FORTY-TWO

Who did this bitch think she was?

“You’ll put me on with the manager. This instant. Or I will have your job.”

“Mrs. Saint, I’m telling you, I can’t reach the manager at this moment. Mr. Sanders is on vacation. He will be back on Monday.”

“Did I ask you his schedule?” Livia Saint turned into the mansion’s driveway and eased the Jaguar to a stop. “I pay quite a handsome sum of money to belong to your club, and for that kind of money, I expect service.”

“Which I’m trying to give you, ma’am. If you’ll start at the beginning—”

“I do not,” Livia continued, ignoring the young woman’s offer, “expect my jewelry—my Harry Winston jewelry, given to me by my husband, a gift of great sentimental value—to be stolen while I use your club, and I most certainly do not expect to get attitude from an underling such as yourself simply because I wish to discuss the problem with senior management. Do I make myself clear?”

Silence.

“Yes, Mrs. Saint,” the woman said finally. “I will find Mr. Sanders and have him call you.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am. Tonight.”

Livia hung up, frowning. Little twit. She’d have Sanders fire her—the man was wrapped around her little finger— except, she realized, she’d just forgotten the woman’s name. Ah, well. Not important. But the earring was. She would have Sanders get to the bottom of that problem immediately.

She walked into the house and set her purse down in the foyer.

“Maria?”

No answer. Where was that girl? She wanted a drink— after the shock of finding the earring gone, and that last bit of nastiness, she needed to settle her nerves.

“Maria?”

Fine. She could get her own drink. She could get another maid as well. Help these days . . .

She took off her coat, turned around, and found one of Howard’s men—she didn’t know this one’s name; frankly, she had a hard time telling any of them apart, except for Quentin, of course—staring at her.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Pretty well.” He smiled.

She snorted. Brute. Howard knew she didn’t like having these men around, particularly in this part of the house. They never wiped their shoes; they touched everything with their greasy hands; they smelled . . . she wanted this one out of her sight, now. She’d have Howard fire him, in fact. Him and that little prick Duka.

“Where is my husband?”

The man took a long look at her, and then—she watched it happening, and shook her head in disbelief—he took out a cigarette and lit it.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s called smoking.”

“You know there’s no smoking in the house.”

“Yeah. That’s the rule. Because you don’t like it.”

“That’s right. I don’t like it.”

He took another puff.

Unbelievable. “What’s your name?”

“I go by Lincoln.”

“Well, Lincoln, my husband, who pays your salary, is the one who made that rule, and you’ll answer to him for this.”

“Fine by me.”

Then he stepped forward and exhaled right in her face.

Livia was, all of a sudden, very, very nervous.

“What is this about?” she asked.

“I’ve decided to make a few changes around here.”

The voice came from the second-floor landing above her. She looked up and saw Howard dangling the Llanes vase she’d won last week at the country club auction over the railing.

Now she was more than nervous. She was scared.

“Darling? What—”

Howard dropped the vase. It smashed against the marble floor and shattered into a million pieces.

Livia stared at it in disbelief.

“That’s . . .” She looked up at her husband. “Howard. That was ten thousand dollars. Of your money. Why—?”

Her mink flew over the rail. Next came the ermine stole, and then the leopard-skin coat. Then her clothes, and her shoes, and her jewelry, and all the pictures of her and Howard, of her and the twins, of the family together. Lincoln picked them up, one by one, and threw them out the door.

Her life. Her entire life was out there on the lawn.

She looked up and saw Howard coming down the stairs.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she begged.

He walked up to her and hit her across the face. Hard. She fell to the floor and started crying. Howard had never, ever raised a hand to her before.

“I don’t know what’s happened. Just talk to me, Howard, I can fix it, I can change—”

“I know about you and Quentin.”

She shook her head. “Quentin? What are you—”

“You went to the movies last Thursday, like you always do?” he snarled. “The eight o’clock show?”

“Yes. Yes.” She didn’t understand why he was asking, what on earth he was talking about. Quentin and her? He couldn’t think that—

“But you called Quentin at nine, from your car phone? How is that possible?”

“It’s not, of course. Because I didn’t call him.” She felt a glimmer of hope—here was something concrete to which she could respond; she could find people who’d seen her in the theater, witnesses who could swear that she’d sat through the whole film. Howard would have to abandon this ridiculous fantasy he’d constructed in his mind, then, and they could pretend this had all never happened.

