I closed the door, hit the light switch and picked up the crowbar he'd used to jimmy the door. A big man with dark, hairy hands, wearing tan coveralls and a green ski mask.
I nudged him with my foot. He didn't move. I stepped on his fingers, increasing the pressure until he finally yanked his hand away.
He was conscious, all right.
"Take off the ski mask, but stay on your belly."
He did.
It was Frank Rossi.
Twenty-one
"You pull this shit on me, pal, you don't know who you're dealing with." Rossi had a voice like his son, only a stronger New Jersey accent. Same mindless vocabulary, too.
I'd used the duct tape to tape his arms behind him. Now I was taping his legs, but only temporarily.
"You don't let me go right now, asshole, I know people. Important people. I'll have you killed."
I said, "Gee, that's the first time anyone's ever said that to me. In English, anyway."
"That some kind'a joke? A funny boy, real funny. You'll see. You'll see what happens to you after you let me go."
The color of his face changed slightly when I said, "Frank, I'm not going to let you go. I'm going to kill you. Any advice on how to get a tub like you to sink?"
I dropped the weight of my knee onto his neck. When his head arched upward, I taped his mouth. As I did, I thought of the way he had manipulated Delia Copeland, stealing the medallion, then getting her drunk and forcing her into bed.
I made several more wraps with the tape, intentionally sealing off one side of his nose.
He began to wiggle, fearing that I was going to suffocate him. I had no intention of doing that. But I wanted him to experience the fear. I wanted him to know what it was like to be overpowered and controlled.
"Save your breath, Frank. You'll need it."
I went through his pockets. I found a length of woven cord-apparently, he'd planned to tie me up-along with Win-stons, car keys bearing a Mercedes's logo, billfold and a palm-sized Colt Mark IV. 380. A nice little weapon. I popped the clip. Fully loaded, too. One round already in the chamber.
"Frank, how'd you know? It's exactly what I wanted."
I took the car keys and went out the glass doors, swung over the railing and dropped down to the ground. If someone was out on the street, waiting in Rossi's car for him to return, I didn't want them to see me coming.
No, he was alone. I found his car on Marina, pulled off the side of the road. What a dope. That was like advertising, telling the cops he was sneaking around.
I drove the car to Shell World's deserted parking lot, left the keys in the ignition, opened the hood as if it were broken down, wiped off my prints and jogged back to the Mandalay.
I cut the tape binding Rossi's legs, got him to his feet and said, "We've got about an hour before first light. What you say we go for a boat ride, just you and me?"
His eyes grew wide and he began to shake his head furiously.
I added, "You're right. I almost forgot. I need to take along an extra anchor. A belly like yours, you're going to be really buoyant."
There was less than a quarter moon drifting through clouds above a black, windy sea. Lots of wind and getting worse.
The moon made me think of the wooden totem, the designs on it. The gold medallion, too, though I'd never seen it.
Once I'd gotten Rossi into the boat, I taped his legs again. Now he was lying on his back, head at my feet, squeezed in between the console and the gunwale. I had the bow trimmed down, running as smoothly as a small boat can run in a rolling sea. Even so, big waves caused his head to bang on the deck.
"Kind of rough out here tonight, Frank. Look on the bright side. You don't have to make the trip back."
I ran out the mouth of Rock Harbor, almost due south. Ronrico Key was a dark elevation against a black sky. Out on Hawk's Channel, I could see the green four-second light off Mosquito Bank and the red flasher off Hen and Chickens Reef. Beautiful place to dive, all those big corals. Hit either reef and you'd kill your boat. Even a skiff that ran as shallow as mine.
But I wasn't going nearly that far.
I ran in darkness, seeing only the reddish glow of my compass. I turned on my VHF radio as I did; switched down to Weather Channel 2, Key West, where I heard a computerized voice say: "… small craft warning is now in effect for Dry Tortugas to Key Largo and Florida Bay. Waves inside the reef, two to four feet; eight to ten feet outside the reef."
There was an electronic pause.
"The latest advisory issued by the National Hurricane Center at Miami places the eye of Hurricane Charles slightly south of Isle of Pines, Cuba, at latitude 17.6 degrees north, longitude 85 degrees west, moving northwesterly at thirteen knots. Winds have been measured at one-hundred-twenty-five knots and gusting stronger, barometric pressure at 27.80 and falling. Charles has been upgraded to a Category Four hurricane on the Safir-Simpson scale. Computer analysis projects that it will follow a low-pressure system through the Yucatan Channel into the Gulf of Mexico where it will be driven eastward by a ridge of high pressure. The Center expects to issue a 'hurricane watch' within the next twenty-four hours for the west coast of Florida, Cape Sable to Tarpon Springs. Be advised that a 'hurricane watch' is defined as …"
I punched off the radio.
It was coming.
About a quarter mile from Ronrico Key, on the bay side, I dropped down off plain and switched off the engine. I found the duct tape and began to tape my extra anchor to Rossi's head. As I did, I said, "We need to make this quick. There's a hurricane out there."
His eyes were wide in the moonlight, terrified.
"Frank, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is, you're only a couple hundred feet from land. The bad news is, it's straight down. But there's one other option. Maybe you'd rather talk for a while?"
I only had to thump Rossi twice with the sap before we developed a pattern. I'd ask him a question. When I had the tape recorder going, he would then repeat the question with robot precision, and answer the question fully and honestly.
My voice would not be on the tape.
The first time I caught him in a lie, I lifted him by the belt, got him up onto the casting deck as if to throw him in. He began to beg. Then he began to cry, his whole body shuddering.
Despite what Tomlinson says, I am not without feelings. It is a pathetic thing to hear a mature man cry. But when I began to feel sympathy for Frank Rossi, I reminded myself what he'd done to Delia.. and then to Dorothy.
Rossi did not lie to me again.
With me holding the small tape recorder near him and out of the wind, I listened to him say, "Did I dig up the grave of Dorothy Copeland? The answer to that is yes. I didn't see the harm, she's dead, right? I had one of my men drop the backhoe near the cemetery. We had some sewage pipes in the area to replace anyway-I'd been awarded the city bid on it- so I decided to get to it a little earlier, that's all. I was aware that my primary employer was interested in purchasing a wooden carving that was buried with the girl. I mean, who's it gonna hurt? The carving wasn't doing her no good. If the cops hadn't come, I'd a buried her back, no problem. It's not like I was being disrespectful. The thing about breaking into the gal's trailer, I didn't do that. It was probably the big colored guy, the football player, or one of his other flunkies. Oh, something I forgot… Ivan Bauerstock, he's my primary employer."
I listened to Rossi say, "Did I steal the gold Indian medallion? Did I rape Delia Copeland? Well… look, those are really strong words. Now, I did con her out of the medallion, I admit that. You grow up the way I grew up and, hey, it's a tough world, pal. People dumb enough to get conned deserve it in my book. So the woman's not real bright. Who you gonna blame for that? Me?