by Jeff Abbott
‘Do you kill everyone you pass on the street, Wart? In case they actually looked at you?’ MacKay asked.
‘It’s a business precaution,’ the Wart said.
‘No. That would attract more attention.’ Bucks thought of the Wart not as a psycho for hire but as a single step toward a goal. The Wart gave Bucks a flat look as he got out of the booth with Jerry.
‘Stay a second,’ Bucks said to MacKay, who was getting to his feet. ‘I’m going to Jamaica on vacation when all this is done and I want restaurant recommendations.’
MacKay sat back down in the booth. The Wart and Jerry Smacks gave each other a glance but left.
‘I really see you exploring island cuisine, Bucks,’ MacKay said.
‘I know you’re better and sharper than those guys,’ Bucks said. ‘And I need your help.’
‘Wow, smarter than a dumbass and a sociopath. You make me feel extra special, but I’m afraid to ask the question on my mind,’ MacKay said.
‘What?’
That this lady didn’t steal the money, but that you want her blamed and killed for it.’
‘Jesus, what put that in your head?’ Bucks said. ‘I want this bitch dead for what she’s done to me.’
‘You seem a shade more interested in her being dead,’ MacKay said, but with a smile, ‘than in getting the money back.’ The weight of an unspoken accusation hung in the quiet air.
Bucks considered his options, then put on his best negotiator’s smile. ‘MacKay, think what you want. But I got an extra job for you. Worth a lot of money. As long as it stays private between you and me.’
19
Whit awoke on the floor of the guest bedroom. He’d crashed on a sleeping bag, a blanket over him. He had thought at first he wouldn’t sleep at all, but the exhaustion zapped him hard until he awoke with a start. Looked up to see Eve watching him from the bed, her arms wrapped around a pillow. She was sleeping in an oversized T-shirt of Charlie’s that announced LAWYERS HAVE BETTER BRIEFS and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms dug from the bottom of a bureau.
‘I haven’t watched you sleep in a very long time,’ she said. ‘Traces of your face, they’re the same as when you were a baby. It’s weird.’
‘When did you ever watch me sleep, with five other kids vying for your attention?’ He rubbed his face. His whole body hurt: his eye, his jaw, his arms, his back.
‘I always watched you, Whit, you were always special to me.’
He wished he could believe it, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. ‘Did you sleep okay?’
‘Enough to function.’ She handed him a shopping list. ‘We need the stuff on here for our project. And I need clothes.’
‘Now you’ll make me feel like a son,’ he said. ‘Running your errands.’ He put his head back down on the pillow.
‘A step at a time. I’m not cooking you breakfast. Gooch is already up and I can smell bacon.’ She rose from the bed and he saw she was small, a little bent, and there didn’t seem to be enough of her for her absence to have left such a hole in his life.
Eve prodded him with her foot, leaned down and kissed the top of his head before he could protest or stop her. ‘Get up, honey. We’ve got a real busy day.’ After a moment, he did.
Friday midmorning meant the maintenance crews hit the manicured turfs of River Oaks, and Frank Polo, fuzzy from wine and painkillers, pulled a pillow over his head to ward off the invading buzz of lawn equipment. He was vaguely aware of his hand throbbing, a belch of cheap pinot grigio souring his mouth, the absence of Eve from the bed, then he remembered everything.
Morning light slanted through the windows. Frank heard a soft voice from the den, regular, even, quiet. He padded downstairs, scratching his balls under his boxers and his half-open robe, stumbled through the living room, and flicked on the kitchen lights. The room was spotless; Eve liked a clean house. Her devotion to tidiness and detail was part of the calm precision that attracted him to her. Nothing like him, all disarray and clothes jumbled on the floor.
He noticed before he clicked on the lights that the coffee machine was already on, a pot full.
‘A setback is an opportunity,’ the soft voice said. ‘A setback is a time to reevaluate our goals, our aims, and our methods in actualizing our achievements.’ The tape player was at Bucks’ elbow and Bucks sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in his hands.
‘Sleeping beauty,’ Bucks said. ‘Good morning. I had an unpleasant night.’ He turned off the tape, more of that self-help oatmeal he swallowed day and night.
