The Vig dh-2

by John T Lescroart

  "It's only my second day," she said.

  "Hey, you eaten yet, Diz? We were going to go down and blow some of my winnings. You want to join us?"

  "You win at this game?"

  Rusty grinned now. He opened the passenger door. "Big time."

  They were leaving the lot, bouncing over the dirt. "So what happened to your arm?" Hardy asked.

  After he had located the car, Hardy had a good long time to work on the plan. Though it had still been early enough to get back to the El Sol and return with his gun, what good would that have done? He wasn't planning on kidnapping Rusty. It was a long way back home and they'd have to drive-there was no way Hardy could board a plane with the gun.

  Hardy couldn't go to the local police, either. Rusty wasn't wanted for anything, here or in the States, and even if he was, Hardy wasn't a lawman. The only way to do it, Hardy realized, was to get Abe involved and somehow make things official.

  But first he had wanted to make sure Rusty wouldn't suddenly cop to the whole thing and want, say, to fly home to work it out. Hardy didn't want to have Abe fly down just to have Rusty say, "Sure, guys, I'll go home with you." Figuring he could beat it. He wanted to make sure the guy was denying it, that Abe would be needed.

  Any risk he ran in showing himself would be minimized by his own charade. He figured he and Rusty would hang out, Hardy sticking close, for a day or two until Abe could make it down, then they'd nail him.

  Rusty had a charming smile. "I'll tell you, my life isn't dull," he was saying. "I got this arm the third day I was here. I was out fishing, sweating like a pig. Dove in to cool off. So I'm climbing back onto the boat and grab the gaff to come aboard. I slip and the damned thing goes through my arm."

  "Both sides, in and out?"

  "Yep."

  "Ouch!" D.C. said.

  Hardy had enjoyed it, watching the show. He tried to see it the way Rusty was telling it, and every little piece fit in just right. If he didn't know the truth, Hardy would have been convinced himself-the flight from vengeful Louis Baker, an insurance settlement that provided some ready cash, the accident with the gaff. Once, in the middle of dinner, another flirtation with tears over Maxine's death.

  There was also the mental challenge of holding back, of biting his tongue. He had to remember he hadn't been to the barge, hadn't seen Rusty's blood on the bed, Maxine's body blocking the hallway. He hadn't visited Louis Baker in the hospital, and he'd never heard of Johnny LaGuardia, Ray Weir, any of them.

  The girl was gone now, dropped off dead drunk at her hotel after dinner.

  Rusty had driven himself and Hardy back up to the cliffside restaurant for a few nightcaps-shots of tequila and wedges of lime. Hardy thought he would get Rusty drunk, drive him home, maybe misplace his keys. Then he'd call Abe and talk him into getting down here.

  They walked around to where the boys jumped. The ocean roared far down below them. There was a grotto to the Virgin Mary for the obligatory prayer before going off the cliff. A smell of kerosene-for the torches-overlaid the sea air. The divers had all gone home.

  "This is something," Hardy said. The crescent moon hung over the sea to his right. "I was over at one of the restaurants the other day and couldn't watch it," Hardy said.

  "It's Mexico, life's cheap." Rusty was standing next to him. He'd brought a bottle with him.

  "Still. It's not done with mirrors."

  Rusty lifted the bottle, shrugging. "You lose a few beaners, who's going to notice?"

  "Not exactly the words of the burning idealist who used to work for the D.A."

  Rusty sounded like he was feeling the drinks. "Diz, let me tell you something. I just wanted to win cases. Same as everybody else."

  "I don't know. I like to think I cared about justice a little."

  "That why you quit? That passion for justice?" Hardy looked sidelong at Rusty, deciding he wasn't going to have to try to get him drunk. Rusty staggered a few steps further toward the edge of the cliff and Hardy walked behind him.

  Rusty's good hand held the bottle down at his side. He turned around, his back to the cliff.

  He drank again, tipping the bottle up. He staggered back a few steps. "I guess in a way Baker did me a favor giving me this opportunity to drop out."

  Hardy moved up beside him. "Watch out here," he said. "That's a long way down." It was time to start herding him back to the car. "So you're not going back?" All innocence.

