the night before.
“What did they want?” he asked.
“What do you think?” Saint shook his head. “What’ve you been doin’ all night?”
“Working.”
Saint frowned. Quentin didn’t smell like he’d been working. He smelled like he’d been having sex. Saint didn’t know why his friend would want to lie about that, but . . . whatever.
“So? Tell me something good.”
Glass smiled. “In forty-eight hours, Castle is a memory. A pro from Memphis. The best.”
“Memphis?” Saint frowned. Memphis—that was Johnny Piscatelle’s territory. Johnny had funny ideas sometimes when it came to his guys, and guns.
“What about the Russian?”
Glass shook his head. “He’s in Colombia.”
Fuck. The Russian was always in Colombia.
Saint was about to suggest trying to get him anyway— money was no object here—when he looked across the lawn and saw the Toros reach their car at precisely the same moment that Livia walked by.
His wife and Mike Toro exchanged words. Then Mike made an obscene gesture at his wife. She made one back.
Saint gritted his teeth. He knew Livia could handle herself just fine, but part of him wanted to run across the lawn and cave Mike Toro’s head in with a sledgehammer.
“Howard? You all right?”
“Yeah.” Saint took a deep breath. “This guy you got to take care of Castle—he better not mess up, Quentin. That’s all I can say.”
“He won’t. He’s good, I’m telling you.”
“He better be.” Livia stalked away from Mike Toro, who climbed into the Caddy and shouted something after her.
The engine roared: Toro slammed his car into gear and burned rubber down the driveway. Saint watched the Cubans and their pimpmobile disappear in the distance.
“We can’t afford another fuckup, Quentin. None of us.”
Weeks brought him coffee. Castle pretended to drink it.
He didn’t know why he’d changed his mind, why he’d agreed to meet the man. There was nothing they had to say to each other.
“You know I spoke at your funeral,” Jimmy said.
Castle nodded; of course he had. He wondered, for a split second, who had spoken at Maria’s. Her brother, probably— her parents were both long dead. And what about Will? Had anyone spoken for him?
A priest, of course. A priest who hadn’t known him at all. Castle always hated that, when people who hadn’t known the deceased talked about them as if they’d been close friends.
He took a sip of the coffee. “What did you say about me?”
“I said it was hard to imagine you dead.”
“Anything you can imagine, Jimmy . . . there’s always something worse.”
The two of them sat side by side on a bench in the little park across from the Federal Building. Weeks seemed nervous, twitchy; he wouldn’t look Castle in the eye. As if there was something he wanted to say but was afraid to. Castle suspected he knew what.
With his next words, Weeks confirmed it.
“Frank, I need you to get out of town. Let me handle this. Let me find out who set you up before they find you.”
Weeks still wanted to protect him. Castle appreciated the thought, but the man just didn’t get it.
“I want them to find me. You understand?”
“You’re not thinking straight.” Weeks shook his head. “You’re going to end up a dead man.”
“Give you another chance to speak at my funeral.”
Weeks didn’t smile.
Castle leaned closer. “I’m already dead, Jimmy. Don’t worry about me.”
Weeks looked away, shook his head again.
Castle suddenly got the sense there was something else on his friend’s mind, something else Weeks wanted to tell him. He didn’t have time to try to pry it out of him, though.
“Gotta get goin’, Jimmy,” he said.
“All right. I tried. I had to try, Frank.” Weeks got to his feet. “You got time to grab a little something first?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Hot dog, maybe? You used to like hot dogs. There’s a stand down the street.”
Castle was about to say no again when he suddenly realized he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning— breakfast in the GTO, while he’d been waiting for the second truck.
So they got hot dogs. Again, Castle got the sense that Jimmy was prolonging the conversation because of something else he wanted to say. Weeks just kept making small talk, though.
While they were eating, Jimmy’s phone rang. He answered it and turned pale.
“Be right back,” he said to Castle, and walked around the corner to talk.
Castle watched him go; for the first time since he’d come back to Florida, he remembered the troubles his friend had been having. Dealing with the divorce, with Gwen’s lawyer, with the fallout from Ares, the gambling . . .
That had to be it, he thought. Jimmy was still dealing with all those same problems. For a moment, Castle wished he could help. But he had no time: Weeks would have to sink or swim on his own.
His friend came back. Whoever had been on the phone, whatever had been said, Jimmy was still upset, distracted.
He finished his hot dog quickly and stood.
“See you, good buddy. You think about what I said, okay?”
Castle nodded perfunctorily.
“Okay.” Weeks nodded across the street. “That’s me over there. Gotta run.”
Weeks’s ride was a late-model Mustang. Castle saw it and frowned.
“What happened to the Porsche, Jimmy? You loved that car.”
“Well. You know. I wanted to buy American.”
“There should be more people like you.”
“Yeah.” His friend smiled, or tried to anyway. “See you, Frank.”
Castle nodded. “See you.”
There was the answer to one of his questions, anyway. Weeks was still gambling. Still losing big-time.
He watched his old friend cross the street, wondering just how bad the problem was, then reminded himself: Not his concern. Not anymore.
That part of him was dead and buried.
He drove the GTO to the mail drops. The packages were there, two of them: the voice distorter from McNally Electronics and the fireplug from United Theater. High tech and low tech, both courtesy of Federal Express: on time, every time.
He unpacked them in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart, threw the mailing labels and packing materials into a Dumpster there, and went back to the apartment. There was a message from Duka.
“I just gotta know, if it’s still happening, because I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m shittin’ a brick here. The construction job, that was one thing, but this . . . this is a whole nother ball of wax. I mean, Glass is—”
Castle stopped the playback, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Hello?” Duka still sounded nervous.
“It’s happening. I’ll call you.”
“Okay, just try and make it—”
“I’ll call you,” Castle repeated, and hung up.
He erased Duka’s message and poured himself a drink. Pictures of Quentin Glass and his latest boyfriend, of
