TWENTY-NINE

It had been, Howard Saint reflected, a very, very bad night, the capper to one of the all-time worst days of his life. When he’d come to bed and told Livia that the Toros would be paying them a visit in the morning, she’d gotten furious, as mad as he’d ever seen her, and even more so when he asked her (very nicely asked her, he thought) to at least, for his sake, be civil to Mike and Joe. After all, he’d said, they were very important clients.

And, even though he had been in bed, nuzzling her from behind at the time (Christ, he needed sex after a day like yesterday), she’d actually gotten up and gone to sleep in the maid’s room. Wouldn’t come back no matter what he said or did.

Howard couldn’t understand it. No, the Toros were not his favorite people, either, but business was business.

He was so wired and upset and obsessed with how the fuck that prick Castle had pulled his little stunt that at one-thirty in the morning he’d had Cutter phone out for the Nunzio sisters, whom he did in the guesthouse, out of respect for Livia, which at last relaxed him enough that he was able to fall asleep, back in the big bed, by about four.

Normally, after staying up that late, he’d sleep in till noon. But the Toros were coming at ten, so here he was, at quarter to, already dressed and entering the solarium, Cutter a step behind him.

“What do we have for breakfast this morning, Mrs. Caprese?” Saint called out as Cutter pulled his chair away from the table.

His cook stood next to the kitchen door, a big smile on her face. Always a good sign, when Mrs. C. was smiling.

“I make a nice frittata for you, Mr. Saint. Mushroom, ham, black olive, mozzarella . . .”

“Sounds beautiful. A little coffee first, Cutter—if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Mr. S.”

Cutter went to fetch the pot from the sideboard, and Mrs. Caprese went back into the kitchen.

Saint unfolded the newspaper by his plate, saw the headline—TAMPA’S PERFECT STORM—and the picture of his money floating down to the ground in a cloud, and closed it right back up.

Negative thoughts. The morning promised to be difficult enough without negative thoughts.

Cutter poured his coffee. Saint took a sip and sat back in his chair.

Forget the news, today had to be better than yesterday. For one thing, the sun was shining. For another, Chadwick and he were having lunch again, finalizing the campaign committee. For a third, Quentin had called and was on his way over with news about the outside talent he’d found to take care of Castle. For a fourth . . .

The kitchen door swung open, and Mrs. C. walked out, carrying a beautiful-looking plate full of food.

She set it down before him and stepped back.

“You’ve outdone yourself today, Mrs. Caprese.”

She beamed.

A car horn honked.

Howard Saint looked out the window, over the deck, and past the pool.

The Toros were here already, climbing out of their unmistakable lime green Caddy and walking toward the house. Not looking happy.

Neither was he.

Pushing back his chair, leaving behind a very distraught-looking Mrs. Caprese as well as his breakfast, Saint exited the solarium onto the deck above the pool.

“Mike Toro, Joe Toro!” He waved to them, a very forced smile on his face, as he descended the staircase down to the pool. “Something to drink?”

“No, thanks, Howard,” Mike replied.

Joe was squinting up at the sun. “Nice weather, Howard, don’t you think?”

“Better than yesterday,” Saint said.

Mike Toro shook his head. “I’ve seen hurricanes, seen it rain like cats and dogs, but never in all my years have I seen it rain hundred-dollar bills.”

“This rainmaker,” Joe said. “Castle. He was supposed to be dead.”

“He’s a very lucky man,” Saint said. “My men put a lot of bullets in him.”

“Your men need shooting lessons,” Mike said.

Saint shook his head. He wouldn’t be lectured. Not in his own home.

“We’ve done business for ten years, Mike. This is the first time that something has gone wrong.”

“At a personal loss to us of fifty million dollars, Howard, that’s one time too many. You guaranteed that money. Do you want us to find another backer?”

Saint glared at him. Little Cuban prick, he thought, and almost said. Go on, see if you can find somebody else who’ll do for you what I’ve done.

Then he remembered Big Richie was in town again.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I’m glad,” Joe said. “Because we like doing business with you, Howard. We really do.”

“Of course, we want our money back,” Mike put in. “Every dollar that went out the window.”

Saint could only nod. The cops were on that for them— he’d talked to Kuipers last night—and they’d already gotten back close to thirty of the fifty. He’d just have to make up the difference—skip his cut on the next few shipments.

“And as long as this Castle is running around playing Robin Hood—”

“Not for too much longer, Mike. I can assure you of that.”

Toro didn’t seem assured. “As long as this Castle is running around playing Robin Hood,” he repeated, “we want protection on the next shipment. It’s fifty million dollars, Howard. Do you guarantee our money?”

“With everything I own.” Saint spread his arms wide then, to indicate the mansion and the grounds, which technically he didn’t own, but how were these thugs gonna know that?

Mike suddenly smiled. “Everything?” he asked, looking over Saint’s shoulder.

Howard turned and saw Livia coming from the tennis courts then, dressed in her whites. She had been smiling, but the second she saw the Toros, her expression changed.

Saint locked eyes with Mike then, who just kept smiling.

He couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t have ended in bloodshed, right then and there, so he kept his mouth shut.

The Toros left. Quentin came out from the downstairs lounge, still dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing the night before.

“What did they want?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Saint shook his head. “What’ve you been doin’ all night?”

“Working.”

Saint frowned. Quentin didn’t smell like he’d been working. He smelled like he’d been having sex. Saint didn’t know why his friend would want to lie about that, but . . . whatever.

“So? Tell me something good.”

Glass smiled. “In forty-eight hours, Castle is a memory. A pro from Memphis. The best.”

“Memphis?” Saint frowned. Memphis—that was Johnny Piscatelle’s territory. Johnny had funny ideas sometimes when it came to his guys, and guns.

