The man said, "I've got a feeling Chaz is going to try something exceptionally stupid. That would be bad for him, and also for Mr. Hammernut."
"Don't worry. He ain't gone try nuthin' long as I'm there."
"Glad to hear you say that." The blackmailer pointed toward the doorway of the church. "You recognize those two people?"
Tool squinted. "The one's a cop."
"Right, that's Detective Rolvaag. How about the dark-haired lady on crutches?"
"Maybe." Tool dug into his overalls to scratch at his crotch.
The blackmailer said the woman's name was Ricca Spillman. "Your boy Chaz tried to kill her the other night."
"No shit?" Tool said, though he knew it was true. He also knew that he should tell Red, because this was serious. The doctor had gone and shot a girl, who, instead of dying quietly, was now chatting it up with a cop. Tool got up and began kneading his buttocks. He could feel the old rifle slug chafing against his tailbone.
The blackmailer stood up, too. He said, "I'd prefer to steer clear of Rolvaag for now, so I'll be on my way."
Tool shrugged. He noticed that the woman on crutches was being approached by Mrs. Perrone's brother, the sheep farmer. More bad news, thought Tool.
The blackmailer said, "For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry about what happened last week at the house."
Tool said, "We ain't done with that yet."
"I figured not."
"Hey, where's your girlfriend? The one that was down at Flamingo?"
"Oh, she's home cleaning the machine guns."
Tool wasn't sure if the guy was joking. Then, out of the blue, it hit him-that's who the picture on the altar looked like: the blackmailer's girlfriend. It had been dark when he'd met her that night on the docks, but what he'd seen of her face strongly resembled the dead woman in the photograph. Hell, maybe they were kin. Maybe the blackmail was a revenge-type deal.
"Mister, can I ast you somethin'?" Tool said.
"Nope," said the blackmailer, and then he was gone.
In a way, Chaz Perrone was relieved to have Corbett Wheeler beside him in the receiving line, sharing the burden of cordiality. It was hard work being polite and commiserative, especially when faking it. Chaz could handle about twelve seconds of heartfelt sympathy from each mourner before passing them down the row like a sandbag. He concluded from their worried expressions that he must have looked like hell, what with the shakes and the damp upper lip and the festering mosquito bites. But all that was good for his act-the grieving husband, falling apart at the seams.
Handshake and hug.
Handshake and hug.
Chaz Perrone struggled to maintain a passable mask of sorrow, but he felt his mouth twist into an ugly scowl when the blackmailer came down the line. The man pressed an envelope into Chaz's hands, leaned close and said in that hokey Charlton Heston voice: "I hear helicopters, Chazzie."
Reflexively Chaz glanced up, but he saw only a small plane trailing a Budweiser banner, heading for the beach.
"See you tomorrow night," the blackmailer said, and strolled away.
Chaz had no time to be flustered, for he'd caught sight of Ricca, conspicuously yakking with Rolvaag about God knows what. The detective appeared cordial and at ease, certainly not acting as if he'd just been informed of an attempted homicide at Loxahatchee. Still, it was all Chaz could do not to bolt like a jackrabbit.
As he was snatched into the moist embrace of Mrs. Raguso, tearful and vaguely redolent of mozzarella, Chaz was dismayed to hear Corbett Wheeler excuse himself from the receiving line. Pinned to Mrs. Raguso's bosom, Chaz watched disconsolately over her shoulder as Joey's brother sauntered over to Ricca and struck up a conversation.
Unbelievable, Chaz thought. I am so fucked.
Within moments Ricca began clomping toward him, Corbett Wheeler leading the way. Chaz extricated himself from Mrs. Raguso, though not in time to flee.
"Your housekeeper," said Joey's brother, "would like a private word."
"Sure," Chaz said, thinking: Housekeeper? Christ, she's never going to let me forget that one.
Corbett Wheeler assumed the primary consoling duties as Chaz stepped away from the line. Ricca stood off to the side, eyeing him about as warmly as a barracuda. The tripod effect of her crutches made a conciliatory hug unfeasible.
In a half whisper he said, "We need to talk."
"Go blow yourself, Chaz."
"I was crazed that night. Completely out of my mind."
Ricca said, "Save it for the jury, you sorry prick."
"I apologize for cleaning out your apartment, too. And getting rid of your car," Chaz said. "I panicked, honey. What can I say?"
"You look like shit. Are those cankers all over your face?"
"Mosquito bites. I'm coming down with the West Nile."
"Good. I hope your balls rot off," Ricca said.
"Look, you've got a right to be pissed. What I did was a horrible thing."
"Duh, yeah?"
"But it wasn't the real me. I was whacked-out," Chaz insisted. "Seriously. What can I do to make things right?"
"Besides dying a slow, miserable death?"
"Shhhh. Please, honey, not so loud."
"Two hundred and fifty grand," Ricca said flatly. "In cash."
"Really?" Chaz felt washed with relief. He'd always pegged her as a money-grubber. It was the cheeriest possible news.
"Plus a new car. Mustang convertible," she said. "You don't come through, I'll be going to visit my new best friend." She cut her eyes toward Karl Rolvaag, now chatting with the white-haired priest.
"Wait, Ricca, don't! I'll give you my answer now!" Chaz reached out, but she raised a crutch menacingly. "The answer is yes," he told her in a low voice. "Whatever you want."
"Wait for my call," she said curtly, and limped away unassisted.
Chaz returned to the receiving line, which had dwindled to a handful of Joey's friends. Corbett Wheeler leaned over and said, "They sure don't make housekeepers like that Down Under. She's a hottie."
"Yeah, well, I heard she's got the clap."
Joey's brother chuckled. "Nice try."
Chez felt someone squeezing both his hands: Rose, the miniskirted blonde from Joey's book club.
"Can I speak with you privately?" she asked.
"Of course." Chaz caught a whiff of her perfume, the same kind of Chanel that Joey wore. He gulped, hungry for more; the scent had never failed to excite him. What he remembered most vividly in those seconds after dumping his wife off the ship was the smell of her, lingering alluringly in the air.
Rose led Chaz Perrone back through the doors of the church. It was cool and darker inside. He tried not to stare too obviously at her breasts, which looked anything but mournful under the clingy knit top.
"Your eulogy was just in-credible," Rose said with a hushed awe.
"Well, Joey was an incredible woman."
"My God, wasn't she? I still can't believe she's gone, Chaz. I cannot believe it."
He said, "No, it doesn't seem real."
"But your speech today was just… you were like a rock, almost until the end. The Rock of Gibraltar."
"I tried to be strong," he said modestly, "for Joey."
"But how are you doin', Chaz, really'? How are you holding up?" Rose had found his hands again, caressing them in a worldly manner that brought a tingle. It had been days since he'd thought about getting laid, but all of a sudden that seemed like a fine plan. The perfect antidote for all this doom and gloom.
He said, "Tell you the truth, I'm falling to pieces."
"Honestly, you don't look well."
"The house is so empty and lonely without her."