“All of us got hit,” Bobby said. “The store in West Palm, Pompano, and me. I was across the street getting a pastrami sandwich when it happened.” He stared at the door and shook his head. “I loved those two guys, you know?”
“You call anyone?” Rico asked.
“Guys I work for are sending a cleanup crew over.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Rico pointed outside. “I’ve got Nigel Moon with me. He wants to know when he can pick up his money.”
“Tell him he’ll get his two hundred grand tomorrow.”
“His what?”
“You heard me. The guys that ripped me off stole everything.”
“But we made a bet.”
“I called it off. Didn’t you get my messages?”
Rico took his cell phone from his pocket. He’d put the phone on mute at the basketball game. It said he’d gotten three messages. He hit retrieve and heard Bobby say, “It’s Bobby. I just got robbed. The bet is off. Call me.”
The cell phone hit the counter.
“But we made a bet.”
Bobby shrugged. “So make another one.”
Six months of planning down the toilet, Rico thought. Six months of my life. He reached into his jacket and drew his beloved .45 Smith & Wesson. “Get up.”
Bobby swallowed hard. “You fixed the game, didn’t you?”
“Move the legs, fatso.”
“I called you, man . . .”
“I trusted my future to you.”
Bobby got off his stool. He walked over to the bloodstained door and stopped.
“Don’t make me go in there.”
Rico pumped two bullets into him, thinking of Jorge and Lupe and Jorge’s pregnant girlfriend and the rent on the bar and all the other payments he was going to miss, and shot Bobby twice more for good measure. Bobby lurched forward, taking down the door.
“Ahhh,” someone groaned.
Rico dragged Bobby away, then lifted the door. A dazed Tony Valentine lay beneath, clutching a Glock. Rico took his gun away. Then it hit him what had happened.
“You did this,” he said.
Gerry stood on the sidewalk with Running Bear, ten steps away from Bobby Jewel’s place. The sidewalks were teeming with retirees, the cool night air bringing them out from their air-conditioned dwellings. He checked the time. A minute had passed since his father had gone around back. His father had said if he didn’t come out in two minutes with Rico, that Gerry and Running Bear should go in.
“You hear that?” the chief said.
“No. What?”
“Sounded like a gun.”
Gerry hesitated. What should he do? What would his father do? Go in, he thought. He started to, then saw his father stagger out of the store with Rico behind him. His father’s hands were tied behind his back, and he looked dazed. Seeing them, Rico raised his gun.
“Back off,” he said.
Gerry started to move, and Running Bear stopped him.
“He’ll kill him,” the chief said.
Twenty people were on the sidewalk, yet no one was paying attention. They were seeing it, but not seeing it. Gerry backed up and watched Rico open the back door of the limo and shove his father inside. People kept walking right by.
“He’s going to kill him anyway,” Gerry said.
Running Bear pulled him backwards. “Get in the car,” he said.
They jumped in. The Honda was facing east; so was Rico’s limo. Rico pulled out of his spot. Gerry followed him, the traffic heavy.
At the light, Rico did a crazy U-turn in the intersection, his tires screeching. The limo had a wide turning radius, and he hit a newspaper machine and sent it through a plate glass window. Gerry made his own U-turn and spun out the Honda.
Running Bear jumped out and ran after Rico’s limo, which had gone a hundred yards, only to become stuck in traffic. The chief’s strides were long and easy, and as he got close to the limo, he went airborne.
His body made a loud bang as he landed on the limo’s roof. Traffic started to move. Rico tried to shake him by driving all over the street. Running Bear punched out the driver’s window, then drew a knife from his belt and plunged it into Rico’s arm.
Rico let out a scream that could have raised the dead, and finally—finally—the old geezers shuffling down the sidewalks woke up from their comas.
The limo veered drunkenly from left to right. Running Bear hung on for half a block, then was thrown to the ground.
Moments later, Gerry was helping him stand up. The chief had twisted his ankle and had to lean on him to remain upright. Gerry stared at the bloody knife in his hand.
“He won’t go far,” Running Bear said.
44
Slash had torn the house apart.
Bound and gagged, Mabel watched him destroy the study, then listened as he moved through the house. Shelves were pulled out, glassware broken, the heirlooms and sentimental bric-a-brac that Tony and Lois had brought from Atlantic City tossed around like so much junk. Seeing him destroy things was hard. Hearing it was somehow worse.
When he returned, he was holding a sandwich. He untied her hands and removed the gag. “You want this?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Where did he hide the gun?”
“Tony must have taken it with him.”
“You better not be lying.”
The sandwich was baloney with mayo and tasted as good as anything she’d ever put into her mouth. Slash pulled up a chair and attached the David to his waist, then fitted the special boots on his feet.
“One more time,” he said.
The playing cards were on the desk, and Mabel picked them up. She shuffled, then dealt two hands. Slash’s cards were a six and a three. He wiggled his toes in his boots.
“The David just gave me two clicks,” he said.
“That means double-down on your bet,” Mabel said.
“Okay. Deal me another.”
Mabel dealt him a ten, making his total nineteen. Mabel’s hand was a seventeen, which the rules did not allow her to draw on. Slash had won.
They played another round.
“The David gave me a long buzz,” he said.
Mabel had written the David’s code on the pad. A long buzz meant stand, a short click meant take a hit, a double click meant double-down, and a short buzz meant split your hand. Slash hadn’t consulted the pad once, preferring to lean on her.
“Stand,” Mabel said.
He won again. He let out a whoop that sent a shiver down Mabel’s spine.
“I’m going to be rich,” he declared.
Yes, Mabel thought, you are. He was going to succeed, not because he was skilled at operating the David, but because he did not fit the profile of the cheaters who did. Those people were usually white males between the ages of thirty and fifty who spoke articulately and dressed well. Slash was none of those things, and would fly right by even the most seasoned surveillance personnel.
Only one thing was standing in his way. Her.
Rico’s arm was bleeding all over the seat. He’d looked at the wound and not seen any bone and decided that was a good thing. Driving north on I-95, he’d settled into the right lane and hit the cruise control, then used his knees to steer while making a makeshift bandage out of some paper napkins and rubber bands he found in the armrest. He glanced in his mirror at Valentine sitting in the backseat.
“Show me your hands,” Rico said.
Valentine turned sideways and lifted his arms. His wrists were tied together with twine, his hands clean.
“I’m going to make an example of you,” Rico said.
“Why’s that?”
“You fucked up the greatest score I’ve ever had.”