safety.
If you lost your balance, he told himself, it was no more than a ten-foot drop to the stone decking below, if you missed the thorny bougainvillea plantings that hugged the building, that is. Worst-case scenario, a broken ankle. More likely, a couple of hours pulling thorns out of your ass.
“Just lean into the building, use those rocks that stick out for handholds,” Deal said.
Russell gave him a doubtful look. “Who goes first?”
“I will,” Deal said, swinging his leg over the breezeway railing. “Yell if I fall.”
“I got no problem with that,” Russell said.
Deal shook his head and, before he could think about it further, slid his right foot quickly onto the ledge, reaching up and finding a hold on the rough flagstone facing with his hand. He held tightly, praying the stone he grasped had been set by someone who thought in permanent terms, then loosed his hold on the breezeway railing and brought his other hand and foot along. It took him a second to find a crevice for his left hand, and he wavered giddily, feeling all that air opening up at his back.
Whatever you do, don’t go ass over teakettle, he told himself. Despite his assurances to Russell, Deal had seen a member of a roofer’s crew die that way. An inexperienced laborer carrying a fifty-pound roll of roofing felt stepped out of the way of a coworker sloshing hot tar with a mop. The new guy’s legs hit the low parapet behind him and the weight of the felt took him over headfirst. He’d only fallen a dozen feet, landed on grass, and had been wearing a hard hat that was still on his head when they got to him, but none of that had mattered.
The guy had speared the ground headfirst like a rookie safety trying to take out the world itself. Everyone on the roof had heard the crack. At least the guy had died quickly, Deal thought, as he felt his fingers dig into a crevice. He got himself steadied, shot another glance at a doubtful Russell, then pulled himself along. In seconds he was swinging himself up over the railing of the balcony, relieved to see that the glass doors had not been sealed.
“I can probably handle things over here,” he called softly back to Russell.
“Fuck it,” Russell replied. He swung one of his thick legs out over the railing, then the other, and glanced at Deal with a look that suggested he’d be asking for a raise soon.
All his grumbling aside, Russell moved along the ledge like an experienced second-story man, ignoring Deal’s outstretched hand to pull himself onto the balcony with ease. “Pretty impressive,” Deal said.
“Don’t try to sweet-talk me,” Russell said. He pushed past Deal and tried one of the sliding doors. It jiggled in its track but didn’t move. “What’s next?”
Deal wiped his palms on his pants then flattened them on the glass of the door, leaning heavily toward the inside of the room. “Get your side, just like this,” he told Russell. “Now push up.”
Russell did as he was told and Deal felt the heavy door slide upward. He put the toe of his shoe beneath the exposed bottom frame and motioned for Russell to do the same. In seconds they had levered the heavy slab out and were easing it to the floor of the balcony.
“Damn,” Russell said, stepping back from the leaning door section. “You must have been a criminal in your other life.”
“I put about a thousand of these things into a Hyatt one summer,” Deal told him. “They’re good to look through, but they’re not much for security.”
Russell examined the dislodged door. “Sure as hell seems that way,” he said.
“It was one hell of a boring summer,” Deal said, pausing to catch his breath. “I told my old man if I ever saw another sliding glass door I’d quit.”
Russell glanced up. “What’d he say?”
“He told me to suit myself,” Deal said.
“Well, there you go.” Russell nodded. Laughter from a party on a distant balcony drifted toward them, and he sent a nervous glance over the nearby grounds.
“Wait out here,” Deal said. “You see anybody coming from the front, let me know, especially if they’re in uniform.”
“You sure a couple pieces of paper are worth all this?” Russell asked.
Deal shrugged, the image of the folded label clutched in Dequarius’ stiffened fingers swimming up clearly in his mind. “Dequarius Noyes must have thought so,” he said. “It’s all there is to go on, anyway.”
Russell nodded, then turned his gaze back over the lush grounds laid out below. “Go on,” he said. “I see any cops, I’ll be the first one out.”
“Thanks,” Deal said dryly, then turned and pushed his way through the billowing curtains and inside the shadowed room.
The worst of the smell was gone, but even in the dim light, the crusted stains were still visible on the carpet and the chair. It didn’t take much for Deal to conjure up Dequarius Noyes still sitting there with his thousand-mile stare, waiting endlessly for him to arrive.
He felt a chill come over him and shook off the image, then moved quickly toward the foyer closet. He pulled the door open and groped about in the darkness until one of his knuckles banged against a ragged edge on the undercarriage of the metal ironing board, lifting what felt like an inch-long flap of skin.
“Sonofabitch,” he said, drawing his hand back as if he’d been bitten by a snake. He could already feel blood trickling down his fingers. He brought his hand to his mouth and sucked at the wound, while he used his other to search out the edge of the ironing pad. He dug his fingers under the slick fabric and groped about, then stopped, feeling nothing.
