“The other families will see it that way.”
“And since the Feds are going to put Benza out of business, no one can beef if we take care of it for them.”
“It’s a fair trade.”
Castellano nodded.
“All in all, it’s probably good for everyone that all this happened. We can send somebody out west, take over Benza’s end of things, and cut ourselves a bigger piece of the pie.”
“The silver lining that everyone will enjoy. What are you going to do, skipper?”
Castellano had known what he was going do for the past six hours. He took no pleasure in it, but he had it all arranged.
“Make the call.”
Beldone started back into the house.
“Jamie!”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want to be sure about this. That guy Clewes, Marion Clewes, he’s kinda flaky. I don’t want to just take his word that Benza fucked up. I want to know for sure.”
“I’m sure, Vic. I double-checked. I just hung up with Phil Tuzee.”
Castellano felt better. He knew that Phil Tuzee wouldn’t steer him wrong.
“That’s good enough. Make the call and finish this.”
Saturday, 4:53 A.M., Pacific time
Palm Springs, California
SONNY BENZA
Benza’s wife moved so slowly that he wanted to stuff a cattle prod up her ass. The kids were even worse.
“Would ya hurry it up, for chrissakes? We gotta get outta here.”
“I can’t leave my things!”
“I’ll buy you new things!”
“We can’t leave our pictures! What about our wedding album? How can you buy a new wedding album?”
“Five minutes, you got five minutes! Get the kids and meet me out front or I’ll leave your ass here.”
Benza trotted back through the house to the garage. All he carried was a blue nylon gym bag with one hundred thousand in cash, his blood pressure meds, and his .357. Anything else he needed he could buy when they landed; Benza had over thirty million dollars stashed in foreign accounts.
Benza hit the button to open the garage door. He tossed the nylon bag into the backseat of his Mercedes, then slid behind the wheel. He started the car, threw it into reverse, then hit the gas hard, backing in a wide arc toward the front door. He was moving so fast that he almost broadsided the nondescript sedan that blocked his path.
Flashes of light speckled the air around the sedan, exploding Benza’s rear window. The bullets knocked him into the steering wheel, then sideways onto the seat. Sonny Benza tried to get the .357 out of his bag, but he didn’t have time. Someone pulled open the driver’s-side door and shot Sonny Benza in the head.
PART FIVE
29
Sunday, 2:16 P.M.
Two weeks later
TALLEY
The fantasy was always the same: On the days that Jeff Talley visited the avocado orchard, he imagined Brendan Malik playing in the trees. He saw the boy laughing, kicking up dust as he ran, then climbing into the branches where he swung by his knees. Brendan was always happy and laughing in these daydreams, even with his skin mottled in death and blood pulsing from his neck. Talley had never been able to imagine the boy any other way.
Jane said, “What are you thinking?”
The two of them were slouched down in the front seat of his patrol car, watching red-tailed hawks float above the trees. Amanda had stayed in Los Angeles, but Jane had come up for the weekend.
“Brendan Malik. Remember? That boy.”
“I don’t remember.”
Talley realized that he had never told her. He had not mentioned Brendan Malik to anyone after that night he left the boy’s house, not even the police psychologist.
“I guess I never told you.”
“Who was he?”
“A victim in one of the negotiations. It’s not important anymore.”
Jane took his hand. She turned sideways so that she faced him.
“It’s important if you’re thinking about it.”
Talley considered that.
“He was a little boy, nine, ten, something like that. About Thomas’s age. I think about him sometimes.”
“You’ve never mentioned him.”
“I guess not.”
Talley found himself telling her about the night with Brendan Malik, of holding the boy’s hand, of staring into his eyes as the little boy died, of the overwhelming feelings of failure and shame.
Listening, she cried, and he cried, too.
“I was trying to see his face right now, but I can’t. I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad about that. You think that’s bad?”
Jane squeezed his hand.
“I think it’s good we’re talking about these things. It’s a sign that you’re healing.”
Talley shrugged, then smiled at her.
“About goddamned time.”
Jane smiled in that way she had, the smile that was encouraging and pleased.
“Did you find out about Thomas?”
“I tried, but they won’t tell me anything. I guess it’s best this way.”
Walter Smith and his family had entered the U.S. Marshals’ witness protection program. They had simply vanished; one day here, the next gone, hidden by the system. Talley hoped that Thomas would one day contact him, but he didn’t think it likely. It was safer that way.
Jane said, “How much time before you have to get back?”
“I’ve got time. I’m the Chief.”
Jane smiled wider.
“Let’s walk.”
They walked from sunlight to shade to sun, bees swirling sluggishly around them, lazy in the midday heat. It was good to walk. It was peaceful. Talley had been away for a very long time, hiding inside himself, but now he was back. He was on the way back.
The orchard, as always, was as still as a church.
“I’m glad you’re here, Jane.”
Jane squeezed his hand. Talley knew, then, that though a church was a place to bury the dead, it was also a place to celebrate the living. Their lives could begin again.