His plan was simple and elegant.
We
sat
on that silly curb, with our backs against the wall.
The car now shielded us very effectively from the view of traffic coming along our way, and motorists going in the other direction would see only two hapless chumps waiting for the tow truck.
If we could find or make a hole in the wall at the right height, either of us could put an eye or an ear to it simply by turning to speak to the other.
The only downside was the constant nagging awareness that it was only a matter of time before some drunk decided our flashers were Christmas lights and plowed into the back of our car; in that case we would either stand up
very
quickly and carefully or, more likely, lose our legs.
Still, we felt pretty proud of ourselves.
We were within pistol-shot of a Mafia
caporegime
, absolutely unsuspected, and our biggest immediate worry was a hypothetical drunk driver.
For parrotheads without a plan, we weren’t doing too shabby.
Bill flashed me his pirate’s grin and adjusted himself under his sarong for more comfortable sitting.
“Cool,” he said.
I grinned back at him and nodded.
“Now how do we make a small hole in this fence?”
“Tire iron,” Bill suggested.
I shook my head.
“Rental.
Useless, I saw it.
The only thing in the world you can do with it is loosen or tighten nuts, that happen to be the right size.”
“Screwdriver.”
“Got one?”
“Uh…break off the gearshift lever, use it like an awl.”
“How do we make our getaway?”
“The turn signal, then.”
I was losing my good cheer.
Something infinitely more important than a man-monster or a Mafia kingpin was on the other side of that fucking fence: Erin.
To be so near her, and screwed by the want of a screwdriver, was—
—screwed?
I’m a bartender.
I keep a corkscrew on my key ring
.
I got it out, picked a spot, braced it with my left hand, and put my shoulder into it.
In well under a minute it was clear I was wasting my time, but I kept trying.
“Jake, Jake, wait—listen!” said Bill.
I did hear something, which might have been voices raised in anger.
Bill and I looked at each other, and pressed our ears to the wall, hoping to pick up something by conduction.
His face was no more than two feet from mine, so close I was able to notice he’d plucked his nostrils lately.
“Hear that?” he whispered.
“What?” I whispered back, and pressed my ear even harder against the wall, and prayed to a God I didn’t believe in to please send a beam out of the sky and punch a hole through this miserable stinking sonofabitching wall—
WHANG!
My head exploded and I fell over into the road, saw Bill land beside me.
I couldn’t seem to work out what had happened.
Then I glanced up at the wall and it was self-evident.
Picture Double Bill and me pressed up against that wall.
Our two heads are so close together there’s just enough room between them for a third man’s head.
If one were there, and he were looking straight at you, the bridge of his nose would be at the exact spot where the bullet came through the wall.
*
*
*
Tony solved the problem of finding the meet in typical Alexandrian fashion.
He made one attempt at finding it himself and got it wrong— 96748317 851st Way NE—but the homeowner there was more than happy to leave a hot dinner on the table, shush his crying children, get behind the wheel of his own Corolla and personally lead Tony and Ida to the
right
address.
No problem at all.
Once they were there and the guide had been dismissed, Charlie got out, slung little Ida Alice over one shoulder and headed for the door.
But there was a small kerfluffle over admission.
“No kids,” said the guy on the door, a stocky dour-looking thug in a black long sleeve shirt, black slacks and black loafers.
“This ain’t no kid,” Tony said.
“This here is the deal.”
“No kids,” the man in black repeated.
“Mr. Ponte hates kids.”
Tony started to get pissed.
“This is ten million bucks walkin—happens to be short and warm, that don’t make it a kid.”
The door guy knew as well as Tony that Tony could tear him in half any time he felt like it.
But he also knew there were worse fates than being torn in half; he stood his ground, kept one hand under his shirt and looked adamant.
Tony hated to start a meet by murdering the door guy, but he couldn’t see an alternative.
“Now I understand why the Roman Empire fell,” Ida said.
The thug blinked down at her.
“Listen to me, you road-company butler,” she went on, “Mr. Pontevecchio left his extremely comfortable home and came to this godforsaken rabbit warren to discuss a matter involving ten million dollars.
I’m not going to bother asking you your name, because when he asks us who wasted his time and lost him that opportunity, I’ll only need to say the guinea Johnny Cash.
Va f’ancula tu
.
Let’s go, Anthony.”
The thug opened his mouth to reply—
“Let ‘em in, Vinnie,” said a voice from inside the house.
Vinnie closed his mouth, stepped back, and they went inside.
There was another goon to the left, in front of the hallway that led off to the bedrooms, also with a hand near his waist, but Tony paid no attention to him.
He knew there would be at least one more guy somewhere, with his gun already out, but didn’t bother looking for him.
Charlie Ponte stood in the minilivingroom, back to his guests, looking out a closed sliding glass door at the yardlet behind the house.
He was balder than Tony remembered, but didn’t look as if he’d gained a pound; in fact, he looked surprisingly fit for a man of his years and position.
His blue silk shirt with pearl buttons would have won a respectful nod from Bert the Shirt; his grey beltless slacks looked as if he had only moments ago taken them out of the dry cleaner’s plastic and put them on; the species of lizard from which his boots were made was no longer endangered, because there were the last two of them, right there.
Even from behind, he looked dangerous, even to Tony Donuts Junior.