He pulled his bleeding hand away from his mouth and squatted down, running his fingers along the edge of the board, all the way to the bottom, then peeled the padding away and shook it. He glanced down at the floor of the closet, but saw nothing.
For an instant, he wondered if he’d broken into the wrong room, but a glance at the grisly chair reassured him. The envelope had simply stuck to the padding, he told himself. He’d carry the whole thing out by the light where he could get a decent look.
He was trying to lift the ironing board out of the hooks on the closet caddy, when he felt the arm lock around his throat.
Chapter Twenty-three
Deal tried to get his feet under him, but whoever it was that held him was tall enough to keep him levered off the ground. His assailant had one arm hooked under his own, using Deal’s body as a fulcrum. The harder Deal struggled, the quicker it w
as going to end, he thought. The pressure on his throat had cut off his airway and bright stars were pinging in the ever-growing darkness before his eyes.
“Where is it?” a voice hissed in his ear. “Where’d the little fuck put it?”
The pressure on his throat eased momentarily and Deal kicked straight out. His feet drove into the mirrored bifold doors of the closet, caving them inward, showering the narrow hallway with a rain of glass. Definitely not to code, he thought as a falling shard of glass sliced cleanly through his pantleg. Maybe he could sue, if stupid dead men had legal standing in Key West, that is.
He’d gotten enough leverage from the kick to drive them back against the other wall, though, and he heard a rush of breath and the satisfying sound of a skull popping off concrete block. At the same time, Deal jerked his head back as hard as he could manage. It was only an inch or two in terms of range of motion, but coupled with the fact that his attacker’s skull was rebounding forward off the block wall, it was enough.
Deal had a moment’s stab of pain at the back of his skull, but it couldn’t have been much compared to what the guy must have felt when his teeth caved in. He heard a curse—or what he supposed it sounded like when someone tries to curse around a mouthful of blood and bone fragments—then felt the grip at his throat loosen. In the next instant he was free and breathing, falling on hands and knees to the glittering shoals of glass.
Before he could move, there came another gargling curse from above him, then a stunning rush of pain as a heavy-soled shoe drove into his ribs just below his breastbone. The blow sent Deal into the closet, taking out what was left of the flimsy doors. A good thing he’d already kicked the glass out, he was thinking, as his shoulder cracked into the wall.
“You fuck,” he heard, then a hand had him by the hair and was pulling his face up to meet a palm that felt like a lead skillet exploding at his cheek.
Deal felt himself being readied for what might have been the backhand swipe to follow when he heard a shout from somewhere and caught a glimpse of a form that could only be Russell Straight’s hurtling through the curtains that billowed at the door. Deal felt the grip go loose on his hair, then heard an explosion and a flash of flame that seemed inches from his face.
There was another explosion and flash and Deal saw Russell Straight’s form go down on the far side of the bed, trailing the tatters of ripped curtains like a drunken ghost. There was another flash of light then, but no explosion—the door to the room flying open, he realized—followed by a thunderous sound of slamming, along with a return of the darkness and an abrupt and overwhelming quiet.
Deal probed his teeth with his tongue, raised his hands gingerly to his battered ribs. Nothing gushing, nothing broken or piercing skin, though a good part of him might be too numb to tell, he thought.
“Russell,” he called, expecting the worst. “Are you hit?” He pulled himself up by the frame of the ruined closet, glass shards snapping under his feet as he made his way quickly toward the bed.
He was halfway across the room when he saw the ghostly shape rise, the arms slapping at yards of ruined cloth. “Russell?” he repeated.
The big man had managed to get his hands free and hooked at the edge of the fabric. The powerful arms jerked downward, accompanied by a sound as loud as a band saw’s scream, and Russell Straight’s glowering image appeared from the folds of cloth.
The two stared at each other for a moment in the reflected glow of the landscaping lights from outside. “You okay?” Deal asked.
Russell nodded. “How about you?”
Deal nodded back. Sirens sounded in the distance.
“We going out the front or the back?” Russell asked.
Deal glanced at the balcony and shook his head. “Screw ’em,” he said, and began to limp across the broken glass toward the door.
Chapter Twenty-four
The limo glided smoothly out of the Pier House’s spacious cobblestone entryway at the same moment that a pair of sheriff’s cruisers bounced across the gutter moat, headed the other way. Deal glanced back to see the cruiser doors fly open and a quartet of deputies hustle out, making their way quickly toward the tastefully landscaped entrance.
There were times when the trappings of wealth counted for something, he thought, reaching for the cut-crystal bottle of whiskey lodged in the limo’s bar rack. Who’d be using a limo as a getaway car?
