“And who knows how many inside,” Bobby says. “That’s seven-plus on a weekday afternoon, with nothing much happening. With a party going on, it could be twice that.”
Carr stows the fishing rods and returns to the console. He flips a switch and the twin outboards start. There’s a puff of pale exhaust at the stern, an upwelling of foam, and a throaty rumble that echoes across the inlet. He lifts the binoculars and sees thick faces turn, can feel their sharpened interest. The men are climbing into the Zodiac now, and Carr hears their outboard whine.
“I don’t need any more,” Bobby says. “How about you?”
“We’ve seen what we came to see,” Carr says, and he pushes the throttle, turns the wheel, and carves a long white crescent in the ocean.
What they’ve seen is bad to worse, and it’s been the same everywhere they’ve looked the past two days-since Carr agreed with Tina to make a hurried reconnaissance of Isla Privada’s security arrangements. In George Town, at Isla Privada’s back office, the new guards are practically tripping over the old ones. From Boca Raton, Valerie called to report that Amy Chun’s lethargic driver is due to be replaced in the coming week by an armed one, and that her house will be swept even more frequently for unwelcome electronics. Curtis Prager’s personal protection has gone from one paunchy ex-cop to three muscular crew cuts. And here at his compound on Rum Point Drive, the household detail has grown from four to something north of seven. Only Dennis has yet to report in, on the all-important state of Isla Privada’s network security. If that has changed, Carr told Tina, it’s game over.
Carr has the boat planing now, and just coming even with the jagged peninsula that marks the western edge of Prager’s property. He looks back along their wake. The protected inlet is dwindling behind them, and so is the red Zodiac, which has barely made it to the reef, two hundred meters from shore. Carr begins a wide curve around the rocks. He sees the Zodiac slow and then turn back. He looks ahead, and in the misty distance he can make out Rum Point.
Bobby calls to him over the engine and the rush of wind and water. “You want a beer?” Carr shakes his head. Bobby reaches into an ice chest beneath his seat and pulls out a bottle of the local brew. He takes a long swallow and sighs. “This stuff sucks.”
“It’s what they had at the store.”
“No wonder,” Bobby says, and takes another drink. “This Rink chick has been busy.”
Carr nods. “Seems that way.”
“She’s got people nervous.”
“I know, Bobby.”
A third swallow and he pats his mouth with the back of his hand. “I fucking hate surprises.”
It’s pretty much all Bobby has said for two days-how much he hates surprises, how fucked up Boyce’s intel was, and that they should be thinking about packing it in. And Carr has explained, over and over, that if they can’t get a handle on what changes Rink has made, or if she’s changed anything material to their plans, then they would indeed call it a day. The message has a half-life of about five minutes in Bobby’s brain. Dennis is even more anxious but, mercifully, more inhibited about saying so, and Carr is glad he took Tina’s advice and made no mention of Rink taking his fingerprints.
As wearing as Bobby’s and Dennis’s worry is, Valerie’s and Latin Mike’s seeming lack of nerves is somehow even more so. After his initial outburst, Mike has uttered no other word of complaint or concern, but simply set about reconnoitering-an uncharacteristically cooperative soldier. Valerie has yet to say anything.
They are approaching Rum Point, and there are other fishing boats ahead, pushing north out of the sound, and swimmers closer to the beach. Carr eases up on the throttle and turns the wheel a couple of points northwest.
Bobby pulls off his T-shirt, wipes his brow with it, and leans back in his seat. His body is thick and white, a fish from a different sea. “Could be twice the security when he has a party, could be three times-we really don’t know,” he says. “We’re just guessing at what Rink might’ve changed. We don’t know shit.”
Carr sighs. “There was a lot we didn’t know when Silva was in charge.”
“We knew he was a lazy drunk, and that was…” Bobby puts up his hands, searching for a word.
“Comforting?”
“There you go,” Bobby says, raising his beer bottle. “We’re just feeling around in the dark now, and I like it better with the lights on.”
“Like I said, Bobby-if she’s changed anything important to our plans, then we don’t go. If all she’s done is add muscle-”
“You sound like Mike now.”
“Yeah? I haven’t heard Mike say much lately.”
“Well he’s saying the same shit as you-how it’s all manageable, how we should keep on keepin’ on. Personally, I think his perspective’s fucked.”
“Which means that mine is too?”
Bobby shrugs. “You can’t like a job so much you lose sight of the basics. You can’t get locked in. You gotta be willing to cut your losses if it’s the smart thing.”
“And you think I’m not willing?”
“Hey-I want to finish this as much as anybody. I got the same time in-the same sunk costs. But there’ll be other jobs.”
“Not too many others this size, Bobby.”
“See what I mean-locked in,” Bobby says. “That’s the kind of attitude that gets you killed, brother.” He drains the rest of the beer, pulls a fresh one from the locker, and holds the bottle against the side of his face. He closes his eyes.
Carr swings the boat farther north. They pass day-sailers and catamarans coming out of the sound, and divers massed along the reefs of Stingray City. When the sea around them is empty of other boats, Carr cuts the engines and lets them drift.
Bobby sits up and looks around. “What-we fishing for real?”
Carr shakes his head. “You know, I had a talk like this with Declan, just before the Mendoza job-”
“Oh for chrissakes!”
“About getting hung up on a job, and losing sight of the fundamentals.”
“Motherfuckin’ Carr-”
“You think that kind of attitude got him killed, Bobby, or was it something more specific?”
“I thought for sure we were done with this crap.”
“We’re done when I say so, and I’m not there yet. But here’s where I am, Bobby: I’m down to the short strokes on the last job I ever want to work; I’ve had a nasty surprise with bad intel; and whenever I’ve asked a question in the last four months about what happened in Argentina I get answers that are at least fifty percent bullshit. So I’m nervous. And I don’t want to be nervous anymore. I’m fucking tired of it. I’m tired of wondering who’s got my back and who’s going to stick something in it. If I’m going to finish this job, I need to know what’s what, Bobby, and you’re going to tell me.”
Bobby shakes his head slowly. “Mike said-”
“Mike isn’t here, Bobby. You’re going to tell me.”
Bobby chuckles and opens his beer. He takes a long swallow. Then he looks over his shoulder at the empty ocean. “Or what-you’re gonna make me swim back?”
“We’re pretty far out, so let’s not have it come to that.”
Another drink. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Carr?”
“I want to know what happened that night.”
“Jesus, I’ve told you-”
“Talk to me about the barn. Talk to me about the money in the barn.”
Bobby looks up. He shakes his head and laughs softly. “Mike thought you knew. In fact, the fucking guy thought I told you.”
Carr sighs and looks at the sketchy clouds. He nods and smiles minutely. “Well, now he’s right.”
“Aw fuck!” Bobby barks. He pushes his sunglasses into his hair. His eyes are bleary and buried deep in a nest of lines and folds. “You fucking prick. That was bullshit, Carr-total fucking bullshit. What are you, practicing to be a cop?”
“Yeah, really sorry, Bobby. I feel just awful about betraying your trust. Now talk about the barn.”
“Fuck you.”
“So you’re going to try the swimming?”
“Fuck you,” Bobby says again, but there’s less to it now. He lets his sunglasses fall to his nose, and he takes a deep breath. “Everything I told you about our run up to Bertolli’s place, and everything I said about our running out again-all that was true. The only bullshit part was about the barn. They didn’t hit us before we went in; they hit us after-after we came out.”