Coffin Dodgers (17 page)

"If I polish them any more they'll disappear."

"If you keep staring at me, bits of you will disappear," Amy says. "Important bits. Bits you've grown fond of. Painful bits."

"Message received and understood."

"Good. Still on for tonight?"

"Yep."

Amy speaks more softly. "Did Dave get it?"

I nod.

"Okay. I finish at five. If I get you at six, does that give you enough time?"

"Yeah, that's good."

"Okay. I'll pick up Dave on the way and see you at six."

I pick up a beer glass and start polishing it with exaggerated care.

Amy grins, shakes her head and goes back to work.
 

By mid-afternoon I'm busy enough to keep boredom at bay. The casino starts coming to life after lunch: the morning's drunks eventually stagger home, and they're replaced by the soon-to-be-drunk. They're a mixed bag: dedicated drinkers, returning to the scene of the crime after a few hours' rest; giggling couples, social drinkers taking a walk on the wild side with daiquiris in the daytime before blowing their spending money in a single afternoon; grim-faced gentlemen loosening up before trying -- and failing -- to prove that the house doesn't always win; and worst of all, the Ladies Who Lunch. That's not a sexist thing, it's a terror thing: while every other kind of drinker tends to drink slowly and steadily -- apart from the giggling couples, but I find them funny, so they don't count -- the ladies who lunch nibble on a single lettuce leaf and a sliver of Melba toast while downing buckets of Burgundy. That means they talk, usually about things you don't want to hear, always at full volume. And today, they're talking to me. They don't reach the bar until four, so I only have to put up with them for an hour, but it seems like an eternity.
 

Five o'clock takes forever to arrive, but eventually Steve, who's on the evening shift, comes to relieve me. I say goodbye to the Ladies Who Lunch and wish Steve good luck, pretending I don't hear his muttered expletives. I make it to the locker room, change into my normal clothes and I'm on my bike by three minutes past, home by twenty past. I go to check the audio files but remember that Dave's taken the bug out, so I shut the computer down, make a sandwich and wait for Amy and Dave. I'm still munching when a pile of rust and dents screeches to a halt in the street outside my apartment.

I squeeze myself into the seat behind Dave, my knees at my chest, and try not to pay attention to Amy's driving.

"Amy, are you okay to wait for us? I don't think it'll take very long."

"Sure, no problem. What's the plan anyway?"

"It's pretty much the same plan as when Dave bugged Sleazy Bob's office. We walk in, place the bug and walk out again. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes."

"Then what?"

"Then nothing, at least tonight. Unless there's been a change of plan since Dave got the bug back, they're meeting there at ten o'clock tomorrow night. If we can get it recorded, I'm hoping we'll get something we can use. Or that Burke can use."

"How did it go with him the other day? You never said."

"Oh, you know. Full of enthusiasm, threatened to shoot me."

"Really?"

"No, not really. I told him what we knew, but he says he still can't do anything."

"No evidence?"

"Exactly."

"Hopefully that'll change tomorrow," Dave says. "I know anything we get won't stand up in court, but if we can at least prove to Burke that there's a conspiracy he can do something about it, find a legal way to do it."

"I hope you're right," I say. "Otherwise it's a lot of effort for nothing."

We talk about nothing in particular until we arrive at Mariners' Cove. Dave and I get out of the Dentmobile and wait while Amy hits the boot release button again and again. Eventually it works and we hear the lock pop.
 

Dave grabs a small rectangular box from the boot and wanders over to the main reception building. Instead of going in, though, he walks round the back of it and disappears. Less than a minute later, he walks back towards us, nodding his head.

"Where did you plant it?"

"There's a bunch of electrical boxes behind the main office. Nobody's going to notice an extra one."

That's the receiver in place. All we need to do now is plant the bug.

I look around the car park and spot a white-haired couple in brightly coloured waterproof jackets getting out of their car.
 

"Okay," I say. "Two cases each. Just follow my lead."

