Jee-sus. The goofballs they got in here . . .
The man walked to the corner booth, right behind Castle, and sat. Joan brought a menu over.
“Morning, sir. Coffee?”
“That’d be fine.”
She poured.
He smiled, and looked her right in the eye.
Joan tried smiling back, but the intensity of his gaze was unnerving. All at once, the man seemed like anything but a goofball. All at once, in fact, he seemed downright scary.
“I’ll be right back to take your order,” she said, and hurried away as fast as she could.
There was a mirror opposite the breakfast counter. Castle used it to study the man as he entered, and quickly dismissed him. Musician. Another junkie probably, judging from his wasted, skeletal-like appearance.
When the man took the booth directly behind him, though, Castle gave him a second look. Just to be sure. And then he was instantly on his guard.
The man was staring right at him, right in the mirror. Eyes clear, intelligent, piercing. He lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag off it, then a longer, slower sip of his coffee, his eyes locked on Castle the whole time.
Not a junkie. Not a musician. But not necessarily Saint’s man, either. Besides, even if Saint had sent him . . . he wouldn’t try anything in here. There were too many witnesses. Castle frowned. On the other hand, if he was indeed Saint’s man, he might not care about witnesses, except to kill them.
Castle’s eyes went to Joan, who was talking in hushed tones with Grayson and Bumpo, just down the counter.
He shifted slightly in his seat then so that the handle of the Colt tucked in his waistband was in easy reach.
The man set down his coffee and turned to the guitar case on the seat next to him. Humming softly to himself, he began flipping open the latches of the case.
Castle tensed, ready for anything.
The man opened the lid. The fluorescent bulbs of the diner lights reflected off something inside it.
Castle let his hand drop to his side, inches from the Colt.
The man reached into the case and pulled out a guitar.
Castle exhaled.
The man strummed a chord. Out of tune. He fixed it, then in a gravelly voice began to sing.
“I have taken the blood of an innocent life
And I ran from the light like I ran from the law.
You know the wages of sin catches up with us all.
But he kept his hand on me,
He kept my faith alive.
It will carry me home, I pray,
On the day that I die.”
As he finished singing, the man looked up in the mirror again. Looked long and hard right in Castle’s eyes. Castle took it about as long as he could, then turned to face him.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you. You’re the one in the papers. The one that came back from the dead.”
“That’s me. What do you want?”
The man smiled. He stood up and put the guitar back in its case.
“Just wanna pay for my coffee, that’s all.” He looked over at Joan. “How much do I owe you, darlin’?”
“Seventy-five cents.”
He slapped a handful of change on the counter. “Thanks much. See y’all soon.” Tipping his hat to Castle, he stepped toward the door.
“Hey.” Castle spoke without looking up.
The man turned.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“That’s ’cause I didn’t give it. But I’m flattered by your interest.” The man smiled, that same half smile he’d given before. “You liked that tune, huh? It’s called ‘The Day I Die.’ I wrote it for you, Frank.”
The two of them locked eyes again; at that second, Castle knew.
This guitar player, whatever his name was,
They would meet again outside it, though. And there wouldn’t be any singing going on then, Castle was pretty sure about that.
The man pushed through the door and disappeared.
Joan, Bumpo, and Grayson all turned to him.
Castle turned back to his breakfast.
Joan kept trying to start a conversation. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he had to prepare. Besides, after the last week . . . she should know better. He wasn’t interested. He couldn’t be interested. He had to stay focused.
Maria. Will.
He left a big tip and exited the diner.
The lot was clear, save for the GTO. The street was empty, too, save for the usual assortment of neighborhood hangers-on. The blue-haired old ladies who couldn’t afford to move, the gray-haired men who’d lost their jobs, the kids with dreads who couldn’t give a damn whether they worked or not.
He climbed in the car and headed for the apartment. Saint’s man had dictated the time and place of their first meeting: Castle would pick their next. The loft was ready. He was ready. It was just a matter of luring the man there.
He checked the rearview. Clear. He turned onto Batavia, cut across the Waffle House lot over to local 211, and headed north. A roundabout route home, but it would give him time to think. Today was Sunday; Saint would want him out of the way by tomorrow afternoon, dinnertime at the latest, in order to be 100 percent certain he could proceed with the week’s shipment, even on the revised schedule he’d set up. Duka had clued him in on that schedule; Castle wondered if it might not be worth a call to the man now, see if he’d heard anything about this hit man with a guitar Saint had brought in.
Up ahead, the gate to the old Harbor Drawbridge came down. Castle slowed the GTO and stopped before the lowered arm.
All at once, a roar sounded behind him.
He looked in the rearview and saw a black-and-yellow Plymouth Roadrunner tearing down 211, heading right for him. Full speed.
The guitar player was behind the wheel.
Castle was reaching up, reaching for the first of the three levers he’d installed only yesterday, the one next to the driver’s-side visor, when the Roadrunner slammed into the back of the GTO. His car shot forward, smashing through the lowered arm of the drawbridge gate and smack into the raised road surface itself.
If he hadn’t had his arm up, Castle would have gone through the windshield.
As it was, the recoil almost snapped his neck anyway. He bounced back hard against the seat, shook his head to clear it—
And saw, in the driver’s-side mirror, the guitar player climbing out of the Roadrunner, a sawed-off shotgun in each hand.
Castle reached up again; this time, he managed to grab the lever over his head and yank it down. He did the same with the one on either side of the car, and the spring-loaded steel panels he’d spent the last two weeks building slammed down around him, cutting off his view of the world outside and creating a bulletproof cage.
Just in time. Steel clanged on steel, and a small dent appeared in the driver’s-side panel. A second later, another huge clang sounded, and the windshield panel bowed inward.
In about two seconds, Castle knew, Saint’s man would figure out all he had to do was shoot out the engine and wait.
Castle heard a rumble then: The drawbridge was lowering. That was his way out: He hit the gas and
