As he saw it, there were three players-Devereaux, the Kennedys and the Georgians. Sure, he realized it wasn’t really the Kennedy family, probably none of them except Abby O’Malley, and yes, the Georgians were not really Georgians, strictly speaking. But that’s how he thought of them-Kennedys and Georgians. Devereaux was the easy one. He was out there all by himself, a guilty-looking sonofabitch.
He started with the Kennedys. Was he wrong about Amsterdam? Had the Kennedys simply made a mistake by sending the Irishman? Must they have been the ones who killed Sir Anthony and the American Ambassador in order to have killed Harry? Or, could they have killed Harry and not the others? Who wanted Lacey’s confession more than they did? Their motives were the most obvious, their need already demonstrated by Sean Dooley and by Abby O’Malley’s visit. If it was them, if the Kennedys killed Harry and took the document, how did they know about Leonard Martin? Whoever it was who intimidated Isobel already knew Harry had been taken to Leonard’s hiding place. And, they should have known, all along, that Harry had the document. If that was so, why did they have to kill Sir Anthony and Ambassador Brown? If they didn’t learn about Harry until later, how did they find out? Walter was confident he had been right in Amsterdam. Sean Dooley was no killer. Why send him if you had someone else, someone who had already shown he could kill a helpless old man and two naked homosexuals. Dooley didn’t do that, so why send him to Amsterdam? More to the point, how did Abby O’Malley discover them in Amsterdam in the first place? Tucker Poesy knew. Devereaux obviously told her and she was waiting. But, Abby O’Malley-who told her? The questions did overwhelm him. As he had been doing for decades, Walter lined them up, pieces in the puzzle waiting to be fitted properly.
Walter could not forget, it was him they found, not Harry Levine. He couldn’t bring himself to forgive his own stupidity. He led them to Harry, in Holland and in New Mexico as well. Christ! If Harry had just stayed on his own, who knows, maybe he’d still be out there hiding somewhere, still alive. Walter covered himself with a blanket of doubt. If he had not fallen for Conchita Crystal’s act-it was an act, wasn’t it? If he had just said no to her. If he never found Harry.. . Shit! What an asshole. Aat was right. He was an old fool. Devereaux made him in Atlanta. The girl had him down in Holland. Was it all gone, into the crapper? Did he have anything at all left? Ike was right. The old man had it cold. He should have stayed retired.
Leonard Martin had changed everything. Lost more than a hundred pounds. Cut his hair short. Grew a beard. Stopped wearing suits and ties and switched to jeans and down jackets, boots and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Yes, Walter thought, he made himself a better man, a different man. He became the Cowboy. Somehow Walter felt a need to do the same. He’d already hardened his body some and was in even better shape now, after his heart attack, after his bypass surgery. Sixty? Shit, he was feeling more like forty. He didn’t have a new heart, but he had the closest thing to it. Revascularization, they called it. Revitalization, as far as Walter was concerned. In much the same way as Leonard Martin, he thought of himself as a better man. Like Billy said, Walter was every bit as better as Tommy John. Transformed. Could he be the Cowboy? Why not?
Harry Levine wasn’t family, blood, kin. He didn’t really know Harry that well, although you can get quite close to another person traveling around the world with killers on your trail. No, he was not family. But Harry Levine was his responsibility, his charge. He had been hired to keep him safe, not get him killed. Things had turned out bad before. Not every client was satisfied, not every conclusion the right one. Still, he’d never had anyone killed-murdered-while in his care. And he’d never been played the fool at the cost of another’s life. He had a duty, an obligation. Walter took it upon himself to find whoever killed Harry Levine, and then… he would know, wouldn’t he. Could he be the Cowboy?
“You look great,” said Ike. “A couple of months here, do that for anyone.” St. John is what he meant and they both knew it. From his barstool to Ike’s table, Walter sent his friend a nod of thanks. Territory had been firmly established years ago. Ike already had his table when Walter arrived. Billy’s former management-Frogman’s, it was called back then-either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The owner, a man named Jorge Castillo, lived on St. Thomas where he’d come from Kansas City or Milwaukee or some place like that. The Virgin Islands were filled with people, Americans who came from somewhere, none of them-for reasons nobody ever talked about-too eager to go back. When Billy bought the place, he did not change the way it looked, the placement of tables or any of the fixtures, including the barstools. He did allow for a more or less official recognition of Walter’s and Ike’s already settled presence. The hostess and wait staff knew to keep customers away from their spots without certain knowledge that either of them would not show up. Billy never minded. In fact, Billy liked it that way from the beginning. Ike was thinking about that, watching his friend at the end of the bar, near the kitchen, getting healthier and healthier every day.
“You look great,” he said again.
“This surgery you had, Walter,” chimed in Billy, “I think it made you even better than before. You think I could be right?”
“Yes,” Walter said. “Yes I do. But I think Ike’s right too. Don’t I look great?” His smile quickly turned to full blown laughter. “Seriously though,” said Walter, “I think he’s right about being here, on St. John. If I lived in Cleveland, or someplace, I don’t believe I’d feel as good as I do or look as good either, thank you very much.”
“Damn right, Walter. Shit, that’s true for us all, isn’t it?” laughed Billy proudly, extremely satisfied with his own observation.
“Wise man,” said Ike. “Billy, you definitely a wise man.” For his part, Billy was as happy as he could be with Walter’s recovery.
Billy Smith-previously William Mantkowski in another life altogether-knew a little something about recovery. He had seen men, including himself, injured in a way no one ever thought they would come back, come back all the way that is, come back to their old selves. He knew there was a lot more to it than drugs and doctors. Billy was certain as the day was long that among other things, the grace of God, the loving hand of Jesus, as well as his own good food had done wonders for his friend’s robust improvement. If Walter wasn’t praying, Billy was sure his own would suffice.
“They took something from your leg-is that right?” Billy asked.
“And they used it for my heart,” said Walter.
“Bypass,” Ike said, at the same time he was sucking into his lungs a volume of cigarette smoke that might have killed a first-time smoker. “Bypassing. Gotta go around something. Gotta use something to do it.”
“True, true,” said Walter.
“Like they did with Tommy John.”
“Tommy John-again, Billy?”