Bloodfire

shaken he was. He said, “It was his turn in the barrel.”

“Huh! Huh! Huh! That’s good, Carver. This guy’s a piece of work, ain’t he, Hirsh?”

“Sure is, Mr. Gomez. But then so was the one in the barrel.”

Carver said, “He call you Mr. Gomez in private?”

“Not in private,” Gomez said, “but this is business, so he’s being a bit formal.” He spread his hands palms out. “Just business, being done so you keep outa my personal life.”

Hirsh said, “I think you made your point, Mr. Gomez.”

Gomez said, “Sure hope so. Have I, Carver?”

“I feel we know each other better. But don’t look for me to invite you over for barbecue.”

“Or me to ask you to go fishing,” Gomez said. “We don’t need to be friends, just fucking understand one another. That’s so if you are in any kinda contact with my wife, you break it and stay away from her. She’s got a fatal disease called Roberto Gomez, and if you get near her, you’re sure to catch it.”

Carver said, “I understand you, Roberto.”

“Fine. Good. That means I accomplished the purpose of this visit. ’Cause I understand you, Carver. You’re a hard-ass, but you ain’t fool enough to dive into a blender for a no- good cunt like Beth. Mother Teresa maybe, but not Beth.”

Hirsh said, “Or maybe Madonna.”

“Huh! Huh!” Gomez turned and swaggered toward the limo. He opened a rear door and climbed in as Hirsh moved to follow. Old pro Hirsh walked as easily backward as forward, still looking disinterested and keeping the Uzi aimed in the general direction of Carver.

He folded his tall body into the back of the limo after Gomez, making the same soft grunting sound he’d made when he’d climbed into the truck. He pulled the door shut after him. The long, gleaming car spun its rear tires and threw sand and rock as it drove away.

Carver looked over at the Olds. It had stopped steaming. He limped to it and slammed the hood shut. The hollow clash of steel reminded him of the barrel, causing his stomach to lurch and a rage that had been smoldering in him to flare into something white-hot and constant.

He hobbled around the mess he’d made on the ground when he’d vomited, then he clomped inside the cottage and rinsed out his mouth. He drank a cold Budweiser while he sat in his creaking director’s chair and trembled. The barrel with the body in it might even now be sinking toward the ocean bottom, plunging faster and faster as sea water poured through the bullet holes.

Carver shook off the ghastly vision, but it wasn’t easy. He drank another beer before he phoned Beth Gomez and told her he’d work for her.

18

Carver had just hung up on Beth when McGregor called. His irritating voice oozed over the line and for some reason reminded Carver of the body rotting in the barrel. Corruption speaking:

“Seen Roberto Gomez lately, ass-face?”

“Not since we had our talk,” Carver said. Lying to McGregor wasn’t lying at all, more like tricking the devil out of possessing your soul.

“Well, some DEA agent name of Strait came by to talk to me about him.”

Carver watched a large and wicked-looking wasp droning against the window that looked out on the sea, restrained by a barrier it would never understand. “Why would Strait wanna talk to you?”

“ ’Cause of you, Carver. Your office is in Del Moray, and that means Gomez might turn up from time to time in my jurisdiction. The DEA keeps tabs on shitballs like Gomez, case they fuck up and leave themselves open for arrest. If that happens, Strait wanted to make sure he has the Del Moray department’s full cooperation.”

“And you assured him you were in his corner?”

“Why not? Lying to the DEA ain’t a cardinal sin. Then we talked about you. He thinks you’re an asshole just like I do.”

“Well, that’s the DEA for you.”

“Oh, I dunno, in some ways they’re pretty sharp.”

Carver said, “They usually dress nice.”

“I think they might be thinking straight here, Carver. There being an established connection between you and Gomez, he’s almost certain to return, like flies to shit.”

“Except I no longer work for him. We don’t have anything to do with each other.”

“You’ll ’scuse me if I don’t rule out the possibility you might fib, won’t you?”

Carver said, “I don’t excuse you for anything.”

“How characteristically cruel. And I was gonna inform you Gomez talked to the Orlando police. He gave them his ironclad alibi. Played dumb behind his high-price attorney. Acted shocked about his murdered sister-in-law. And he was damned worried about his missing wife. He thinks whoever killed the sister wants to kill her. Not illogical, is it?”

Carver said, “Not at all. That’s what I think, too. But I’m out of it, no longer even an interested party.”

“Just make sure you get interested if you see Gomez again or learn anything about him or the missing wife. You ever see a picture of Mrs. Gomez?”

A test. “Sure. Gomez showed me a snapshot when he hired me.

“A nigger bitch. Makes you wonder, huh? I mean, a guy with all that money, he can have any woman he wants, and he mixes it up in the sack with a black cunt.”

“My guess is he loves her.”

“What makes you say that?” McGregor acted as if the possibility had never entered his mind. Probably it hadn’t.

“He’s searching for her, isn’t he?”

“Like he’d search for a missing bag of coke. She’s something belonged to him that disappeared, that’s all.”

Most likely McGregor was right about that, Carver thought, the supposed dead son aside. Men like Roberto Gomez didn’t behave along the lines of Ward Cleaver.

McGregor said, “She probably knows lotsa tricks. Gives a great spit-shine, whatever her color. Anyway, it don’t rub off, and she’s a looker, nigger or not. Like that Vanessa Williams, used to be Miss America till she fucked up. Now, I’d go for some of that in a minute.”

“The department’s got you in the wrong job,” Carver said. “You oughta be in race relations.”

“Don’t imply I’m a bigot, scuzzball. Maybe you don’t like me just because I’m pale and blond. My only interest in Elizabeth Gomez’s color is it should make her easier to find. This is a cunt used to the big money, and a black woman like that’ll stand out like a raisin on white bread most places where big money congregates. She ain’t gonna go to ground in no inner-city slum with the rest of her kind. Not for long, anyway.”

Carver said, “Maybe she sings gospel.”

“She don’t. I checked. She’s just another greedy ghetto black bitch, interested in getting rich and getting laid, in that order.”

“You sure? She went out and got some education. She’s an honor student.”

“Probably fucked for her grades. They’re all alike.”

“Black women?”

“Women. Even Edwina Talbot, your real-estate lady friend. Someday you’ll learn.”

“Too bad you and Sigmund Freud never met.”

“The sonuvabitch was alive, I’d run him in for writing pornography. I wasted enough time talking to you, fuckface. You remember what I said. And take care of yourself.”

Carver was astounded. “You concerned about my welfare?”

“Fucking right. I want you to stay alive at least long enough to lead me to Roberto Gomez when he’s got his