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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780446608916 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grand Central Publishing |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2000 |
| Pages: | 368 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.82(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
"You got a conscience, Valentine, that's your problem."
"I don't have any problems," said Val.
Junior snorted, but kept his face pressed against the telescope mounted on the patio railing of his penthouse. "A conscience can weigh a man down. If his friends aren't careful, it can drag them under with him."
"I don't have any friends, either."
"You done hurt my feelings," said Junior, looking over at him. "Here I called you over to ask a favor and now you tell me you got no friends. What am I to think?"
Val let the request linger. Junior always had a favor to ask, and that was fine--Val did favors for a living. He was a free agent brokering information to all comers, a wiseass with heavy nerve and heavy connections. Still, there was something about the call from Junior this morning, something in his voice . . . a coy eagerness, that was unsettling. Val had almost begged off, but Junior was smart. Excuses would have just made him more suspicious.
"Check out the scope," invited Junior. "We got teenage tuna catching rays at four o'clock. Zoom in and see if she's a true blonde."
"I believe you." From the waterfront penthouse Val could see girls in bikinis walking along the beach, waves lapping at their toes. Boys played Frisbee, making diving catches, showing off. Overhead, a small plane towed a pink banner advertising one-dollar Jell-O shots at a local titty bar. "I heard you had to dump your strip clubs. How does a man take a loss selling sex and booze to horny drunks?"
"I made money on that deal," said Junior.
"The Indians made money selling Manhattan, too."
Junior spit a brown stream of Copenhagen off the balcony.They stood next to each other, hands on the railing, watching the tobacco juice fall through the air, until it smacked onto the white sand, just missing a tourist lugging a Disney World beach umbrella. "I still got a favor to ask you. Most people, I say I need a little help, they's eager to get on my good side."
Val turned his face into the sun so that his expression was unreadable. His nose was prominent, and his long black hair, combed straight back, gleamed in the sunlight like the wing of a crow. "Yeah, but I've seen your good side, Junior."
Junior chuckled, his eyes cold as granite. He was a paunchy cracker in his early forties, with a pocked face, hair like a sun-bleached mop, and a nose perpetually peeling.
Most of the good ol' boys who originally ran the drug trade in Florida had been killed off or scared off when the South Americans moved in. Not Junior. The Cali cartel tortured informers with chain saws; Junior threw a barbecue, sent the blackened head to the magpie's family in a Baskin-Robbins cake box. The Cubans introduced Mac-10 drivebys; Junior responded with a truck bomb that leveled Diego Ortiz' mansion on Key Biscayne, killing Ortiz, his wife and children, five servants, and eight bodyguards.
Junior glanced toward the door to the penthouse. "Valentine, es un hombre divertido, verdad, Armando?"
Staring at Val from the doorway was Junior's bodyguard, resplendent in a white sailor suit with gold buttons and epaulets--a slender sociopath from the Medellín slums with a mouth like a Kewpie doll, his hair a nest of braids tied with gold, blue, and red ribbons, the colors of the Colombian flag. He was what the South Americans called a dead boy, an utterly loyal assassin, devoid of compassion or desire. Armando had committed his first contract killing at the age of ten, put a bullet through the ear canal of a priest who refused to hear the confession of an unrepentant drug lord. He was almost nineteen now. He still fingered the priest's rosary beads when he went to mass.
"Armando don't like you, Valentine," said Junior.
"There's a blow to my self-image," said Val, wondering what Junior really wanted.
"What do you think of my new place?" said Junior, casting his arms wide. "The estate was nice, but how can you defend all that acreage? I was going broke feeding those fucking Dobermans." He ambled back to the telescope. "Penthouse is better. Private elevator goes direct to a private garage."
Val spotted a van at the far end of the beach, a blue and white custom rig out there all alone. It was Steffano's van. He slowly looked away, a bad taste rising in his throat. "I read yesterday that a tube of acne cream used by Kurt Cobain sold at auction for over a thousand dollars."
Junior unconsciously touched his own cratered cheeks.
"I don't know if it was Clearasil or Oxy-5, but--"
"What's your point?"
Val shrugged. "Kurt Cobain treasured his privacy too--now he's dead and people are selling off the contents of his medicine chest. Maybe if something happens to you, Armando will have a yard sale, too. Wonder what your toothbrush would go for? Or your Maalox?"
Junior stared at him. "That ain't funny."
Val watched the van out of the corner of his eyes. Something was wrong.
Junior placed a hand on Val's shoulder, enveloping the two of them in a fog of Canoe aftershave. "I still need that favor." He showed Val his brown-stained teeth. "I got a funeral I want you to go to, boy."
