through his hair. ‘The cops will ID Nicky fast. He has a tiny possession record but nothing but hearsay to tie him to Paul. A woman got killed, people got hurt. This was exactly what we don’t need.’
‘My God.’
‘I got Max watching the Pie Shack. Her car is still parked there. The police are all over the lot, and they’ll be running a license check on every car. They’ll ask questions. So your penance starts right now, Frank. I want you to go pick up Eve’s car.’
‘Okay.’ Frank sat. ‘How do I explain leaving it behind?’
‘Tell ’em you were at the shooting, panicked, walked home, now you’re coming back to get it.’
‘That’s a bit of a walk,’ Frank said.
‘Frank.’ Bucks remembered Chad Charming’s Thinklt, Livelt! rule 23: Patience never wears thin, it’s always in style. ‘You got the keys that fit the car, they’re not gonna question you. Tell them you heard shots, didn’t see anything, ran. Tell them you were meeting a secret girlfriend there and you didn’t want your regular woman to know about it. I don’t care. Go get the car back. And try not to steal it.’
Frank ignored the jab. ‘Fine.’
‘Have you talked to her?’ Bucks asked. ‘Truth please.’
‘I tried to call her again. I couldn’t reach her.’ Frank set down his coffee, inspected the bandage on his hand.
‘Who are these new friends of hers, Frank? She had partners in stealing this money.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Get one.’
‘If she was planning this and cutting me out, she’s not gonna use people I can point to in five seconds,’ Frank said. ‘Does MBA stand for Moron Boy Association, Bucks?’
Bucks threw the coffee from his cup into Frank’s face.
A cry caught and died in Frank’s throat. The coffee was cool, milky, sweet. Not hot. He blinked at Bucks, who smiled and went to the counter and refilled his cup. Steam rose around his fingers.
‘Chad Channing says you should contemplate before you speak. Very sound advice, Frank. Now contemplate harder. Eve has partners. Who could they be?’
Frank went to the sink, wet a paper towel, mopped his face. ‘Anyone who wants to take us down. The other drug rings in town. Jamaicans. East Coasters. A few people connected to the New Orleans cartels. Or even our buddy Kiko.’
Bucks’ mouth twitched. ‘Does the name Whitman Mosley mean anything to you?’
Frank frowned. ‘Whitman Mosley. No. Sounds like an ad agency or a law firm.’
‘You ever hear Eve mention guys named Michael or Leonard?’
‘No.’ Frank gave Bucks a crooked smile. ‘If it’s another crime ring that’s working with Eve and they’ve stolen Paul’s investment, you’re cooked. You don’t have the men, the resources to fight.’
‘I got every guy here in Houston to fight for Paul.’
‘Didn’t they teach you economics?’ Frank said. ‘Paul has lost five million. So no money, no cocaine deal. How exactly is Paul gonna keep the cash flowing? The club doesn’t make enough for the large-scale drug purchases he wants. How’s he gonna keep the muscle for enforcement, the money to grease the necessary palms?’ Frank shook his head again. ‘You like your balls in a meat grinder?’
Bucks clicked his tongue. ‘You know, my niece, she loves your records. She has those seventies-themed parties now and then. Of course to her it’s ancient history.’
‘That’s cool,’ Frank said.
‘She’s thirteen. That age of complete cluelessness. They dress in bell-bottoms, ugly shirts, gold chains. All that junk you used to wear trying to look like a bad-ass when you looked like a clown. They call the parties trash disco.’
‘Yeah,’ Frank said. Waiting.
‘You see, to her, it’s funny,’ Bucks said. ‘How stupid the clothes were. How bad the music was. Your whole life, it’s a joke to people, Frank.’
‘And you’re what? A supernoble Bob Dylan fan, one of those “lyrics matter” music Nazis?’
‘I don’t like any music,’ Bucks said.
‘That’s what makes you a freak,’ Frank said.
‘I’m going to offer you important advice,’ Bucks said. ‘Ditch the negativity.’
‘You got that from a self-help tape, didn’t you?’
Bucks’ eyes narrowed, and Frank saw the man’s eyes shift, the ugliness gather.
‘Every time I’ve killed,’ Bucks said, ‘I’ve used a gun. But Chad Channing says you need to expand your skill range, to meet new challenges. So if I kill you, Frank, I’m not using a gun. I’m beating you to death. First your kidneys, your major organs. Then your arms, your legs. Your throat. I’ll save your face for last.’ Bucks took a calming breath. ‘Her computer. Where is it?’
‘Upstairs.’ Frank’s voice was weak.
Bucks’ cell phone rang. ‘Yeah?’ he said. A pause, then naked shock on Bucks’ face.
‘All right,’ Bucks said. ‘Follow him if they let him have the car. Call me right back.’ He made his hand into a revolver, snapped fingers at Frank. ‘You got one minute to get your pants on and be out in my car. Some dink’s picking up Eve’s Mercedes.’
Frank ran. Bucks hurried out to his Jaguar and in thirty seconds Frank ran back out, pulling a shirt on, the pants not even zipped up all the way before he jumped in the car. Bucks backed the Jag out of the driveway, went past River Oaks Park, headed toward Kirby.
‘Who’s the guy? One of her partners?’ Frank asked, breathless.
‘Better be that son of a bitch that punched me,’ Bucks said under his breath.
‘I thought you fell into a railing,’ Frank said.
20
From a van idling on the other side of the thin strip of River Oaks Park, Whit watched the Jag speed away. Then he drove around to the side of the park that faced onto Locke, parked a block away, got out of the van. He jogged down the street, Eve’s house key in his hand, a backpack over his shoulder. He walked up to his mother’s house like it was exactly where he belonged.
Whit slid the key home, turned the lock, waited for the warning br-reep of the alarm Eve had mentioned. But it wasn’t armed, and there was only the soft chirp the alarm made when he opened the door. Bucks and Frank Polo hadn’t set the alarm when they rushed out. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
His mother’s house. He took two steps into the marbled foyer. A scent of coffee touched the air. The house was French Provincial in design on the exterior and the inside was simple but tastefully decorated. The Bellinis owned the house and it was a disco king’s castle, so Whit expected gold-necklace thug decor. But the antiques looked authentic, the dirty plates in the sink were actually fine china, and when he peered into the acreage of den beyond the kitchen he saw a TV as big as a giant’s eye and leather-upholstered furniture to seat twelve.
He took the knapsack off his shoulder, scooted on his butt underneath the huge oak kitchen table, and pulled the knapsack under the table with him. It was heavy; he had gone at ten this morning, when a Radio Shack off Kirby opened, and bought out the supply of small digital voice recorders. They needed to know what Bucks knew, and since Bucks’ Jag was parked in front of Eve’s house at 7 a.m. when Gooch drove by, Eve decided that Bucks was still sticking close to Frank Polo.
Whit unrolled a hunk of black duct tape with his teeth, checked the settings on the voice-activated recorder, and carefully attached the small device to the bottom of the kitchen table. He tore another chunk of tape loose, affixed it to the bottom part of the recorder, being exact so he didn’t cover the microphone. He tugged on his eavesdropping device; it didn’t give.
Illegally taped conversations would never stand up in court. But right now court didn’t matter, and he wasn’t trying to get evidence of actual crimes. He wanted to know what they were planning against his mother. Eve wanted to hear what Bucks said if he incriminated himself, so she would have evidence for Paul. Transmitters would
