Mario’s hands tightened into little fists. “And what about our esteemed CEO? Is his address in there?”
“Oh no,” Madeline said hurriedly. “I don’t have his address written down anywhere.”
“Thank God for that.” Mario felt a sudden throbbing between his temples. “Are you sure you don’t know who this stranger was?”
“Sorry. I’ve never seen him before.”
“Have you been reading the newspapers lately? For instance, the articles about Travis Byrne and Alberto Moroconi?”
“Oh no, I don’t read the papers. Don’t watch the TV news either. It’s too depressing.”
Not as depressing as you, you worthless cunt. “Was the man medium-size, dark-haired, rat-faced?”
“Oh, no. That wasn’t him at all.”
So it wasn’t Moroconi. Unfortunately, Mario didn’t know what Byrne looked like well enough to describe him. “All right, Madeline. You did right by calling me. If anything else unusual happens, or if you see that man again, phone me immediately. Understand?”
“Sure. If you like, I could come by the house—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Mario hung up the phone before she had a chance to say another word.
He ground his cigar out on the desk blotter. The holiday was over.
He paced back and forth across his den. Who the hell could it have been? Byrne? The FBI? Even if it hadn’t been Moroconi in the office, he could have sent an accomplice. Come to think of it, if Moroconi asked enough of the old boys, he could probably find Mario’s house. …
This is intolerable, Mario thought. He would not be threatened, especially not in his own home. He hated to give Kramer an entry back into the organization, but … he needed someone he could count on. Someone ruthless. He could always ditch him again later.
Kramer wasn’t in, but Mario left a message with his point man and told him to send Kramer over immediately. As soon as he hung up the phone, he wondered if that was enough. Kramer had been slipping lately. Maybe he should call Tony and tell him to come out with a full security contingent.
Yeah. They could lay a trap and, when his visitor arrived, blow him to kingdom come. Mario would take this minor annoyance and turn it to his own advantage. That’s what his father would’ve done. Damn straight.
He felt his confidence reasserting itself, just as he heard a click that told him the door to the den had been opened.
Mario whirled around and saw Al Moroconi standing not five feet away, a grin smeared across his face, and a snub-nosed revolver clutched in both hands.
“Surprise,” he said.
60
4:30 P.M.
TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH WERE in the Big-D Pawn Shop, a barred-window emporium in one of the seediest parts of downtown Dallas.
Cavanaugh returned from a back office, her arms loaded with weapons of all shapes and sizes. “I’ve brought a vast assortment so you can have your pick of the lot.”
“Aren’t there registration requirements for handguns? Permits? Waiting periods?”
“Not here. Not for us, anyway. It pays to have friends in low places.”
Travis glanced at the wiry man in the sky-blue leisure suit standing behind the counter. “I’m surprised a prosecution type such as yourself knows about a place like this,” Travis remarked.
“I’m surprised you don’t,” she replied. “You’re the one who represents the scum of the earth on a regular basis. Where do you think your clients get their guns? Kmart?”
“I never ask questions. It’s better that way.”
“I met Floyd back when I was a skip tracer,” she explained. “ ’Bout the same time I met Crescatelli. I did him a favor, too—found a hood who’d stuck him with a lot of fake jewelry. Nothing crooks hate worse than crooks. He couldn’t afford to pay me, so I let it slide. He owed me.”
“You seem to have a lot of outstanding debts.”
“Yeah. Lucky for you, huh?” She spread the array of weaponry across a counter. “Take your pick, Byrne.”
Travis felt a hollow pounding in his heart. “Are you sure we should carry guns?”
“You want to bust in on this probable mobster unarmed? It’s an incredibly stupid, life-threatening idea with guns. Without them, it’s suicide.”
“I don’t … like guns.”
“You don’t—You used to be a cop, for Pete’s sake!”
“That was before—” Travis leaned against the glass counter. It was all surging back. Everything he had worked so hard to suppress.
Cavanaugh placed her hand on his shoulder. “Travis, it wasn’t your fault:”
“If I hadn’t had a gun … it wouldn’t have happened.”
“You’re not thinking straight. If there hadn’t been a crazy man who attacked you, it wouldn’t have happened. If there hadn’t been a crowd, it wouldn’t have happened. If you didn’t care about other people, it wouldn’t have happened. It was a tragic juxtaposition of circumstances. But it wasn’t your fault.”
The aching in Travis’s chest was almost more than he could bear. “I’m sorry, Cavanaugh. I don’t think I could fire a gun. Ever again.”
Cavanaugh sighed. “Okay. Could you at least carry a gun? That might keep someone from pulling one on you. For at least a second or two.”
Travis reached for the nearest pistol and felt a tidal rush of nausea sweep over him. In a flash, the entire scene played out before his eyes—the frantic struggle, the report of the gun, Angela’s face on the pavement, eyes dark. He shook his head and turned away.
“Okay,” Cavanaugh said. “How about this multistrike weapon? It looks more like a toy than a gun. And it shoots red paint pellets.”
Travis glanced at the weapon. It had two barrels, one mounted over the other, both oversized. She was right, it didn’t look real—more like a Nerf gun.
He pointed to the second barrel. “More paint pellets?”
“Well … no. That one spews bullets.”
“Paint pellets and bullets?”
“That’s why it’s a multistrike weapon. You have your choice.”
Slowly, Travis reached out and picked up the weapon. His stomach was still churning, but not nearly so badly as before. It seemed so harmless. Maybe he could pull it off.
“Okay. I’ll try,” he said quietly.
“Great.” She set aside a .44 Magnum and several rounds of ammunition. “I prefer something a bit stronger myself. Someone has to be ready for the bad guys.”
She peered out the storefront windows and saw the orange sun beginning its descent. “It’ll be dark in a few hours. Shall we wait till all the villains are snoring soundly in their beds?”
“No,” Travis said. “Not while Staci’s in danger. The longer we wait, the greater the chance that … something will happen to her. Let’s go now.”
He had been driving the streets for over twenty-four hours, trolling like a psychotic serial killer in search of his prey. He had covered every district in metro Dallas, and then covered them all over again. It was boring, mind-numbing. But necessary.
It was his own fault. If he hadn’t been such a stupid fool, if he hadn’t allowed that amateur Byrne and his girlfriend to get away from him at the library, it would all be over now. But he had hesitated. He had been careless. And during that momentary lapse, they had managed to get away. He would not let that happen again.
He drove all morning, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the road and the tracing beacon scanner, until finally he saw what he was looking for. A red blip on the scanner. The homing tracer was on the same highway moving in the opposite direction.
He whirled his Jeep around and crossed over the white stone median. The bottom of his Jeep scraped, making a hideous noise and sending sparks flying. Not good for the vehicle, but he had no time to waste.