The balcony was bathed in sunlight, but Val felt as though he had stepped into a pool of ice water. Armando was quick, too quick, but if it came down to it, Val was going to find time to throw Junior over the balcony and onto the concrete seawall below. Like the poet said, Don't go gentle, take somebody to hell with you.
"Don't get your bowels in an uproar," said Junior, grinning. "It's my mama's funeral I'm talking about, not yours. I want you to stand in for me. Take my place. Maybe say a few words at the boneyard. Funeral's in Leesburg, about a two-hour drive outside of Atlanta--"
"You're not going to your mother's funeral?"
"Never been to a funeral, and I don't intend to start off with my mama." Junior sucked back snot. "Besides, I got business here to attend to."
Val watched the tourist struggling over the soft sand toward the water, dragging the DisneyWorld umbrella. A gust of wind opened the umbrella and sent it tumbling down the beach, Donald and Mickey and Goofy turning end over end in the bright sunshine. He didn't believe Junior's story, and he still wanted to know what Steffano was doing parked over there.
"It's funny," said Junior, staring off into the blue distance. "Here I am with a better view than God, and my mama died without ever seeing the ocean. I tried. I even sent a private plane to pick her up, but she wouldn't have it. Said she was born in Leesburg and that was good enough for her." His jaws worked as he stood there, hands on the balcony. "Couple years ago I bought her a new Caddie, pink one with all the trimmings, like Elvis done for his mama. No go. She kept it out in the backyard, letting the weeds grow past the white sidewalls, and never drove it, not once. Said she didn't want folks to think she was uppity, but I think it was something else." He turned to Val. "You believe in the idea of 'dirty money'?"
"Absolutely."
"Absolutely?" Junior was amused, at first anyway. "You picked a damn funny way of making a living then, boy."
Val held Junior's attention, allowing the glare off the sand to start Junior's eyes watering.
Junior blinked. "Fuck it," he said, wiping his eyes. "What do you say, Valentine? You going to the funeral for me? Georgia's real pretty this time a year."
"Why don't you send Armando?" Val glanced at the boy. "He could stop off at DisneyWorld on the way back, buy some mouse ears to go with that little sailor suit of his."
Armando glared at him. His fingers twitched slightly.
Junior laughed and spit over the side. "They ain't never seen anybody like Armando in Leesburg, and they ain't in a hurry to start." He bent over the telescope, slowly swiveling it across the beach toward the van. "I trust Armando with my life, but let's be honest, he looks like a fruit with those hairbraids and painted nails. Shoot, he shows up at my mama's funeral, he's gonna have to kill two or three of my uncles before the service. No, I need you, Valentine."
"You still haven't told me why."
Junior scowled. "I got a cousin, Nestor. Me and him grew up together, shared a fold-out sleeper couch in the living room, but we never got along. Little piss-ant used to count the beans on my plate to make sure I didn't get more than him. Well, now I need Nestor's help. I want you to talk to him, Valentine--you got the gift of gab and them eyes a yours don't miss a thing. Talk to him, Val. He'll be at the funeral, that's certain. Nestor dearly loved my mama."
"I don't think so."
"You got family, Valentine?"
"You know I don't."
"That's right." Junior nodded. "No Mama, no Papa, no kin at all. No hostages, huh?" He cleared his lower lip with his tongue. "Just a man who walked out of a cool mist one morning and started making things happen. I remember hearing about this crazy-ass swamp rat, who was wheelin 'n' dealin, moving fast, ready for anything."
"You sound like you're in love, Junior."
Junior snorted. "You're a charmer, Valentine, but my heart belongs to Vanna. You keep your Kathy Lee and Mary Hart, I'd pork Vanna White from now to kingdom come and never complain." He spit over the side, looking at Val. "Fuck it. You going to Georgia for me or not?"
Val wanted to get out of there, call Steffano, and tell him to drive away. Now. "I don't like funerals either, Junior. I look at the casket, smell the stink of those lilies, and worry I could catch something."
"Yeah, there is that." A trickle of brown spittle ran down Junior's chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. "Maybe I'll just wire a candygram to the wake. Nestor likes them cashew chews." He shrugged. "Sending you to the funeral might have been a bad idea anyway. Your attitude's all wrong. All this bullshit talk about Disney World and zit cream. . . . Nestor ain't as patient as me."
"It's getting late--"
"What's your hurry?" Junior leaned into the telescope, sighting down the beach, fine-tuning the image. "Something here I want you to see."
Val felt an ache in his stomach, like falling out of a tree and having the wind knocked out of you. Nothing to do but fight off the panic and try to keep breathing.
Junior waved Val over. "Check it out."
