“Ready for Round Two?” DeSanctis asks, looking way too wobbly.
The right side of his face is covered in blood – and before he can even step outside, Gillian wheels around and pounds her knee into his testicles. He drops to the ground, I pound him with the butt of the gun, and we continue running to the far end of the backyard. As we reach the wall, it looks like a mirror image of the one Charlie went over – that is, until I glance to my left and see the black metal gate that’s cut into the wall. Taped to the bars is an index card stuffed into a sealed plastic Baggie: Do Not Lock – For Fire, it says in handwritten chicken scrawl.
Grabbing the bars, Gillian yanks open the gate. It slams with a clang behind us and dumps us in the parking lot of a low-rise apartment complex. We make a sharp left the instant we hit the street.
“Over here,” she says, hopping inside her blue Beetle, which is parked under a tree.
With a flick of her wrist, she starts the car. I’m looking over my shoulder for DeSanctis. “Go, go, go…”
“Which way?” she asks.
“Straight ahead. We’ll find him.”
Tires shriek, wheels kick in, and we buck back in our seats. We keep our heads low, just in case we spot Gallo. But as we reach the end of the block – the corner where Charlie was headed – there’s no one in sight. Not Gallo… not Charlie… not anyone. In the distance, there’s a faint howl of sirens. Gunshots bring police.
“Oliver, we really should…”
“Keep looking,” I insist, scouring every alley next to every pink house we pass. “He’s here somewhere.” But as the car crawls up the block, there’s nothing but empty driveways, ratty overgrown lawns, and a few swaying palm trees. Behind us, the sirens scream even louder.
If I were the one running, I’d make a right at the next stop sign. “Make a left,” I tell Gillian. I still know my brother. Yet when we curve around the corner, the only person there is an old man with shoe-leather brown skin and a 1950s sky blue cabana shirt. He’s sitting on his stoop, peeling a grapefruit with a pocketknife.
“Have you see anyone run by?” I call out as I lower my window and hide the gun.
He looks at me like I’m speaking…
“Spanish,” Gillian clarifies.
“Oh, uh… have you veras un muchacho?”
Still no response. He goes back to peeling his grapefruit. The siren’s almost on us.
Gillian stares in the rearview, knowing it’s close. She needs a decision. “Oliver…”
“Hold on,” I tell her. “Por favor – es muy importante. Es mi hermano!”
He won’t even look up.
“Oliver, please…”
Behind us, tires screech around the corner.
“Go – get us out of here,” I finally give in.
She pumps the gas, and the wheels once again search for traction. A quick right and an ignored speed limit turns the neighborhood into a pink-and-green blur. I stare out the window, waiting for Charlie to jump out from the bushes and shout that he’s safe. But he never does. I don’t stop looking.
Next to me, Gillian reaches out and cups her hand softly on the back of my neck. “I’m sure he’s okay,” she promises.
“Yeah,” I reply as South Beach – and my brother – fade behind us. “I hope you’re right.”
56
If she’d been ten minutes earlier, Joey would’ve seen the whole thing: the ruby red lights of the police car, the uniformed cops as they ran out, even Gallo and DeSanctis as they gave their hastily prepared explanation: Yes, that was us; yes, they got away; no, we can handle it fine by ourselves, thanks all the same. But even with everyone gone – even with Gallo’s rental car nowhere in sight – it was still impossible to miss the bright yellow-and-black police tape that covered Duckworth’s front door.
Jumping out of the car, Joey headed straight for the door and knocked as hard as she could. “It’s me – anyone there?” she shouted, making sure she was alone.
A glance over her shoulder and a flick on the lock’s pins did the rest. As the door swung open, she ducked and slid under the police tape limbo stick. Inside, the kitchen was untouched, but the living room was wrecked. Lamp shattered, coffee table overturned, books thrown from their shelves. The struggle was short – all confined to one space. At the bottom of the bookcase was a stack of old Wired magazines. Joey went right for them, grabbing the one on top and scanning the subscription label. Martin Duckworth? she read to herself, clearly confused. On a nearby shelf, she noticed the cracked picture frame with the photo of Gillian and her dad. Finally, something physical. Joey pulled out the photo and stuffed it in her purse.
Down low, glass blender shards sparkled against the pale carpet, which had a blotted dark stain by the door. Joey bent down to look closer, but the blood was already dry. Up the hallway, the blood continued – tiny drops trailing out like planets from a dark sun. The further she went, the smaller they got, eventually leading her toward the bedroom. And the sliding glass door.
Through the glass, a four-year-old Cuban boy in red underwear and a blue Superman T-shirt stared back, his hands stuffed down his pants. Joey smiled and slid the door open slowly, careful not to scare him. “Have you seen my brother?” she asked playfully.
“Bang-bang!” he shouted, pointing a finger-gun at the far wall on her left. Turning to follow, Joey noticed the jagged divot at the top of the concrete. At the base, the lounge chair was propped into place. Up and over, Joey thought.
Grabbing her cell phone from her purse, she went right for speed-dial.
“How was your flight? You get free peanuts?” Noreen answered.
“Ever hear of a guy named Martin Duckworth?” Joey asked, staring down at the rolled-up Wired.
“Isn’t that the guy whose name is on the bank account?”
“That’s the one. According to Lapidus and the records at Greene, he’s living in New York – but I’ll bet if we put him through the meat grinder, we’ll get something more.”
“Give me five minutes. Anything else?”
“I also need you to find their relatives for me,” Joey explained as she walked closer to the wall. “Charlie and Oliver – anyone and everyone they might know in Florida.”
“C’mon, boss – you think I didn’t do that the moment you stepped on a plane for Miami?”
“Can you send me the list?”
“There’s only one name on it,” Noreen said. “But I thought you said they were too smart to hide with relatives.”
“Not anymore – from the look of things here, they had a little surprise visit from Gallo and DeSanctis.”
“You think they got nabbed?”
Still picturing the stain on the carpet, Joey stood up on the lounge chair and ran her fingertips against the missing chunk of the concrete wall. No blood anywhere. “I can’t speak for both of them, but something tells me at least one got away – and if he’s on the run…”
“… he’ll be desperate,” Noreen agreed. “Give me ten minutes – you’ll have everything.”
57
When I was twelve years old, I lost Charlie in the mall at Kings Plaza. Mom was in one of the old discount stores, deciding what to put on layaway; Charlie was sneaking through Spencer Gifts, trying his best to sniff the “Adults Only” erotic candles; and I… I was supposed to have him right by my side. But when I turned around to show him their selection of nudie playing cards, I realized he was gone. I knew it instantly – he wasn’t hiding or wandering off in a corner of the store. He was missing.
For twenty-five minutes, I frantically ran from store to store, shouting his name. Until the moment we found him – licking the glass at JoAnn’s Nut House – there was a stabbing pain that burrowed into my chest. It’s nothing compared to what I’m feeling right now.