We carry the beer towards the gate and I keep an eye on the couple's progress. "Slow down a bit, Dave," I say. "We're walking too fast."

We walk slightly more slowly until the couple has nearly caught up with us, arriving at the security gate just a few steps ahead of them. As the couple approach, I stand directly in front of the sensor and balance the beer on my knee, one arm steadying the cases as I try to reach my pockets with the other. I pretend I've just noticed the couple and grab the cases with both arms, standing back from the gate and grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," I say. "You go."

The man pulls a swipe card from his pocket and holds it to the sensor. After a second, there's a beep and a little green LED glows on the sensor panel. He opens the gate, his wife walks through and he holds it open for us to follow.

"Oh, thanks," I say.

The man grins. "That's a lot of beer. I hope neither of you is the captain!" He sounds like a department store Santa Claus, full of good cheer, and his wife is just as jolly. She guffaws as if he's just told the world's funniest joke. Dave and I smile back at them. "Maybe one day," I say.

The man beams. "Have a good one!"

"Thanks. You too."

The couple head down the nearest pontoon while Dave and I turn left and head for Everett's boat. When we're out of earshot I turn and give Dave a grin. "Behold the power of social engineering. And beer!"

"I'm impressed."

"You should be. The trick is to let people see what they want to see. If you act like you belong, people think you belong."

A few yards later, Dave has a thought. "What would have happened if that guy had gone through the gate and closed it behind him?"

"He didn't."

"Yeah, but what if he had?"

"We'd be in trouble."

"Didn't you have a plan B?"

"Did we need one?"

"You're unbelievable."

I know it isn't intended as a compliment, but I pretend that it is anyway.

Everett's yacht looks big enough from a distance, but close up it's immense and quite intimidating. It's easily forty or fifty metres long, and the sharp angles make it look as if it's going quickly even when it's sitting completely still.
 

I said it looked like a killer whale, but from here it's more like a giant swordfish, all points and sharp creases and aggressive angles. If you told me that it's really a spaceship, that it can travel at the speed of light and that there's a big bank of laser guns at the front, I wouldn't be surprised. Certainly anybody who can afford a boat like this lives on a different planet to Dave and I.

Dave whistles. "Some dinghy."

We put the beer down on the pontoon and look up at the Zen Arcade. The back has three levels. At the bottom there's a plain deck, which I assume is for diving from and climbing back in again. Polished wooden stairs rise from it on both sides to the next level, which looks more like a designer bar than part of a boat. I can see dark wooden tables and light leather armchairs, with full-height black glass doors immediately behind them. From the brochure I know that's the "exquisite dining area." The stairs continue to a third level, where the cockpit is.The second level is the bit we're interested in.
 

"I think you're right," I say to Dave, pointing towards the middle level. "If they're going to chat, they're going to do it out there, or just inside those doors if the weather's bad. Did you check the forecast for tomorrow?"

Dave shakes his head. "Don't worry," I say. "I didn't either. So where do you think we should plant the bug?"

"I don't know. I figured the best thing would be to get up there and let inspiration strike. Hopefully it won't take too long. We'll be pretty visible if anybody's watching us."

"I wouldn't worry about that. If we take the beer with us people will think we own the thing."

"Own it? We couldn't afford a photo of it."

"You know what I mean. If we look as if we're supposed to be there, people will think we're supposed to be there."

"Think that'll work?"

"It got us in, didn't it?"

"True," Dave says. "Right, let's deliver some beer."

The water is as smooth as glass, but that doesn't mean climbing from the pontoon to the boat is easy. Two cases of beer do terrible things to your centre of balance, and while everything seems calm from a distance the boat and pontoon are both bobbing gently -- and we're so nervous the two of us are vibrating too.
 

By some miracle, we both make it to the boat without falling in the water or dropping our precious cargo. We have a quick look round to see if anybody in the marina is watching us. So far so good. We climb the stairs to the middle level.