Tony set the kid down on her feet and put a proprietary hand on her shoulder.
“Yo, Chollie,” he said.
“Thanks fa seein me.”
Charlie turned around like a gun turret.
From the front, he radiated menace the way some women radiate sex appeal.
Part of it was that you didn’t often see a face
that
ugly that was so absolutely confident you weren’t going to laugh at it.
Another part was the eyes, doll’s eyes, unblinking reptile eyes without a trace of mercy or pity.
And some of it was simple knowledge of the awesome invisible power he wielded, as a senior executive of an organization that killed presidents when it felt like it.
Strong men had died for annoying him.
“Tony,” he said.
“Ten mil fa what?”
Tony relaxed slightly.
For Charlie that was a respectful welcome.
“I got something you’re gonna like.”
“Yeah?”
Tony groped for a way to express it.
“I got somethin the old men are gonna want more than money.”
Charlie did not snort, snicker, smirk or grimace.
He had heard of humor, but didn’t see the point.
The only thing he said, and that with absolute lack of expression, was, “Uh huh.”
“No shit, Charlie.
I—”
“Ex
cuse
me, gentlemen!”
Both men looked down.
Ida was glaring up at Tony Donuts.
“Have you no social graces at all, Mr. Donazzio?”
“S’cuse me,” Tony heard himself say.
“Chollie, this is Ida.
Ida, Chollie.”
Charlie regarded her dubiously.
“I hate kids.”
“I hate bald ugly gangsters with no manners, so we’re even.”
Charlie looked at Tony.
“What the fuck izzis?”
Tony spread his hands.
“An old lady.”
Charlie stared.
“Yeah?”
“An old lady I’m gonna give ten mil to.”
“Yeah?”
“Once you give it a me.
This is why I’m here.”
“Uh huh.”
Charlie looked down at Ida, then back up to Tony.
“I give you ten huge.
Then what?
You come back the next day with twelve five?
The next day with fifteen?
The day after that with twenty?”
Tony shook his big head.
“I come back in a few hours with somethin way better.”
“Better than ten mil.”
“Something that, when you bring it to the old men, and they hear they only paid ten huge for it, they’re gonna say, Chollie, this is the bargain a the century.”
Charlie studied him and frowned.
“Not a atom bomb.”
Tony blinked.
“Nah.”
“Good, we got them.
Okay, what?”
Tony couldn’t keep himself from smiling.
He dropped a massive hand back onto Ida’s shoulder and answered, “Ute.”
*
*
*
Charlie Ponte studied him pokerfaced for more than fifteen seconds.
He knew perfectly well that Tony Donuts Junior did not make jokes, any more than he did himself, and he could see that Tony was not under the influence of any drug Charlie had ever sold, or foaming at the mouth, or addressing people who were not present.
Then he took an equally long silent look at Ida.
He had bought and sold thousands of females, most of whom had tried to lie about their age.
Her face and body were those of a seven-year-old, no question.
But everything else about her—behavior, carriage, diction, vocabulary, stance, above all those striking eyes, looking fearlessly into his—said that she was much more than seven years old.
He found it disturbing.
He looked back to Tony.
“Tell me about it.”
Tony smiled again.
“Two days ago I seen her the first time.
She was in her twenties.
Since then, every time I see her, she’s younger.
Today I catch up to her and find out the story.
See, the guy—”
Charlie held up a hand.
“You tell the story,” he said to the little girl.
“What’s ya name again?”
“Ida Alice Shourds.”
Charlie frowned.
“Where do I know that name?”
“You’re clearly better educated and more widely read in Florida history than Mr. Donazzio.
You have, I take it, studied the life of Henry Morrison Flagler?”
“Sure.
Hero a mine,
guy stole Florida.”
“Well put.
I was his second wife.”
Charlie’s poker face spread to his entire upper body.
“No shit, Chollie,” Tony put in.
“She looks like a little kid, but she’s over a hunnert years old, this Ida.
Her old man found the Fountain a Ute.
He ain’t dead, this Faggler.
On paper he’s dead—really he’s out there livin off the books, havin a ball.
He screwed Ida here, had ’em put her inna hatch and threw away the key, only she got sprung, so naturally she wantsa screw him back.
See?
So you give me the ten mil like I said, an I give it to her, and she takes me ta this Fountain, and then I tell you where it is, an you tell the Old Men.”
It had been a long time since Tony had spoken so many words in a row, and he found it tiring thinking of them all.
But he knew he needed a big finish, here, and he’d been working on it since he left Key West.
“Chollie, lissena me.
How’d ya like ta be the guy that can make the Old Men young?”
It was absolutely impossible to guess what was going through Charlie Ponte’s head.
He might as well have been a statue.
All three of his goons became fractionally more alert, and made sure their silencers were affixed.
When Mr. Ponte got like this, you had to shoot guys sometimes.
“Why do you come back?” he asked finally.
“Huh?”
“I give you ten mil.
You give it to the kid, she brings ya ta the Fountain a Ute.
Now you got ten huge in your hand and eternal life.
Why do I ever see you again?”
Tony grimaced.
“Charlie, come on,” he said, and pointed to himself with both hands.
“Looka me.
Where the fuck am I gonna hide?
That Russian spaceship
Mirror
?”
“This Flagler’s hidin pretty good, what you’re tellin me.”