But his father need not have bothered with the shimmering oratory. Earlier Kyle had decided to trust his father, and the wild success with Sorrentino hadn’t done anything to change his mind. He would trust him tonight and tomorrow and again; he would give himself wholeheartedly over to the relationship. Byrne & Son.
He was getting a sense of where this partnership might lead. To motels much like this one, with different names, perhaps, and in different states, but with the same bedsheets, the same drinking glasses for the same cheap scotch, the same drunken neighbors with their strident attempts to rut. To other bold schemes devised by his father to grab opportunity by the horns and wrestle it to the ground so that Byrne & Son could have its way with it. To a life where his role was laid out for him and the decisions were made for him and his ambitions set for him by the father he had decided to trust.
Even as the sun peeked over the desolate New Jersey landscape with a terrible brightness, Kyle Byrne peered into his future with eyes as wide as Speed Racer’s. He saw it all unfold, a life determined by the schemes and fancies of the old man sleeping now his dreamless, drunken sleep. And he reached for it, greedily, like a man dying of thirst reaching for a bottle of malt liquor.
CHAPTER 43
BOBBY HATED BLOOD.
Not the spilling of it, that he had learned he liked fine. It was the stains that it left. The whole right sleeve of his shirt was spattered with it. He had gone a bit too far, maybe, in learning what he needed to learn. He was sure she would think so. But this was no longer the sober and careful Robert Spangler running her errands. This was Bobby Spangler, the new man, born of fire, and for Bobby Spangler too far was barely far enough.
“Bobby dear, we have a problem.”
“You, maybe. I’m doing just fine.”
“Be nice.”
“I’m done being nice.”
“I like it when you talk fresh. It means there’s still a spine buried
in all that mush. There was a young man in Laszlo’s firm named Malcolm. In exchange for keeping an eye on the old goat, I promised him a job with the senator. And I always deliver on my promises.”
“Not always.”
“Don’t be bitter, it’s unbecoming. You haven’t held up your end of the bargain the way I had hoped. But there is still time. Now, this Malcolm received his new job as promised. Quite a step up for the young man. But since he started, he hasn’t been taking my calls.”
“Perfectly understandable. He doesn’t need you anymore.” “It is simply rude, Bobby. And I don’t tolerate rudeness, of any form. I have it on solid information that this young man had some sort of conference with our Kyle Byrne. But now Malcolm is avoiding me. I can’t get in touch with him, which means I haven’t been able to learn what the conference was about.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? It means the kid found the file, or at least is pretending to have found the file. He wants to trade it for money. He’s trying to set up a meeting to lay out his terms.”
“But where, Bobby? Where?”
“A sk Fra ncis.”
“No, dear, no need to trouble him with such trifling matters. I want you to ask Malcolm.”
“He might not like the question.”
“I don’t care what he likes, as long as he gives an answer.”
It was an assignment to his taste. Bobby Spangler had waited outside the senator’s office until this Malcolm left for the day. The cleaners and then home and then out for a run along a secluded path in Wissahickon Park. A perfect place for Bobby to ask his questions. And he had gotten his answers, too. Quickly, actually. Malcolm caved at the first sight of the blade. That should have been satisfactory, but Bobby was rarely satisfied these days.
So now he stood over the kitchen sink, in his white Jockey shorts and T-shirt, trying to scrub out the blood. But no matter how much he rubbed the detergent into the cloth, filling the sink with bubbles, the dark blotches wouldn’t disappear. Gouts of blood staining his shirt for all eternity. And his soul, too. Which he didn’t mind so
BLOOD AND BONE 283
much. There was no turning back from what he had become. But the stains on his shirt were a different matter entirely. It was European cut and almost new. And it would be Kyle Byrne who paid.
Byrne was meeting the senator at a dive in Queens Village at four o’clock. When Bobby had told her the location and time, she had given him orders not to interfere. All she wanted to know was when the senator went into the bar and when he left. The rest she preferred to take care of on her own. She was pushing him aside. But these days he cared little for her preferences. He had given Kyle Byrne his best and heartfelt advice, and Byrne had shown him only the back of his hand. Go to hell, Mr. O’Malley, the boy had said. And, in his way, Bobby had. And now he’d take the Byrne boy with him.
After the near miss at the house, Bobby decided this was no time for the subtlety of his .38 automatic. His aim wasn’t what it once was. So he had bought himself a Remington 870 Express HD twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun from the Wal-Mart with a tube-type magazine and a dozen boxes of high-velocity loads.
Pump and squeeze. As simple as that. At the distance he expected to fire, the shot pattern would be as wide as a small dog. Pump and squeeze.
The Remington and his automatic were in a bag on his bed, cleaned and loaded, ready for Byrne. Along with the knife he’d used in the park. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time. Enough time to keep working at the stain before he took the bag to the car and headed to the bar.
Bubba’s. What a dump. He had cased the place after he had hidden Malcolm’s body with brush and leaves in the park. He hadn’t gone inside the bar—he would be recognized, of course, from his previous visit. Yes, the fire had singed his skin and burned off his hair, but Bobby had made some additions and didn’t now look much different than he had before. As soon as they saw him inside, they’d know what was up.
So he had checked the streets and alleyways front and back to figure out the best place to wait. And he had found his spot, where he’d be facing the entrance almost head-on. He’d sit in his car, and when the senator left, he’d call her and let her know, and then, against her firm instructions, he’d follow the Byrne boy. If he followed him long enough, the boy would take him to the accomplice Bobby had seen go into the house before he burned it down. It was the accomplice who would be holding the file. Then he could take them both out and have the file for himself.
Pump and squeeze and pump and squeeze.
And that would be just the start. Because Bobby was in charge now, no longer sitting back and waiting for her orders. Whatever she thought about Robert—how she could exert her control over him, how she could offer him everything and deliver nothing and he’d still kneel at her feet panting for more—was now obsolete. Robert was gone, and Bobby was in his place, and Bobby had every intention to run free like an arctic wolf, to rut like a goat, to dance along the knife’s edge, to rampage. He would kill the Byrne bastard and his accomplice, he would grab the file for his own, and then the rampage would begin. And it would start at her doorstep.