‘I bet you’re gonna have a shitty day, too.’ Frank poured coffee into his mug. ‘So how’d you sleep?’
‘The situation has changed, Frank.’
‘Changed.’
‘Nicky Lott and Terry Verdine followed two smart-asses who came by the club last night looking for Eve. They tailed the guys to the Pie Shack on Kirby. Eve shows up. She met with both of the guys, then one. Nicky, being a fucking idiot, decided the fastest way to nail Eve and make Paul happy was to blaze guns. He opened fire on Eve and the guy through the restaurant window.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Frank felt his heart drop to his feet.
‘The guys fired back, they got away with Eve. Killed Nicky. Shootout’s all over the news.’ Bucks ran his hand through his hair. ‘The cops will ID Nicky fast. He has a tiny possession record but nothing but hearsay to tie him to Paul. A woman got killed, people got hurt. This was exactly what we don’t need.’
‘My God.’
‘I got Max watching the Pie Shack. Her car is still parked there. The police are all over the lot, and they’ll be running a license check on every car. They’ll ask questions. So your penance starts right now, Frank. I want you to go pick up Eve’s car.’
‘Okay.’ Frank sat. ‘How do I explain leaving it behind?’
‘Tell ’em you were at the shooting, panicked, walked home, now you’re coming back to get it.’
‘That’s a bit of a walk,’ Frank said.
‘Frank.’ Bucks remembered Chad Charming’s Thinklt, Livelt! rule 23: Patience never wears thin, it’s always in style. ‘You got the keys that fit the car, they’re not gonna question you. Tell them you heard shots, didn’t see anything, ran. Tell them you were meeting a secret girlfriend there and you didn’t want your regular woman to know about it. I don’t care. Go get the car back. And try not to steal it.’
Frank ignored the jab. ‘Fine.’
‘Have you talked to her?’ Bucks asked. ‘Truth please.’
‘I tried to call her again. I couldn’t reach her.’ Frank set down his coffee, inspected the bandage on his hand.
‘Who are these new friends of hers, Frank? She had partners in stealing this money.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Get one.’
‘If she was planning this and cutting me out, she’s not gonna use people I can point to in five seconds,’ Frank said. ‘Does MBA stand for Moron Boy Association, Bucks?’
Bucks threw the coffee from his cup into Frank’s face.
A cry caught and died in Frank’s throat. The coffee was cool, milky, sweet. Not hot. He blinked at Bucks, who smiled and went to the counter and refilled his cup. Steam rose around his fingers.
‘Chad Channing says you should contemplate before you speak. Very sound advice, Frank. Now contemplate harder. Eve has partners. Who could they be?’
Frank went to the sink, wet a paper towel, mopped his face. ‘Anyone who wants to take us down. The other drug rings in town. Jamaicans. East Coasters. A few people connected to the New Orleans cartels. Or even our buddy Kiko.’
Bucks’ mouth twitched. ‘Does the name Whitman Mosley mean anything to you?’
Frank frowned. ‘Whitman Mosley. No. Sounds like an ad agency or a law firm.’
‘You ever hear Eve mention guys named Michael or Leonard?’
‘No.’ Frank gave Bucks a crooked smile. ‘If it’s another crime ring that’s working with Eve and they’ve stolen Paul’s investment, you’re cooked. You don
’t have the men, the resources to fight.’
‘I got every guy here in Houston to fight for Paul.’
‘Didn’t they teach you economics?’ Frank said. ‘Paul has lost five million. So no money, no cocaine deal. How exactly is Paul gonna keep the cash flowing? The club doesn’t make enough for the large-scale drug purchases he wants. How’s he gonna keep the muscle for enforcement, the money to grease the necessary palms?’ Frank shook his head again. ‘You like your balls in a meat grinder?’
Bucks clicked his tongue. ‘You know, my niece, she loves your records. She has those seventies-themed parties now and then. Of course to her it’s ancient history.’
‘That’s cool,’ Frank said.
‘She’s thirteen. That age of complete cluelessness. They dress in bell-bottoms, ugly shirts, gold chains. All that junk you used to wear trying to look like a bad-ass when you looked like a clown. They call the parties trash disco.’
‘Yeah,’ Frank said. Waiting.
