Roselli blanked out. He woke up one more time before the end.
“You ain’t shit, O’Malley. You never were more than hired help. Ask anybody.”
Then he rode the juice again.
Smoke was three miles away when the place blew. He parked on a hillside, looking back west toward the city. Over the far horizon, he could see the glow from millions of lights against the darkened sky. New York City, where the lights never went out.
Much closer, a fireball went up suddenly, literally a ball of fire, on a straight vertical line like a rocket ship headed for orbit. A long rolling boom came across the land a few seconds later. An after-burst went up, a smaller one, and then another boom.
Moments of silence passed, orange and red flames flickering in the night. It was so quiet that Smoke could hear them licking and crackling across the miles.
Then the sirens began.
Smoke got back in the car and started it up. Roselli was dead. Soon, O’Malley would join him, going down with his boat in heavy seas off Orient Point.
And somewhere out there, a new life was waiting for James Dugan.
The children were all the same.
Big Roland Moss was going to fuck with him now, test him a little.
“Hey Cruz,” he said from behind the wheel. “How come me and Fingers here can’t stay in your hotel?” His eyes met Cruz’s in the rearview mirror. A razor-sharp, predator confidence showed there. Cruz knew from that look that Moss was one of those guys who never felt fear. Unlike Cruz, Moss had been born without the capacity. No fear. No empathy. Moss was the ice-cold center of his own barren universe.
He had probably tortured kittens as a little boy.
“You know, it makes us feel a little left out. You get to live it up in some swank place, and we get the Holiday Inn. It don’t seem right somehow.”
His comments elicited an embarrassed giggle from Fingers.
Cruz glanced out the window. The sleek Mercedes nosed its way through Portland’s end of season throngs. The narrow streets of the Old Port – the newly glittering waterfront district – teemed with well-heeled tourists peeking in shop windows or laughing as they stumbled out of the public houses.
“Hey Cruz, I’m talking to you, son.”
Cruz regarded Moss again. Thick neck. Wide brow.
“You ever kill a man by mistake?” Cruz said. He spoke just above a whisper. They could hear him all right up front.
Moss smirked. “Me? I don’t make mistakes.”
Cruz smiled. “I do. Sometimes I get a big guy around me, kind of a pushy type, you know? And I end up misreading his intentions. Maybe he startles me. Better he goes down than I do, right? Can’t be too careful these days. So they put me somewhere by myself. It cuts down on the mistakes I make.”
Moss pulled the car into the cobblestone circular driveway of the Portland Arms Hotel. A man in top hat and tails, white gloves, the whole silly get up, hovered by the door. He eyed the car, ready to pounce.
“I guess I’ll need to remember that,” Moss said.
Cruz stepped out, dossier in hand. He hadn’t been out of the car in nearly six hours. The first thing he noticed was the temperature change – it was colder here than in New York. And New Orleans? Forget about it. He had only just left there this morning, but already it seemed like weeks ago.
Hopefully, they’d be out of here in two days or less. Maybe even by tomorrow night. Otherwise, Cruz was going to have to buy some new clothes.
“Call me if you get anywhere,” he said to Moss and Fingers. He waved off the doorman, and carried his own bag up the steps. The Mercedes pulled out just as he entered the hotel.
Inside, the lobby was all carpeting and polished chrome. The help tip-toed around and spoke in hushed tones. Aging yuppies in lime green cardigan sweaters and sunflower yellow pullovers lounged in overstuffed chairs by the fire. Their cheeks were rosy with the brisk chill of the Old Port, not to mention the flames of the fireplace, and the sherry and port wine in their glasses.
Check-in was effortless and Cruz went straight to his suite.
Once in his suite, Cruz double locked the door. He was on the third floor, so there was no chance of them coming in that way. The only way in was through that thick, solid door. That pleased him. The kids weren’t staying in the same hotel as Cruz for one reason: Cruz had no intention of letting his guard down so some young stud could move up the ladder by putting him in a box.
Cruz poured himself a seltzer from the mini-bar and took off his light jacket. Jesus. It had been a long day. He went in the bathroom and was pleasantly surprised by the two-person Jacuzzi tub built right into the floor. He took the Glock out of his waistband, and laid it on the sink. He removed the rest of his clothes, checked the windows and doors again, then went out to his kit bag. He brought the bag into the bathroom. He locked the bathroom door. He turned on the jets of the tub, as well as the underwater lights. He brought the bathroom phone within reach of the tub. He killed the overhead lights, moved the Glock to the edge of the tub, then settled into the hot bubbling water.
He picked up the gun and chambered a round. He grunted to himself and laid the gun, ready to fire, along the tub basin just above his head and well within his reach. Nine shots if trouble found him here relaxing with his pants down.
He went back into his kit bag. Inside was a six-inch straight razor. He opened the blade, gazed at it for a moment, then brought it into the tub and under the water. He placed it on the bottom next to him.
A gun, and if that somehow failed, a blade. Anybody who tried him while he was in the tub was in for a nasty surprise.
Now he could relax. Facing the locked door, he reached back and put his hands behind him, forming a cradle for his head. The Jacuzzi jets pounded water against his back and his legs, working out on the stiff muscles in his body. He closed his eyes.
Fucking kids.
They weren’t going to get him. Not like he had gotten Oskar.
How many had Cruz killed?
He wasn’t sure. He had done quite a few in his time. Beginning with those first messy jobs in and around Times Square – the blitzkrieg knife attacks, the shoot ‘em ups in welfare hotels, the guy he had gut-shot six times but who had still managed to run screaming into the street – Cruz had moved onward and upward.
And being apprenticed to Oskar? Well, that was part of what had made Cruz a pro. Oskar was the very definition of the professional – smooth, calm, utterly devastating. Oskar’s was the first death that rattled Cruz, and made him wonder about this life. All these years later, and he was still wondering.
They were doing a job out in Short Hills, New Jersey and they both knew that the time of Cruz’s apprenticeship was coming to an end. For one, Oskar had asked for, and received, permission to retire. For another, Cruz had become a polished and effective killer in their four years of working together. He had always been ruthless. But now he had verve and style. Now he could kill without emotion. He could appear, disappear, and cover his tracks with the best.
Oskar was sixty-three years old. Cruz was twenty-four. Cruz had never counted his own kills. Oskar had his own kills memorized. One hundred and ninety-nine. They had two to do in New Jersey. Oskar had suggested they each take one, and then he would finish with an even two hundred. Cruz thought that a fine idea.
They cruised along a narrow road of estate homes set back in the woods. They were driving a nearly new 1980 Alpha-Romeo Spider. It was small, fireapple red, with a black convertible roof and classic sports car looks. Although it was a sunny day, they had the roof up. The car had been a gift to a girlfriend by one of the men in the house, Mr. Eli Sharon. Eli was an Israeli who had come to the United States to enlarge his fortunes. He was fifty-eight years old and ran penny stock scams. His business partner was an American, forty-four year old Howard Brennan.