“What about the Russian?”

Glass shook his head. “He’s in Colombia.”

Fuck. The Russian was always in Colombia.

Saint was about to suggest trying to get him anyway— money was no object here—when he looked across the lawn and saw the Toros reach their car at precisely the same moment that Livia walked by.

His wife and Mike Toro exchanged words. Then Mike made an obscene gesture at his wife. She made one back.

Saint gritted his teeth. He knew Livia could handle herself just fine, but part of him wanted to run across the lawn and cave Mike Toro’s head in with a sledgehammer.

“Howard? You all right?”

“Yeah.” Saint took a deep breath. “This guy you got to take care of Castle—he better not mess up, Quentin. That’s all I can say.”

“He won’t. He’s good, I’m telling you.”

“He better be.” Livia stalked away from Mike Toro, who climbed into the Caddy and shouted something after her.

The engine roared: Toro slammed his car into gear and burned rubber down the driveway. Saint watched the Cubans and their pimpmobile disappear in the distance.

“We can’t afford another fuckup, Quentin. None of us.”

Weeks brought him coffee. Castle pretended to drink it.

He didn’t know why he’d changed his mind, why he’d agreed to meet the man. There was nothing they had to say to each other.

“You know I spoke at your funeral,” Jimmy said.

Castle nodded; of course he had. He wondered, for a split second, who had spoken at Maria’s. Her brother, probably— her parents were both long dead. And what about Will? Had anyone spoken for him?

A priest, of course. A priest who hadn’t known him at all. Castle always hated that, when people who hadn’t known the deceased talked about them as if they’d been close friends.

He took a sip of the coffee. “What did you say about me?”

“I said it was hard to imagine you dead.”

“Anything you can imagine, Jimmy . . . there’s always something worse.”

The two of them sat side by side on a bench in the little park across from the Federal Building. Weeks seemed nervous, twitchy; he wouldn’t look Castle in the eye. As if there was something he wanted to say but was afraid to. Castle suspected he knew what.

With his next words, Weeks confirmed it.

“Frank, I need you to get out of town. Let me handle this. Let me find out who set you up before they find you.”

Weeks still wanted to protect him. Castle appreciated the thought, but the man just didn’t get it.

“I want them to find me. You understand?”

“You’re not thinking straight.” Weeks shook his head. “You’re going to end up a dead man.”

“Give you another chance to speak at my funeral.”

Weeks didn’t smile.

Castle leaned closer. “I’m already dead, Jimmy. Don’t worry about me.”

Weeks looked away, shook his head again.

Castle suddenly got the sense there was something else on his friend’s mind, something else Weeks wanted to tell him. He didn’t have time to try to pry it out of him, though.

“Gotta get goin’, Jimmy,” he said.

“All right. I tried. I had to try, Frank.” Weeks got to his feet. “You got time to grab a little something first?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Hot dog, maybe? You used to like hot dogs. There’s a stand down the street.”

Castle was about to say no again when he suddenly realized he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning— breakfast in the GTO, while he’d been waiting for the second truck.

So they got hot dogs. Again, Castle got the sense that Jimmy was prolonging the conversation because of something else he wanted to say. Weeks just kept making small talk, though.

While they were eating, Jimmy’s phone rang. He answered it and turned pale.

“Be right back,” he said to Castle, and walked around the corner to talk.

Castle watched him go; for the first time since he’d come back to Florida, he remembered the troubles his friend had been having. Dealing with the divorce, with Gwen’s lawyer, with the fallout from Ares, the gambling . . .

That had to be it, he thought. Jimmy was still dealing with all those same problems. For a moment, Castle wished he could help. But he had no time: Weeks would have to sink or swim on his own.

His friend came back. Whoever had been on the phone, whatever had been said, Jimmy was still upset, distracted.

He finished his hot dog quickly and stood.

“See you, good buddy. You think about what I said, okay?”

Castle nodded perfunctorily.

“Okay.” Weeks nodded across the street. “That’s me over there. Gotta run.”

Weeks’s ride was a late-model Mustang. Castle saw it and frowned.

“What happened to the Porsche, Jimmy? You loved that car.”

“Well. You know. I wanted to buy American.”

“There should be more people like you.”

“Yeah.” His friend smiled, or tried to anyway. “See you, Frank.”

Castle nodded. “See you.”

There was the answer to one of his questions, anyway. Weeks was still gambling. Still losing big-time.

He watched his old friend cross the street, wondering just how bad the problem was, then reminded himself: Not his concern. Not anymore.

That part of him was dead and buried.

He drove the GTO to the mail drops. The packages were there, two of them: the voice distorter from McNally Electronics and the fireplug from United Theater. High tech and low tech, both courtesy of Federal Express: on time, every time.

He unpacked them in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart, threw the mailing labels and packing materials into a Dumpster there, and went back to the apartment. There was a message from Duka.

“I just gotta know, if it’s still happening, because I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m shittin’ a brick here. The construction job, that was one thing, but this . . . this is a whole nother ball of wax. I mean, Glass is—”

Castle stopped the playback, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Hello?” Duka still sounded nervous.

“It’s happening. I’ll call you.”

“Okay, just try and make it—”

“I’ll call you,” Castle repeated, and hung up.

He erased Duka’s message and poured himself a drink. Pictures of Quentin Glass and his latest boyfriend, of Livia Saint and the movie theater she frequented every Thursday night, were scattered across the kitchen table.

He slugged back another shot of whiskey and checked his Rolex.

Six-ten. Time to pack the duffel and go.

As he got to his feet, he heard shouting out in the hall. A stranger’s voice. Male. Angry about something.

Castle set down his glass and walked to the door.