‘You see, to her, it’s funny,’ Bucks said. ‘How stupid the clothes were. How bad the music was. Your whole life, it’s a joke to people, Frank.’
‘And you’re what? A supernoble Bob Dylan fan, one of those “lyrics matter” music Nazis?’
‘I don’t like any music,’ Bucks said.
‘That’s what makes you a freak,’ Frank said.
‘I’m going to offer you important advice,’ Bucks said. ‘Ditch the negativity.’
‘You got that from a self-help tape, didn’t you?’
Bucks’ eyes narrowed, and Frank saw the man’s eyes shift, the ugliness gather.
‘Every time I’ve killed,’ Bucks said, ‘I’ve used a gun. But Chad Channing says you need to expand your skill range, to meet new challenges. So if I kill you, Frank, I’m not using a gun. I’m beating you to death. First your kidneys, your major organs. Then your arms, your legs. Your throat. I’ll save your face for last.’ Bucks took a calming breath. ‘Her computer. Where is it?’
‘Upstairs.’ Frank’s voice was weak.
Bucks’ cell phone rang. ‘Yeah?’ he said. A pause, then naked shock on Bucks’ face.
‘All right,’ Bucks said. ‘Follow him if they let him have the car. Call me right back.’ He made his hand into a revolver, snapped fingers at Frank. ‘You got one minute to get your pants on and be out in my car. Some dink’s picking up Eve’s Mercedes.’
Frank ran. Bucks hurried out to his Jaguar and in thirty seconds Frank ran back out, pulling a shirt on, the pants not even zipped up all the way before he jumped in the car. Bucks backed the Jag out of the driveway, went past River Oaks Park, headed toward Kirby.
‘Who’s the guy? One of her partners?’ Frank asked, breathless.
‘Better be that son of a bitch that punched me,’ Bucks said under his breath.
‘I thought you fell into a railing,’ Frank said.
20
From a van idling on the other side of the thin strip of River Oaks Park, Whit watched the Jag speed away. Then he drove around to the side of the park that faced onto Locke, parked a block away, got out of the van. He jogged down the street, Eve’s house key in his hand, a backpack over his shoulder. He walked up to his mother’s house like it was exactly where he belonged.
Whit slid the key home, turned the lock, waited for the warning br-reep of the alarm Eve had mentioned. But it wasn’t armed, and there was only the soft chirp the alarm made when he opened the door. Bucks and Frank Polo hadn’t set the alarm when they rushed out. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
His mother’s house. He took two steps into the marbled foyer. A scent of coffee touched the air. The house was French Provincial in design on the exterior and the inside was simple but tastefully decorated. The Bellinis owned the house and it was a disco king’s castle, so Whit expected gold-necklace thug decor. But the antiques looked authentic, the dirty plates in the sink were actually fine china, and when he peered into the acreage of den beyond the kitchen he saw a TV as big as a giant’s eye and leather-upholstered furniture to seat twelve.
He took the knapsack off his shoulder, scooted on his butt underneath the huge oak kitchen table, and pulled the knapsack under the table with him. It was heavy; he had gone at ten this morning, when a Radio Shack off Kirby opened, and bought out the supply of small digital voice recorders. They needed to know what Bucks knew, and since Bucks’ Jag was parked in front of Eve’s house at 7 a.m. when Gooch drove by, Eve decided that Bucks was still sticking close to Frank Polo.
Whit unrolled a hunk of black duct tape with his teeth, checked the settings on the voice-activated recorder, and carefully attached the small device to the bottom of the kitchen table. He tore another chunk of tape loose, affixed it to the bottom part of the recorder, being exact so he didn’t cover the microphone. He tugged on his eavesdropping device; it didn’t give.
Illegally taped conversations would never stand up in court. But right now court didn’t matter, and he wasn’t trying to get evidence of actual crimes. He wanted to know what they were planning against his mother. Eve wanted to hear what Bucks said if he incriminated himself, so she would have evidence for Paul. Transmitters would be better, since he wouldn’t have to come back in a day to see if they’d gotten any results, but time had been short and he simply went with what was most expedient.
