“Fair enough.”
“I want to thank you for producing the paperwork for the Perado closing. I’d like you to go on backing me up. Pepe liked you, and he’s going to move to New York full-time.”
“I thought his son was going to move to New York.”
“Pepe liked New York a lot, and he says his son is a Texan, not a cosmopolitan. He’s already started looking for an apartment to buy.”
“How much work is the account going to be?”
“Quite a lot, I should think. Pepe’s going to start brewing his beer here, so we’ll be billing a lot of hours, what with one thing and another.”
“You’re on.”
“That’s great, Herbie. I’m out of town a lot, and I know the account will be in good hands. You seeing a lot of Heather?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t moved in, but I see her most evenings—and nights.”
“I liked her.”
“She’s very bright and very beautiful, and it’s hard to beat that combination. What’s this I hear about somebody wanting to kill you?”
“That’s over. The guy who wanted me dead was killed by the people he’d hired to do it, who are now fugitives from justice. I don’t anticipate further problems.”
“Would the guy have been Gino Parisi?”
“That’s right.”
“I knew him when I was a kid in the old neighborhood. He was always a real shit—his old man, too.”
“That sort of thing frequently runs in the family.”
“So the heat is off Pepe and his operation, too?”
“That’s right—clear sailing ahead.”
—
Frank Russo sat on the balcony of his condo in Miami Beach, reflecting on his good fortune in real estate investing. He had bought the apartment dirt cheap when the building was shuttered and unoccupied, during the last housing bust. The building was sold out now, and his condo was worth three times what he had paid for it.
Susie came out and joined him on the double chaise longue. “Frankie, I never knew you to sit around doing nothing. You’re not gonna get under my feet, are you?”
“Well, I’m new in town, and I don’t know much about the local action.”
“I might be able to help,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“My girlfriend’s boyfriend is pretty plugged in around town. You two might do some business.”
“What kind of business?”
“The kind that makes lots of money, judging from the way he spends it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jimmy James.”
“Is he connected?”
“You mean, like, to-the-mob connected?”
“Yeah.”
“I get the impression that he knows those guys, sometimes does business with them, but he’s independent.”
“Then I’d like to meet him.”
She got up. “I’ll go call Gina, see when they’re free.”
“That’d be good. Oh, by the way, my last name is now Riggs.”
“Whatever you say, baby.”
Frank lay back and watched the yachts move up and down the waterway.
Susie returned. “Tonight at seven. They’ll pick us up.”
“Sounds good.”
—
A new BMW pulled up to where Frank and Susie waited, and a handsome man in a good suit got out and shook Frank’s hand. “I’m Jim James,” he said.
“Frank Riggs.”
Everybody got into the car, and they made first-date conversation on the way to the restaurant, which was very fancy American; Frank had expected Italian, somehow. They ordered drinks, and the two men had a chance to talk. Frank was impressed that Jim didn’t have a New York accent and that he spoke in complete sentences, with very little slang. He was going to have to work on his own speech, if he wanted to do well down here.
“You Italian?” Jim asked.
“Used to be. You?”
“Same here. Tell me,” Jim said, “what were you doing with yourself in New York?”
“I suppose you could say I was an entrepreneur,” Frank replied. “I recently ended a business relationship, and I thought I’d invest my profits in a place with no winter.”
“Did the business relationship end badly?”
“Not for me.”
“Susie has a high opinion of you, Frank, and I have a high opinion of Susie.”
“She has a high opinion of you, too, Jim. Everybody has a high opinion of everybody. I think that’s a good start.”
“Perhaps we could do some business sometime.”
“I’d be interested in that.”
The girls came back and started in on their margaritas.
The evening went swimmingly; the two men split the check and made a date for lunch the next day. Frank and Susie were dropped off at their building.
“What did you think of Jimmy?” Susie asked.
“Seems like an interesting guy.”
“You think you two could do some business?”
“I think he has something in mind. I’ll let you know after lunch tomorrow.”
Gene Ryan went home to Brooklyn and put his car in the garage, since Barrington already knew what that looked like. He went upstairs and changed into jeans and a black leather jacket over his shoulder holster, then went back to the garage and pulled the tarp off a Honda 350 that he had owned since almost new. He backed it out of the garage, closed the door, connected the battery, put on his helmet, and started the machine. He let it run for a minute to get the oil circulated, then hopped on and drove back to Manhattan. It was late in the day now, getting dark.
Barrington’s street in Turtle Bay was like always—quiet and elegant. He parked between two cars a couple of doors up the block from the house, unsnapped his helmet, and settled down to wait.
—
Stone and Ian were having a drink in Stone’s study. “I’ve been invited to dinner at our ambassador’s residence tonight,” Ian said. “Introductions will be made, and I will be inspected for suitability.”
“Sounds boring,” Stone said.
“It will be.”
“I’d better send you over there in my car. Fred will drive you.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
Stone buzzed Fred and asked him to meet Ian in the garage. “I don’t want Felicity to berate me for putting you in a cab. I’d never hear the end of it if something happened to you.”
Ian laughed. “I know what that’s like.” He looked at his watch: “I’d better be going.”
“Fred is waiting for you in the garage. See you later.”
Ian went to the garage, where Fred was holding the door for him. Fred got behind the wheel, started the car, opened the garage door, and backed out.
Ian rolled down the rear window halfway. “Sorry, stuffy in here.”
—
Gene saw the Bentley backing out. He got the bike started and pulled out of his parking place, then fell in behind the car. He could see Barrington’s head in the right rear seat, so he pulled around to that side, slowed, and reached inside his jacket for the .45, then he braked sharply to a stop, raised the weapon, and fired three shots into the darkened backseat. Quickly, he stuffed the gun into his holster and accelerated down the narrow lane between the traffic and parked cars. He had to slow to get past a delivery truck, and as he did, something slapped at his left shoulder, simultaneously with a loud noise from behind. He threw caution to the wind, accelerated past the truck, and turned into the Second Avenue traffic. He could feel blood running down his back.
Fred Flicker had time to get off only one shot before the motorcycle disappeared around the corner. He opened the back door. “Major Rattle?”
His passenger was sitting up, holding the back of his neck with one hand. “Three shots,” he said. “Only one got me, I think.”