He was smiling.

“You didn’t call him?”

“No.”

“Then how do you explain this?”

He held a piece of paper up in front of her face. A phone bill. Her cell phone bill.

She looked at the call he’d circled and felt her knees go weak.

“There’s an explanation,” she said weakly.

“Sure there is. You were fucking him. You were fucking my best friend.”

“No, of course not. I . . .” She hesitated. Quentin had made her promise never to tell, but she had to now. It was her life; he’d understand. “Howard.” She forced herself to smile, ha-ha, this was all so ridiculous, just a ridiculous misunderstanding. “Darling. That would be a little hard to accomplish, since Quentin—”

“Hard to accomplish now, true.”

Saint drew back the curtain that led to the study.

There, on the floor of the study, was the body of Quentin Glass wrapped up in a rug. Livia hadn’t seen a lot of dead bodies, but she knew she was looking at one now.

She gasped. “Oh my God. Howard?”

He thrust another piece of paper into her face.

“And you really should pay your parking tickets.”

“My parking tickets? What . . .” She looked at the citation. Her Jaguar. The Wyndham Hotel. Last week, nine o’clock . . .

Thursday.

“No.” She tried to smile again but couldn’t. “This is . . . Howard, I don’t know what . . . you thought we . . . Quentin and I? Howard. Quentin was gay.”

The rage in her husband’s eyes was dreadful to behold.

“You’ll say anything now, won’t you?”

He shoved something shiny in her face.

The missing earring.

“This,” he said, gritting his teeth, “was . . . in . . . his . . . bedroom.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Howard, I was just—you can call the club—”

Howard spun on his heel.

“Bring her,” he said, and Livia Saint felt an elbow on her arm then. She started crying again as Lincoln dragged her to the limo, using no more care than he would have with a sack of potatoes.

He put the bitch in the backseat, next to Lincoln.

He sat facing them, for a couple reasons. One, so he could watch her react, as she realized where they were headed. Two, so he wouldn’t have to touch any part of her body with his. So he wouldn’t have to smell it, that perfume that he’d bought her by the gallon, the same smell he’d found on Quentin Glass’s pillow.

Okay. Three reasons.

“Howard,” she said again. “You have to listen to me.”

Lincoln raised a hand—the same hand he’d already struck her with twice during the ride, when she’d tried this Quentin-was-gay crap on him—and Livia shut her mouth. What kind of fool did she think he was, Saint wondered, that he could be friends with a man thirty years, be closer to him than a brother, and not know he was a fruit?

The limo slowed. Ah. Here they were.

“Recognize the neighborhood, Livia? Ybor City? Little Cuba? I saw you for the first time three blocks from here.”

She was crying.

Saint smiled. “Twenty-three years ago, it had color. Now it’s only for hookers. You’ll fit right in.”

The limo pulled over.

“What do you want me to do, Howard?” she asked. “Just tell me—I’ll do it. Whatever you want.”

He nodded to the door. Lincoln reached across her and opened it.

“I want you to get out, Livia. That’s what I want.”

Mascara ran down her face. “Howard, I beg you. Our son—don’t do this, think about John—”

He raised a hand. “Not our son. My son. You have nothing to do with him from now on.”

A look of absolute despair crossed her face. “You can’t do that!”

“Can’t do that?” He felt a rush of fury. “After what you did, you’re gonna tell me what I can and can’t do? You fuckin’ . . .”

He dragged her out of the car and threw her to the ground. Threw her into the gutter, where she belonged, and dragged her through it. The whole time she kept screaming his name, just like she used to when they had sex. Howard this, Howard that, probably used the exact same words with Quentin.

She clawed at his leg, sobbing hysterically.

He reached down and ripped the wedding ring off her finger.

“Don’t do this!” she screamed.

“You did it to yourself.” He got back in the limo.

Lincoln didn’t say a word.

Worowski was driving. He turned around. “Where to, boss?”

“The club. But take thirty-one, Carl. And stop at the overpass.”

“Yes, sir.”

They pulled away from the curb. Livia had gotten to her feet and was watching them drive away, her chest heaving. Crying, all hysterical . . .

Saint shook his head.

