John-Juan Carmel opened the door fast enough to almost make Sherm blow a peephole into the next room.
“Damn, man. Knock first.”
“Sorry, Sherman, I’m a bit spotty with my blackmail etiquette.” He could’ve cut himself on his tone, and swallowed hard like he did. Sherm shut the fridge, stood up casual. John didn’t suspect inside was the insurance policy on his ever-untimelier demise.
“There ain’t much of any, John.”
“You alone?”
“Nope, I got my kids in the bathroom and after this we’re fixing to hit that jungle minigolf on I-Drive.” Sherm was smaller than John Carmel, but not in that room. The timeshare king was wearing his Don Johnson suit. It was the color of a banana’s insides. He tried to carry himself with the same golf-course confidence he had around clients. But whenever he talked to Sherm on Sherm’s terms, he was a ghost of himself. Then he smiled.
“How’d we get here, Sherm?” There it was. Sherm grinned like his last lotto number had come up.
“Easy, John. We’re here because you flinched.” Sherm waited for him to steam in his suit. But he didn’t.
“I only flinched because you’re screwing me, prick.” He sank his perfect teeth into the insult. Prick. Like repeating the word for a third-grade spelling bee. Like it was a word he didn’t get to say around Mama. Sherm chuckled.
“You want to pat me down, Mr. Juan Carmel? You want to really play dirty? Go ahead.” Sherm put his arms out, careful not to let the sleeves roll up, and waited.
John’s pinched eyes danced from one place to another on Sherm’s body, everywhere a gun could hide.
“I trust you,” he lied. Sherm covered his disappointment with another smile; he hadn’t even needed to hide his gun.
“Good. Now you know I’m not screwing you. You’re paying me for a product, and I’m giving it to you. That’s all.”
“What’ve you got on me?”
“Enough, John.” There was nothing taped to the inside of the toilet tank. Sherm didn’t have anything, at least nothing that didn’t incriminate him too. But he had John, and John was too new at playing dirty to be anything but paranoid.
“Peach didn’t follow you?”
“I should ask you the same thing — you’re the one who showed up late.” Sherm looked him up and down. “In that suit.”
“Sorry, I just had to make sure.”
“I don’t blame you. But what are friends for?” He didn’t mean John. Lord knows he didn’t mean John. The only reason they could figure for Peach’s persistence was misplaced devotion. He had to know the Arab somehow, not that any motivation like that made sense to a proper businessman like Sherm. “Now you’ll find what you’re looking for in the toilet tank.”
“What? Why?”
“Out of my hands, out of yours. If we had to run, nobody would ever find it. Easy does it, get me?”
“Sure. Yes. Yes, I do.” John didn’t. He was too busy thinking about the Beretta in the back of his belt. He was thinking about the trigger, how heavy it would need to be pulled. If he could pull it fast enough. If he could pull it at all.
“Excuse my cliche, but did you bring the money?” Sherm liked saying that, cliche. He didn’t know if it was French, but it certainly sounded expensive.
“It’s in my car.”
“Good.” Even if he was lying, Sherm could just steal his car and get a few hundred thousand out of that. “You know, perfect.”
“Can I see it now?”
“Be my guest,” Sherm said and gestured to the bathroom. He wondered what the police would think when they found the half-eaten remains of a well-dressed man in the worst hotel in Osceola County.
John sidled around Sherm without making it obvious he was hiding the bulge under the back of his jacket. He smiled one last fake smile at Sherm and twisted the knob.
Bernie blinked. John screamed. Sherm shoved.
The two men struggled against the doorframe in a clumsy dance both were trying to lead.
“You bastard,” one screamed.
“C’mon,” screamed the other. Round and round again. Shoving, punching, slipping.
Sherm burned in his skin. His plan was working, or just an inch to the left of working. If only John would give—
John’s loafers found no traction on the cracked tiles, especially after landing from a knee to the gut, and he fell into the bathroom. Sherm yanked the door closed. It slammed on John’s ankle. Another yank. Another slam. Another yelp. Sherm paused long enough to get a peek inside. Bernie was eying his next meal from the tub. Good. He didn’t starve the ornery monster for nothing.
John gave in to the pain and pulled his leg inside to cradle it. Sherm shut the door and dived for the fridge, for his insurance plan. He pulled it out, set the hammer, and aimed. Either John would be gator chow fast or he’d open the door for Sherm to provide 40-something-caliber encouragement. He pinched one eye shut and squinted the other down the barrel. Sherm’s gut soured the way it always did when it knew he was about to pull the trigger before he did. He didn’t hear much in the way of lunch on the other side of the door.
John flung it open, plastic-looking pistol in hand, and leveled it at Sherm.
If he managed to get off a shot, Sherm’s gun swallowed the sound. John’s shoulder burst back and dragged the rest of him with it. He hit the doorframe, streaked it red, and fell facedown.
Shit, Sherm thought. That wasn’t the plan. The gator. The damn alligator. Mr. Juan Carmel wasn’t supposed to have a gun. He’s a white collar, for God’s sake. And that damn alligator.
Bernie blinked again, his sloping head peering over the plastic like he only wanted a decent seat for the show.
“You asshole,” said Sherm. He couldn’t take him with, not that he particularly wanted to. The gator would probably nibble on the body now, but there was probably a bullet lodged in the wall near the shower rod. Hell, it might be rolling around on the sink in the next room over. “Asshole,” he said again, getting up. No stupid animal got the better of Sherman Fisk. Alligators hunt, he reminded himself. It was furious and starving and it didn’t even touch the guy. Stupid animal.
Sherm was considering shooting Bernie too when Ray Peach opened the door from the neighboring room.
“Hey,” he said flat. His shirt was striped with sweat like a big cat, but the rest of him showed no signs of stress. Not even the chunky nine-millimeter in his hand, pointed at Sherm’s head.
“Is that mine?” asked Sherm. He pointed with his free hand and left his revolver at his side.
“Yup,” said Peach before he shot Sherm.
The gator handler held desperately onto his gun, staggered to the sink, and bent back over it like his spine had given up. Then he tensed as best he could for a sloppy retort from the hip.
Sherm’s shot scattered the blinds and spiderwebbed the glass at the front of the room. It took off the right mirror on his pickup.
Peach’s second shot caught Sherm in the neck and put him down.
For a moment, Peach could only smell the gun smoke. Then he knelt over the body, rubbed Sherm’s hand all over the pistol’s grip, and stuffed it into the dead man’s belt.
“His name was Farid,” he corrected for maybe the twentieth time since trying to figure out why his friend would miss his hearing and skip bail, and having to deal with Juan Carmel, time-share magnate, and Sherman Fisk, professional degenerate and amateur asshole.
Peach stood back up and walked out. He had a matinee performance in a little over an hour.
He hadn’t even cleared the shade when the humidity started sucking at any exposed patch of black skin. The remaining dry land on his shirt was sunk by the time he reached his car, parked around the corner from Sherm’s truck and John’s toy. He dropped into the driver’s seat and the long-faded upholstery melted into his back.