I pulled my Jeep to a stop near a closed Daugs ‘n Franks stand, turned off the engine, and got out. I tried to stay inconspicuous, staying out of the open, blending in with the workers, county fair employees, and the dozens of truck drivers. The air was filled with dust and the sky a hard blue. I heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie and looked in that direction. The man speaking into the radio was tall. He wore wrap-around dark glasses, had wide shoulders, a narrow waist, dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He stood under the shade of a tree and barked orders to others, when he wasn’t speaking into the walkie-talkie.
Was this the man who hung Nick out to dry? I watched him for a minute. He walked over to a black worker and said something. No limp. I moved on.
I walked around dozens of trailers and motors homes, carnival workers packing, the smell of diesel fumes and fried bacon in the breeze, rock music blaring from a set of outdoor speakers. I saw the dwarf, Isaac Solminski, stepping down from a Winnebago, holding a phone to his ear, talking with someone. He walked to a white bulldog chained under a shade tree. The little man put fresh water in the dog’s bowl as he continued talking. He turned back around towards the Winnebago and saw me. He abruptly ended his conversation, setting the phone down on a card table next to a sweating can of Mountain Dew, a paper plate with crackers, purple grapes and cheese. Two black flies crawled across the white cheese.
He said, “You’re back. And we move on.”
“Before you go, maybe you can tell me where Carlos Bandini would be about now.”
“Probably getting ready to attend the funeral of his brother.”
“Where’s the funeral?”
“I hear it’s supposed to be held in Zephyrhills, small town outside of Tampa.”
“Have you heard from Courtney?”
“No. Don’t expect I will either.”
I said nothing, watching the bulldog eyeing a squirrel.
Solminski raised his shoulders in a shrug. “This thing really has you, doesn’t it?”
“What thing?”
“That birthmark on your shoulder. You’re going plain crazy trying to figure out how Courtney knew, I can tell. I guess more than age and weight.”
“Sure, I’d like to find out how she knew about it. But more importantly, I’d like to find her before Carlos Bandini does. And you don’t have to guess why. I think you care about Courtney, the question is this: how much do you care?”
“He won’t be able to find her.”
“You hire the right people, throw enough money at it, and you can find anybody anywhere.” I watched the bulldog jump up and charge the squirrel, snapping the chain.
“Winston!” shouted Solminski. He darted after the runaway bulldog. I reached down and lifted his phone off the table and looked at his recent call history. Could Courtney’s number be at the top of the list? I memorized the number I saw most frequently called in the last two days. Then I set the phone back exactly as I’d found it.
Within thirty seconds the little man had caught the big bulldog, both breathing heavily as Solminski held what was left of the chain, now shorter than a leash. “Winston’s been acting weird. He usually doesn’t open an eye at a squirrel. Now, he’s trying to kill them. Look, no offense, but could you just leave? It’s not healthy to be seen with you.”
“He’s here, isn’t he?”
“Who?”
“Where’s Bandini? I didn’t see the bus.”
“That’s because it’s parked near the county office by the livestock area. I don’t know if he’s there or en route to the funeral. But the bus is there. Now get outta here, okay?”
“One last thing. You guessed the age of my Greek friend Nick Cronus. Made his day. One of Bandini’s goons almost killed Nick. Whoever did it rides a Harley with a skull and crossbones symbol painted on the side of the gas tank. Where can I find this guy?”
“That question implies that I know the answer. Maybe you should ask Bandini?”
“I’m asking you.”
“Don’t know his name. He’s one of a dozen motorcycle gang members Bandini uses from time to time. I saw the dude yesterday. Big fella. He rides a motorcycle. Lots of chrome. One of the carnies said the guy spends time at a biker bar outside of Daytona called the Lone Wolf Saloon. Every town or county we play, there’s always a work-for-hire person the Bandini family has on call. The Daytona area seems to have more than its fair share of talent.”
“Thanks. If you have contact with Courtney, please tell her to call me.”
Isaac Solminski sat in a metal fold-out chair next to the card table, the panting fat bulldog drooling saliva beneath his feet. He popped a purple grape in his mouth and said, “Good luck to you, Mr. O’Brien. Your face is all over the news, by the way.”
“So I hear.”
I headed in the direction of the livestock arena, a large white compound that smelled of cow manure and sawdust. Red, white, and blue banners hung from the main entrance near signs that welcomed the FFA and 4-H students. Bandini’s customized bus was parked in front of a sign that read: Volusia County Fair Office. I watched as smiling kids and their parents left with prize-winning cows, pigs, goats, chickens and rabbits, all packed into pickup trucks or animal trailers hitched to pickup trucks.
I put on dark glasses, pulled a baseball cap down to my eyebrows, and walked past the office window. Even from the rear, I recognized Carlos Bandini from his image I’d seen when the news media interviewed him about the death of his brother. He looked like a younger version of Al Pacino, short, maybe five-seven. He stood with two of his employees, the guys who’d stopped Nick and me in the parking lot when they popped out of the bus.
And now I was going to do the same, but from a different vantage point.
40
I stood under a cottonwood tree and watched the customized luxury motor coach for a moment. The door opened and a driver stepped outside. He had the build of a gym rat, defined forearms, beefy wide shoulders, black T-shirt stretched over his muscular chest. He lit a cigarette and stood in the shade of the livestock building. He glanced down at the gold watch on his thick wrist and inhaled a lungful of smoke, exhaling out of his nostrils. Ten seconds later, he dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, and ducked into the restroom.
I adjusted the Glock under my belt in the small of my back, shirt hanging around my waist. I walked quickly to the bus, looking up into its wide side-view mirrors to see behind me, to see if Bandini and company were leaving the office. Clear. Was anyone else on the bus? I didn’t know. I took a deep breath and stepped up and into the cool, dimly lit exterior.
The sound system was tuned to a classic rock satellite channel, Bob Seger’s Night Moves pulsating through the Bose speakers. The interior could have been a luxury mansion on wheels, polished woods, designer furnishings, sixty-inch flat-screen TV, liquor in hand-cut crystal decanters.
I walked down the hallway, the slight hiss of the cool air blowing through the vents onto the back of my neck, wine-colored carpet thick beneath my shoes. The door to an office was partially opened. I instinctively touched the Glock and pushed the door open. No one. I did a fast walk-through of the entire bus. No one. I went back into Bandini’s office and looked out the tinted window. Bandini was leaving the fairground office with his two associates. They were joined by the driver. I watched them point toward an approaching taxi that pulled up behind the bus.
A blonde woman wearing a miniskirt, stiletto heels, dark glasses, and a low-cut blouse revealing ample cleavage, stepped from the taxi. Bandini walked over to the cab, smiled, tossed money through the open window to the driver, and then placed his hand on the center of the woman’s back, escorting her to the bus. I could see they were entering a side door, his men boarding from the front entrance.