And, established in the center of one of his beats, it had fallen into the lap of Wade Panos.
His commission during the past year-essentially to have Nick instead of one of Solon's people carry the diamonds and guard them to and from the airport to the Diamond Center, plus a little muscle and political favor-was a little more than six million dollars, most of which Solon wired directly from the Antwerp office to Wade's account in the Caymans. The rest came back to San Francisco, where Wade used it to keep his own krysha in good repair. He loved the term-the roof that protected you. The people you paid off.
But Nick.
Even with his new job, Nick remained a problem. Because he was young, headstrong and prone to violence, he hadn't worked out at all as an assistant patrol special. Wade had thought the simple job at Georgia AAA would serve two purposes. First, it would keep his nephew out of trouble and, second, Wade would have his own man, and a relative at that, on the inside to protect his position with Solon.
But after a little more than a full year at it, neither part was working out too well. Nick had too much free time, no real job to do, and too much money. He was upping his profile all over town-getting into fights, gambling, throwing his weight around-and this was not good. When it was time for his deliveries, he would show up around the Georgia offices, self-important, well-dressed and surly, and alienate everyone from the cutters to Solon himself.
Even more disturbingly, he had somehow ended up with Julio Rez as his partner on these trips. Wade didn't know Rez well, but thought him capable of shooting Nick and stealing the diamonds they were transporting.
He needed to get Nick out of there, get him a real grownup job, maybe at the Ark, then put his brother Ray in with Solon to protect the relationship. Ray was good with people.
But suddenly he straightened up, tugging hard now at his collar, getting it loosened up. He looked at himself in the mirror on the kitchen wall-his skin color was awful, a flushed ochre that made him look both pale and flushed.
He thought he could feel his blood pressure pushing on his eardrums. He brought a hand up to his nostrils, checked it for blood.
Look at him. What the hell was he doing?
Here he was, Wade Panos, nobody's idea of a lightweight, brooding over individual strategic moves again- and again and again-when the real issue, the big issue, was that these two goddamned lawyers looked like they were going to try to shut him down. They were threatening the entire foundation of his life's work. Okay, he understood they saw their chance to clear a nice chunk of change here. He assumed that they were just businessmen like he was, looking out for opportunities. He didn't blame them for that. And maybe it was true that Wade had been pushing his luck the last couple of years, throwing his weight around too much in the beats, giving them the opening. So okay, the lawsuit was a wake-up call. Maybe he'd rein things in a little with his troops in the future. His dealings with Solon were bringing in the bulk of his income now anyway. But without the beats and Wade's presence in the field as his legitimate power base, even that relationship could erode. And that would be disaster.
So Freeman and Hardy had delivered the message that they were on to him. So he'd tone things down and they'd make a decent pile for their efforts. What more did the greedy bastards want? He'd floated the idea that he was ready to make an offer, settle this thing. He'd even provide evidence to help them fleece the city a bit.
Fuckers.
'What's the matter?' Claire stood in the door to the kitchen. He hadn't heard her come downstairs. 'You're frowning,' she said. 'You look sick. Do you feel all right?'
'Fine.' He shook his head. 'It's nothing. Just business.'
'I thought business was good.'
'Business is all right.'
'And yet you're frowning.'
He shrugged, debating with himself whether he should burden her with his own worries about the lawsuit. But no. The solution came to him full-blown, all at once. He didn't have to do this Kroll's way, according to Hoyle. He wouldn't even tell Kroll. He could end his troubles with the lawsuit, or at least slow things way down, anytime he wanted. He was being reasonable, and if Freeman and Hardy and their spies and stooges didn't choose to be, then what happened after that wouldn't be Wade's fault. They would have asked for it. All of them.
'You know Wade.'
He came back to his wife. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to move Nicky again, that's all.'
It was her turn to frown. 'Maybe you want to move him all the way out.'
'I can't,' he said. 'Rosie-'
She held up a hand, stopping him. 'Your poor sister Rosie.'
'She's had it rough, Claire.'
'Who hasn't? And Nicky's nothing but trouble. He's already cost us and it's going to get worse, you watch.'
'He's growing up. He's going to be okay.'
She shook her head. 'When you were his age you had three beats already, your own business. Trying to help him is just throwing good money after bad. Anyway, where are you going to move him to?'
'I was thinking the Ark.'
'Which we don't own, last time I checked.'
'Not yet.' The seed of an idea had sprung. 'But it turns out the owner of the place was with the guys that shot Sam Silverman. After they bring him in, he's going to need all the cash he can get his hands on. I'll pick the place up for a song.'
'And then give it to Nicky? There's better people, you know, Wade, even if he's family.' She was a short, buxom woman and stared up at him defiantly, her arms crossed over her chest.
After a minute, he leaned down and kissed her, conciliatory, on the cheek. 'Nothing's written in stone, Claire.' He smiled, took her arm, started to steer her toward the front door. 'Now, who are we giving our money to tonight?'
Hardy's daughter Rebecca had at last reached sweet sixteen years old and tonight she was going on her first solo date. She'd been out to the movies and the malls with mixed-gender groups of friends many times before, of course, but this was the homecoming dance and this boy, young man, whatever he was-a seventeen-year-old senior named Darren Scott-had asked her.
Frannie had done herself up somewhat, too, for the occasion. She wasn't exactly Mrs. Cleaver, but she wore a skirt and a light salmon-colored sweater. She'd pulled her red hair back into a tight bun, applied some makeup- mascara and lipstick. Vincent, their fourteen-year-old son, had gone to a football game with some of his friends.
Now Hardy was standing in the kitchen, alone with Frannie, while they awaited the Beck's grand entrance from her bedroom, into which she'd vanished after her shower about a half hour before. He was talking in that half-whisper parents sometimes adopt when their children might be within earshot. 'It's just that I'm not exactly thrilled that the sum total of what I know about this guy who's taking out my daughter is his name, Darren Scott. If that's really his name.'
Frannie threw a glance back over her shoulder. 'Dismas. Of course it's his name. It's all I've been hearing for weeks. Darren Darren Darren.'
Hardy was undeterred. 'Doesn't mean he didn't make it up. Maybe he and the Beck are in on it together and are planning to run away. If I was making up a name, it would be Darren Scott. I mean it. If he honks from out on the street, she's not going.'
'I'll let you tell her that.'
'I will, too. Don't think I won't.'
'What?' Rebecca looked unimaginably grown-up in basic black, spaghetti shoulder straps, hemline three inches above the knee. Heels and hose. Sometime in the past year or so, she'd pierced her ears and now gold teardrop earrings hung from them, matched by a thin gold necklace Hardy had bought her. Her red hair, like her mother's, was up off her neck and some kind of glitter graced her cheeks and the bare skin beneath the necklace. 'What?' she asked again, worry flitting over her brow.
'Nothing,' Frannie said, moving toward her. 'Just your father being silly. You look beautiful.'
