"What?" The waiter brought the lemonade and beer. The label was a movie poster from the twentieth century, a goofy-looking alien with a glowing fingertip. He poured the beer. It was pale green, and probably glowed in the dark.
The waiter left. "You didn't work here four or five years ago. We used to get trashed all the time—graffiti, broken windows. Gang stuff."
She nodded. "So they could get their jail time."
" Verdad. A new gang member would confess and get his week in jail. Rite of passage. But it was costing the city a fortune, and the cops were powerless. You catch one in the act, hell, that's what he wants.
"So Capra moves in. The gangs stay away from any building that has his mark."
"Or else ... what?"
"That's another thing I don't want to know. A few days after Capra started marking buildings, the leaders of three gangs disappeared overnight. Never came back, good riddance."
"He killed them for vandalism?"
"Had them killed, probably. And probably not 'for' anything, except to show what he could do if they didn't cooperate."
She stared at him in silence for a moment. There was a heated argument going on sotto voceat the gangsters' table. She shook her head. "God. This town."
"This town is peaches and cream, honey, compared to—"
The waiter had returned. "May I ... are you ready to order? Ma'am?" His voice was a little loud and nervous as he glanced at the other table.
"Jimmy!" Willy Joe shouted. "Cancel them specials. We gotta leave."
"As you wish, sir," the waiter said. The three of them shuffled out from behind the table, and left in a little procession: Willy Joe striding in the lead, the pale hoodlum following, and then the lawyer.
Gregory Moore
He stopped to shake the mayor's hand. "Cam. Long time no see."
"We seem to travel in different circles now," he said.
"It's all circles, isn't it? 'What goes around comes around,' my dad used to say."
"Your father was a good lawyer."
"So are you, Cam. Señorita?" She nodded at him with a curious smile, and he followed Solo out the door.
"You're pals with the mayor?" Solo said, opening the car door.
"Not exactly 'pals.' Remind me to wash this hand."
"He's a asshole," Willy Joe said, getting in, "but he's our asshole."
The doors slid shut and the air conditioner's roar abated. Solo, behind the wheel, pushed a button. "Address for Norman Bell."
"This is lunacy," Moore said. "Isn't one murder a day enough?
"He can't fuckwith me that way!"
The car told Solo the address. "Go there." It pulled away from the curb, hesitated, and slipped into the traffic.
"Plenty of people saw us together. Saw him leave."
"Shut up, okay? Just gonna check the fuckin' thing out."
"Just promise me you won't—"
"I don't promise you or nobody a fuckin' thing," he said quietly. "But Solo ain't gonna kill him. Just rough him up a little. Put the fear o' God into him."
"Jesus. Listen to yourself."
Solo turned around to face them. "Boss, I don't think he's the kind of guy you just push around ... "
"That's right, you don't think!You don't think!You just do what I tell you."
"What do you mean, Solo?"
"I mean beggin' your pardon, Boss, but God knows I met all kinds a tough guys and phony tough guys, inside and outside. He's not phony, and he's pissed. I think he'd just as soon kill any one of us as look at us."
"You've got a fuckin' gun. How's he gonna kill you?"
"You buy that shit about the trumpet oil?" Solo put a finger beside his nose. "Hoppes No. 9, I've smelled it all my life. He's got a gun, all right."
"So he's got a gun. He's a faggot professor twice as old as you."
"Push the info button for me, Solo," Moore said. He did. "Public records, military. Norman Bell."
"I'll need a service number," the car said, "or current residence."
"Gainesville, Florida."
"Norman Bell volunteered for the draft during Desert Wind, in September 2031. For his service in the 101st Airborne Division, he was awarded the Silver Star with two clusters and the Purple Heart."
"Silver Star," Solo said. "Two clusters. Some faggot."
"So? So you afraid of him?"
Solo didn't move. "I'll do what you want."
"I want."
Moore kept an eye on the road. There was a bike lane. But Bell probably would take a less direct route, avoiding traffic.
"He probably has a burglar alarm. House full of musical instruments."
"Solo can take care of a burglar alarm."
"Yeah, or run like hell."
Moore shook his head. "You ought to wait until he's home, if you have to do this. Knock on his door and push your way in."
"Excuse me, Mr. Lawyer. We already gone over this in the restaurant."
"It's an unnecessary—"
"I don't got a replay button. You clear on that?"
This could get them all into trouble. Too many people in that restaurant saw the four of them together. "It's going to be an interesting trial. Calling the mayor as a witness."
"Shut the fuck up. The mayor's fuckin' ours. Besides, he came in after the professor left."
"This is going too fast."
"Sometimes you gotta livefast. We got a chance for perfect timing here. Get them both, get the money, get the fuck out."
After they dropped Solo off, he was going to go confront Aurora Bell. In theory, by the time she called home, her husband would be sufficiently intimidated. They would empty their bank accounts into Willy Joe's coffers.
Again in theory, the Bells couldn't call the police. This Qabil Rabin was still on the force, Willy Joe had said. But what if the jealous wife was not exactly fond of her husband's boyfriend. Or her husband, for that matter. This whole thing could blow up in their faces.
The car turned right and went uphill for a couple of blocks, through a quiet residential neighborhood. Then left and right and they pulled up in front of the Bells' house, a large rambler with conservative but well-maintained landscaping. There was nobody in sight.
"No burglar-alarm signs," Willy Joe said. "People who got 'em advertise it."
"Yeah; like me," Moore said. "Someone stolemy sign."
"Move it," Willy Joe said. Solo opened the door and got out.
He stood for a moment with his hand on the door. "Call you tonight, Boss, or come by?"
"Call." He shut the door and the car glided away.
Solo stood for a moment, feeling exposed and perhaps betrayed. What the hell was Willy Joe's game this time? A test? A sacrifice play?
You couldn't just walk out on him, crazy and vindictive fucker. Solo fought the reasonable impulse to call a cab and go straight to the airport, sighed, and turned on his heel. Shit or get off the pot.
He went up the walk briskly, checking his watch for the sake of unseen neighbors. The place was a perfect design for breaking in; a small atrium hid the front door from the street.
The atrium was cool and smelled of jasmine. He went straight to the door and rang the bell, getting his story ready in case there was a servant or a robot.
No answer. He looked around carefully for security cameras. If there was one, it was pretty well hidden.