He knew Livia. She would stand there, feeling sorry for herself for a few minutes, but just a few minutes. Then she would start to get pissed, and she would find a phone. She would call one of her friends, who would come pick her up, and she’d be clean and safe and in a nice warm house an hour from now. And tomorrow morning, he would get a call from her lawyer, who would propose some very harsh divorce terms, and allege a lot of things that would, of course, have to come out in court if a mutually agreeable settlement could not be reached.

Too bad for Livia there wasn’t going to be any tomorrow morning.

Bastard. Stupid, selfish bastard. He was thinking with his balls, not his head. His fucking male ego . . . how did he think a nasty divorce was going to play out with his precious Bobby Chadwick? Or the voters of Florida, for that matter? Because after what he’d done to her tonight, there was for sure going to be a very nasty divorce in Howard Saint’s future.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Livia turned and saw two men coming out from the shadows, and she suddenly realized that Howard had been right about one thing.

This neighborhood was a hell of a lot different than it had been twenty-three years ago. A hell of a lot more dangerous.

She’d do well to be out of here as quickly as possible.

But she didn’t need to panic. Panic showed that you were afraid, and they would pounce on you like shark on chum if they knew you were scared. All she had to do was walk quickly and calmly to a phone.

She took a step, and her heel snapped.

“Goddamn it!” she said.

“Hey, pretty lady! What’s the matter?”

She turned. Those two men were coming toward her.

She ignored them and hobbled down the sidewalk, moving a little quicker now. Ah. She knew where she was now. The train overpass was just ahead, and there was a pay phone there—at least there used to be. She would pick up that phone and call . . . who? Her brother, in St. Petersburg? Marjorie Hillings? No, Jennifer. She would call Jennifer, her divorced friend Jennifer, who would certainly understand her predicament. Would sympathize. Would know all the best lawyers.

She hobbled on. Sure enough, there it was. Same old pay phone, in the same old spot. Livia smiled for the first time in what felt like hours.

And then she heard the footsteps behind her, even closer.

She turned. The two men were running toward her.

She kicked off the shoe with the broken heel and began to run, too. Ten feet on, she kicked off the other shoe as well, gasping for breath and running full out toward the pay phone.

Ten feet away from it, she stopped running and sighed in frustration.

There was no handset. Just a severed cord.

Okay. Okay. This was Ybor City. She’d grown up here; she’d been putting thugs like these two in their place since she was twelve years old.

She took a deep breath and turned around to face them.

A car rounded the corner, rap music blaring so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. The two guys chasing her saw it and stopped.

Adios, motherfuckers, Livia thought as the vehicle pulled up in between her and her pursuers.

It was a lime green Cadillac. A very familiar-looking lime green Cadillac. The doors opened.

Mike and Joe Toro climbed out.

A chill went down her spine. She looked to her pursuers.

Help, she was going to say, and then stopped, because her pursuers were smiling, too. Smiling and, she saw now, wearing matching jackets, jackets with little bull emblems on them. The bull. El Toro.

Mike smiled, too, and took a step toward her.

Livia drew herself up with what dignity she could muster, and glared.

“I am Howard Saint’s wife.”

“The Howard Saint out to us for fifty million?” Mike shook his head. “That Howard Saint?”

“He just called us.” Joe stepped up next to his brother. “Said he was delivering an interest payment on the money he owes us.”

The two men looked at each other, smiled, and then looked straight at her.

Livia’s blood ran cold.

“No,” she said, backing away.

“Yes. He said you were ours. We can do with you what we want.”

Mike took another step forward. So did Joe. Then he began circling around to her left. Livia’s stomach turned. She couldn’t let them flank her, couldn’t let them get hold of her, these animals. She knew what they would do.

She took another step back and then stopped.

The railing was at her back.

“What, is she going somewhere, Joe?” Mike asked.

“Doesn’t seem that way, Mike—does it?”

Livia’s mind raced. She thought about jumping—it was only twenty feet or so down. When she was a kid, growing up here, Bobby Morales had done it one time, no problem. Leapt right down to the tracks when a cop was chasing him, got away scot-free.

Only problem was, she wasn’t a kid anymore.

“So, Livia,” Mike said. “About the other day—”

“You pigs,” she said, her voice cracking. “You make me sick. You’ll never rape me.”

“Oh? Disgusting, is that what we are?”

