Part 71 (2/2)

”It's everybody. It's the wholeG.o.dd.a.m.nw-w-works, except maybe for Nance. I . . . IsweartoG-G-G.o.d I don't know where he is. Please, oh, G.o.d, please get me offa here. That's all I know. All I know, I swear on my mother's eyes, I don't know another f-f-f.u.c.kin' thing. Jesus, man I'll p-p-pay you. What d'ya want? You want my car? I got a brand-new Chrysler convertible it's yours. d.a.m.n it, please . . . ”

”That's better, Weasel. Okay, start walking this way.”

”I can't, not in the dark, don't do . . . ”

”Just walk toward my voice.”

”I can't m-m-move!”

”I'll keep talking and you keep walking and if you don't lose your cool, you'll make it over here. But you better stop f.u.c.kin' around, Weasel, because the tide doesn't stop It's gonna get deeper and . . . ”

”I'm walkin', I'm walkin'. Can I have the light, can I please have the f.u.c.kin” light?”

Murphy was dragging one foot after the other through the sandy water. Each step seemed to take him deeper.

”I'm going wrong!” he yelled at the darkness. ”The water's up to my s.h.i.+ns!”

”I warned you about the tide, Weasel. Just keep coming. You're doing fine, but don't stop. If you stop, they'll be on top of you in another five minutes.”

Murphy took another step and the water swirled around his knees. He began to get sick to his stomach. He started running, lost his balance, and fell face down in the cold salt water. He scrambled frantically, trying to get his knees under him, but with his hands shackled behind him he had trouble. He swallowed a mouthful of water, then got his head up, coughing and gulping for air.

”Where are ya?” Murphy screamed when he finally regained his footing.

He heard the sailboat's motor, then realized it was moving away from him!

”Hey!” Murphy screamed. ”H-e-e-e-y!”

The sound of the motor grew dimmer and dimmer. The thras.h.i.+ng of the sharks was drawing closer. The water was almost up to his waist.

The last human voice Murphy heard was the Stick's, far off in the blackness of night. The man's singing! Murphy cried out to himself.

”Up a lazy river, by the old mill run . . . ”

75.

GOOD-BYE HIT.

An hour crept by. It seemed like four or five. At first the TV monitor discouraged conversation. I figured the room had to be bugged. After I got my wits together I decided to give it a test. I looked straight into the camera and said, ”Would it be too much to ask for a gla.s.s of water?” Nothing had happened, so I kicked on the door. Sweetheart Pravano answered my summons. He was still wearing the battle scars from the fight at the Warehouse: a mouse on his right eye and a four-inch gash in his jaw. He glared at me when I made the request and shut the door in my face, but a minute or two later a young kid who was wearing both suspenders and a belt, as well as an empty shoulder holster under his arm, brought us each a gla.s.s of ice water. Then they left us alone.

”What do you think they're going to do with us?” Doe asked.

”I don't know,” I said, quite honestly.

During the remainder of that hour Doe and I talked quietly but steadily. I explained who Tagliani was, although she seemed to have a vague notion already. I also told her Tony Lukatis had been slain hijacking the cocaine s.h.i.+pment, which she didn't know, although the information didn't seem to upset her too much.

”So you knew about Tony?” she said. ”That was over such a long time ago. Poor Tony. He wanted so desperately to make something of himself, to be more than . . . ” She tried to explain Lukatis' obsession, but it wouldn't come out.

”I can understand that,” I said. ”He just picked the wrong way to do it.”

”Was he involved with these people?”

I shook my head. ”I don't think so,” I said, but didn't take it any farther. I still didn't know who he was involved with.

”I guess I was the cause of all that, too,” she said, and started to cry. ”I caused it all.”

”No, that's not true,” I said. ”You were a p.a.w.n in the game, like a lot of us.”

”It was all over between us before he ever got in trouble,” Doe went on, purging the memory of Lukatis. ”He wouldn't accept that. He kept calling, sending me cards, leaving little gifts. Then I saw him one day and he told me things were going to be different. He called it his big score. I had no idea he was going to . . . ” She let the sentence drift off. She was having a lot of trouble finis.h.i.+ng sentences.

That's when I told her about Sam Donleavy. Her shoulders sagged as the story unfolded. Tears welled in her eyes. The shock of disbelief pulled at her face, like the heavy hand of time. I took her in my arms and held her as tightly as I could and let her sob it out.

Then I heard the throb of heavy engines outside. There was a lot of yelling and laughter, people entering the other room. A few minutes later there was what sounded like an angry exchange, although I couldn't tell for sure who was talking to whom, or what the rhubarb was all about. Then the door opened.

The lights of Thunder Point Marina twinkled like stars on the bay a hal mile away. Stick hunched down in the c.o.c.kpit of the sailboat, his hat pulled down over his eyes so the wind wouldn't blow it off. There was a strong wind coming in from the southeast and the sails were full, billowed out like shrouds above him in the darkness. He had the sheets pulled in as tight as he could and the boat was keeled low in the water. The waves bounded past his elbow like a river on a rampage.

For ten minutes he had been watching Costello's yacht as it sailed into the inlet from open water and headed for the marina. Now it was pulling into the dock.

He set the tiller, tied it down, reached under the seat, and pulled out a waterproof bag. First he took out the 357 and checked the chamber. It was loaded with controlled-expansion treasury rounds. Then the 180, his little jewel. He checked the silencer and snapped a 180-round drum into the chamber, mentally ticking off his firepower as he did. He turned on the laser scope and watched the little red dot dance across the swollen sails. Next came the M16, the old standby, fully loaded with a thirty-shot clip. He took a forty-millimeter grenade from the bag and inserted it in the grenade launcher under the barrel. Finally he got the ammo bag, which held two drums for the 180, six clips for the 16, six grenades, and five quick-loads for the Magnum.

Not bad. Seven grenades and 786 rounds of ammo.

He mentally counted the enemy: Costello, Bronicata, Chevos, and two other gunmen on the boat. Nance, Sweetheart Pravano, and at least four others he could think of inside the marina, and the two guards with sawed-off shotguns on the dock.

Thirteen. About sixty rounds per man plus the grenades. Piece of cake. He'd been up against a lot worse.

He adjusted the night sight on the M-16 and checked out the deck of the yacht. There they were: Costello, Chevos, Bronicata, Drack Moreno, all the heavyweights but Nance and Pravano, who had to be inside somewhere, and Cohen, who was probably home in bed.

Beautiful, he thought. The timing couldn't be better. Just one big happy family.

That was fine about Cohen. Cohen belonged to Jake. The rest of them were his. He started smearing black shoe polish on his face.

This time it was Dutch who s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone when it rang. He was waiting for the call. It was Cowboy Lewis, patched in from the police helicopter.

”We spotted 'em, Dutch. Costello's barge is pullin' into the private dock on the back of Thunder Point Marina right now.”

”You sure it's him?”

”It is unless he cloned that boat of his. Ain't another one around here like it.”

”How far away are you?”

”Half a mile, maybe.”

”Can you get down low enough to check the parking lot for that cinnamon Eldorado without getting your kiester blown off?”

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