Val peered through the eyepiece, saw a close-up of the rear window of the van, with Steffano's face, bruised purple, pressed against the glass. The focus was so sharp that Val could see the terror in his eyes. He glanced at Junior. "What's up with Steffano?"
"He's a cop," said Junior, "part of some special state task force. I had the Jackson brothers bring him round for a consult. They been at it for a while now."
"A cop?" Val shook his head. "I don't see it."
"I didn't believe it at first either," Junior said.
"Are you sure?"
"Ain't nothing certain," said Junior. "Sure enough, though, I hate taking chances--you know that--I prefer my fishing when it's done in a barrel."
"Yeah and maybe toss in an M-80 so you don't have to bother baiting a hook."
"An M-80, that's a good one." Junior smiled. "I like that." He snapped his fingers. "Armando, binoculars, por favor."
Val saw Steffano's head pulled back, then slammed forward into the window, spiderwebbing the glass. "If you're right about Steffano, you're going to bring down some heat. Cops tend to frown on one of their own getting--"
"Not if they think he's gone bad," said Junior, watching the van through the binoculars. "Internal Affairs is going to find a couple of pounds of coke and twenty thousand cash in his crib. Steffano ain't gonna get his name on a plaque at the academy."
Val's mouth was dry. "You should recheck your information. Steffano has good credentials--"
"You want to vouch for him?" Junior asked.
"I worked with him plenty of times," said Val. "I trust him as much as I trust anyone."
"That don't really answer the question, does it?"
Val had no weapon. Armando patted down everyone who entered the penthouse for guns or wires. He glanced toward Armando poised in the doorway--the deadboy utterly immobile, waiting. "Steffano found that deserted airstrip outside Ocala. Remember? We all made money off of Steffano. He deserves--"
"He deserves everything he gets," said Junior.
Steffano's face was jammed against the rear window, his mouth moving. Val was glad he couldn't read lips. "Who gave up Steffano?" he said, still looking through the telescope. "Maybe you should consider the source. We all make enemies, Junior. I'd hate to see you made a fool of by someone who wanted to take over Steffano's action." His head being pulled slowly back, Steffano was screaming now--a pantomime of pain. Blood poured from his nostrils as he struggled.
"Look at that boy holler," said Junior, his eyes fitted to the binoculars. "You just know he's making that van echo. Must be like a funhouse on Halloween."
"I have an interest in keeping Steffano alive--"
"Sure as shit sounds like it," Junior said.
"I'm working with him on something up north. If he's a cop I want to know it, but I don't think you should ruin a sweet deal for me unless you're sure."
"When I was in seventh grade," said Junior, not taking his eyes off the van, "me and Nestor would sit on a hill overlooking this drive-in and watch the skinflicks. No sound, just the night and all that soft pink . . . um umm, good. The silence made the movies even . . . sexier somehow. Why do you think that is, Valentine?"
"Call the Jackson brothers," Val said. "Make them stop. I need this deal up north to happen, Junior. I'll make it worth your--" Blood splashed across the rear window of the van; red streamers trickled down the glass.
"Shucks. Show's over and done." Junior exhaled slowly. "Damn. I told them Jackson boys to take their time, but you know how they are." He turned to Val. "What was you saying, Valentine?"
Val stepped away from the telescope.
"You're upset. I can see it," Junior said. "See, there's that conscience of yours acting up again. I don't know how you stand that thing in your head, all the time yappa-yappa." He pulled a cell-phone out of his pocket, flipped it open. "Howdy." Val hadn't even heard it buzz. Junior looked at Val as he listened, one finger massaging his gums. It seemed like it took forever. "Okey-dokey," he said finally, snapping the phone shut. "Steffano admitted he was po-lice, but he said he was working alone. The boys asked him over and over and then some, but your name never come up."
Val knew Junior still had doubts about him--a man in his position couldn't afford not to--but Val felt only the sun on his back. "You sound surprised, Junior."
"A little, but hey, I'm happy you're no cop. You crack me up." Junior peeled a tiny patch of skin off his blistered nose. "I got to tell you, though, Armando is plain heartbroke you ain't got a badge somewhere. I can't figure out why he's taken such a hate on you."
Val couldn't think of anything clever to say; he felt numb.
Junior rocked on his heels. "You don't look so good, Valentine. You're not going to cry or nothing, are you?"
"Yeah, boo-hoo, motherfucker."
Junior laughed. "See, that's what I mean. You crack me up, boy." He checked his watch. "Jeopardy is on in eleven minutes. You want to stick around? It's Tournament of Champions week."
Val looked past Junior, staring right at the van. "Some other time."
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