  Rusty turned again. He seemed to be looking at the moon. "You know how they always tell us don't burn your bridges? Well, that's what I've done. I'm dead, Diz. Nobody in the whole world knows I'm alive. Except you."

  "And you like that?"

  "It's freedom. You never realize how much you're held back by what you've done before. Your habits. Other people's expectations. I don't know which is worse. But now there's neither of them. It's like being given a second chance, born again."

  "A lot of people go look up Jesus, say the same thing."

  Rusty laughed. "This isn't forgiveness, Diz. This is a clean slate." He nipped at his bottle. "How about you? Anybody know you're here?"

  Hardy decided to keep running with his own game. He shook his head. "Not a soul," he lied. "But I still feel like me. Same baggage."

  "Only if you think of it that way."

  Rusty walked to the edge of the cliff, bottle in hand. Hardy kept his distance four or five steps behind him, still close enough to the cliff edge to see a phosphorous wave break far below, the sound carrying up like distant thunder.

  "Maybe you don't have so many things tying you up," Hardy said.

  Rusty chuckled. "You can bet on that one." He turned to look at Hardy. "You think things have got to tie you up? I tell you, Diz, I tried that for about, I don't know, ten years. It sucks."

  "I gave it up for about ten years and that sucks too."

  Rusty swigged from the bottle. "Well, there you go," he said. He walked to the lip of the cliff and leaned over looking down. Straightening up, he half turned. "I guess I just don't want to think so much anymore. Or try to do anything anymore. My ambition done gone south. Especially since coming down here. I do some betting, keep on top of my game, score a few chicks. You want to know what living is, take my advice and don't go back to San Francisco. Hang out."

  "I don't think so."

  Rusty shrugged, brought the bottle again to his lips. Then, abruptly, he sat down, hanging his legs over the edge of the precipice. He patted the ground next to him. "Sit down, Diz, have a hit." He held the bottle out.

  "I'm good," Hardy said. "What do you say we head back?"

  The temptation was getting to Hardy. Rusty had killed Maxine Weir and stolen her money. He had helped undo nine years of Louis Baker's prison rehab. Hardy knew that as long as Rusty was free, he himself would never be safe. Rusty couldn't really let him go back. The word might eventually get back that Rusty was down here-just the 'might' was enough. Rusty had already killed for the life he wanted, and Hardy didn't doubt he'd do it again. And now the guy was sitting on the cliffs edge, dangling his feet, half in the bag. A little nudge and Abe's order of the cosmos would be restored.

  Hardy looked around the deserted plateau. There was no sign of life except for him and Rusty. He took a breath and did a deep knee bend, scratching the dirt. "Come on," he said. "I'm ready for the sack." He'd get back to the El Sol, call Abe, put things in gear for tomorrow or the next day, figure how they would get Rusty back to the States.

  But Rusty did not move to get up. Instead he pulled at the bottle again, barely tipping his head enough to splash some tequila into his mouth. Hardy wondered how he could function with as much alcohol as he must have had in him. Then he wondered if he was functioning.

  He moved up a step. "Rusty?"

  Suddenly shaking his head like a wet dog, Rusty put the bottle down on the dirt. He seemed to try to balance himself with his good arm, to push up, but the effort was too great and he settled back heavily, swearing.

  Hardy waited.

  R
usty lay down flat on his back, staring at the stars, his legs hanging over the cliff. "I am fubar'd," he said, the words coming out very slurred. "Fucked up beyond all repair."

  Hardy, moving no closer, nodded. "So I'll drive," he said. Without looking back, he wheeled and started walking.

  It was 12:15 when he got to the car. At 12:30, sitting on the hood with his feet on the fender, he had to decide if he was going to walk home or what. He still didn't know where Rusty lived, and he didn't want to lose track of him. Of course, he could leave him passed out on the cliff, hoping he would walk in his sleep and settle the issue, but that really didn't seem too promising a plan. No, he had to keep Rusty in his sights, keep playing this game as Rusty's friend, get Abe down here, then blindside him.

  He crossed the open plateau again. Rusty hadn't moved an inch, The bottle glinted in the moonlight next to him. His good arm was outstretched behind it. He was breathing heavily, noisily, his mouth open.

