“Not unless you do something stupid.”
“They find one joint in our truck, we're back in the can. Hang out with known felons, same thing. Parole's a bitch. That's why we gotta get away, Rufe and me.”
“What's that got to do with me?”
“You gotta give us a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I don't have that kind of money. In fact, I don't have any kind.”
“What about your big murder trial?”
“My client's money is tied up. I don't get a dime unless we win.”
That was the truth. Katrina had agreed to pay them two hundred fifty thousand dollars, but it would be collectible only if she was acquitted. An unfortunate technicality in the law doesn't let homicidal wives inherit their husbands' estates.
“You could hit up Dad.”
“Mom's medical bills drained him. He's tapped out, living on his pension.”
“There's got to be someone else. Someone who'll lend you the bread.”
Who would he ask? He didn't have a clue. “What do I get for my money?”
“Me and Rufe disappear and never testify.”
It won't work, Steve thought. Kranchick's testimony would still bury him. “Your leaving town's not good enough. If I pay you, you've got to stay and testify.”
“How's that gonna help you?”
“When Zinkavich puts you on the stand, you won't give his answers. You'll give mine.”
Victoria was watching Steve, kneeling in the dirt, tying Bobby's shoestrings. There's something he's not telling me, she thought.
His sister is going to sandbag him, and he doesn't seem concerned. Zinkavich already has Kranchick and Thigpen, and now this. Steve should be ranting, cursing, pawing the ground, plotting a counterattack. But he seems nonchalant about the whole thing.
What's he hiding?
As she worked on that dilemma, an open Jeep Wrangler skidded to a stop in front of them. The driver wore a Bigby Farms jacket with the avocado logo. The passenger was his boss, Bruce Bigby, standing tall, holding the roll bar for support, blond hair windblown. Wearing an off-white skier's jumpsuit, he had a bullhorn in one hand, a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, a digital thermometer zippered on his sleeve, and a revolver holstered on his hip. In that getup, Bruce looked part astronaut, part general, and-she hated to think it-a total dweeb.
“Get those heaters into the hollow!” Bigby yelled into the bullhorn. “Gosh darn it, I told you, the trees in the low areas freeze first!”
“Hi, hon,” Victoria said.
“Sweetie.” He gave her a brisk salute, then hopped out of the Jeep. The legs of his jumpsuit were bloused over the tops of combat boots. On the speakers, Celia Cruz was singing “Corazon Rebelde,” ode to a rebellious heart.
“Hey, Bruce,” Steve said.
Bigby's eyes went wide. “Jeez, Steve. Another shaving accident?”
“Family reunion.”
“Those are open cuts. Have you taken antibiotics?”
“Does Jack Daniel's count?”
Bigby's walkie-talkie crackled with static. “Senor Bigby, thirty-three degrees in the north quadrant.”
Bigby hit a button. “Get some heaters over there, Foyo.”
“Si, jefe.”
“Nobody sleeps. Hot coffee all night. Rum and Coke at dawn.”
“Si, jefe.”
“And that music. Does it have to be that Cuban crapola?”
“Is what the men like.”
“Whatever.” Bigby clicked off the walkie-talkie. “Bobby, care to ride with me?”
Bobby gripped Steve's hand and shook his head.
“He's a little shaken,” Steve said. “We'll catch up with you later.”
“You got it.”
“What can I do to help?” Steve asked.
“Gonna be a long night,” Bigby said. “Will you look after my sweetie for me?”
“To the best of my limited abilities.”
“What's with the gun, hon?” Victoria asked.
Bigby lowered his voice to a whisper. “The men expect it. El jefe always carries a side arm. It's a Caribbean thing.”
“And what does el jefe shoot?” she persisted.
“Varmints, trespassers…”
Guys sniffing after jefe's fiancee? she wondered.
The violent bleat of a siren interrupted them. Startled, Bobby stumbled into Steve's chest, his glasses falling to the ground. “No noise. No noise. No noise.”
Steve wrapped his arms around the boy. “It's okay, kiddo. It's okay.”
“Not really,” Bigby said, grimly. “It means the temperature's just hit thirty-two. If it goes to twenty-nine and stays there, I'm in deep doo-doo, if you'll pardon my French.”
Did he really say “deep doo-doo”? Victoria wondered.
“I'm taking Bobby inside for a while,” Steve said, picking up the boy's glasses.
“There's hot chocolate in the kitchen,” Bigby said, “and a spare bedroom next to the den. Make yourself at home.”
Steve and Bobby walked toward the house, the boy ferociously gripping his uncle's arm. When they were out of earshot, Bigby said: “With the grace of God, we'll never have to face that.”
“Face what?”
“You know… that.”
She was startled. “If you mean Bobby, he's a wonderful child.”
“I know, sweetie. I know. You're a sucker for the bird with the broken wing.”
“It's more than that. I really love the boy.”
“Sure you do. But would you rather our son be the captain of the football team at Dartmouth or some oddball who scrambles words in his head?”
“Depends who has the bigger heart.”
“Whatever.” He peeled the thermometer off his sleeve, checked the readout, and frowned. “Keep the kid out of trouble for me, sweetie. He falls down a well, Solomon will sue me quicker than he can say ‘shalom.'”
“Don't think I've ever heard him use the word.”
“Figure of speech.”
“I know, Bruce. Just one I never expected to hear from you.”
“Hey, you know me. Not a prejudiced bone in my body. All my doctors and lawyers are Jews. Heck, I wanted you to work with Solomon for a while, remember? Pick up some of his tricks. They're sharper than we are that way.”
“Are they?”
“Oh, come on, don't be so sensitive.”
She blinked involuntarily, as if she'd been slapped.
Don't be so sensitive?
“That's very controlling,” she said.
“What? How?”
“C'mon, Bruce. You're not that clueless. You can't tell another person how to feel.”
Bigby's walkie-talkie squawked again. “Jefe, veintiocho grados in the hollow.”
“Darn! Those lights strung yet?”
