guzzling martinis. The Grander brothers still buying them off Papa John? Huh? He still into that?”
Gaeton took a breath, swallowed. He could feel the quirkiness in this boy, his impulses clashing with what intelligence he had. The boy was teetering, and Gaeton wasn’t completely sure which way to nudge him. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was in more trouble or less of it than if Benny was behind this.
Keeping his voice as mellow as he could make it, he said, “I want you to listen carefully to what I’m telling you. All you have to do is ask anybody in Key Largo. You find out I’m her brother, you come back here, unroll me. I’ll get up, and get back to the job I’m doing. Charge this up to an unfortunate mistake. But if you go ahead with what you’re planning, you’re going to get caught within twenty-four hours, and you’ll never see Darcy again. You won’t see your balls again either.”
Ozzie’s eyes seemed to dim from the power drain of the thought.
Gaeton said, “And hey, while you’re checking this out, you don’t want me to die, right?” Ozzie stared down at Gaeton with a sleepwalker’s bland face. Yes, master. What shall I do? No wonder Papa John liked this boy. “So, Ozzie. Go outside and bring me back some water.”
Ozzie left and in a few minutes returned, dragging the hose into the shed. He aimed it carelessly toward Gaeton’s face, squeezed the trigger. Gaeton had to twist to take a bite out of the scalding jet. It’d probably been heating in the sun for a week. But hell, it’d keep him alive for a few more hours, and it washed away that damn roach head.
It was Sunday afternoon, not much after one. Thorn watched the low, leaden clouds. They’d drained the blue from the water. The bay was a drab silver. No horizon line. The forward edge of the front had passed through last night. Today, as the drizzle stopped, the cold would settle in. Chapping weather.
He watched from his stone picnic table as a pelican coasted at fifty feet. A slight dip of the wing to touch up its flight. Then the big bird scudded, backstroked to a stall, and plunged in a streamlined mass into a boiling school of bait fish. In a few seconds it bobbed to the top and tipped its head back, riding the small chop its splash had made. It floated there long enough to let the pinfish slip into its throat, then dragged itself into flight again. The water quickly calm, the sky empty. Nobody had screamed. No one was weeping, not that you could see.
A brown Mercedes pulled into the yard, parked next to Thorn’s VW convertible. The driver looked at Thorn for a minute or two and got out.
He was about six feet and had black hair and was wearing a shiny blue Adidas warm-up suit, with new white running shoes. He’d left the motor running in the Mercedes and was walking down to the dock where Thorn was working on the ballyhoo plug.
He’d used Gaeton’s knife, putting some nice gill grooves in the side of the plug. The Buck knife had felt immediately natural. The right size, right heft. He hadn’t made a slip with it yet.
After he’d gotten the gills right, he’d begun to paint the plug silver. For the last hour he’d been trying to get a shimmer on its belly. But in that light everything was dulled. Hard to tell how he was doing.
The man stopped a few feet from the table. He seemed uncomfortable, in those clothes, in this spot. A long way from the cocktail lounges, shiny gray suits.
“Mr. Cousins got your code violations fixed,” the man said. He handed Thorn some forms from Building and Zoning. Thorn looked at them and put them aside.
He wiped the last drops of silver paint back on the rim of the small paint bottle and rested the brush on the edge of the picnic table.
“Mr. Cousins wants to talk to you.” The guy spoke with a lot of extra flesh muffling his words. He sounded like a retired boxer who’d specialized in the rope-a-dope.
Thorn said, “I’m working.”
The man looked at the ballyhoo plug, then
Gaeton took a breath, swallowed. He could feel the quirkiness in this boy, his impulses clashing with what intelligence he had. The boy was teetering, and Gaeton wasn’t completely sure which way to nudge him. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was in more trouble or less of it than if Benny was behind this.
Keeping his voice as mellow as he could make it, he said, “I want you to listen carefully to what I’m telling you. All you have to do is ask anybody in Key Largo. You find out I’m her brother, you come back here, unroll me. I’ll get up, and get back to the job I’m doing. Charge this up to an unfortunate mistake. But if you go ahead with what you’re planning, you’re going to get caught within twenty-four hours, and you’ll never see Darcy again. You won’t see your balls again either.”
Ozzie’s eyes seemed to dim from the power drain of the thought.
Gaeton said, “And hey, while you’re checking this out, you don’t want me to die, right?” Ozzie stared down at Gaeton with a sleepwalker’s bland face. Yes, master. What shall I do? No wonder Papa John liked this boy. “So, Ozzie. Go outside and bring me back some water.”
Ozzie left and in a few minutes returned, dragging the hose into the shed. He aimed it carelessly toward Gaeton’s face, squeezed the trigger. Gaeton had to twist to take a bite out of the scalding jet. It’d probably been heating in the sun for a week. But hell, it’d keep him alive for a few more hours, and it washed away that damn roach head.
It was Sunday afternoon, not much after one. Thorn watched the low, leaden clouds. They’d drained the blue from the water. The bay was a drab silver. No horizon line. The forward edge of the front had passed through last night. Today, as the drizzle stopped, the cold would settle in. Chapping weather.
He watched from his stone picnic table as a pelican coasted at fifty feet. A slight dip of the wing to touch up its flight. Then the big bird scudded, backstroked to a stall, and plunged in a streamlined mass into a boiling school of bait fish. In a few seconds it bobbed to the top and tipped its head back, riding the small chop its splash had made. It floated there long enough to let the pinfish slip into its throat, then dragged itself into flight again. The water quickly calm, the sky empty. Nobody had screamed. No one was weeping, not that you could see.
A brown Mercedes pulled into the yard, parked next to Thorn’s VW convertible. The driver looked at Thorn for a minute or two and got out.
He was about six feet and had black hair and was wearing a shiny blue Adidas warm-up suit, with new white running shoes. He’d left the motor running in the Mercedes and was walking down to the dock where Thorn was working on the ballyhoo plug.
He’d used Gaeton’s knife, putting some nice gill grooves in the side of the plug. The Buck knife had felt immediately natural. The right size, right heft. He hadn’t made a slip with it yet.
After he’d gotten the gills right, he’d begun to paint the plug silver. For the last hour he’d been trying to get a shimmer on its belly. But in that light everything was dulled. Hard to tell how he was doing.
The man stopped a few feet from the table. He seemed uncomfortable, in those clothes, in this spot. A long way from the cocktail lounges, shiny gray suits.
“Mr. Cousins got your code violations fixed,” the man said. He handed Thorn some forms from Building and Zoning. Thorn looked at them and put them aside.
He wiped the last drops of silver paint back on the rim of the small paint bottle and rested the brush on the edge of the picnic table.
“Mr. Cousins wants to talk to you.” The guy spoke with a lot of extra flesh muffling his words. He sounded like a retired boxer who’d specialized in the rope-a-dope.
Thorn said, “I’m working.”
The man looked at the ballyhoo plug, then
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