reprocessed by the mind. Dreams offer us a look at the subconscious.'
'I see.' But he didn't. He hadn't told her about the terrible nightmares. Twisted and frightening dreams. Always he was in the water, always a dark shadow chased him. Sometimes he would be swimming, trying to get away, and then, suddenly, he would become the monster. Last night he'd been after Matt. . chasing his dead son, mouth open, trying to devour him while the boy screamed. His own screams woke him up, drenched with sweat.
If it weren't for him, Matt would still be alive.
'I know you think this is all wrapped up with Matthew's dying'-his eyelid doing a machine-gun chatter-'but I've done my grieving. I've dealt with his death.' A triple-Lutz lie.
'You don't dream. You don't think about Matthew or your divorce. You're afraid to leave your house. You have your secretary drive you. You're being asked to leave the few appointments your agent can set up. Ryan, I think you'd better start taking our work more seriously. You can spend your money here, dodging me, trying not to deal with what's bothering you, but it's not going to lead you to any solutions.'
He glanced at his watch. . ten minutes more. Some things he couldn't share. He couldn't talk about Matt.
He felt so goddamned guilty.
'That mess at NBC. . I can clean that up. After all, I'm the guy who gave them The Mechanic and Dangerous Company. Those two shows made the network hundreds of millions.' But that was four years ago, and back then he'd have found a way to get Marty Lanier laughing at his own ideas, instead of calling him a cocksucker and threatening his life in front of the assembled network Jedi. Marty's ideas were creative arsenic. Thoughts delivered from the hip with no real reasons, just 'interesting notions' he called them-this from a man who probably got erections playing Nintendo.
'I want you to think about why we can't discuss Matthew,' she was saying. 'I want you to work on a reason.'
'Okay.' He looked at his watch: eight more minutes. 'Look, Ellen, I don't want to cut this short, but Elizabeth is picking me up and she has to get back to the studio by three. So I better leave now.'
'If that's what you want.'
He made it out the door, his eyelid doing the fandango. He got in the elevator.
Too small. It felt like a coffin, out of control, cableless, falling down the side of the steel and glass building, about to bury itself and Ryan in the oil shale deep below Century City.
He walked into the sunshine. The fifty-minute hour was over. He just hoped Elizabeth wasn't late and he could make it home without cracking up.
Chapter 3
'Man, this thing smells like somebody hurled in it,' Little Pussy said, wrinkling his nose in the backseat of the ten-year-old rusted-out Chevy wagon they had stolen in town. It was eight P. M. and they were heading back to the Sporting Club. New York Tony was driving with the headlights out.
Mickey, in the passenger seat, was trying to spot the shell road that led to the beach. 'There it is,' he said, pointing to the opening in the shrub line.
The wagon groaned and shook as it made the turn. Tony shut off the engine and coasted to a stop near Paul Arquette's bungalow. They sat for a minute, listening to the hot engine tick in the dark.
'Okay, Puss, we're going fishing, so we need one of those cabin cruisers tied out on the wharf. Make sure nobody's on the dock, then get aboard and see about getting it started. Don't turn it on till me an' Tony get aboard.'
'Right.' Little Pussy got out of the car and moved down to the beach. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Once he could see that nobody was on the wharf, he crossed the strip of white sand and climbed up on the dock, his lace-up leather shoes making clacking sounds on the freshly painted wood.
Mickey and New York Tony put on gloves and got out of the car. The Flamingo Suite was locked and empty. Mickey moved around to the back where he had broken the glass and saw that it had already been fixed. 'Shit,' he said in mild disgust This time he removed the pane without breaking it, opened the door, and fitted the glass back into the slot. He let Tony in the front door.
'Okay, this Warren guy is in something called the Sea-foam Suite. It's the next one down. Pick him up and bring him here. And keep him quiet.'
'Right.' Tony moved silently out the back door and disappeared down the beach.
Warren and Paul were having dinner in the big dining room with the two pollsters from the DNC. They were scheduled to go back to Washington tomorrow. People at other tables stole glances at the famous senator. They talked about the Iowa caucus and how Paul should get there early and start working the state in late January. Paul's wife, Avon, called him long-distance from Washington. He took the call on the headwaiter's phone. By nine o'clock, Paul and Warren said good night to the pollsters, and they all headed back to their respective suites.
When Paul put his key in the door, he was yawning. He moved carelessly into the room, turned to lock up, and felt the cold touch of a gun on his temple.
'Whaaah!' he yelled in fright.
'Hands behind you, Paul. Don't fuck with me or I'll blow your nuts off.'
'I. . You. .' Paul sputtered.
Paul put his hands behind him, and Mickey wrapped them quickly with some silver electrician's tape Milo had given him. Then he spun Paul around and pushed him against the door.
'You can't do this to me. I'm a U. S. senator.' 'You're puppy shit, Pauly. You shouldn't a' forgot who you were dealing with.'
A few minutes later, the back door opened and Warren Sacks was pushed into the room with a pillowcase over his head. Tony pulled the case off once they were inside, and Warren stared at them, his eyes bulging with terror. He had a pair of his own tennis socks taped into his mouth.
'Tony, get a couple a' pair of swim trunks outta the dresser. . an' some socks for Pauly.'
'Just what the fuck do you think. .?' Paul didn't get any further because Mickey hit him in the solar plexus. When Paul's mouth flew open to exhale, Tony shoved the socks into the opening, then Mickey pulled him upright and pushed his head back against the wall.
'How do you guys feel about fishing? I know it's late, but what the hell. . Warm see if anything's running out there?'
Warren and Paul looked at Mickey through wild eyes.
They stepped out of the pink Flamingo Suite, closed and locked the door, and headed toward the cabin cruisers.
Little Pussy was in an Egg Harbor with a flying bridge. He stuck his head out of the cabin. 'Over here,' Puss whispered, and they loaded Paul and Warren aboard. On the stern of the boat, printed in corny circus letters, it said REEL FANTASY. They pushed Paul and Warren down into the padded fighting chairs.
'Any live bait aboard, Puss?'
'In that tank,' Little Pussy answered.
The bait tank in the stern was full of medium-size sea bass swimming lazily in the brackish water.
'Is everybody ready for a Reel Fantasy?' Mickey asked. 'Puss, let's get outta here.'
Little Pussy had found the keys hanging on a hook inside the starboard hatch. He started the engines while New York Tony cast of the lines, and the thirty-foot fishing boat moved slowly out to sea, its running lights off. Within moments, the Reel Fantasy was out of view of land.
They cut the engines somewhere over the Great Bahama Bank, and Mickey grabbed the small hand fishnet, scooped several of the bait fish out of the tank, and started to chop them into little pieces. When he was finished, he scrape d t he fish and innards into a drain bucket. All the while, he talked to a terrified Paul Arquette.
'What I don't get, Paul, and maybe you can explain it to me, is what the fuck you think was going on all those