“You hear that, Joe? We’re disgusting.” Mike came toward her, shaking his head. He was so close now that she could smell the cigar smoke on him, the cheap cologne, the onions . . . she wanted to kick him in the balls, but she knew if she did that, he’d hurt her even worse.

Joe stepped up closer, too. She braced herself for the worst.

“You’re too disgusting to rape.” Joe looked at his brother. “Am I right?”

“Absolutely.” Mike looked at her, and he smiled. “Whoever said anything about rape?”

“Just her,” Joe said. “Mrs. Howard Saint.”

“Right. Our interest on the fifty million. But you know what, Joe?”

“What, Mike?”

“I’m not interested.” Mike Toro grabbed her right arm.

Livia looked at him, suddenly confused.

“And neither am I.” His brother grabbed her left arm.

And then suddenly, all at once, she was flying through the air.

They threw me off the bridge, she thought, her eyes wide. They—

Howard Saint saw his wife land, and bounce, and then lie still, and he thought: Good.

He lit a cigar and looked across the tracks to the overpass. The Toros were leaning over the railing, looking down at Livia, too. Saint was a little disappointed, to be honest. He’d told Mike and Joe to do whatever they wanted with Livia, and he had been expecting something a little more . . . sensational. Ah, well. The job was done, which was all that counted. And speaking of jobs . . .

Castle. The hatred burned within him hotter than ever; maybe it was because tonight had turned his world upside down, had stripped him of the things he loved most, leaving behind only his thirst for vengeance; at the moment, killing the man, seeing him dead, was all he could think of.

He was about to tell Worowski to head for the club when down below, on the train tracks, he saw Livia lift her head and begin to crawl.

“Look at that.” Saint shook his head in admiration. She was as strong as she was beautiful: it was a shame.

In the distance, a train whistle blew. Livia’s head snapped up, and she began looking around frantically.

“What is that, the Metro?” Lincoln asked.

“Yes,” Saint said.

“I heard they were talking about extending the line, Mr. Saint. Maybe bringing it south to Channelside?”

“It’ll probably happen.” Saint nodded. There was a lot of money to be made in those kind of government contracts.

On the tracks, Livia was crawling—well, not really crawling, more like dragging herself along—as fast as she could.

Not fast enough, though. Saint could hear the train now, and a second later, its headlights fell on his wife.

It roared out from under the overpass—Saint couldn’t be sure, but Livia might have screamed then—and then disappeared in the distance.

When he looked down again, Livia was gone.

“Carl?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Saint?”

“The club. I’d like a martini.”

“The club. Coming right up.”

As they pulled away, Saint caught sight of Mike Toro, standing at the overpass. The man gave him a big thumbs-up.

Saint raised his cigar and saluted.

Eleven oh-two. He stood next to a pay phone on Canaveral Boulevard, two blocks down from the big Saint Motors sign. The Honda was running. He would wait one more minute.

The phone rang.

“Speak.”

“It’s Duka.”

“And . . .”

“Oh my God, you were right. He threw all her stuff out on the lawn, and drove off with her in the limo. She ain’t comin’ back, is my guess. Not now, not ever.”

“When was this?”

“Twenty minutes ago, maybe. Maybe more.”

“What about Glass?”

“He’s here. Rolled up in a carpet, dead as a doornail.”

“Good. Good work, Micky.”

“Right. So, ah—I was wonderin’. You know that fifty million that flew out the window last week from the Tower. You didn’t by chance—”

Castle hung up.

He drove the Honda two blocks north, past the club. The Bentley still wasn’t there, but plenty of other cars were, John Saint’s Shelby among them.

Just past the Saint Motors lot, he turned right. A block down, he stopped and parked the Honda.

Eleven thirty-six. His turn, now, to go to work.

Second declaration: Frank Castle is dead. He died with his family. Murdered, as they were, by an act of such brutality, such savagery, that civilization lacks an appropriate response. Hence,

Third declaration: In such extreme circumstances, the law is by definition inadequate. To shame its inadequacy, it is necessary to act outside the law, to pursue natural justice. This is not vengeance. Revenge is not a valid motive-it is an emotional response. Vengeance serves no larger purpose. Society does not benefit from vengeance. Violent men are not deterred by acts of vengeance. The only appropriate response to their actions is the one I have chosen to pursue: a course of purposed, intentional violence. Violence intended to instruct, as much as destruct.

A course, in a word, of punishment.