ordinary.
Ian and Eric used to wonder why Uncle Mitch didn’t just kill the miserable son of a bitch. Over time, Eric began to understand certain things. One was that Warren Ducane and Uncle Mitch were in some kind of standoff, and that if either one of them made a move, the other could do serious harm.
He knew better than to put Warren Ducane out of his misery, because Uncle Mitch enjoyed seeing that misery. Warren wasn’t the only one. There were these people in Las Piernas whom Uncle Mitch had never forgiven. Eric wasn’t even sure what they had done to Uncle Mitch, but he knew that Uncle Mitch was paying them back for something. Uncle Mitch wasn’t in a rush- he wanted them to suffer.
Uncle Mitch felt superior to all of them, but no one as much as Warren.
Eric had observed Warren for many more hours than his uncle had, and didn’t share his uncle’s complacency. He once told Uncle Mitch that he might have underestimated Warren Ducane. Eric would never forget the ranting and raging that had followed that-Uncle Mitch had a fire poker in his hand, and had threatened Eric with it. Ian had stepped in to protect him, and Uncle Mitch had hit him. That’s why Ian’s hair had a white streak in it-it grew that way out of the place where he had been hit.
For a time, Uncle Mitch had seemed to be right about Warren Ducane. Over the years, except for a little change in his manner after he visited Auburn Sheffield, Warren Ducane seemed to be a beaten man.
They all knew better now, didn’t they? And did Uncle Mitch remember Eric’s warnings? No. He berated Ian and Eric, blamed them for becoming bored out of their minds with watching a dull little wimp like Warren Ducane go through his dull little life.
Uncle Mitch always made it clear that he didn’t think they were smart. Maybe they weren’t as smart as his adopted traitor-but they weren’t stupid. They weren’t as interested in some of the business stuff as Uncle Mitch wanted them to be, but that didn’t mean they were dumb.
Uncle Mitch didn’t respect them, but he took care of them. It had been that way from the beginning of their lives. He wasn’t always an easy man to please, but he was there when you needed him. He was good at protecting them, and they did their best to return the favor. But he had younger guys on his payroll, and Eric wished one of them had been over at the Cliffside this afternoon instead of him.
“He can’t let anyone else handle this,” Ian said, again following his thoughts. “And you know why.”
Eric nodded and instantly regretted the motion.
“I guess I’d better try to find the Deadman,” Ian said. “Why’d you get in his face, Eric? Now they’ll be watching for us.”
Eric flipped him the bird.
Ian didn’t say anything for a minute. When he spoke, he took up another sore subject. “I can’t believe he bought a Beemer. A black one, like ours?”
“Yes,” Eric said, deciding that it was easier to talk than to nod.
“He’s trying to show us up, isn’t he?”
Eric thought the Beemer was the Deadman’s way of telling Ian and Eric that he didn’t need Uncle Mitch in order to have a car. He could buy his own.
For a few moments, Eric found himself wondering what it would be like not to have to go to Uncle Mitch for everything.
He thought about the little treasure box he kept hidden-his insurance, as he thought of it. A few things to help him out if Uncle Mitch’s will turned out not to be so generous to his nephews after all. Eric had been collecting small but valuable items in it from the day Uncle Mitch took an orphan into his home. Still, nothing in the treasure box would allow Eric to live as he did now.
“Do you think our little cousin is getting it on with that chick from the newspaper?” Ian asked, breaking in on these thoughts.
Eric managed to mumble, “Don’t know. But he’s after her.”
Ian suddenly sat up straight. “Do you think he’s trying to get Warren’s side of things into the paper, now that Warren thinks he’s safe?”
Eric’s one good eye widened. He hadn’t thought his cousin was on anything more than a mission to get laid. But Ian was right. “Shit,” he said.
The biggest problem was, Warren did seem to be safe. They had learned not to mention him around Uncle Mitch. Warren and that little wiener and now a reporter from the Express-not a good mix.
Ian frowned, growing more worried. “No wonder Uncle Mitch wants us to keep an eye on them. Fucking weirdo, Warren! Why couldn’t he just leave things alone?”
Eric was in complete sympathy with these feelings.
“A reporter,” Ian repeated. “A reporter! Damn!”
“That’s not all,” Eric said. “She’s O’Connor’s friend.”
“What! O’Connor!”
“I shit you not.”
“The Deadman couldn’t have given them anything from Warren yet,” Ian reasoned, “or it would already be in the paper. So what’s the deal? We’ve gotta find a way to stop him. Maybe we should just kill the Deadman-and this reporter.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Warren could still tell O’Connor. Or someone else. Warren is the problem.”
“So what do we do?”
“Set a trap for Warren.”
“How?”
“The Deadman-make him the bait.”
Ian liked the idea. “I’ll tell Uncle Mitch.”
“No,” Eric said quickly.
Ian looked so stunned, Eric found it almost comical.
“No?” Ian said, his hand going to the silver streak.
“He’s mad at us for letting Warren get away from town, right?”
“That wasn’t our fault!”
“Of course it wasn’t. But you know how he is.”
“So if we say this will work, and it doesn’t…” Ian said.
“Exactly. We’re screwed. He’ll just say we fucked up again. When we have Warren in our hands, we tell Uncle Mitch.”
“But if Warren doesn’t show himself…”
“He will.”
Ian looked doubtful.
“He will,” Eric said again, with the confidence of a hunter who had studied his prey for twenty years.
37
I LEFT THE BARBERSHOP AND DROVE BY THE ADDRESS I HAD FOR GRIFFIN Baer’s beach property. I couldn’t blame Baer for trading a farm in for a place in this neighborhood. Baer’s was one of the homes that formed a single row along the wide four-lane avenue-known in that stretch as Shoreline Avenue. On the other side of the avenue, a narrow, grassy park lay along the top of bluffs. At the foot of the bluffs was the sandy, south-facing shore, and beyond that, the Pacific Ocean.
Along that section of Shoreline the homes were huge, with mammoth picture windows, large balconies, and steeply sloping lawns. Many of the mansions were built in the 1920s and 1930s, although here and there one had been torn down and replaced with a contemporary structure. The newer homes seemed to be made of steel and tinted glass.
There was no parking available anywhere near the Baer place on this warm, sunny day, at least not on Shoreline, but I slowed as I neared it. A white Spanish-style home, with arched windows and a red-tiled roof, it
