Part 30 (1/2)

”Let's find out who owns it.”

”Check.”

Another man joined Chevos, a tall, lean, ferret of a man who walked on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, loose and rangy. His head moved constantly, as though he were stalking some unsuspecting prey. I could almost smell his feral odor three hundred yards away.

”There he is,” I said, no longer trying to conceal my hatred of Turk Nance. ”That's Nance.”

”Yeah, I figured,” Zapata said. He was grinning like the man in the moon.

”You did good, Chino,” I said.

”Thanks. Piece of cake, this one.”

”You really have a hard-on for Nance, don't you?” Stick said.

”I owe the son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

”Well, maybe we can fix it so you'll be accommodated,” Zapata said almost gleefully.

”That would be nice,” I answered. ”At least we know they're all here.”

I watched them taking inventory of the shrimp boxes.

”They look like they're actually working for a living,” I said.

”These are the real bad ones, huh?” asked Zapata.

I kept watching Nance, his snake eyes gleaming malevolently. Nance had killed a dozen men I could think of.

”The real bada.s.ses,” I affirmed. ”The way it is, if anybody in the Tagliani outfit is capable of wasting the whole family, it's Chevos, with Nance probably doing the batting.

”Twenty-four-hour surveillance on these two, okay?” I said to Zapata.

”I'll see to it personally,” he said, obviously proud of his score.

”It also might help to know where the two of them were last night. Particularly Nance. But don't let them on to you.”

”That may be a little tougher but I'll see what I can do. You want Nance, you got him.”

I gave the gla.s.ses back to Zapata. ”I'll tell you how I want Nance. I want Nance doing the full clock in the worst joint there is. I want him screaming in solitary for the rest of his natural life.”

The Stick stared at me with surprise for several moments, then broke into his grin.

”We got the point,” he said.

33.

ISLE OF SIGHS.

It was eight thirty when I started out to the Isle of Sighs and it was dusk by the time I had put Front Street and Dunetown behind me. Crab fishermen were standing hard against the railing of the two-lane bridge that connects the main island to Sea Oat Island. Below it, an elderly woman, as freckled as an Iowa corn picker, and wearing a battered white fis.h.i.+ng hat with its brim folded down around her ears, fished from a flat-bottom skiff that drifted idly among the reeds in the backwater. The hyenas hadn't got this far yet.

Sea Oat was the buffer, a small, marshy islet that separated the wh.o.r.e-city from the wistful Isle of Sighs. There were few cars, the road was populated mostly by weathered natives on bikes. The islanders seemed to have prevailed here, stubbornly refusing to surrender to time or progress. I pa.s.sed what seemed to be an abandoned city square, its weeds crowding the wreck of a building at its center, then half a mile farther on, a small settlement of restored tabby houses, surrounded by laughing children and barking dogs. Streets narrowed to lanes, oyster sh.e.l.ls crackled beneath my tires, and the oaks, bowed with age, turned the roadways into living arches, their beards of gray Spanish moss shus.h.i.+ng across the top of my car.

I was racing the sun, hoping to get to Windsong before dark, but as I got closer to the old, narrow, wooden bridge that ties the Isle of Sighs to Sea Oat, I unsuspectingly burst out of the trees for several hundred yards and the marsh spread out before me for miles, like an African plain. It was as if I had suddenly driven to the edge of the world.

I pulled over, got out of the car, and leaned against a fender. The sun, a scorched orb hanging an inch or two above the sprawling sea gra.s.s, lured birds and ducks and buzzing creatures aloft for one last flight before nightfall. I watched the sun sink to the horizon, merge with the flat tideland, and set it briefly afire. The sky turned brilliant scarlet and the color swept across the marsh like a forest fire. The world was red for a minute or so and then the sun dropped silently behind the sea oats and marsh gra.s.s.

Whoosh; just like that it was dark.

When I got back into the car, I had a momentary attack of guilt. My mind flashed on Dutch and the promise I had made to him. No scandal, I had told him. I thought about that for at least sixty seconds as I drove on through the oak archways and across the narrow bridge to the Isle of Sighs. Nothing here had changed. It was like driving into a time warp. Here and there, along the rutted lanes, hand-carved signs announced the names of houses hidden away among pine and palm. Once this had been the bastion of Dunetown, a fiefdom for the power brokers who took the gambles, claimed the spoils, divided them up, and ruled the town with indulgent authority. The homes were unique, each a masterpiece of casual grace.

Windsong was the fortress.

It stood at the edge of the woods and a mile from the main road, down a narrow dirt corridor, tortured by palmettos and dwarf palms, that was more path than lane; a stately, two-story frame house, ghost-white in the moonlight, surrounded by sweeping porches, with a cap of cedar s.h.i.+ngles and dark oblong shutters framing its windows. Before it, a manicured lawn spread a hundred yards down to the ocean's edge. Beyond it, past the south point of Skidaway Island, a mile or so away, was the Atlantic Ocean. The gazebo, where bands had once played on summer nights, stood near the water like a p.a.w.n on an empty chessboard.

Memories stirred.

A lamp burned feebly in a corner room on the second floor and another spilled light from the main room to a corner of the porch. Otherwise the place was dark.

I stopped near a dark blue Mercedes sedan that was parked haphazardly on the gra.s.s near the end of the driveway, got out, and stood for a minute or two, letting my eyes deal with the darkness. Moon shadows were everywhere. A south wind drifted idly across the ocean and rattled the tree branches. Out beyond the house, a night bird sang a mournful love song and waited for an answer that never came. It was obvious why Chief had called it Windsong; no other name could possibly have fit.

I remembered Chief and Stonewall t.i.tan, ending each day sipping whiskey on that porch. I opened the trunk and put my pistol under the spare tire and pressed the lid shut as quietly as I could. This was no place for sudden noises.

The boathouse was a dark square, jutting out into the ocean to the east of the house. I walked down toward it. The night bird started singing again and then, suddenly, flew off in a rustle of leaves. Then there was only the wind.

I knew what I was going to say; I had been rehearsing it in my head ever since I saw her.

Hang tough, Jake, don't let soft memories shake you. Get it said and get out.

I was ready.

She was standing in the boathouse, haloed by the moon, swinging on a twenty-five-foot Mako bow line clamped to a hook above her head. She didn't see me at first. Eyes closed, she was lost in the moonlight, stirring her own memories.

A small Sony tape deck was whispering on the dock beside her. And that summer came back, a riptide that erased whatever scenario I had planned. I recognized Phil Spector's breakaway guitar on the old Drifters version of ”On Broadway.” Twenty years ago I could whistle every note and break, right along with him. I didn't even think, I just started whistling softly between my teeth, amazed that I could still keep up with all the riffs and pauses.

She turned, startled, her fawnlike eyes fluttering as they tried to adjust to the darkness. The ocean was slapping the pilings beneath us and the Mako b.u.mped easily against the rubber tires in the side of the dock.

Nothing else but the wind.

”Jake?” she said, a decibel above the night sounds.

”Yeah.”

She moved away from the line.