FORTY-ONE
He was getting too old for this shit.
The thought made Weeks laugh—wasn’t that what Gwen always used to say, when she was urging him to get out, to quit the bureau and find a job that would let them have a life? Let them be a family, at last, find some semblance of normalcy?
“You’re getting too old to be playing cops and robbers like this, Jimmy.” She’d said it to him on more than one occasion, though he was thinking of one time in particular now, when they were still living in Atlanta, right after the Olympics, right after they’d just had a night of sex that was the most unbelievable thing that had ever occurred between the two of them. He’d loved Gwen then, not only loved her but had been in love with her. And so he had taken the comment for what it was—a friendly jibe. That was before he’d put on fifteen pounds, before all these wrinkles on his face, before he’d been appointed AIC down here in Tampa, before the divorce, before the gambling and the drinking, and way, way before Yuri Astrov. Back when life had been good, and tomorrow had been something to look forward to.
Before Puerto Rico, and the nightmares that he just couldn’t shake no matter how much booze he poured into his system or how many pills he took.
Maria. Will.
Weeks opened the door of his apartment and flicked on the lights. What a pit. He really had to get someone in here to clean; either that, or take a day off and do it himself. Might be therapeutic. And speaking of therapeutic . . .
He pulled off his jacket and holster, set them down on the couch, and headed for the liquor cabinet.
He’d just poured himself a shot when he heard the footsteps.
“How’s work?”
Weeks turned and saw Frank Castle standing in the entryway between the kitchen and the living room; his heart started hammering again. The same way it did everytime he saw his old friend, only maybe a little bit faster even. Not without reason.
Castle had his gun. Castle was pointing his gun right at him.
“Why’s that gun pointed at me?”
“It’s how I say hi to everyone these days.”
Frank smiled, as if it was a joke.
Only the gun didn’t move.
Okay, Weeks thought. I can play.
“You want a drink?”
“You do.”
“You got that right.”
He slammed down the whiskey, felt around in his pocket till he came up with his lucky chip.
“So what’s up, Frank?” he asked, knuckle-rolling the chip. “I thought you were leaving town.”
Castle shook his head.
“What happened to your Porsche, Jimmy?”
“I told you.” Weeks shrugged, tried to look nonchalant. “I buy American now.”
“I didn’t see your fishing boat outside. That was built thirty-five miles down the coast. That’s not American enough for you?”
Jimmy needed another drink. But he didn’t want Castle to see he was nervous, even though he was very, very nervous, indeed; he did not like the direction these questions were taking, did not like the tone of his old friend’s voice, did not like the gun in his hand.
“You know what they say about owning a boat, Frank? Your two happiest days are the day you buy it and the day you sell it.”
“Uh-huh. And do they say that about TVs and stereos?”
Castle looked around the apartment then, and Jimmy realized that, yeah, the place was not only a pit, it was an empty pit; he had sold everything he owned—almost—to feed his jones. To feed the Toros.
God. He was pathetic.
He looked at Frank, whose eyes held no pity.
“And what about wristwatches, Jimmy? Do they say that about wristwatches?”
Castle was wearing his Rolex, Weeks saw. The one he’d given him at the retirement party. The twin to Jimmy’s old watch, which was long, long gone.
He started knuckle-rolling the chip faster and faster.
“I had my money in high-tech stocks, Frank; my broker kept saying don’t sell, don’t sell. I’m an old soldier, what can I say? I followed orders. Now I’m broke.”
Castle shook his head.
“I told you not to gamble, Jimmy. Didn’t I tell you that?”
Weeks felt his hands sweating. The chip slipped from them and rolled across the floor.
Castle bent down and picked it up. His eyes widened.
Shit, Jimmy thought. The chip. It was from the Toros’ place.
It had the bull emblem on it.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay, Frank. You’re right. I was gambling. A lot. Gambling’s like alcoholism, you know? It’s a disease. Before you can cure yourself, you have to hit bottom. And I did. I hit it hard, Frank. The car . . . the car was a dream come true for me. And the boat . . . I miss that boat every day. You know how much I loved that boat. But I swear—I’m done now. I gave it up. Gave my problems over to a Higher Power. I’m clean, Frank. I’m goddamn broke—” he risked a smile “—but I’m clean.”
Castle studied him a long hard minute.
Then he smiled and put the gun down on the table.
“Okay, Jimmy. I’m glad to hear it. I’m glad for you. Pour me a drink, would you?”
“Sure. Whiskey?”
“You know it.”
Castle walked across the room then to the empty stereo cabinet. He slid the doors open. “The CDs too, Jimmy? Jesus. You had a great collection.”
“Yeah. I know.” Weeks poured his friend a drink and started back to the table.
“You know what’s funny?” Castle asked. “A bank can repossess everything you own—except your phone. They can get a court to hold you to ten dollars worth of calls a month, but they can’t take your phone.”
“Yeah.” Weeks set the glass back down on the kitchen table, right next to his gun. He didn’t know what his friend was getting at, but . . . “Yeah,” he said again. “That’s funny.”
“It was a good thing for me that the bank didn’t repossess your phone, Jimmy. Right? That day you called, warned me about getting out of town? I would never have gotten that message if the bank had taken your phone. Or the hot dog.”
“Hey, for you—I would’ve used the office phone,” Weeks said, smiling, though suddenly, he was feeling on edge again. What was up with Frank? Why was he asking all these questions?
“What I don’t get though,” Castle continued, “is this. Why did you call me that day, Jimmy? Why didn’t you run when you saw that I was still alive?”
Frank turned around then, and the look he gave him made Jimmy’s blood run cold.
He figured it out, Weeks realized. Shit, he figured it out.
Jimmy grabbed the gun up off the kitchen table and pointed it at Castle.
“How long have you known?”
“You mean for certain? Enough to, say, bet on?” The man’s smile was ice cold. “Not until now.”
Weeks nodded. What to do now? What could he do? Castle would go to Sandoval, and then . . .
No. He couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t.
He looked up at Castle and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Frank. I swear to God I’m sorry.”
“So am I, Jimmy.”
Weeks’s finger tightened on the trigger, and then he squeezed.
Click.
Castle reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bullets.
