“I know you have unfinished business there. I’d offer my help, but I suspect this is something you want to handle on your own. When you’ve taken care of it, do call. You know the number.”
Castle did.
“For what it’s worth, Captain—I’m sorry. About your father, Maria, Will . . .”
Castle thought he heard a catch in the man’s voice then. Litton had a son, too—a few years younger than Will. If anyone could begin to understand . . .
Footsteps in the hall. Castle paused the message.
He heard the door closest to his open, then shut.
His other neighbor. Joan.
Joan Ellen Ames, twice married, twice divorced, two convictions on her record: one DUI, one possession of marijuana. She was currently employed as a waitress at Schurr’s Diner, corner of Wayne and Hudson. Mother of an eight-year-old son, Steveland Van Dyke, whom she had abandoned four years ago. Abandoned her own child.
Castle shook his head. Some people didn’t know how lucky they were.
His eyes went to the photo of his wife and son.
He squeezed the whiskey glass in his hand tight. Too tight. It shattered into a hundred pieces.
Castle watched the shards fall to the ground.
Then he got to his feet.
No time for this. He had a lot of work to do.
Tomorrow was Thursday.
TWENTY-NINE
It had been, Howard Saint reflected, a very, very bad night, the capper to one of the all-time worst days of his life. When he’d come to bed and told Livia that the Toros would be paying them a visit in the morning, she’d gotten furious, as mad as he’d ever seen her, and even more so when he asked her (very nicely asked her, he thought) to at least, for his sake, be civil to Mike and Joe. After all, he’d said, they were very important clients.
And, even though he had been in bed, nuzzling her from behind at the time (Christ, he needed sex after a day like yesterday), she’d actually gotten up and gone to sleep in the maid’s room. Wouldn’t come back no matter what he said or did.
Howard couldn’t understand it. No, the Toros were not his favorite people, either, but business was business.
He was so wired and upset and obsessed with how the fuck that prick Castle had pulled his little stunt that at one-thirty in the morning he’d had Cutter phone out for the Nunzio sisters, whom he did in the guesthouse, out of respect for Livia, which at last relaxed him enough that he was able to fall asleep, back in the big bed, by about four.
Normally, after staying up that late, he’d sleep in till noon. But the Toros were coming at ten, so here he was, at quarter to, already dressed and entering the solarium, Cutter a step behind him.
“What do we have for breakfast this morning, Mrs. Caprese?” Saint called out as Cutter pulled his chair away from the table.
His cook stood next to the kitchen door, a big smile on her face. Always a good sign, when Mrs. C. was smiling.
“I make a nice frittata for you, Mr. Saint. Mushroom, ham, black olive, mozzarella . . .”
“Sounds beautiful. A little coffee first, Cutter—if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Mr. S.”
Cutter went to fetch the pot from the sideboard, and Mrs. Caprese went back into the kitchen.
Saint unfolded the newspaper by his plate, saw the headline—TAMPA’S PERFECT STORM—and the picture of his money floating down to the ground in a cloud, and closed it right back up.
Negative thoughts. The morning promised to be difficult enough without negative thoughts.
Cutter poured his coffee. Saint took a sip and sat back in his chair.
Forget the news, today had to be better than yesterday. For one thing, the sun was shining. For another, Chadwick and he were having lunch again, finalizing the campaign committee. For a third, Quentin had called and was on his way over with news about the outside talent he’d found to take care of Castle. For a fourth . . .
The kitchen door swung open, and Mrs. C. walked out, carrying a beautiful-looking plate full of food.
She set it down before him and stepped back.
“You’ve outdone yourself today, Mrs. Caprese.”
She beamed.
A car horn honked.
Howard Saint looked out the window, over the deck, and past the pool.
The Toros were here already, climbing out of their unmistakable lime green Caddy and walking toward the house. Not looking happy.
Neither was he.
Pushing back his chair, leaving behind a very distraught-looking Mrs. Caprese as well as his breakfast, Saint exited the solarium onto the deck above the pool.
“Mike Toro, Joe Toro!” He waved to them, a very forced smile on his face, as he descended the staircase down to the pool. “Something to drink?”
“No, thanks, Howard,” Mike replied.
Joe was squinting up at the sun. “Nice weather, Howard, don’t you think?”
“Better than yesterday,” Saint said.
Mike Toro shook his head. “I’ve seen hurricanes, seen it rain like cats and dogs, but never in all my years have I seen it rain hundred-dollar bills.”
“This rainmaker,” Joe said. “Castle. He was supposed to be dead.”
“He’s a very lucky man,” Saint said. “My men put a lot of bullets in him.”
“Your men need shooting lessons,” Mike said.
Saint shook his head. He wouldn’t be lectured. Not in his own home.
“We’ve done business for ten years, Mike. This is the first time that something has gone wrong.”
“At a personal loss to us of fifty million dollars, Howard, that’s one time too many. You guaranteed that money. Do you want us to find another backer?”
Saint glared at him. Little Cuban prick, he thought, and almost said. Go on, see if you can find somebody else who’ll do for you what I’ve done.
Then he remembered Big Richie was in town again.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I’m glad,” Joe said. “Because we like doing business with you, Howard. We really do.”
“Of course, we want our money back,” Mike put in. “Every dollar that went out the window.”
Saint could only nod. The cops were on that for them— he’d talked to Kuipers last night—and they’d already gotten back close to thirty of the fifty. He’d just have to make up the difference—skip his cut on the next few shipments.
“And as long as this Castle is running around playing Robin Hood—”
“Not for too much longer, Mike. I can assure you of that.”
Toro didn’t seem assured. “As long as this Castle is running around playing Robin Hood,” he repeated, “we want protection on the next shipment. It’s fifty million dollars, Howard. Do you guarantee our money?”
“With everything I own.” Saint spread his arms wide then, to indicate the mansion and the grounds, which technically he didn’t own, but how were these thugs gonna know that?
Mike suddenly smiled. “Everything?” he asked, looking over Saint’s shoulder.
Howard turned and saw Livia coming from the tennis courts then, dressed in her whites. She had been smiling, but the second she saw the Toros, her expression changed.
Saint locked eyes with Mike then, who just kept smiling.
He couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t have ended in bloodshed, right then and there, so he kept his mouth shut.
The Toros left. Quentin came out from the downstairs lounge, still dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing
