Two red-and-white-striped lounge chairs lay facing the water with a small table between them on which rested an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne as well as two more Pyramid Hefeweizens that appeared to be an afterthought. Casey laughed to herself and walked down to where the small waves lapped the shore. Between her toes, the white sand felt fine as flour, and when she stepped into the water it gave way beneath her feet like clean mud. In front of her, the setting sun left the sky in a wash of orange, red, and violet.
“You beat me.”
She jumped and turned to see Graham standing in his suit.
“Ready?” he asked.
She followed him in, diving when he dove and swimming in slow easy strokes toward the horizon. About two hundred yards out, he stopped and treaded water. Around them, the sky had faded to twilight and a star or two winked down.
28
JAKE FUMBLED with his cell phone to make a 911 call.
The man rapped the barrel of his gun on the window and shouted, “Put it down!”
The man flung open the door and grabbed Jake by the collar, yanking him out of the seat and throwing him to the street. The cell phone clattered across the pavement. Jake’s hands went in the air instinctively, his eyes searching for help, maybe from the driver in the cab of the cement truck.
The truck sat empty.
“Get up,” the man shouted, hauling Jake to his feet with the gun pointed in his face.
He spun Jake around and pounded him down into the hood of the Cadillac. Jake saw stars, the impact sending fresh pain through his head. He heard the rattle of handcuffs as the second man rifled through the car. Jake’s mind whirred in confusion.
“You guys are cops?” Jake said.
“No shit,” the cop said, clipping one of the bracelets on his left wrist. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a reporter,” Jake said, his eyes still frantic for help from someone, any kind of passerby, but the industrial street remained empty. “Ever hear of the First Amendment?”
The cop, whose crooked teeth now shone in the smile of his closely shaven head, brought his face close to Jake’s and asked, “A fucking reporter? From fucking where?”
“Fucking American Sunday. I’m Jake Fucking Carlson.”
The second cop rounded the car and peered at Jake’s face. “Shit, yeah. Hey, you used to be on the show about Hollywood. Did you really meet those people?”
The first cop unsnapped the metal bracelet and let Jake up off the hood. Jake turned around, rubbing his wrist.
“American Outrage,” Jake said, “that was the show.”
“That’s not what you just said,” the first cop said, playing detective.
“That show got canceled,” Jake said. “I’m with a new show now. It sounds similar, but it’s totally different, American Sunday.”
“So what the fuck’s that to do with Mr. Napoli?”
“Mr. Napoli?” Jake said.
“We picked you up outside his house, starfucker,” the first cop said, “so cut the shit. It makes your eyes twitch.”
Jake looked from one cop to the other. He’d done a story a few months back about dirty cops in New Orleans-cops on the payroll of gangsters running drugs, gambling, and girls-and he knew crooked cops were always subtle about shaking someone down.
“It’s not about him,” Jake said. “You know Robert Graham?”
The cop snorted and said, “Of course. Guy’s got the city’s pants down around its knees. He’s got a boat anchored out there full of machines that equal about five thousand factory jobs if we bend over far enough. So, you’re saying that you’re following Mr. Napoli because of their deal?”
“What’s the deal got to do with John Napoli?”
“Some reporter,” the bald cop said. “Napoli is represnting the city’s development board. He’s working the deal. That’s the place right up there.”
The bald cop nodded toward the factory Jake had been in the day before.
“Graham wants the city to clean that shit hole and give him about a zillion dollars in tax breaks,” he said. “Some people are pretty hot about the deal not going through by now. Napoli’s had some death threats. We think from the union rank and file, and then you show up tailing him in a rented Cadillac.”
“You have something against renting?” Jake asked, smiling despite the pain in his head. “I was thinking Napoli and a guy I saw him meet with the other day, a guy named Massimo, the Italian connection. That kind of mob thing.”
“The Italian thing? You’re thinking twenty years ago,” the bald cop said, shaking his head and attaching the cuffs to his belt, “the old Buffalo. The Todora family owns a pizza and wings empire and everyone knows Massimo D’Costa’s a doughnut man. Used to be a cop till he got smart. He’s a big player now. Runs an environmental company. He’s in line to clean up all the toxic shit at that place if it ever goes through. You got the wrong bunch of wops.”
“Hey, what happened to your head?” the shaggy cop asked. “We didn’t do that.”
Jake reached up and gently felt the contours on the back of his skull. “I got sucked down a big drainpipe.”
The two cops looked at each other. The shaggy one said, “Sounds like somebody got it right.”
The bald one bent down for Jake’s cell phone. He dusted it on his sleeve and handed it back. The two cops holstered their guns and stalked off as if they had had nothing to do with yanking Jake from his car.
Before he climbed in behind the wheel, the bald cop said, “I’m not big on Westerns, so I’m not going to give you any bullshit about getting out of town, but the people you’re following around are legit, and they’ve got plenty of friends. So, I got to figure there’s a lot better stories in a lot friendlier places for you than this.”
29
WHEN SHE WOKE, Casey pulled the cotton sheet up around her neck against the ocean breeze spilling in through the open windows. The surf heaved itself against the beach outside, sighing with the effort. She blinked at the bright sunlight and the spinning paddle fan above her bed, reconstructing the night before. A half-empty decanter of port and the service staff melting for good into the darkness beyond the torchlight. A kiss under the moon.
She rose and showered and followed the scent of fresh coffee to the veranda outside the kitchen of the main house. Graham sat in a cotton robe with a glass of carrot juice, reading the New York Times.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Only ten,” he said. “Run on the beach?”
“Coffee first,” she said, pouring herself a cup from the silver urn and sitting so she could face the ocean.
“Good news and bad news,” he said, lowering the paper.
“Bad news first.”
“I got a text from our Captain Rivers. His engine blew a valve so he had to cancel our dive.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Good news is that he assures me we’re on for tomorrow and I was able to get Fifi Kunz to take us out for a half day to see a wreck I know you’ll love. Fish everywhere, like a galaxy of color.”
“Fifi Kunz?”
“Fifi.”
“And a real wreck?”
“Which is why it’s going to be so incredible,” Graham said. “I love an adventurous woman.”
“You’re just trying to get in my pants.”
Graham leaned toward her, eyes glittering, and said, “Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.”