The old gangster finished urinating and zipped up. He walked over to the fancy sinks. Goldman pushed his gold watch up on his skinny arm and started to wash his hands.
The pimp splashed on some English Leather. Then he walked out of the bathroom without washing his hands.
'Schvuggs like the smell of it. ' Goldman nodded at the closing door. He put both hands up to his head, seemed to be stretching the neat part in his white hair. 'Mr. Hill has a problem, I take it,' he said, still chewing on a soggy cigar.
'Not so much Mr. Hill. There's a problem with our other two friends. '
Isadore Goldman hit the whooshing faucets. He vaguely remembered this fat cow from the farmhouse in the desert. 'A little problem, I hope.'
'So far, very little... but we want your approval to get rid of both of them if the problem continues. '
Goldman squinted at himself in the water-spotted mirror over the sink. Prune, he thought. Small prune, but prune.
He shrugged his shoulders at the younger man standing behind him. 'You should know enough not to ask me.... But I'll tell you one thing to make your trip out here worthwhile. I would be very surprised if clever people like these Roses couldn't handle any little problems that come up. '
Tommie Hicks smiled in the gilded mirror over the old man's head. 'We were very surprised,' he said, 'that some problems did come up.'
Turtle Bay, San Dominica
At eight o'clock that night Macdonald stepped off a sputtering, wheezing double-decker bus heading north from Coastown. Sweat-stained alligator shirt thrown over his shoulder, he started down the neady raked gravel driveway of the Plantation Inn.
Having persuaded Jane to stay with hiends in Coastown for the night, he was all alone with the problem of being an unwanted only witness.
Apparently the local police weren't going to help.... The people at the U.S. embassy weren't exactly rolling out the red carpet for him, either.... Neither were the newspapers.
Why not? That was the $64,000 question. Why the hell not?
Plowing across the dark, deserted Plantation Inn beachfront, Peter started to wonder if all real-life crime investigations might be just as frustrating as this one. A lot of bungling around in the dark. Dumb-bunny screwups all over the place. No quick solutions. Not ever.
, As he saw the outline of the beach cottage where he and Jane lived, his mind leaped back to the two black killers in Coastown. If those two were home grown revolutionaries-Dred's people-then he was Cary Grant.
Paranoid now-careful, anyway-he stopped walking. His heart started to pound in a way it hadn't since the day he'd left the lonely hill country of South Vietnam. From the cover of thick-leaved banana trees, he studied the silent black world like a Special Forces sergeant....
Little pink honeymoon bungalow. Shadowy roof. Louvered windows. Wooden door looking as if it had been put up crooked because of the shifting sand. Dark, spooky Caribbean. Nice spot for an ambush....
After watching the place for a good ten minutes, seeing no apparent trouble, nothing moving except dark palm fronds and citrus clouds, Peter began to walk toward his home.
Halfway up the pebble-and-seashell walk, he saw a dark shape thrown across a white patio table. Moving a step closer, he recognized Max Westerhuis's Afghan, and he moaned out loud.... The beautiful, long-haired dog had been cut in half.
The machetes.
'Oh, Jesus God,' he swore loudly. Trembled. Nearly got sick. It was the first time he'd actually seen the work of the razor-sharp knives.
The body of the thoroughbred dog-Fool's Hot Toast-had been cleanly separated across its thin rib cage. Ants and black flies were eating at the bloody crease as if it were a long, horrifying serving table.
Peter hurried past the dog and went inside. He collected clothes, money, a Colt.44 revolver hidden away in his T-shirts. His personal memento mori.
He caught his breath. Thought about where to hide. Had to decide about whom he could talk to, whom he could trust. Figure out a way to get off San Dominica altogether.
Most of all, he wanted to lead them away from Jane. Make it clear to them that their problem was with him. The Witness.
Wondering why they'd gone to the bother of killing the dog, wondering if they were watching him, and who the hell the tall blond man was, anywayPeter Macdonald jogged back toward the brightly lit inn. He passed quickly through the porticoback into the dark rear parking lot. He called Jane in Coastown. Got no answer at her friend's place.
And then, at 8:45 on May 4-having damn little idea what he planned to do with it-Peter stole the hotel manager's BMW motorcycle for the second time that week.
As he slowly, quietly, rode the bike up the drive, a tall man stepped into the shadowy road now filling up with dust.
Damian Rose watched Macdonald get awayand he let him.
Peter Macdonald was right about on schedule.
The machetes were every bit as effective as he thought they'd be that first afternoon at Turtle Bay.
N there had been any doubt that he and Came were worth $1 mdhon gomg into the operation, there wouldn't be after it was over. The two of them were going to be as famous- as Charles Manson and Company-and
