“I didn’t think you’d do it if you knew what it was for.”
Despite the grin, his eyes flashed malice. They said he would never forget this intrusion, that as far as he was concerned, O’Malley had signed his own death warrant.
Smoke stood, rising on his cane. “I wouldn’t have.”
They faced each other. Abruptly, Roselli’s grin disappeared. “Is that what you came to tell me? That you’re better than I am? Got more principles? If so, it could’ve waited. It can wait forever, actually.” He pursed his lips. “You want more money? That I’ll consider. Call the office, like I said.”
Roselli turned to go.
“Now get the fuck out.”
Smoke pulled the Taser out of his jacket.
“Roselli, one thing before I leave.”
The fat man spun around. His robe flapped open again, exposing the hairy expanse of his chest. “Yeah?”
Smoke stepped forward and let Roselli have it. The twin probes of the Taser flew out and caught Roselli just below the neck. Fifty thousand volts of electricity coursed into Roselli’s body. His nervous system overwhelmed, Roselli jittered and jived, the rolls of fat on his neck jiggling, his teeth clicking together. Five seconds was a long time. He danced a bit more then went down, all three hundred pounds dropping like a lead weight. His eyes rolled back in his head. Drool formed at the corners of his mouth.
Smoke looked down at him.
“Roselli?”
The fat man’s eyes fluttered, then opened. After a moment, they focused on Smoke again. When Roselli spoke, his voice was a rasp. “You know Ice Pick Tony? Maybe you never had the pleasure. Well, now you’re gonna. I give you my word. Tony’s gonna take you to his place in Queens, hang you upside down in the shower, and bleed you like the fucking pig that you are.”
The probes spent, Smoke used the Taser’s touch stun feature to give him another jolt.
Roselli blanked out. He woke up one more time before the end.
“You ain’t shit, O’Malley. You never were more than hired help. Ask anybody.”
Then he rode the juice again.
Smoke was three miles away when the place blew. He parked on a hillside, looking back west toward the city. Over the far horizon, he could see the glow from millions of lights against the darkened sky. New York City, where the lights never went out.
Much closer, a fireball went up suddenly, literally a ball of fire, on a straight vertical line like a rocket ship headed for orbit. A long rolling boom came across the land a few seconds later. An after-burst went up, a smaller one, and then another boom.
Moments of silence passed, orange and red flames flickering in the night. It was so quiet that Smoke could hear them licking and crackling across the miles.
Then the sirens began.
Smoke got back in the car and started it up. Roselli was dead. Soon, O’Malley would join him, going down with his boat in heavy seas off Orient Point.
And somewhere out there, a new life was waiting for James Dugan.
The children were all the same.
Big Roland Moss was going to fuck with him now, test him a little.
“Hey Cruz,” he said from behind the wheel. “How come me and Fingers here can’t stay in your hotel?” His eyes met Cruz’s in the rearview mirror. A razor-sharp, predator confidence showed there. Cruz knew from that look that Moss was one of those guys who never felt fear. Unlike Cruz, Moss had been born without the capacity. No fear. No empathy. Moss was the ice-cold center of his own barren universe.
He had probably tortured kittens as a little boy.
“You know, it makes us feel a little left out. You get to live it up in some swank place, and we get the Holiday Inn. It don’t seem right somehow.”
His comments elicited an embarrassed giggle from Fingers.
Cruz glanced out the window. The sleek Mercedes nosed its way through Portland’s end of season throngs. The narrow streets of the Old Port – the newly glittering waterfront district – teemed with well-heeled tourists peeking in shop windows or laughing as they stumbled out of the public houses.
“Hey Cruz, I’m talking to you, son.”
Cruz regarded Moss again. Thick neck. Wide brow.
“You ever kill a man by mistake?” Cruz said. He spoke just above a whisper. They could hear him all right up front.
Moss smirked. “Me? I don’t make mistakes.”
Cruz smiled. “I do. Sometimes I get a big guy around me, kind of a pushy type, you know? And I end up misreading his intentions. Maybe he startles me. Better he goes down than I do, right? Can’t be too careful these days. So they put me somewhere by myself. It cuts down on the mistakes I make.”
Moss pulled the car into the cobblestone circular driveway of the Portland Arms Hotel. A man in top hat and tails, white gloves, the whole silly get up, hovered by the door. He eyed the car, ready to pounce.
“I guess I’ll need to remember that,” Moss said.
Cruz stepped out, dossier in hand. He hadn’t been out of the car in nearly six hours. The first thing he noticed was the temperature change – it was colder here than in New York. And New Orleans? Forget about it. He had only just left there this morning, but already it seemed like weeks ago.
Hopefully, they’d be out of here in two days or less. Maybe even by tomorrow night. Otherwise, Cruz was going to have to buy some new clothes.
“Call me if you get anywhere,” he said to Moss and Fingers. He waved off the doorman, and carried his own bag up the steps. The Mercedes pulled out just as he entered the hotel.
Inside, the lobby was all carpeting and polished chrome. The help tip-toed around and spoke in hushed tones. Aging yuppies in lime green cardigan sweaters and sunflower yellow pullovers lounged in overstuffed chairs by the fire. Their cheeks were rosy with the brisk chill of the Old Port, not to mention the flames of the fireplace, and the sherry and port wine in their glasses.
Check-in was effortless and Cruz went straight to his suite.
Once in his suite, Cruz double locked the door. He was on the third floor, so there was no chance of them coming in that way. The only way in was through that thick, solid door. That pleased him. The kids weren’t staying in the same hotel as Cruz for one reason: Cruz had no intention of letting his guard down so some young stud could move up the ladder by putting him in a box.
Cruz poured himself a seltzer from the mini-bar and took off his light jacket. Jesus. It had been a long day. He went in the bathroom and was pleasantly surprised by the two-person Jacuzzi tub built right into the floor. He took the Glock out of his waistband, and laid it on the sink. He removed the rest of his clothes, checked the windows and doors again, then went out to his kit bag. He brought the bag into the bathroom. He locked the bathroom door. He turned on the jets of the tub, as well as the underwater lights. He brought the bathroom phone within reach of the tub. He killed the overhead lights, moved the Glock to the edge of the tub, then settled into the hot bubbling water.
He picked up the gun and chambered a round. He grunted to himself and laid the gun, ready to fire, along the tub basin just above his head and well within his reach. Nine shots if trouble found him here relaxing with his pants down.
He went back into his kit bag. Inside was a six-inch straight razor. He opened the blade, gazed at it for a moment, then brought it into the tub and under the water. He placed it on the bottom next to him.
A gun, and if that somehow failed, a blade. Anybody who tried him while he was in the tub was in for a nasty surprise.
Now he could relax. Facing the locked door, he reached back and put his hands behind him, forming a cradle for his head. The Jacuzzi jets pounded water against his back and his legs, working out on the stiff muscles in his body. He closed his eyes.
