Frank and Mike were bedside fifteen minutes later. Georgie Y was all tubes and needles; a respirator was doing his breathing for him. They sat there for three hours, until the sister arrived from L.A.
She gave the okay to pull the plug.
Frank and Mike went to the junkie’s apartment. He’d split, of course, but the dancer was home at her place.
“Where’s your fucking boyfriend?” Mike asked her after he kicked the door in.
“I don’t know. I haven’t-”
Mike punched her in the mouth, then stuck the gun barrel through her broken teeth. “Where’s your fucking junkie boyfriend, bitch? You lie to me again-”
The little shit was hiding in the bedroom closet.
Junkies aren’t smart.
Mike ripped the door off its runners, yanked him out, and punched him in the gut. Frank took a pair of the girl’s panty hose out of her chest of drawers and shoved them into his mouth. Then he ripped the phone out of the wall and tied the guy’s hands behind his back with the cord.
They walked him out to the car. Frank drove while Mike held the junkie down on the floor in the back.
They drove out to the river floodway and pushed him over the edge. The floodway was dry and the junkie was pretty beat-up by the time he landed on the bottom. Mike and Frank slid down and pulled him up to his knees. The junkie was puking and starting to choke because the vomit was going back down his throat.
Frank pulled the panty hose out of his mouth and the junkie puked. Then he gasped, “I swear I didn’t-”
“Don’t lie to me,” Frank said. He squatted down and spoke quietly in the junkie’s ear. “I know what you did. You have one chance to save yourself now. Tell me where they are.”
“They hang out down in Carlsbad,” the junkie said. “Some English place.”
“The White Hart,” Mike said.
Frank nodded, pulled his gun, and fired into the junkie until the chambers were empty.
Mike did the same.
They got back in the car and drove to the White Hart.
They both knew the place.
The bar had warm beer, bangers and mash, and satellite feeds of soccer games, so a lot of the SoCal British expats hung out there. A pub-style sign with old-fashioned lettering and a painting of a white deer was hung over the door, and a Union Jack was stretched across the one window.
“Wait here,” Frank said when they pulled into the parking lot. He reloaded the. 38.
“Fuck that,” Mike said. “I’m coming with you.”
“This ismy thing,” Frank said. “Just have the motor running and the car in gear, okay?”
Mike nodded. He handed Frank his own pistol.
Frank checked its load, then asked, “You got a kit in the trunk?”
“Sure.”
Mike popped the trunk open.
“Clean?” Frank asked.
“The fuck am I?” Mike asked. “Some beaner robbing a 7-Eleven?”
Frank got out of the car, walked back to the trunk, and found what he expected-a twelve-gauge sawed-off shotgun, a bulletproof vest, a pair of gloves, and a black stocking. He took off his jacket, slipped on the gloves, then buttoned up the vest and put his jacket back on over it. Then he stuck both pistols into his belt, tucked the shotgun into the crook of his arm, and pulled the black stocking over his head.
“See you in a minute,” Mike said. “Frankie Machine.”
Frank stepped through the door.
The place was nearly empty, just a couple of guys at the bar. The bartender and Rugby Shirt and Arsenal were all sitting at a table, drinking pints and looking up at a soccer match on a television set bolted high on the wall, near the ceiling.
Arsenal turned when the door opened.
The shotgun blast blew him out of his chair.
Rugby Shirt tried to stand to pull his pistol from his waistband, but Frank unloaded the second barrel into his stomach and he crumpled onto the table.
Where is Porter? Frank asked himself.
The men’s room was at the back of the bar. Frank let the shotgun drop to the floor, took both pistols from his belt, and kicked the door in.
Porter was braced against the sink, his pistol raised. He was wearing his usual black suit, but his fly was unzipped and his hands were dripping water. He fired and Frank felt the three shotsthunk into the vest, right over his heart, knocking the air out of him, and then he saw the look of alarmed surprise in Porter’s eyes when he didn’t go down.
Frank fired twice with the gun in his right hand.
Porter’s head smashed back against the mirror, cracking it; then he slid down the sink and onto the floor.
Blood pooled onto the yellowed tiles.
They’ll never get that out of the grouting, Frank thought as he dropped the gun, turned, and walked out of the bar.
Mike had the car in gear.
Frank got in, and Mike drove slowly out of the parking lot, onto the street, and then pulled on the 5.
Bap would have been proud.
“Where to?” Mike asked.
“Tara,” Frank said.
Sometimes you just have to go in.
Usually, you try to be careful. You set everything up. You’re patient and you wait until the moment is exactly right.
But sometimes you just have to go in.
They stopped off at Mike’s condo in Del Mar first. Mike had an arsenal tucked away in the guest bedroom closet. Frank picked out two . 38 snubbies, a Wellington over and under. 303 ten-gauge, an AR-15, and two hand grenades.
When they got to Tara, there was no guard at the gate and it was open.
“What do you think?” Mike asked.
“I think they’re waiting for us inside,” Frank said. “I think we drive in and they ventilate the car.”
“Sonny.”
“What?”
“Sonny Corleone,” Mike said.
“You guys ever watch anything else?”
“Youguys?”
They drove the car around the back, got out, and climbed over the wall. Frank knew they must have tripped off motion sensors, but nothing happened-no lights, no alarms. Still, he thought, Mac must have night-vision cameras linked to the sensors, and he’s probably watching us now, on the monitor. That’s okay, you knew when you came in that you were going to fight the battle on his terms.
It was like being back in Vietnam.
Charlie never fought except on his own terms.
If you found him, it was because hewanted you to find him.
Frank carried the AR-15 and had the shotgun slung over his back. He liked the automatic rifle for range-the shotgun wouldn’t be that useful until they got inside. If they got inside.
They had to walk through the zoo to get to the house. It was weird, because the animals were awake at night. The birds started to squawk, and he could hear the cats pacing in their cages, see their eyes flash red.
And, like Vietnam, Frank expected to see other flashes break up the night-the muzzle flashes of an ambush-then he realized that he and Mike were between the shooters and the animals, and Mac wouldn’t take a chance on one of his pets getting shot accidentally.
The pool glittered a cool blue. It was lit up, but there was nobody out there, not anyone they could see anyway. They’re inside the house, Frank thought, or, better, on the roof, waiting for us to get in so close that they can’t miss.
Any second, the night sky is going to light up like the Fourth of July.
Frank edged around the pool, then flattened himself on the patio at the edge of the house and signaled Mike to do the same. Then he trained the rifle’s night scope on the roof and scanned it left to right. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean they weren’t up there, lying flat against the dormers or behind the chimneys.
It was about fifty feet of open lawn to the back of the house.
“Cover me,” he whispered to Mike.
Then, ducking as low as he could while still being able to run, he dashed toward the house and threw himself flat against the wall. He took one of the grenades out of his pocket, hooked his finger inside the pin, got ready to flip it up onto the roof, and then waved his hand to Mike.