I notice the smell before I notice anything else, the combination of expensive leather and oiled wood overpowering the less fragrant aromas of the marina. It smells like money.

Dave's staring towards the marina buildings. "What are you looking for?" I ask.

"Obstructions. There aren't any."

"Is that good?"

"It's very good. The receiver's over there --" he points at the marina office "-- and if you squint, you can see the electrical boxes. Which means there's nothing to block the signal."

"Excellent. Where's the bug going to go?"

"I haven't worked that bit out yet. Give me a second."

I sit in one of the armchairs. It's as comfortable as it looks.
 

Dave looks for suitable hiding places while I keep an eye on the marina for signs of trouble. Nothing. I sink back into the soft leather. I could get used to this.

There are two possible locations for the bug: under the table on the sun deck, or just above the glass doors that separate the deck from the boat's dining area.

"It's swings and roundabouts," Dave says. "Table's less likely to be spotted, but it's further away from the doors -- so if they go inside, the audio's going to be very quiet. We'll get a lot of ambient noise too. It's not the end of the world, but it's going to be a hassle cleaning it up." He points towards the sliding doors. "Up there is a bit more exposed, but you'll get better sound whether they're inside or out. I think that's the best place."

"Go for it," I say. "Need a hand?"

"No, it's magnetic." There's a small thud. "That's it."

"Is it on?"

"Yep."

"It doesn't have any power lights or anything like that, does it?"

"Nope. Bugs tend to be a bit more discreet than that."

"Cool." I survey the marina again. No sign of any activity. "You should really try one of these chairs, you know. See how the other half lives. They probably cost more than our apartments."

Dave sinks into the chair next to me and lets out a low groan. "My buttocks," he says, "are in Heaven."

We slouch for a few minutes, imagining that we're billionaires.

"I've got a good feeling about this," I tell Dave.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think we're right. They're going to meet here tomorrow night, and when they do we'll get a recording of it."

"What if they talk in code, or something?"

"I don't think they will. They're meeting here because nobody can listen in." I wave at the other boats. "Even somebody in the next boat won't be able to hear them. So I think they'll just talk. And that means we can nail the bastards."

"Think the police will do something if we get them the audio?"

"I hope so. If not, we could go to the papers or something."

Something metallic clicks next to my right ear.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," a voice says.

Dave and I are sitting on stiff-backed dining chairs in the Zen Arcade's dining room. Two men in suits are watching us, pistols in their hands. One of them is the tough guy I saw at the drive-through. Floyd. The other one looks like somebody's crammed a mountain into some clothes. He's got the V-shaped body of a body builder, a face pockmarked like the moon and an expression that suggests he'd like nothing better than to rip our arms off.

Adam Everett is sitting at the head of the table. He's in the same kind of clothes I saw him in before, a dark blue T-shirt with blue Levi's and white running shoes. His hair seems more white than grey, and from this distance he looks tired rather than slim: there are dark circles under his eyes, his face is sallow and his cheekbones are visible, stretching his lightly tanned skin.
 

"For want of a nail, the shoe was lost," he says. "Are you familiar with that saying?"

Dave and I shake our heads.

"For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. And so on," he says. "It's about details, thinking about every angle, checking everything and then checking again. Which, of course, is something you didn't do."

He smiles like a shark. "I'm sure you're kicking yourselves."

We are, but we don't say anything.

"Nobody cares about details any more," Everett says. I get the distinct impression that this is a pet subject of his. "Everyone's in too much of a hurry. Things get missed. Corners get cut. And what happens then?" He spreads his hands wide to indicate Dave and I. "Things fall apart."

Everett gets up from the table and paces around the dining area. "If I were you I'd have checked the car park. Did you?"

I shake my head.

Everett makes the sort of face my dad used to make when I came home drunk and underage. "Of course you didn't. If you had, you wouldn't be here. You probably didn't even find out what kind of car I have." He can see the answer in our faces. "Details," he sighs.

Everett walks to the window and stares out of it for a long minute. We have enough sense to stay quiet.