“You get a look at the guy?” Russell Straight asked as the scene at the hotel’s entrance receded in their wake.
Deal gave him a look. “I didn’t see him, but it sure sounded like our pal from the sheriff’s office.”
“Conrad?” Russell asked, his voice rising. “What the hell was he doing there?”
Deal stared across the spacious cabin of the limo. “Waiting for me,” he said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Where is it? Where’d the little fuck put it? The words rang in Deal’s mind.
Russell shook his head. “Whatever Dequarius was on to, somebody must want awful bad.”
Deal was nodding agreement when the partition dividing them from the driver’s compartment glided down. Balart turned, revealing his hawklike profile for a moment.
“Maybe we should find a doctor,” Balart said. When Deal didn’t answer immediately, he hurried on. “Don’t worry about the police getting involved,” he said with a dismissive wave. “I know the right person—”
“I’m fine,” Deal said. He pulled a shard of glass out of his palm with his teeth, then poured a dollop of whiskey over the seeping wound. Russell handed him one of the handful of towels he’d snatched from a maid’s cart on their way toward an exit. Deal poured more whiskey on the towel, then used it to staunch the bleeding. He’d already checked himself over. Maybe a couple of broken ribs and a couple more knots on his face to go with the lump on his forehead, but the rest was superficial. Especially compared to Dequarius Noyes.
Deal nodded his thanks, then turned back toward the driver’s compartment. “I need to stop at a liquor store,” he called to Balart.
Balart waited until he’d brought the limo to a stop at a light, then turned to Deal, a puzzled expression on his face. “Where we’re going there’s plenty to drink, you know.”
“I’m looking for a place that sells wine. Good wine,” Deal added. “You know a store like that?”
Balart thought for a minute. “There’s one,” he said. “Down the other end of Duval.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go,” Deal said.
Balart gave him an uncertain look, but the light had turned green and a taxi behind them had begun tapping its horn. “You the boss,” Balart said, then looked over Deal’s shoulder toward the offending taxi. “Hold onto your horses, back there,” he called, and then they were off.
He swung the limo into a turn that carried them past the city’s cemetery, where, on the other side of a wrought-iron fence, a luminous flotilla of white above-ground vaults stretched into the distance. People dying to get in there, Deal thought idly. His old man had never passed a graveyard without saying so. It made him wonder where Dequarius’ body would end up.
The thought was still with him minutes later when Balart turned onto Duval Street and brought the limo to a stop by the curb. They were near the southern end of the boulevard, a spot where the shops thinned and the foot traffic was almost nonexistent.
“Tell him Balart is in the car,” the chauffeur said. “He’ll take good care of you.”
Deal nodded, ducking out of the limo. There was a newsstand in front of him, shuttered for the evening, and beside it a narrow storefront with a sputtering neon sign that promised that LIQUOR was available inside. GONZALO FAUSTO, PROP. had been lettered in smallish script on the storefront glass.
“What are we doing here?” Russell Straight asked, coming out of the limo behind him.
“I need some information,” Deal said, pushing the shop door open. “It’s a little late to try the library.�
�
He ignored Russell’s impatient glance and moved on inside, his nostrils keen to a blended smell of yeast, aged wood floors and polished shelving, musty cardboard, and suspended dust. A place out of time, he thought, a part of Key West that had survived progress and gentrification, at least for the time being. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a peg-legged pirate behind the long zinc-topped counter.
Instead it was a wiry, white-haired man who looked to be in his seventies, perched on a stool near an old-fashioned brass cash register the size of a safe. The man glanced up from a book propped on the counter in front of him, peering at Deal over a pair of rimless reading glasses.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked in an accent that seemed an odd mixture of old-South and Castilian Spanish.
“I’m a friend of Balart’s,” Deal said.
The man’s glance registered Deal’s battered appearance, then traveled toward the front of the shop and out the window to the idling limo. After a moment he gave a nod of recognition. He was smiling when he turned back to Deal.
“Balart is a good man,” he said. “We were in prison together, did he tell you?” The little man made the comment as casually as if he’d said, “We went to grammar school together.”
Deal shook his head, glancing at Russell. “He didn’t mention that.”
“Oh yes,” the man said, walking behind the counter toward them. “Castro’s prison. Both of us.” Now that he’d come closer, Deal could see that he might have overestimated the man’s age. His fine features were creased, his hair gone white, but his eyes were alert and dancing behind the reading glasses.
“I am Gonzalo,” the man said, extending a talonlike hand. “Gonzalo Fausto.”
“John Deal,” he said, feeling surprising strength in the man’s grip.
“All that was long ago,” Fausto added. He glanced out the windows of his shop again, then turned back. “Now what can I get you? I have an excellent rum just arrived from Haiti—”
Bone Key Page 17
