The Shop

“If you can get him to come down here,” he repeated, “we’ll take it from there.”

“You’d be putting my family in danger.”

Salter just stared at him.

“My family’s already in danger.”

“Correct.”

“You have people there now?”

“We have the island under surveillance.”

Frank sighed. “Any way you look at this, I’m lucky if I escape jail time.”

Salter’s face was impassive.

“I don’t want Grace exposed.”

“I can’t promise anything. You know that. But if we can get Cardamone to admit what he’s done…we may not need her.”

Frank had a truly lucid moment. He looked straight at Agent Salter. “That’s bullshit.”

Salter stood. “Your choice. Somebody’s going to pay for all those deaths. Conspiracy’s a federal crime, and the death penalty will be enforced. We’d rather it be Cardamone.”

Frank’s future was bleak, any way you looked at it. There was very little wriggle room. He would have to convince Cardamone to come down here. He would have to get him to talk. Never easy—the guy was wary as an ibex.

Maybe there was a way out of this, but right now he couldn’t think of one. There were two dead bodies aboard, and the FBI knew about it. He didn’t think he could have killed them—that just wasn’t part of his makeup— but he couldn’t account for a few hours. He’d had something to drink, and he supposed he could have blacked out. It was within the realm of possibility.

At any rate, they were here, on his boat.

For a while now he’d been afraid that Cardamone would come after him, and worse, he’d come after his family. Special Agent Salter offered a way out, and he’d damn well take it.

For now.

42

By the time Landry and Franklin were through with their talk, it was going on eleven p.m., and Landry had some things to do. He decided to anchor out in the bay just off Panama City and put in to Cape San Blas early in the morning. One reason for this, Landry anticipated trouble when Franklin fired his security team. There might be unpleasantness. No one enjoyed losing a lucrative contract. Unlikely it would come to anything, but the one important lesson Landry had taken from his Boy Scout years was the motto, “Be prepared.”

He wasn’t tired, but he wasn’t at his best, either.

Franklin was still feeling the effects of the drug. The triptascoline, in combination with the Remy Martin, rendered him incoherent. He seemed content to drift off. Good for him and good for Landry.

Landry went up on deck and made his nightly phone call. For the call he used a throwaway cell phone he’d bought at Target for $29.95 plus tax—it didn’t have to be expensive to preserve his anonymity. A friend of his, a fellow racehorse owner who was also a tech genius (he’d named one of his horses Phreaker), had created an invisible voice mailbox for him. The mailbox was situated inside a major phone system, but no one knew of its existence. Landry’s contact number remained the same, but the box had been designed to erase itself every twenty-four hours, then migrate to a different location. Even Landry had no clue where the voice mail was. It could be in Vegas. It could be in Keokuk. All he knew was that it worked. It was the perfect way for him to contact the Shop every night without revealing his location.

Usually, he received an automated response. “There is nothing at this time. Please check back tomorrow. Thank you, and have a nice day.”

The “have a nice day” line was a little over the top in Landry’s opinion.

But tonight, he did not receive that message. Tonight, the message was different.

He closed the phone and thought about it for a minute. It was a beautiful night. Warm, but there was a breeze. Panama City stretched out before him like a diamond-studded crescent. He looked east, toward Cape San Blas, a black spit of land that jackknifed out into the Gulf and created the bay. He could see a smattering of lights there too, up to where St. Joseph State Park started and the private houses ended.

He didn’t spend time pondering the deeper meaning of the message. Right now he needed to make arrangements. He opened the phone and called his younger brother.

Gary answered on the second ring. “Did you see him? Eleven and a half lengths! Jesus! Rafael was wrapping up on him at the end. Could have been twelve, thirteen lengths if he’d let him go.”

“The foot okay?”

“Colder than Cruella De Vil’s titties. Did you see the way he exploded when Rafael asked him? Did you see that? Holy Jesus take-me-to-the-ballgame-and-buy-me-a-fucking-hotdog Christ, he’s the real thing. The Kentucky Derby, man. The First Saturday in May.”

For a moment, Landry let that hang in the air. It was like the notes of a distant trumpet calling soldiers to battle, sweet and pure.

A thrumming started up in his gut, a combination of excitement, anguish, and desire. The First Saturday in May was like the Holy Grail, except the Holy Grail wasn’t anywhere near as good.

He tried not to think about it. “Hey. You like Ocala?”

“Ocala?”

“You want to go to Ocala and check out the stud farms? All expenses paid?”

Skepticism crept into his brother’s voice. “What are we talking here?”

“All you have to do is fly in to Panama City and rent a car.”

It took him a moment, but then he said, “Sure, I can do that.”

“Use the Amex. Try Orbitz first. You have to be in Panama City by four p.m. tomorrow at the latest. Don’t forget to use—”

“Your driver’s license, gotcha.”

“The one for Peters. That’s important, it’s got to be under that name.”

“Hey, bro, haven’t I done this before? I know what I’m doing.” A pause. “So, what kind of car? It’s a long drive to Ocala.”

His brother. Always pushing the envelope. “Anything you want.”

“A Hummer?”

“Almost anything you want. I’m paying for the gas, so be considerate.”

“A Caddy, then. I guess I could get away. A week?”

“If you want.”

“Shandra won’t be happy.”

“Take her with you. All I’m saying, use a different card for her.”

“Nah, she’s got something going. It’ll be just myself, I guess.”

They had breakfast at anchor in the bay. Franklin cooked—eggs Benedict, chopped red potatoes with onions, and a garnish of fresh fruit. Frank took his breakfast cooking seriously. He wore a barbecue chef’s apron with a drawing of a spatula and a barbecue fork.

Landry was impressed by Frank’s resilience. In fact, he enjoyed Frank’s company, once the unpleasantness was out of the way. Landry was surprised by this. As one of the architects of the Shop, Franklin would pay the ultimate price. It was clear Frank thought he was going to ace this, that he would come out unscathed, once he delivered Mike Cardamone to the FBI. Landry let him think that. It made for an interesting hour of wide-ranging conversation, not to mention delicious victuals.

Frank stood over him in his chef’s apron, holding a real spatula, which looked a lot like the one emblazoned on his chest. “You like the eggs?”

“I love the eggs.”

“There’s more. Want another?”