  "Goddammit, Rusty!" Hardy came up behind his head and nudged it with his foot. "Come on, let's shake it."

  He didn't stir. For an instant Hardy thought that maybe he was dead, then reminded himself that dead men almost never breathed so loud.

  He shook his head, thinking it out. Rusty had one bad arm, in a sling, and was pretty obviously drunk as a skunk. There wasn't much real threat there, was there, Diz?

  He could grab the good arm, pull him back away from the cliff like a sack of bricks, get him up and moving somehow. Unless he wanted to sit here all night, or walk home and maybe lose him.

  He leaned over and took hold of the good arm around the wrist with both his hands. It was dead. There was no resistance. He got a better footing and started to pull. Rusty finally made a noise, half-turning. Hardy moved back, letting go. "Come on, get up."

  Rusty rolled again onto his back. This was getting old in a hurry. Hardy said fuck it and grabbed him under both armpits, leaning over, off balance for one second, to pull.

  Which was when Rusty moved. Both arms came up, grabbed Hardy at the shoulders and pulled him forward, over, covering Rusty's body in a somersault, legs out on no purchase, reaching out, trying to grab onto Rusty-something, anything-but there was only the night air, the cold far moon.

  Then there was something under his feet, some small ledge, and one of Rusty's feet, still dangling where it had been, over the cliffs edge, right there, grabbable. But it moved, kicking out, hitting him in the shoulder, pushing him out into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  " ^ "

  Rusty liked the idea of bringing the bottle along, because it was much easier to fake that you were drinking a lot. You could just lift the thing to your lips every couple of minutes, start rambling a little in your talking. In any event, it had worked.

  He wasn't sure, driving back home, whether Dismas Hardy had been a turn in his luck for the good or the bad. His idea of having him stay in San Francisco, implicate Baker, and get the word out that Rusty was in fact dead hadn't, it seemed, worked too well. He didn't realize Hardy had been such a coward-he thought he remembered a guy a lot more tenacious. He could have sworn Hardy would have gone to the cops, given his two cents.

  But no, he'd run… Well, you couldn't plan for everything in this world. If gambling had taught him anything it had taught him that. But then Hardy's showing up here, he decided, was pure good fortune, a sign that like today at the games he was on a roll.

  Sure, he'd had to give up on D.C., but he knew her hotel and he could pick things up there again if he wanted. Except since she'd been with him and Hardy, maybe that wouldn't be too smart. The less they could be put together the better.

  He got out to the road running along the bay and turned north. It was too bad. D.C. really was his kind of woman -young, enthusiastic, beautiful, not too deep. Here for a party, and intended to have one. Couldn't hold her liquor worth a damn, though.

  He pulled up off the road, looking at his watch. Nearly one A.M. He and Hardy had half carried D.C. back to her room at the Las Brisas around 9:30.

  He was pumped up. Things were going perfectly, and that's when you took your flyers. The losers were the guys who didn't run with it when they felt the roll kick in, and he wasn't a loser, not anymore. He was invincible.

  Now he took a real shot out of the bottle, U-turning back toward town, toward D.C. and what he felt like doing right now.

  Tomorrow he'd find out about the body at the base of the cliffs. He'd go to the restaurant where they'd started tonight, ask if anyone had seen his friend. Of course, the first divers would find him-if the tide didn't take him out.

  He thought about Hardy. At first, he hadn't really planned on doing anything about him, but as the night had worn on, it became inevitable. Hardy would eventually go back to San Francisco. He would tell someone he'd seen Rusty-hell, the guy was a bartender and it was a great story. Next thing you know, the word somehow gets back to Tortoni or even-which might be worse now-to the police.

  He kept forgetting he had killed Maxine.

  Imagine forgetting something like that. It was interesting, he thought, and like with Hardy tonight, it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, going with the vibe.

  Maxine showing up after he'd already scared the pee out of Louis Baker. Baker gone. He, Rusty, screwing up his courage with the gun. Even with brass-jacketed.22s, he knew it was going to hurt like hell. He had his own cash in his briefcase-twenty-some thousand would have been enough had the other sixty not just jumped up in his face.