Whit slid out from under the kitchen table, headed into the huge den. A wall of old leather-bound books bought by the decorative yard rather than for their literary value lined one side of the mammoth TV. A thin layer of dust lay atop the gilded pages. He checked another recorder, stuck it behind the thick editions of Moby Dick and War and Peace, deciding they were safe from Frank’s, or Bucks’ interest.
He hurried upstairs, his feet quiet on the soft plush of the carpets. Down an upstairs hall he found the master bedroom. A mess, as though it had been searched. Probably by Bucks. A suit of clothes, stained with blood on the lapels and front, lay on the floor in a heap. He hoped he wouldn’t find a corpse in the tub. There wasn’t one.
One of the side tables was draped in silk, and he slid under its tenting to attach a digital recorder to its underside. There. Whit stood. The final request Eve had made was to copy the hard drive on her home computer.
I’ve got enough info there to put Paul away. If the worst happens to me, Whit, you need it for protection, she’d said over the morning coffee. Assuming Paul or Bucks hadn’t already moved it or erased it.
He found the office down the hall from the bedroom. Clean, tidy, no files, no papers out for the casual observer. He sat down in front of the PC and powered on the machine. It began its start-up whir.
Downstairs, the front door opened, the alarm system gave a little ping. Then the door shut.
He got up, went to the top of the stairs, moving silently.
Behind him the PC played its quiet but annoying startup fanfare. In a bedroom across the hall he peered out past a drape to the front driveway; a Honda that hadn’t been there before sat parked across the street. Whit moved quietly back into Eve’s office, thinking: I am so screwed.
He heard movement downstairs, heels on tile, then silence. Then the soft pad of feet on the carpeted stairs.
Whit drew the pistol Gooch had given him from the knapsack. He stepped back into the room’s small closet and eased the door shut. Most of the way. He could see the PC’s start-up screen completed, icons against a black background.
‘Frank?’ a voice called out. A woman’s voice, a little throaty. He listened for more than one tread. Footsteps went by the office door, down toward the master bedroom. ‘Frank Bucks? You here?’
Then the quiet again. He heard movement centering around the bedroom. The intruder checking out the room. He concentrated on breathing without sound. He squatted in the closet, a fur coat tickling his right cheek and throat, a long tweed coat itchy on the other side of his face. Clothes you could wear for five whole minutes in a Houston winter. He pointed the barrel of the gun toward the closet door.
You
going to shoot another person? In cold blood?
He counted. Frank and Bucks could return at any second. He didn’t have forever to get out of this house.
Now footsteps approached from down the hall. On the PC screen, the desktop blanked into a colorful array of bubbles bouncing around the monitor. He figured whoever the other intruder was, she hadn’t heard the PC’s annoying trill.
A figure passed before the crack in the closet. Then took a seat at the system, pulled the office chair close to the desk.
He could see her back. A young woman, dressed in a dark blouse, black leather slacks. She turned, he saw her profile.
Tasha. The beautiful stripper with the computer equipment as her gimmick.
He watched her fingers dance on the keyboard, saw slivers of screens appear on the monitor. She took a CD out of her purse, popped it in the tray, moused around the screen. He heard the whir of the hard drive, the whine of processing.
Tasha sat back.
She was working on the computer. What? Copying files? Deleting them by reformatting the hard drive? Sweat inched along his ribs. She could be destroying the evidence Eve needed to dangle over Paul’s head. His teeth bit into his bottom lip. But if he showed himself, what would he have to do to her? He wasn’t going to hurt her and she could tell Frank and Bucks that he’d been in the house. If they had half a brain they’d search it then, find the voice recorders.
But why was she here when they were gone? She’d called their names, parked in the driveway, must’ve had a key to open the door.
He heard the click of keys being pressed.
‘Baby, they’re not here.’ She was talking on a cell phone. ‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m getting it done. We’re good to go.’ A pause. Whit was suddenly conscious of every inch of his body itching, of sweat that felt like it was pooling in his shoes. ‘You ordered the hit yet?’
Whit closed his eyes. There was a long pause.
‘I don’t want details,’ she said. ‘Don’t go there. We ought to go down to the Caribbean for a few days, have a holiday.’ Another pause. ‘Don’t get all pissy-ass on me.’ Pause. ‘That’s right, that’s right.’
