they felt like it. They had tied her to some cinderblocks and dumped her off of the pilings near one of the lighthouses. It was about twenty feet deep, they thought, and murky down there. Oh, somebody would find her soon or later, sure, but we’d be gone by then. When they had told Cruz about it, he had nearly cried.
But he kept on the face. Impassive. A mask. Hell, he had seen it all before.
A thought surfaced like a shark from the depths of his mind. Dugan’s money was out there, enough money to drop out of sight and get away from all this bullshit. Six safe deposit boxes, four here in town, one in Boston, and one up in Canada. Could it be true? Cruz found himself clinging to the idea that it was true, that most of the money was right here somewhere, and all he had to do was make Dugan go in the banks and get it for him. Tricky, but after seeing what Dugan was capable of, Cruz would be more careful next time. And Moss? Cruz could handle Moss if necessary.
“Yeah,” Cruz said. “I suppose he did. That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? Getting out? He had the place booby trapped.”
He scanned the streets, looking for what he knew he wouldn’t see – Smoke Dugan, bloodied and battered, his lungs half-seared, limping along with the secret to more than two million unmarked dollars tucked away in his head. No, Dugan was back there somewhere, back near the flames.
Damn! Cruz had done exactly the wrong thing. If he had wanted Dugan, he would have had to risk the cops and the good people of South Portland and wait around back at that house. Instead he had run.
Getting old, Cruz. Getting weak.
“What’s your big plan now?” Moss drawled.
Cruz had one ready. “We go forward,” he said. “Back across the bridge and into the city. We go see the girlfriend. If Dugan, O’Malley, whatever he wants to call himself, lived through that, he’s going to run to her next. Either to warn her, or collect her before he leaves town, but he’s going to get her. And when he does, we’ll already have her.”
“What if he don’t?” Moss said. “What if he just gets the money and leaves?”
“He won’t,” Cruz said. “An old guy like that, he’s going to run for the girl.”
Moss smiled. “All right, I’ll buy it. The girl I saw in the pictures, I’d like to run to her too. Can’t wait to meet her, in fact.”
Moss hit the gas and stolen Taurus took off across the long, winding bridge and toward the city.
Hal had a bad feeling.
He and Darren were parked in the Cadillac, the bucket seats lowered way back, watching the action on the dark, quiet street around Lola’s building. The way they were sitting, Hal could just about scan the area over the top of the dashboard. A moment ago, they had watched two men pull up in a Ford Taurus, park it up the street, and climb out. One of them was fucking HUGE. To Hal, it seemed like his massive arms hung down almost to his knees. He was like a gorilla, only taller. In fact, the big guy had captured his attention so completely that it was only after a moment he noticed the other one – a little guy, thin, dark, wearing a light spring jacket, no doubt with a gun inside there somewhere.
His first thought: cops.
Sure, he had made these guys as the real thing in no time. Lola had called the cops and these guys, plainclothes detectives, were working the case. They were probably doing some follow-up with the victim – cop talk for “let’s go back and ogle that sexy chick some more.”
Shit.
All these thoughts had passed through Hal’s mind in the first seconds after spotting them. Then they had come down the block, moving fast, and gone into Lola’s little walk-up building. Here’s where it got squirrelly. The building was old. It fronted the street with a red wooden door, right on the sidewalk. The door was locked – Hal had checked it half an hour ago. The big boy had jimmied the lock on the door and had it open in about ten seconds flat. Of course. These locks were to make the straight world feel safer. They were there to keep honest people on the narrow path. They didn’t mean shit to somebody who knew how to take them down.
But why would two cops break into the building?
Easy answer: they’re not cops.
He glanced over at Darren, who was smoking a joint to calm his nerves. The lumpy skin around Darren’s eyes was slowly turning a sickly yellow. Darren smiled and offered the joint. It was clear from the beatific look on his face that Darren had taken the edge all the way off.
“No thanks. Look, do me a favor, okay? Go up the block and break the right taillight on that Taurus those guys popped out of, will you?”
“Why?”
Hal shrugged. “No reason. Just looks to me like something’s going on, that’s all. Boyfriends, maybe, but I doubt it. Boyfriends usually have a key to the front door. A broken taillight ain’t really any harm if I’m wrong, is it?”
“Suppose not.”
Darren climbed out and moved up the block in the darkness.
Simple Darren. The two guys – bad guys, trouble – go in our building. A building we already cased. There’s three apartments in there. The first floor opens on the street, and we already saw a creaking old man enter there just as the sun went down, straw hair swooped back over his head like a cartoon version of a symphony conductor. Then there’s a second-floor apartment, currently empty. Then there’s a third-floor apartment, belonging to Lola Bell / Pamela Gray, according to the mailbox. Roommates, apparently. These guys break in there, and Darren’s wondering why I might want their taillight broken. So I can tail them, you silly fuck.
He loved Darren like a brother, but this is how Darren got to the trailer park. He didn’t think. He couldn’t think.
Hal heard the sound of a breaking taillight. At least Darren got that part right. Here he came now, floating back up the sidewalk like a ghost.
He slid into the passenger seat. “No problem,” he said. The grin seemed permanently locked onto his face.
Hal glanced at the building again. He imagined reaching up and hitting that carved granite face he had seen go in there a moment ago. Just the thought of it made his arms tired. Another woman, a young white woman, her hair pulled straight back, came along the street and entered with what looked like a bag of groceries. She didn’t even stop and notice the door was already open. She just went right inside.
“Well, it looks like we got ourselves a party now,” Hal said.
The pain was like a rotten tooth lodged in Smoke’s skull.
“Shit,” he said. “Motherfucker.”
He stood at the public phone in the parking lot of the Gas-N-Go. Traffic flowed by, the people oblivious to the life and death struggles going on all around them. Lola’s telephone was a loud, obnoxious and constant busy signal. The girl was in her twenties, supposedly of the new modern generation, and she seemed like the only person left in America who didn’t have call waiting.
He slammed the receiver down.
“Shit!” He walked around in a tight little circle.
Only moments ago, Smoke had awakened and crawled through the hedges next to his home. When he reached the end of the hedge, he had lingered in the alley a moment, staring out at the parked cars. Behind him, huge orange shadows had danced on the sides of houses. Every few seconds, his vision had grown dark at the edges and he thought he would pass out again.
The fire department had already come, hosing down the backyard and the shed, which burned intensely. Crowds of people had gathered. Smoke came out and began walking along the street, eyes downcast, his head spinning, limping along at just under double speed. Bad enough just to walk. But worse if people noticed him and saw how badly he had been beaten the same night that his workshop exploded. Either way, he had no choice – he
