“Edmund, what’s the address again?” Nico asked, readjusting the blanket on Edmund’s chest as they approached the red light at the end of the ramp.
8385 Okeechobee Boulevard.
Nodding to himself, Nico leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck past the steering wheel to get a better look at the street that ran perpendicular in front of them. On his right, the light traffic coasted past gas stations and a lawn-mower repair shop. On his left, the open blue water of Clear Lake ran in front of the Performing Arts Center, while a green highway sign pointed toward the beautiful high-rises in the distance. In the photo Nico stole, Wes was broken, shattered, corrupted by Boyle’s touch. Nothing beautiful about him.
Tugging the wheel to the right, Nico cut off the same white Lexus, who bitched with his horn for a good five seconds. Not hearing it, Nico pumped the gas and dove into traffic.
“Can you read that one?” Nico asked as he pointed to the address on a nearby car dealership. A droplet of rain whizzed through the sunroof and flicked Edmund on the cheek.
2701.
“What about that one?” Nico asked, pointing to a cash-advance store half a block ahead.
That one’s, lemme see… 2727.
Nico beamed with a beady twinkle in his eyes and hit the gas even harder.
Breathtaking work, Nico. Lord’s definitely on your side with this one.
Thinking the exact same thing, Nico reached for the wooden rosary beads that swayed from the Pontiac’s rearview. “Do you mind, Edmund?”
I’d be honored. You’ve earned them, my son.
My son. Nico sat bolt upright at the words. Surely, Edmund knew what they meant… and once Nico heard them, he could smell the black licorice and hickory whiff of his dad’s old hand-rolled cigars. Back when… back before Mom got sick. When they’d go to church. When things were good. Barely able to hide his grin, Nico nodded over and over as he slipped the rosary beads around his neck and glanced back at the passenger seat.
What? What’s wrong, Nico?
“Nothing… I just…” He nodded again and took another deep breath of black licorice. “I’m happy,” he said. “And in a few more minutes, Mom — like Dad — is finally gonna get her justice.”
89
Five minutes ago, I started telling Rogo the story about The Four, and the note from Boyle, and what Lisbeth said about Dreidel. Under normal circumstances, Rogo would’ve been screaming for a fistfight and stacking up the I-told-you-sos. But like any good actor, he’s well aware of his audience.
“What’s he saying?” Dreidel asks in the background.
“Tell him the Mannings gave me tomorrow off,” I shoot back through the phone, my newfound anger barely covering my still-smoldering anxieties.
“The Mannings gave him tomorrow off — just to calm down from all the Nico mess,” Rogo says like an old pro. Back to me, he adds, “You have any idea why he did it?”
“Who? Manning? I have no idea — the First Lady said maybe they suckered him. All I know is when The Three recruited Boyle, they were blackmailing him with this supposed kid. But to get something on a sitting President of the United States…”
“… we’re talking one hell of a secret,” he agrees. “Wes, you’re gonna need to be careful.”
“Careful of what?” Dreidel interrupts, clearly frustrated. “What’s he saying?”
“Rogo,” I warn, “don’t give him—”
“Just relax, okay? We’re talking about O’Shea and Micah,” Rogo says, clearly in control. When Dreidel doesn’t respond, I wonder if I’m being too harsh. Even if what Lisbeth said is true — about Manning and Dreidel being ranked the same…
“Ask Wes if he wants to meet up,” Dreidel calls out in the background. “Just so we can compare our notes in one place.”
“Actually, that’s a great idea,” Rogo says. For Dreidel, Rogo’s tone is completely enthusiastic. For me, his undertone is just as clear: He’d gnaw his own thumbs off before letting that meeting ever happen.
As Rogo continues to hold him at bay, I make a sharp right out of the rush-hour traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard and cut through the wide-open space of the Publix supermarket parking lot. It’s not my usual path, but as I check the rearview, the vast emptiness of the lot is the best way to see I’m still alone.
“So when should we meet?” Rogo asks, still trying to keep Dreidel happy.
“I assume you’re joking, right?” I ask, looping back through the parking lot and following the narrow two-lane street to the familiar building at the end of the block.
“Ya-huh… of course.”
“Fine, then just keep him away,” I say. “Away from me and away from Boyle.”
“Dammit, Rogo, you missed the turn!” Dreidel shouts in the background. “The on-ramp’s back that way!”
Without a word, I know Rogo understands. By the time they get to Dr. Eng’s office, then back to Palm Beach, Dreidel’s officially one less crisis I have to deal with.
“Okay, eight o’clock tonight at Dreidel’s hotel — you got it, Wes,” Rogo says. “Ya-huh, yeah… of course,” he adds, even though I’m silent. Through the phone, he takes a deep breath. His voice slows down. “Just make sure you’re safe, okay?” I know that tone. The last time I heard it, he was standing by my hospital bed. “I’m serious, Wes. Be safe.”
“I will,” I tell him as a sharp right takes me up the paved brick driveway that’s shaped like a horseshoe in front of my apartment building. Driving past the main entrance, I pull around to the open-air parking lot in back. “Though I gotta be honest, Rogo — I figured you’d be happy I was finally fighting back.”
“Yeah, well… next time try swimming a few laps before you decide to cross the English Channel.”
“I gave my life to him, Rogo. I need to get it back.”
“You’re telling me? Wes, I fight with everyone. I love fighting with everyone — I fight with the snot bagboy who tries to cheap me out by giving me plastic instead of paper. But let me tell you something: You don’t fight with people like this. You get your proof, you lock it up somewhere safe, and then you run to the press… to the authorities… to whoever’s in the best position to keep them from knocking your teeth out through your colon. And believe me, when they find you, they’re gonna hit back.”
“You still talking about Micah and O’Shea?” Dreidel interrupts in the background.
“Who else would we talk about?” Rogo shoots back.
“Rogo,” I interrupt, “I know how they hit. They’re not getting another crack.”
“Good — that’s what I wanna hear. Okay, so if you can’t go home, where you gonna hide out for the next few hours: that crappy hotel my mom stayed at, or maybe somewhere more out in the open, y’know, like the lobby of the Breakers or something?”
I’m silent for a moment, coasting toward my parking spot in back. “Whattya mean?”
“Look at the time, Wes — you’ve still got two hours to kill — so assuming you don’t wanna be at home…”
I’m silent again.
I swear I can hear Rogo shaking his head. “You’re home right now, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly,” I say as the car bounces over a speed bump.
“Not exactly? What’s not exactly?”
“It’s… it means I’m… it means I’m kinda in the parking lot.”
“Aw, jeez! Wes, why would you—? Get out of there!”
“You don’t think our security in front can—?”
“That’s not security. It’s a doorman with a sewn-on badge!”