“What are you doing?” Mouse Junior asks.
“Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?” Frank asks. “You never go to a person’s empty-handed.”
In the same spirit, he checks the load on his. 38 and slips it in the waistband of his slacks, underneath the back of his coat. He looks at the boys. “Are you carrying?”
“Sure.”
“Absolutely.”
“Leave the hardware in the car,” Frank says.
When they start to object, he says, “Something goes south-which I don’t expect, but it might-the last thing I want is one of you blowing my brains out by accident. If the stuff hits the fan, you hit the deck and stay there until it gets real quiet and you hear me telling you to get up. You don’t hear me telling you to get up, it’s because you’re dead, and then it doesn’t make any difference anyway. And you letme do the talking. Capisce? ”
“Got it.”
“Absolutely.”
“And quit saying ‘absolutely,’” Frank tells Travis. “It annoys me.”
“Abso-”
“We’ll take your car,” Frank says to Mouse Junior. No sense in burning upmy gas, he thinks, the prices at the pump these days.
Even in the rain, Frank loves the view of San Diego from the harbor.
The lights from the tall downtown buildings reflect red and green on the water, and on the horizon, the Coronado Bay Bridge’s lights shine in the night sky like the diamonds of a necklace on an elegant woman’s neck.
The rain just makes everything sparkle all the more.
He loves this city.
Always has.
They have no trouble finding a parking spot, or the slip where Vena’s cabin cruiser is docked. Walking down the floating dock, Frank reminds them, “Remember, leave everything to me.”
“But we could help,” Mouse Junior says.
“If anything goes down,” Travis clarifies.
“Don’t help me,” Frank says.
Where do they learn to talk like this? The movies, I guess, or television. Anyway, the only thing that’s going to “go down” is Vena’s percentage, which will drop an automatic ten points just by virtue of me being there. He knows what Vena’s move will be-try to get Frank alone and tell him that if he makes Mouse Junior give up forty points, he’ll cut Frank in for five.
And I’ll turn the offer down because it’s a boss’s kid, which Vince will understand; then we’ll get down to the realhondeling. Another word Herbie taught me, God rest.
He finds the boat, theBecky Lynn. The name tells the story-two guys finally get their wives’ permission to buy a boat together and name it after both wives so they don’t get jealous. Not of each other, of the boat.
Which never works, Frank thinks.
Women and boats mix like…
Women and boats.
He steps down off the dock onto the afterdeck. The cabin is all shut up against the rain, but the lights are on and Frank can hear music inside.
“Ahoy!” he yells, because he can’t resist it.
The door opens and Vince Vena’s ugly face pops out. He never was a good-looking guy, Vince. Got this thin face with old acne scars and his eyes are a little too close together. Now he grabs his shirt collar, gives it a tug, and says, a la Rodney, “My wife and I were very happy for twenty years…”
“Then we met,” Frank thinks.
“Then we met,” Vince says, and laughs. “Come in out of the rain, Frank. Prove everyone wrong, what they say about you.”
Vince goes back into the cabin and leaves the door open.
Frank steps in, the door shuts, and the garrote is around his neck and cutting into his throat before he can get his hands up. Which is a good thing, because your instinct is to try to get between the wire and your throat, and that’s actually the last thing you should do-you only end up getting your fingers sliced along with your windpipe.
The guy is huge. Frank can feel his height and his bulk and he knows he’s not going to outmuscle him. So he reaches behind him and jams his fingers into his attacker’s eyes, which doesn’t make the guy let go but does make him suck his breath in, and Frank uses that second to squat low, grab the man’s wrist, pivot, and hip-roll the guy to the deck.
His would-be strangler lands with a crash on the little dining table and Frank continues his roll, getting his body under the table just as Vince pulls a pistol and crouches to shoot him.
Frank’s gun slides out in one easy move. All he can see are Vena’s legs, so he aims at a point above them and fires twice, then sees Vince’s legs stagger back and collapse against the bulkhead, and hears Vince yell, “Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”
Frank closes his eyes and shoots through the bottom of the table three times. Splinters of plywood hit his face, and then everything is quiet. Frank opens his eyes and sees blood dripping down.
He stays under the table in case there’s a third guy.
He can hear running on the dock, two pairs of feet beating it out of there, and he figures it’s Mouse Junior and Travis.
Absolutely.
Frank makes himself wait for thirty seconds before he crawls out from under the table.
The would-be strangler is dead, two bullet holes and a bunch of plywood splinters in his face. And the guy is enormous-four bills easy. Frank checks out what’s left of the guy’s face. He recognizes him from someplace but can’t quite remember where.
Vince is still breathing, sitting with his back against the bulkhead, his hands trying to hold his guts in.
Frank squats down beside him. “Vince, who sent you?”
Vince’s eyes stare out into space. Frank has seen the look before-Vince isn’t going to make it. Whether he’s looking at the white light, or whatever, he’s already checked out ofthis motel, and whatever sound he’s hearing now, it isn’t Frank’s voice.
Frank gives it one more try, though. “Vince, whosent you?”
Nothing.
Frank puts the pistol barrel against Vince’s heart and pulls the trigger. Then he sits down to catch his breath, surprised and pissed off that his chest is pounding. He makes himself take a few long, deep breaths to slow his heart rate.
It takes a minute.
You’re not getting any younger, he thinks. And you almost weren’t getting anyolder, either. And don’t deserve to, either, being so stupid and careless.
Letting a punk kid like Mouse Junior set you up.
And that’s what he did. How do the kids say it these days? He “played” you. Worked on your ego and set you up.
Frank gets up and takes a long look at the dead guy on the table.
The wire garrote is still clutched in his hands. Old-school, Frank thinks, using a wire. But they probably didn’t want to risk the noise of a gun unless they had to. Use a silencer, then. Unless the garrote was meant to make it slow and painful, in which case this hit waspersonal.
But who has that kind of beef with me? he wonders.
Get real, he tells himself, it’s a long list.
Frank starts the engine. Then he goes back out and unmoors the boat from its slip. One piece of luck is that the two flanking boats are both empty, battened down for the winter. He goes back in, lets the engines warm up, then backs the boat out of the slip.
He steers it into the channel and heads out to sea.
9
Not a good night to be out on the open ocean.
Too much swell and chop, and the roll coming out of the storm keeps working the boat back toward the coast.
Frank hacks it out about ten miles into the ocean anyway. He fished these waters hundreds of times as a kid. He knows every current and channel and he knows just where he wants to dump the bodies so if they ever come to shore, it’ll be in Mexico.
Thefederales will figure it’s a dope deal gone bad, and put about two minutes’ work into solving the case.
Still, it’s a bitch out here tonight, with the wind and rain and the roll, and Frank’s biggest fear is that he’ll run into a Coast Guard vessel that will stop him and want to know what kind of jackass is taking a boat out on a night like this.