  No. Maxine had been getting too serious anyway. He'd been planning that he would just die-to her as to everyone else. But then the fool woman comes over the day before they had planned to go, with all her money in her duffel bag…

  He parked at the Las Brisas-individual spots for each guest-in front of D.C.'s cabin. He took another hit of tequila, thinking back. It was strange he hadn't gone over it so carefully before. He thought well on his feet, he had to give it to himself on that. That's why he had been such a pistol of a trial lawyer…

  That Wednesday night, Maxine had come in, unexpected. Unaware. Happy. Finally getting out of San Francisco and those dead dreams. Wasn't it wonderful, Rusty?

  Sure, wonderful.

  But, goddammit, Johnny LaGuardia would be coming over in about two hours for his vig and Rusty had to be dead by then, blood tracking to the rail, body floating out to the bay."

  She'd been excited, sexed up, geared for her new life. She'd started giving him her patented head, and okay, doing it wouldn't hurt easing up some of his tension either. Didn't take long.

  Then her shower, him waiting now on the bed. The water turning off and then Maxine coming out, dancing, posing with the neck brace on-the thing that had made them all their money, that had made it all possible. She'd looked at him questioningly. What was he doing with Ray's gun? Why…?

  He opened the car door. If D.C. was still drunk it'd be easy. He and Hardy had left her on the bed, closing the door behind them. It might still be unlocked, and he'd just let himself in. Or, even if she'd gotten up and put the chain on, which was unlikely, he bet he could sweet-talk her back between the sheets in two minutes. He was good on his feet.

  Later, Hardy would say the fall lasted twenty-six minutes by his best count.

  He had had parachute training in the Marines, though it had been a long time. What saved him was that as he lost his balance, thinking he was dead, he still had pushed out, jumping, in some control.

  He had noticed the boys diving-how the first part of the dive cleared the outcropping of rock. It was not far out. The length of the fall after that was what made it so impressive.

  So he hadn't spun or flipped, but dropped, in black panic, but with an eye on the phosphorus field forming under him, moving toward shore under him.

  Hitting, feeling the impact through his shoes up to his shoulders, immediately ground into the bottom sand by the incoming wave, he struggled for what he hoped was the surface. There was no telling up from down and he hadn't timed any
thing like when to take a breath.

  Seawater. Lungs filling up. Slamming against rock. Under again.

  And then he was on the sand throwing up. The stuff dripping down his right arm felt warm and looked black in the dim moonlight. The same moon was up there. He couldn't see the top of the cliffs from the beach. The arm was starring to throb. He'd lost his right shoe. He reached down and there was more blood. He tried to stand and another wave came, knocking him down again.

  He struggled to his feet, still gagging. He pulled off the other sand-filled shoe. His arm was killing him now. He was afraid to look at it. He sat into another wave and rubbed the blood away with the salt water.

  His eyes gradually adjusted enough to make out depressions in the rocky face of the cliff. Footsteps. Only about five hundred of them, he thought. He put one foot in the first depression. Another in the next. The right foot was at least sprained, but he put weight on it and it held, though the pain made him catch his breath. His teeth were starting to chatter. He tried another step.

  "Okay, Rusty," he said, "you want to play dirty."

  It was 3:15 A.M. by his watch when Hardy got to the El Sol. The office was a small room with rattan furniture and a bamboo desk with a glass top, under which were featured brochures of all Acapulco had to offer. Hardy leaned up against the bamboo and rang the bell. He was looking at a man standing next to a seven-foot sailfish. He moved the bell to reveal a platter of seafood. He rang it again.

  He closed his eyes, suddenly dizzy. The cuts on his arm were more painful and bloody than deep, and they had clotted pretty well. Still, a few drops of blood had splattered to the floor. He figured his foot was beyond pain, that he would walk with a limp for the rest of his whole life.

  He banged on the bell again, gave up and got around behind the back of the desk. There was an old green metal box with a red cross on it and he picked it up and limped out on his bare and bloody feet, through the bananas and bougainvillea, back to his room.

  "Who was that?" Flo Glitsky sat up in bed. "What time is it?"