Baltimore Noir

Jack actually blushed. “You must mean Tim. He works for the yacht broker.”

“Tim, then.”

“He installed a self-steerer in the Sabre. Wanted to make sure it worked.”

“Self-steering will come in handy on the ocean,” Angie commented, taking a sip from her mocha frappe. “So, tell me about the trip.”

While Jack extracted a map from his fanny pack and smoothed it out on the table, Angie studied his face. The eyes were right, and so were the ears, but the nose and chin bothered her. Plastic surgery? If so, the scars were hidden in the tiny creases of his well-tanned skin.

Jack anchored a corner of the map with his drink. His finger traced a line from the Abacos to Eleuthera, down the long Exumas chain to Great Exuma. Angie smiled and nodded and asked all the right questions-about sending and receiving mail, about satellite phones and how they’d divide up the duties and the costs-but knew it was time to move on.

She leaned over the map. “I’d like to see the boat now, Jack.”

His eyes, dark as cinnamon, locked on hers, and something went ka-plump in her chest. Goddamn. She hoped that wouldn’t be a problem.

Minutes later, opposite the aquarium, Angie held back. “Wait a minute!” she said, grabbing Jack by the arm and dragging him along. “You have to see the seals!” She led him to the seal pool, where they stood side-by-side, leaning against the railing, the crowds pressing in around them.

Ike and Lady eeled soundlessly through the water in their idyllic, 70,000-gallon world. Mounted on the railing was a sign-Caution: Throwing coins or objects in the pool can kill the seals. Well, not so idyllic, maybe.

They watched in companionable silence for a while, then Jack turned to face her.

“Mandy,” he said. His eyes seemed to drink her down. “This’ll probably not sit too well, but you could be the figurehead on my ship of life.”

“That’s bullshit,” she said, smiling.

“No,” he said. “Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“About the figurehead. I don’t think so… Bill “ Her voice dropped an octave on his name, like a late night DJ. Her smile evaporated and she waited, giving him time to let the significance of her words sink in.

“Shitfuckdamn.” He blinked slowly. “How the hell did you find me?”

“We’re betrayed by our buying habits, Jack. Take me, for example.” She plucked at the collar of her gauzy shirt. “If I wanted to disappear, I’d have to stop shopping at Chicos.”

Jack relaxed against the railing. Perhaps he was relieved. “So what gave away?”

“The West Marine catalog.”

“No way.” He actually grinned.

She slipped a hand into her tote, easing it down deep along the side. “I called their 800-number to complain that we hadn’t received our catalog since we moved, and were they still sending it to the Providence address.” She shrugged. “‘Oh, no,’ the woman told me, ‘it’s going to your new address in North Carolina.’” Angie smiled. “Of course she confirmed that for me.”

Jack laid a hand on her shoulder, and again she felt it, like a jolt of electricity straight to her heart. “But why you?” he asked.

“Not me,” she said, leaning closer, so close that her nose was filled with the Tide-washed freshness of his shirt. “It’s Michael Cirelli who’s looking for you. He wasn’t amused when you ratted. When your testimony sent his son to jail.” She paused. “It irks him that Danny’s cooling his heels at Lewisburg while you are…” Angie waved a hand in the direction of Windwalker, bobbing quietly at anchor in the harbor behind them. “Sailing off into the proverbial sunset.”

“I’d like to be sailing off with you,” Jack whispered.

She stood on tiptoe, her lips warm against his cheek. “I’m really sorry, Jack.”

The knife cool in her hand. Its blade, long and thin, penetrated his shirt and the skin of his chest, slipping cleanly between his ribs, piercing the left ventricle of his heart. Still leaning against the railing, Jack only looked surprised as she withdrew the knife and dropped it back into her tote. Jack slumped against her-another amorous couple enjoying the summer evening. Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, “But if I’d sailed off with anybody, it would have been with you.”

With a fluid, practiced move, she lifted and pushed, gently tumbling him over the railing, onto the concrete skirt that surrounded the seal pool, where he lay still, one hand trailing in the water, his eyes wide, locked on hers. It would take several minutes for his heart to bleed out, flooding his chest cavity. Plenty of time for Jack to call out-Help! Murder! or even her name. But he lay quietly along the skirting, defeated, dying.

Lady surfaced, the water sleeking off her mottled fur. She snorted, her whiskers twitching curiously next to Jack’s hand. Bobbing, she studied the dying man with dark, sorrowful eyes.

“Sorry, Lady,” Angie whispered, thinking about the warning sign. Then, “Call 911!” she screamed. “He’s having a heart attack!”

In the subsequent confusion, she slipped away, weaving quietly through the crowd, moving confidently against the grain.

Near the causeway between the power plant and Baltimore’s Public Works Museum, the wig came off with the hat, in one quick swoop. By the time she crossed President Street, Angie had fluffed up her flyaway copper curls, and the disguise was tucked safely into the plastic bag that had once held her videocam.

She strolled down Fawn Street, almost to Gough, before finding a dumpster where she ditched the bag. She doubled back to Exeter. Angie wasn’t worried. Two thousand people were crowded in Little Italy tonight, out to enjoy the film festival. Cinema al fresco would generate tons of garbage. Nobody was going to be pawing through the dumpsters in the morning.

On Stiles, at the far end of the bocce court tucked between High and Exeter, she found her brother and his team, all duded up and slicked back, their asses being whipped by paisanos on Social Security, wearing team shirts, Bermudas, and tube socks. She perched on a park bench painted red, white, and green to watch the massacre, wondering, not for the first time, how Johnny could bet serious money on a game that was a cross between lawn bowling and horseshoes. After a while, she wandered off and bought herself a meatball sub and ate it at the corner of High and Stiles, where Johnny found her later, just as it was growing dark. He carried a couple of lawn chairs.

“Sorry I’m late, sis.”

She presented her cheek for a kiss.

He unfolded a chair, placed it on the sidewalk, and held it steady while she sat down. “Glad you stopped by.”

“I’m starving,” she said. “What’s in the box?”

“Dessert,” he said.

“From Vaccaro’s, I trust,” she said, holding out her hand for the box.

“How’s Mom?”

“Just fine,” Angie replied, liberating a chocolate-dipped cannoli from a square of wax paper. “She thinks I should get a life.”

“And Providence?”

“Not so good as when Buddy Cianci was mayor, but thriving.” She took a bite of the cannoli, savoring the sweetness of it on her tongue, feeling giddy. “You should visit sometime, Johnny.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, “if I’m not on call over Thanksgiving.”

From the third floor bedroom of John Pente’s apartment directly over their heads, a blue stream of light projected the opening scenes of Moonstruck onto a blank white billboard across a parking lot crammed with people: a street festival meets the drive-in, but without all the cars.

“They always start with Moonstruck “ her brother explained, “and end with Cinema Paradiso

“All Italian?”

He nodded, chewing, his mouth full of amaretto tiramisu. “Mostly.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a