“You got a call this morning,” she said. “Maybe it’s a prank, but it’s evil, Jack. You should listen to it. Seriously.”
She picked up the receiver, got into voice mail, and switched over to speaker.
I was sorry Colleen had to hear the eerie electronic voice that came over the phone.
“You’re dead,” the caller said. Colleen looked shocked, and for good reason. Nothing about the voice sounded like a hoax.
I took Colleen into my arms and held her against my chest. She made a purring sound like a cat, then laughed at herself.
What was I going to do with this lovely, lovely woman?
I said to her, “Not yet, Colleen. I’m not dead yet.”
Part Three. WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?
Chapter 50
I WAS STANDING next to Colleen at a horseshoe bar that smelled faintly of an honest day’s labor. “I come here most nights after work,” she said of Mike Donahue’s Tavern. She was wearing a pink fitted jacket over a flowered dress, her long hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Colleen was working hard to become an American citizen, but I saw why this dark Irish pub with its stout on tap and olde Irish barflies made her feel at home.
I felt troubled about what was happening between us. Colleen and I had been seeing each other for about a year, and we took that fact two different ways. To Colleen, it meant “time to get off the stick.”
While we waited for our table we drank black and tans and shot darts, a beginner’s game called Round the Clock. My throwing hand was still messed up from the fight with Mosconi, and Colleen was beating the socks off me.
“You shouldn’t let me win, Jack,” she said. “I’m going to take a lot of guff for this.”
“You don’t think I’m losing on purpose, Molloy?”
“Try to hit the number eight,” she said, patting my hip.
My next flight of darts missed the mark, but I was laughing at myself, enjoying Colleen as she stood poised to throw, showing a lovely angle from her fingertips to her heel. Her first dart landed on the twenty, ending the game.
“I guess this means dinner’s on me,” I said.
She laughed and kissed me as her friend Donahue came out of the kitchen. Donahue was thirty-six and bearded. Colleen had said he was already suffering from gout.
“So this is the man who robbed us of your heart,” he said.
“Mike’s a sweet talker,” Colleen said, hanging an arm around my waist. We followed Donahue to a table in a snug corner of the back room. After we’d eaten, the waiter came out carrying a cake blazing with candles.
When all the clapping and whistling was over, I leaned across the table for a kiss. “Happy belated birthday, Molloy.” I pushed a little gold-wrapped box toward her. Colleen’s face brightened as she peeled back the tape and paper. She slowly lifted the lid on the box.
“Thank you, Jack. It’s lovely,” she said, taking out a gold wristwatch.
“It suits you, Colleen.”
“Go on then, Jack. You don’t have to say tha’ when you mean sumthin’ else,” she said.
Message received loud and clear. It’s not a ring.
Chapter 51
COLLEEN’S RENTED BUNGALOW was in Los Feliz, a homey, artistic community with low buildings and one-family dwellings packed together on charming streets. We sat in my car and I told her why I couldn’t stay tonight, even though we were celebrating her birthday.
People walked dogs in the street; kids ran by, shouting to one another. Idyllic stuff. Colleen looked down at her folded hands and at the little gold watch that gleamed dully under the streetlight.
“Rick and I are flying to Las Vegas in an hour,” I told her.
“You don’t have to explain. I made the arrangements into McCarran, Jack.”
“It’s just business, Colleen. I’m not going to a casino.”
“It’s fine, Jack. I have to study tonight anyway. I wouldn’t be much fun. Thanks again for the lovely birthday, and the present. It’s the nicest watch I’ve ever owned by far.”
She gave me a peck on the lips, then reached for the door handle.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
She sat back until I opened the car door, then she stepped primly out. I marched alongside her, past the mop-head rosebushes and lavender in the narrow garden bordering the walk. She fumbled for her keys. “Have a safe flight.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. Then I went down the fragrant walk to my car. I felt terrible about leaving her tonight, but I had to go.
The lights went on inside the cottage.
I tracked Colleen’s movements from the entryway to the kitchen to the little sitting room where soon she’d be doing her work with a cup of tea, the radio on to keep her company.
I imagined her looking at her new watch, thinking of all the things she might have said to me, and what she’d say to me tomorrow. I started up the car and pulled away from the curb. At a stoplight, I called Rick.
“How’re you doing?” I asked him. He’d been in a black mood since the incident at Glenda Treat’s. Del Rio is the toughest man I know, and he held a grudge about that beating.
“I’m just leaving,” he said. “I should be at the airport in twenty minutes, traffic permitting.”
“This is a reminder,” I said. “Bring your gun.”
“Yeah. And Jack, you bring yours.”
Chapter 52
CARMINE NOCCIA’S HOME was a half hour from McCarran Airport, fifteen minutes from the Strip in Las Vegas. I braked the rental car outside the high gated entrance to a community populated by celebrities, sultans, casino moguls, and others of the mysterious über-rich who are often the clients of Private.
Del Rio got out of the car and spoke our names into an intercom. The gates swung open.
I drove along a twisting road to another gate, this one with Noccia’s number worked into wrought iron next to the intercom. Del Rio buzzed, and then that gate too opened and admitted us.
I put the car in drive and almost immediately heard an impossible rush of water. We drove across a bridge over a man-made river, past tennis courts and stables, then we arrived in the forecourt of a Spanish-style house fronted by up-lit date palms.
It was a little hard to believe that this over-the-top oasis had been constructed on barren sand, but that’s what had happened.
A man in jeans and an open-necked red shirt opened the massive front door, showed us into the foyer, and told us to put our hands on the walls. He took our guns and frisked us for listening devices.
I saw Del Rio’s face darken. He was cranking up his anger, but I warned him with my eyes.
The mutt in the red shirt said, “This way,” and led us through a series of archways and high-ceilinged rooms, past wiseguys shooting billiards, to a great room with glass doors leading out to a pool.
Carmine Noccia was sitting in a chair in front of a fireplace, reading a hardback book.
He was of medium build, and although he was only forty-six, his hair was going gray. He wore a gray silk sweater and slacks, casual but excellent fabric and cut. He certainly looked the part of a wealthy capo, scion of the last significant Mafia family on the West Coast, a man taking in several illegal millions a week.
I knew quite a lot about Carmine Noccia. He had graduated with honors from Stanford and got his master’s in marketing at UCLA. After graduation, he’d proven himself to his father, and over the past ten years he’d run prostitution, and probably drugs, for the family business. The don’s son had never been charged with murder, but prostitutes had been found in Dumpsters. A middleman who’d imported girls from the former Soviet Bloc had disappeared. And my gun and Del Rio’s were on top of an antique cabinet in the foyer.