Only he had trouble getting his hands to work right. They were all sweaty and shaking. Christ, he thought. Get a grip, Duka.
“Hey!” John shouted.
Duka thought it was meant for him for a second, thought the man was going to yell at him again to hurry up. But when he looked, he saw that Saint was yelling at the girls; they had tipped over the raft and dunked him in the pool. The three of them were wrestling in the water now, laughing.
I need this more than they do, Duka thought, and poured himself a margarita.
He drained it in one gulp.
Howard Saint followed the sound of laughter to the foyer, fuming all the way. When he got there, to his surprise he found both people he’d been looking for: Quentin and Livia. They were standing by the front door, heads bent together, talking quietly. Smiling, joking, enjoying themselves . . .
For a second, Saint continued to fume. He’d been looking for Quentin all night; they had important decisions to make, important things to discuss, no time to waste. But not only had Glass wasted time by going to the Wyndham Hotel for some strange reason, but now the man was wasting even more time, more of
No. Howard Saint hadn’t worked his ass off these last thirty years to be kept waiting by anyone.
Then he remembered who had been right there, at his side, for every step of the way during those thirty years, and he forced himself to calm down.
Okay, Quentin, he thought. You get a free pass. Only you, though. Nobody else.
He stepped forward, into the light.
Livia turned and smiled at him.
“Howard? Is that you? I was telling Quentin about the movie.”
Saint forced himself to smile. The movie. Another one of those girl films she was always talking to her friends about— fabulous, insightful, touching, blah-blah, blah-blah.
“It was good?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “It was very good.”
“I’m glad.” Saint turned to Quentin then. “You ready? We got a lot to talk about.”
“I know. I’m sorry I was late.”
“Not a problem.” He smiled at Quentin, and Quentin smiled back. And then something inside—he couldn’t say exactly what—made him press just a little. “Where were you, by the way? I called.”
“Sorry. I dozed off. Out by the pool.”
“Ah.” Saint frowned. “Funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Micky said he saw you at the Wyndham Hotel.”
“Micky should have his eyes checked.”
“That little shit should have his ass kicked,” Livia put in. “I don’t like having him around, Howard.”
Saint nodded. He knew that. But he didn’t respond to Livia. He just kept looking at Quentin.
“So he’s mistaken—Duka?”
Glass nodded. “Yes, Howard. He’s mistaken.”
“Okay. Fair enough.”
He and Quentin went upstairs to talk. Johnny Piscatelle wanted his commission on the guy he’d sent to whack Castle paid up front. Richie Constantine wanted a friend of his on the campaign committee. Mike Toro wanted to suggest a few changes in the collection schedule. One thing after another, Howard and Quentin went at it, all the ramifications, all the obstacles, the pluses and the minuses to each little action.
The whole time, Saint wasn’t paying as close attention as he should have been. He couldn’t stop thinking about Micky Duka.
Maybe he would do what his wife wanted—get rid of that little shit. But before he did that . . . Howard Saint wanted to talk to Duka again, about Quentin Glass and the Wyndham Hotel.
THIRTY-TWO
She was being silly, and she knew it. He had shown absolutely no interest in her, beyond that one night when he’d kicked skanky Mike down the stairs. It was just more proof that she always went after what she couldn’t have, what wasn’t good for her.
But still . . .
Joan found herself thinking about Castle a lot these days.
Right now, he sat by himself, down the counter, eating his way through a steak and eggs. He obviously wasn’t here to talk to her, though. He’d spent the morning writing in that little book he always carried with him.
“Oh my goodness.” Stanley, who sat at the counter in front of her, pushed his plate away and patted his stomach. “These blueberry pancakes are good, Joan. Can I have another order?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Stanley . . .”
They’d talked about his losing weight last night. None of his pants fit anymore; he had to leave the top button open and use his belt to hold them up.
“You’re right.” He nodded. “You’re right, Joan. I have to eat healthier. What’s he eating?” Stanley gestured toward Castle.
“He’s having eggs, Stanley. Steak and eggs.”
“That’s what I’ll have, then.”
“Stanley . . .”
“But I’m hungry.”
“I’ll get you some yogurt.”
Stanley visibly shuddered. “I suppose.” He sighed and slumped on his stool. “What’s he been doing the last few days, anyway? Where’s he been?”
“In his apartment, for the most part. As for what he’s been doing . . . not much. Drinking. A lot.”
“Why does he drink?”
“Bumpo.” Dave, at the stool next to Stanley, shook his head. “Why do you eat? Why do I spend all day in a video game?”
“Because you don’t have a job?” Joan asked.
Dave shot her a look. “Ha-ha. Because he’s a troubled man. A haunted man. A man whose very deeds and responsibilities are so . . . so . . .”
Joan sighed and turned to get Stanley’s yogurt.
“So awesome,” Dave continued, “that he has to douse his central nervous system in alcohol.”
“Please,” she said. “Spare me.”
Dave shrugged. “It’s either that, or he likes to get hammered.”
Joan put Stanley’s yogurt down in front of him and shook her head. Dave had left out the obvious reason— obvious to her, at least. Castle drank to forget. His wife. His son. She knew how that felt.
Her eyes went to the end of the counter then. Castle— she’d tried thinking of him as Frank, but somehow that just seemed wrong, she didn’t feel as if she knew him well enough to be on a first-name basis yet, even in her head— had put the book away and was now staring off into space.
Go talk to him, a little voice in her head said. The breakfast rush was long over. Old man Schurr had kicked back by the cash register and was reading his papers; he wouldn’t mind if she took a little break, too. Go talk to him.
She smoothed down her skirt, pushed her hair back from her face, and picked up the coffeepot. Refill, Frank? Why thanks, Joan. You’re very kind. Not at all. Anything else to eat? No. Say, what time do you get off? In about an hour. Why? I was wondering if—
The little bell above the entrance rang as the door swung open.
The thinnest man she’d ever seen in her life walked in.
Scary thin. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, bony-looking arms, bony-looking legs, and a crown of Lyle Lovett hair to top it off. He was carrying a guitar case, and wearing clothes that looked to her as if they’d gone out of style twenty years ago, if, in fact, they’d ever been in style.
