Columbus. But their eyes never left the man on the bench.
Scanning right, Dantalion saw a further two men on the parking lot of the Bayside Park amphitheatre. Not interested in the band stand, they too were watching him. There could be yet more, but it was enough to be getting on with. Discreetly Dantalion slipped a hand beneath the tail of his voluminous coat, as though scratching an itch on his thigh. He unsnapped the holster holding his 90-two Beretta semi-automatic. It had the capacity to fire off seventeen 9 mm rounds as rapidly as he could caress the trigger. Enough for the five men and then some.
The tanned man sat down on the bench next to him. There was no preamble. No checking of identities; each man knew who he was there to see.
'I'll take care of your instructions personally. The information you need is already where you asked,' said the client. He brushed a speck of lint off his suit. 'In return I need something from you.'
'I know what you want from me.' Dantalion's voice came out in a whisper. It wasn't practised, merely an effect of his feeble genes. His words were lilting; not effete, but androgynous, as though spoken by a pre-pubescent child. There was no trace of his Cajun heritage in its inflection. 'Confirmation of death. One target has been eliminated. The others will soon follow.'
'Sooner rather than later would be appreciated.'
'You have a choice,' Dantalion pointed out. 'If you simply wish these people dead, you could send your dogs around-' he nodded at the two nearest the amphitheatre, just to let his client know that he was aware of them — 'or you can be patient and allow me to do what I do best. '
'The killings can't be traced back to me,' said the man.
'So you choose me?' Dantalion nodded slowly. He placed a hand on the man's wrist. He saw the cringe worm its way up the man's arm and into his face. Dantalion smiled faintly and slowly drew back his fingers. His touch caused that reaction in most; they were repulsed by the scaly look of his skin, the thick yellowing nails.
'You know my terms?' Dantalion asked.
'You will be paid half the sum up front. The remainder on confirmation that the targets are dead. You are trusted to do the job… I have no problem with that.'
Dantalion's chuckle was like the whisper of bats' wings through the night. 'Those are not the terms I'm referring to.'
A pale flush crept over the man's features. He looked across at the two men keeping Columbus company. 'Along with the targets you have the right to choose how many others die. Yes, I understand. That's up to you.'
'Yes,' Dantalion agreed. 'It's up to me. But, worry not, I don't charge extra for a high body count. I'm just happy with the job satisfaction.'
'Just make sure nothing can be connected to me. You do realise what's at stake here, don't you? How much is at stake?'
'I thought you trusted me to do the job?'
'I do. Your record is impeccable. Only…' he coughed. 'You can't blame me for being nervous.'
'No need to be nervous.' Dantalion smiled, showing his caramel-coloured teeth. He shifted his sunglasses so that he could lock gazes with the man. 'It's not as if I'm coming after you.'
The man stood up fast. He swayed, looking down at the killer on the bench. His face said it all.
'Please,' Dantalion laughed. 'Sit down. I'm only funning with you.'
'You don't look like the type to make jokes.' The client didn't sit down again. His gaze sought Dantalion's hand where it disappeared below his coat.
With a flourish the killer swept his hand out. The man flinched, but then saw what Dantalion was holding. A book, attached to his body by a silver chain. With a thumb, he flicked open the book. He rifled through the pages, displaying rows of numbers.
'They're all listed,' Dantalion said. 'The names numbered. Each correspond to a different person I have killed. Do you know how many there are in this book?'
The man shook his head.
Dantalion neglected to enlighten him. The plethora of handwritten pages should be evidence enough.
'I am still walking free,' Dantalion said. 'None of my clients has ever been tied to my work. Does that make you happy?'
'I'm happy.' The man stuffed his hands into the pockets of his linen jacket, scrunching the cloth between his sweating palms. He took a discreet step away. He glanced around at the men near the statue.
'The alternative is I walk away,' offered Dantalion. 'The downside of that is, well, you've seen me. You can identify me. If you aren't happy, you'd best set your dogs on me now.'
Out on Biscayne Bay a speed boat swept by, throwing out a phosphorescent spray in its wake. Music drifted on the air from the nearby Hard Rock Cafe. Strolling couples talked in low murmurs. The fountain danced to life amidst a chorus of wonder from the gathered tourists. It was a strange setting for the stand-off that Dantalion had just offered.
Finally the man turned and walked away. Over his shoulder, he said, 'I understand your terms, and I trust you. I'm happy, OK?'
Deal done, Dantalion stood up. He straightened his long coat over his lean frame, adjusted his hat. The two men over by the amphitheatre were watching him with their jaws set. Dantalion flicked the brim of his hat at them — just to let them know.
4
It was hot in Miami. But that was OK. I was enjoying the sun on my face and making the most of the sightseeing opportunity. Other times I'd been in Miami, I'd got off a plane, then hightailed it elsewhere. Breezing along the causeway in my Ford Explorer, I had the AC on high, and a John Lee Hooker CD belting out of the surround speakers. My idea of cool.
Interstate I-95 connects Miami Beach with the mainland. Straddling Biscayne Bay, it's the main route on to the island, and at this time of the day it was relatively free of traffic in both directions. Sometimes people refer to Miami and Miami Beach in the same breath, but Miami Beach is a city in its own right, a distinct municipality of Dade County. I was heading for the South Beach area — again not just a beach, but an urban sprawl — which was regarded as an affluent area these days. Considered one of the richest commercial areas now, it had suffered from urban blight prior to the fame lavished on it by the TV show Miami Vice. I knew it was just a veneer: in SoBe, as it was known, poverty and crime were still rife, just a kick in the ass away.
Cutting across the city, I picked up Washington Avenue and followed it south until I saw the Portofino Tower, a huge terracotta-coloured edifice that Rink had told me about. Here I swung west, back towards the marina overlooking Baker Island. There's no road across to Baker Island; the rich and famous demand privacy. The only way across was by boat or helicopter.
Once the Vanderbilts owned exclusive rights to the island, but after it was sold for development in the 1960s more than two hundred homes had been erected on the man-made land. It still remained exclusive to the super-rich set, and once had equalled nearby Fisher Island as one of the richest per-capita locations in the USA. Maybe it still did. The northern portion of the island was barely settled, but in the south-west it was well developed with mega- homes. That was where I hoped to locate Marianne Dean.
Jumping a ride over on a water taxi, I arrived at the island among a group of giggling teenagers. It was handy, because there were a couple of bodyguards within the group, and I blended in with the stern-faced men who watched me as though I was a challenge to their employment. Once I was back on dry land, I hired what looked like a beach buggy and drove the short way over to yet another marina on the south-west shore. There, Tiffany, my real estate agent, passed over the keys to the condominium I'd leased. The week-long rental had already snatched a significant portion of the twenty K Richard Dean had supplied, but I wasn't there because of the money.
My prime concern was getting Marianne Dean to a safe place. Richard Dean had painted a pretty ugly picture of Bradley Jorgenson and the way he treated the girl, but there was something about the man's motivation that was giving me cause to question how I'd complete my task. Dean wanted Bradley stopped — no longer a threat to him or any of his family — and I knew exactly what he meant by that. He didn't strike me as the overly affectionate type
