He was in a kind of wide alley. There were dumpsters and trash cans along one side, but all neat and clean. A tidy stack of newspapers, bound with twine, sat next to one of the trash cans. Carver figured the truck that picked up the trash would suit the area, be new and bright, with a smiling, uniformed crew.
On the other side of the alley was a grassy area with palm trees and two bleached white concrete benches. Though the sun was low now, the temperature remained high. Probably in the nineties. Carver was sweating; he felt hot and oily. He limped over to one of the benches beneath the palm trees and sat down. He had a better view of the dock from here, through another line of gently swaying palms, and he wasn’t noticeable himself.
He sat patiently, practicing what he was good at: waiting. Putting together what he was going to do. Trying to, anyway.
Farneaux arrived just before dark.
A long blue Lincoln coasted along the dock, past the Bold Entrepreneur at about twenty miles an hour. It must have let Farneaux out some distance from the boat, because it was a good five minutes before Carver saw a short, well-tailored man with iron-gray hair step jauntily from the dock onto the Bold Entrepreneur and quickly duck through a door and into a companionway beneath the bridge. There were lights on aboard the boat now; the portholes glowed, and occasionally there was shadow movement beyond the thin curtains. A loop antenna above the bridge began to revolve. Heightened activity.
The boat could set to sea now. All the players were aboard.
All but one.
Carver stood up from the bench and planted his cane firmly. Limped toward the line of palm trees and the dock.
Toward the gently rising and falling white hull.
Knowing what he had to do, even if he didn’t know exactly how to do it.
Chapter 36
As Carver thumped across the rough plank dock he could smell the rotted-fish scent of the water beneath him. He was still a hundred feet from the boat when a man in dark slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt emerged from below deck and made his way up to the flying bridge. Another man followed him up onto the deck but walked toward the stern. He hopped nimbly onto the dock, bent over, and with a deft motion untied the aft hawser from its cleat. Swaggered along the dock toward the bow to untie that line so the Bold Entrepreneur would be floating free.
Busy with the line, he didn’t notice Carver. He and Carver stepped on board the boat at about the same time. Carver almost fell and had to steady himself for a moment by hooking the crook of his cane over the low rail. The sudden movement and clatter of the cane caught the man’s attention. Carver was in too close to be seen by the man on the bridge, and a generator was chugging away and covering softer sounds.
Startled, the man in the unbuttoned white shirt stared at him. He had bushy black hair trimmed short and wild, a chest matted with more black hair. Broad shoulders. Very flat-bellied and lean through the waist. Kind of guy who could give you trouble.
He cocked his head and dropped his hands to his sides. Took a step toward Carver. Said, “Help you?” His voice was neutral; he didn’t know which way to play this, how he should act.
Carver said, “I’m supposed to deliver a message to Frank Wesley. Important.”
That made the man even more curious. Over the chugging of the generator, Carver was barely aware of voices, loud laughter, from below deck. Where were Jefferson and Palma? He was sure they knew he’d come on board; he hoped they wouldn’t charge in after him, fuck up everything.
The man moved closer. Carver smiled. Into this now. “You Mr. Ogden?”
The man started to answer, barely parted his lips, when Carver rammed the tip of the cane deep into his abdomen just beneath the sternum. Breath whooshed from the man and his eyes widened in surprise and pain. When he clutched his stomach, Carver whipped the cane across his throat, playing for keeps. The man dropped to his knees, bent over sharply, and rolled onto his side. He was gagging and trying to catch his breath all at the same time, unable to make much noise with his crushed larynx. One hand clawed at his throat.
Twin diesels clattered and roared to life, and the boat began to vibrate and head out to sea. Carver shoved the stricken man overboard, knowing he might drown, knowing that leaving him on board might be fatal to himself and Edwina. Playing for keeps. Over the roar of the diesels, he had to strain to hear the splash.
The deck’s vibration running up his legs, into the core and blood of him, Carver drew the Colt from his waistband. His heart was racing and he felt the odd exhilaration that told him he was ready. More than ready-eager.
He limped to the low door he’d seen Farneaux disappear through. Opened it. Saw a narrow set of polished wood stairs. Lifted the cane and used the strength of his arms on the railing to steady himself as he dropped through the companionway and below deck.
Landed on soft carpet and quickly found his balance with the cane.
Silence hit like a bomb. In the surprisingly spacious, plush area below deck, they all turned and stared at him. At the gun.
Walter Ogden was there, seated with his legs crossed on a red velvetlike bench that curved along the side of the hull. Four men in shirtsleeves, one of them Frank Wesley, were sitting at a round poker table, not playing cards but eating. Not caviar and champagne but steak and red wine. Except for Wesley, who had a glass of what looked like bourbon in front of him. A small black man who was actually wearing a tall white chef’s cap was standing over the table, delicately holding a bottle of wine in both hands. His eyes riveted on the gun, he slowly sat down next to Ogden on the bench, cradling the wine bottle as if it were an infant he needed to protect.
Carver couldn’t hear the generator down here, but it or power off the engines was doing good work, keeping the boat very cool. The smell of the sea didn’t penetrate from outside. The carpet was thick and red, the color of the curved bench, and there were matching little red curtains framing the portholes, which were covered by white sheer curtains. On the paneled walls were fox-hunting prints, like those on Willoughby’s walls down in Hillsboro Beach.
All four men at the table started to stand, as if they’d all reached the same conclusion with the same mind. Or maybe there’d been some sort of signal.
Carver waved the gun in a tight circle. Said, “Stay sitting, gentlemen.”
They lowered themselves back into their canvas sling chairs, again in unison. Ogden, on the low red bench, hadn’t moved.
Carver had what he thought was a bulkhead behind him, so he wasn’t worried about his back. “Where are the others?”
Ogden said, “Farneaux’s in the head.” Still without moving.
A door opened and Farneaux, now with his suitcoat off, ducked his head and stepped in from what looked like a narrow teak-paneled hall with a bathroom off to the side. He had a puffy face and a yellowish complexion that suggested he was ill. When he saw Carver and the gun he looked even sicker. His eyes rolled. His slash of a mouth opened to trail a thread of saliva and then arced down in fear and disgust.
Carver said, “Where’s Butcher and Courtney?”
Ogden seemed to be the only one with enough presence of mind to speak. “Resting.”
“Get them in here.”
Ogden didn’t have to get up. He reached above his head and pressed a button mounted on the smooth white ceiling.
Within less than a minute, Courtney stepped through the same door Farneaux had come through. Her thick black hair was mussed and she had on red shorts and a khaki blouse. Red high heels. Looked like a hooker. Part of her act, Carver figured. She blinked as if she were tired. She appeared surprised for a moment, then her face went blank. Carver could imagine her brain spinning behind those calm dark Latin eyes.