'You quit drinking?' Byrne asked.
'Two years,' Gauntlett said. 'The meds, mon.'
Byrne smiled. He knew Gauntlett well enough. 'Man,' he said. 'I remember when you could snort the fifty-yard line at the Vet.'
'Back in the day, I could fuck all night, too.'
'No, you couldn't.'
Gauntlett smiled. 'Maybe an hour.'
The two men adjusted their clothing, felt out each other's company. It had been a while. The DJ spun into a song by Ghetto Priest.
'How about all dis, eh?' Gauntlett asked, wanding his spindly hand in front of his face and sunken chest. 'Some fuckery, dis.'
Byrne was at a loss for words. 'I'm sorry.'
Gauntlett shook his head. 'I had my time,'he said. 'No regrets.'
They sipped their drinks. Gauntlett fell silent. He knew the drill. Cops were always cops. Robbers were always robbers. 'So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detective?'
'I'm looking for someone.'
Gauntlett nodded again. This much he had figured.
'Punk named Diablo,' Byrne said. 'Big fucker, tats all over his face,' Byrne said. 'You know him?'
'I do.'
'Any idea where I can locate him?'
Gauntlett Merriman knew enough not to ask why.
'Is this in the light or the shadow?' Gauntlett asked.
'Shadow.'
Gauntlett looked out over the dance floor, a long, slow scan that endowed his favor with the weight it deserved. 'I believe I can help you in this matter.'
'I just need to talk to him.'
Gauntlett held up a bone-thin hand. 'Ston a riva battan nuh know sun hat,' he said, slipping deep into his Jamaican patois.
Byrne knew this one. A stone at the bottom of the river doesn't know the sun is hot.
'I appreciate this,' Byrne added. He didn't bother to add that Gauntlett should keep all this to himself. He wrote his cell phone number on the back of a business card.
'Not at all.' He sipped his water. 'Ever'ting cook and curry.'
Gauntlett rose from the table, a little unsteadily. Byrne wanted to help him, but he knew that Gauntlett was a proud man. Gauntlett found his balance. 'I will call you.'
The two men embraced again.
When he got to the door, Byrne turned, found Gauntlett in the crowd, thinking: A dying man knows his future.
Kevin Byrne envied him.
42
WEDNESDAY, 2:00 AM
'Is this Mr. Amis?' the sweet voice on the phone inquired.
'Hello, love,' Simon said, pouring on the North London. 'How are you?'
'Fine, thanks,' she said. 'What can I do for you tonight?'
Simon used three different outcall services. For this one, StarGals, he was Kingsley Amis. 'I'm frightfully lonely.'
'That's why we're here, Mr. Amis,' she said. 'Have you been a naughty boy?'
'Terribly naughty,' Simon said. 'And I deserve to be punished.'
While he waited for the girl to arrive, Simon looked at a tearsheet of the front page of the next day's Report. He had the cover, as he would have until the Rosary Killer was caught.
A few minutes later, as he sipped his Stoli, he imported the photos from his camera into his laptop. God, he loved this part, when all of his equipment was synched up and working.
His heart beat a little faster as the individual photos popped up on the screen.
He had never used the motor drive function on his digital camera before, the feature that allowed him to take a rapid series of photographs without resetting. It worked perfectly.
In all, he had six photographs of Kevin Byrne coming out of that vacant lot in Gray's Ferry, along with a handful of telephoto shots at the Rodin Museum.
No back alley meetings with crack dealers.
Not yet.
Simon closed his laptop, took a quick shower, poured himself a few more inches of Stoli.
Twenty minutes later, as he prepared to open the door, he thought about who would be on the other side. As always, she would be blond and leggy and slender. She would be wearing a plaid skirt, navy blazer, white blouse, knee socks, and penny loafers. She would even carry a book bag.
He was a very naughty boy, indeed.
43
WEDNESDAY, 9:00 AM
'Whatever you need,' Ernie Tedesco said.
Ernie Tedesco owned Tedesco and Sons Quality Meats, a small meatpacking company in Pennsport. He and Byrne had formed a friendship years earlier when Byrne had solved a series of truck hijackings for him.
Byrne had gone home with the intention of showering, grabbing something to eat, and rousting Ernie out of bed. Instead, he showered, sat on the edge of the bed, and the next thing he knew it was six o'clock in the morning.
Sometimes the body says no.
The two men gave each other the macho version of a hug-clasp hands, step forward, strong pat on the back. Ernie's plant was closed for renovations. When he left, Byrne would be alone there.
'Thanks, man,' Byrne said.
'Anything, anytime, anywhere,' Ernie replied. He stepped through the huge steel door and was gone.
Byrne had monitored the police band all morning. The call had not gone out about a body found in an alley in Gray's Ferry. Not yet. The siren he had heard the night before was another call.
Byrne entered one of the huge meat storage lockers, the frigid room where sides of beef were hung from hooks, and attached to ceiling tracks.
He put on gloves and moved a beef carcass a few feet from the wall.
A few minutes later, he propped open the outside door, went to his car. He had stopped at a demolition site on Delaware, where he had taken a dozen or so bricks.
Back inside the processing room, he carefully stacked the bricks on an aluminum cart, and positioned the cart behind the hanging carcass. He stepped back, studied the trajectory. All wrong. He rearranged the bricks again, and yet again, until he had it right.
He took off the wool gloves and put on a pair of latex. He took the weapon out of his coat pocket, the silver Smith amp; Wesson he had taken off Diablo the night he brought in Gideon Pratt. He gave another quick glance around the processing room.
