“They’re animals,” he said.
“Without a doubt. Look at this. That’s solid cherry. How do you fix something like that?” Saint pointed at the mark on his desk.
“With all due respect, Howard,” Quentin began, “we don’t have more guns. It’s my duty to point out to you —”
But his boss’s temper, which he’d held in check so well these past few minutes, suddenly exploded. “It’s your duty to make Castle dead. Whatever it costs, whatever it takes. Call the Russian.”
Glass frowned. “He’s in Colombia, Howard. I told you that. He—”
“CALL THE FUCKING RUSSIAN!” Howard Saint screamed. He glared at Quentin then the way he always glared at Lincoln and Cutter. Like a hired hand. Like someone disposable.
Glass frowned. He didn’t know why, but Howard seemed very angry with him these last couple days.
“I’ll call the Russian,” he said, and left the room.
THIRTY-FIVE
Castle did not want to write in his journal.
The white space would tempt him; he would leap beyond facts and schedules and plans, and would begin writing down his thoughts and his feelings, the way he’d done before, when Maria was still alive. And writing those feelings down would not expunge them; it would strengthen them; and thus dissipate his focus. Today, more than ever, he needed to be focused.
Today, at last, was Thursday.
He was in his apartment, stripped to the waist. He’d been up most of the night again, finalizing his movements in the hours to come. A second check of Howard Saint’s phone records had confirmed his suspicions: the number was there, in black and white, on more than several occasions. Dating back to the time period in question. Back to Puerto Rico.
As always, his eyes went to the picture on the desk. Maria and Will. Then he picked up another picture lying next to that one, a wallet-size snapshot he’d unearthed only yesterday from the bottom of the footlocker. It was a picture of himself and Maria, with Jimmy Weeks squeezed between them, all three mugging for the camera.
Atlantic City. His first and only trip there. When he’d come across the little photo, his first thought was: Where’s Gwen? She’d been there, too—the whole trip, in fact, had been her idea. Then he remembered: They’d had to take turns inside the little photo booth, it was too small for all of them to fit in at once. Gwen was in some of the other shots: he could picture one of her and Jimmy, one of her and Maria. He thought about those other photos and wondered what had become of them.
He thought about Jimmy and Gwen, and then about Weeks and himself, and he wondered what had become of them, too.
Floorboards creaked out in the hall. He set down the picture, picked a clip up off the table, and slammed it home inside his .45.
If Howard Saint—or another one of his lackeys—had come calling, they’d find him prepared.
There was a knock at the door. Castle peered through the peephole. Not Saint at all. It was Grayson. Wide- eyed, frantic.
Castle opened the door.
“Mr. Castle . . . you have to come . . . it’s that guy after Joan. He’s in her apartment!”
Castle slid the gun into his waistband, grabbed his shirt from the chair, and strode out into the hall.
He’d warned the junkie what would happen if he showed up again, though he didn’t want to follow through on that threat to the letter. Not today. He couldn’t afford to draw any kind of attention today.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t give the junkie an ass kicking he’d remember for a long, long time.
Joan’s door was open. He pushed right on through—
And stopped dead in his tracks.
There was no junkie.
There was a table full to overflowing with food; standing next to it, a nervous-looking Joan and a smiling Stanley Bumpo.
“We want you to have dinner with us,” Joan said.
Castle couldn’t believe it. Have dinner? He had no time for dinner.
Today was Thursday.
Bumpo must have seen the look on his face.
“Please,” the man said. “I’ve been cooking all day.”
Castle looked at the table.
Ribs. Fried chicken. Collard greens. Hush puppies. French fries. Sweet potato fries. Baked beans. Dinner rolls. Corn muffins.
His stomach growled. “That’s a lot of food,” he said.
Bumpo smiled. Joan smiled.
Castle smiled, too.
“How about a beer?” Grayson asked.
Halfway through the meal, he left them.
Joan saw it happen. He hadn’t said much once they began eating, one-word answers, as usual, to her questions, to Dave’s and Bumpo’s questions, but he was listening to the rest of them talk at least, nodding his head or smiling in acknowledgment to what they had to say. Right up until a minute ago, when he’d suddenly set down his fork, as if he’d thought of something, cocked his head, and stared across the table at nothing.
Stanley, sitting across from him, was too busy eating to notice. Dave did—he exchanged a glance with Joan, then shrugged, a what-are-ya-gonna-do kind of shrug—after which he went right back to eating himself.
Thing was, Joan didn’t know what she was going to do. The whole point of this meal was for them to get to know Castle—Frank, okay, she felt as if she could think of him as Frank now—and for him to get to know them. Her, specifically.
She was, she suddenly realized, wasting her time. Making a fool of herself. He wasn’t interested. Period.
Normally, with guys, she didn’t have that kind of problem. She was no Britney Spears, but she was pretty, and she knew how to work what she had. She’d thought about trying a little of that with Castle—put on stockings, heels, a little more makeup, a tighter shirt . . .
But she didn’t want him that way. Or, at least,
So what could she do? She couldn’t force him to like her. She couldn’t force him to talk. Accept it, and move on. Enjoy the dinner for what it was—Stanley had made a feast, and they were all here together, and that was something. That was a helluva lot better than she’d had it for a long, long time. And Castle was part of it—maybe not the way she wanted, but he’d gotten rid of skanky Mike for her, hadn’t he?
She looked around the table, at him and Dave and Stanley, plenty of reasons to be cheerful, and set down her fork.
“I know it’s not Thanksgiving, but I’d like each of us to say what we’re thankful for.”
Stanley looked up and smiled at her. He was the only one, though. Dave kept eating. Castle—Frank, dammit, Frank— was still off in his own little world.
She kept talking anyway.
“I’m thankful to be alive this year, and to have a job. And to be sober.”
“Yeah.” Dave stopped eating and nodded. “I’m thankful for . . . this girl who gave me her number.”
Joan raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t heard about this.
“Cut it out,” Stanley said. “When did a girl give you her number?”
“On one of those bulletin boards. She seems very nice,” Dave said, a little defensively. “So I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful that my mom got out of jail. I’m thankful that I’m alive.”
Stanley stopped chewing.
“What am I thankful for? I’m thankful for a lot. Thanks for letting me lose ten pounds. Thanks, Joan. Thanks for Diet Pepsi. Thanks for all of you.”
“Here, here.” Joan raised her beer, and she and Dave clinked bottles. Stanley raised his soda can and banged
