Part 43 (1/2)
Chelsea recoiled at the cold-bloodedness of the a.s.signment. ”It won't look good, sir, not with what happened this morning. It's best if we stick by Jake.”
”Sympathy's all fine and dandy, Charlie, but we got more than golf at stake here. We got waterfront to sell. We got patio homes. We got club members.h.i.+ps. Can Jake Harpa”don't get me wronga”but in his present situation can Jake do promotional appearances? TV commercials? Celebrity programs? We don't even know if Jake can still breathe, much less swing a f.u.c.king five-iron.”
For once Francis Kingsbury expressed himself in nearly cogent syntax. It must be excellent gin, Chelsea thought.
”I want you to call Nicklaus,” Kingsbury went on. ”Tell him money is no problem.”
”Jack Nicklaus,” the publicity man repeated numbly.
”No, Irving Nicklaus. Who the h.e.l.l do you think! And if you can't get the Bear, try Palmer. And if you can't get Annie, you try Trevino. And if you can't get the Mex, try the Shark. And so on. The bigger the better, but make it quick.”
Knowing it would do no good, Chelsea reminded Kingsbury that he had tried to recruit the top golfing names when he was first planning Falcon Trace, and that they'd all said no. Only Jake Harp had the stomach to work for him.
”I don't care what they said before,” Kingsbury growled, ”you call 'em again. Money is no problem, all right?”
”Again, I'd just like to caution you about how this might appear to peoplea””
”I need a hotshot golfer, Charlie. The h.e.l.l do you guys call ita”a media personality?” Kingsbury raised one plump fist and let it fall heavily on the desk. ”I can't sell a golf resort when my star golfer's on a G.o.dd.a.m.n respirator. Don't you understand? Don't you know a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing about Florida real estate?”
They rode to the airport in edgy silence. Danny Pogue was waiting for Lou to say something. Like it was all their fault. Like the people in Queens wanted their money back.
Earlier Bud Schwartz had pulled his partner aside and said, look, they want the dough, we give it back. This is the mob, he said, and we're not playing games with the mob. But it's d.a.m.ned important, Bud Schwartz had said, that Lou and his Mafia people know that we didn't tip off Kingsbury. How the h.e.l.l he found out about the hit, it don't matter. It wasn't us and we gotta make that clear, okay? Danny Pogue agreed wholeheartedly. Like Bud Schwartz, he didn't want to go through the rest of life having somebody else start his car every morning. Or peeking around corners, watching out for inconspicuous fat guys like Lou.
So when they got to the Delta Airlines terminal, Danny Pogue shook Lou's hand and said he was very sorry about what had happened. ”Honest to G.o.d, we didn't tell n.o.body.”
”That's the truth,” said Bud Schwartz.
Lou shrugged. ”Probably a wire. Don't sweat it.”
”Thanks,” said Danny Pogue, flushed with relief. He pumped Lou's pudgy arm vigorously. ”Thanks fora”well, just thanks is all.”
Lou nodded. His nose and cheeks were splashed pink with raw sunburn. He wore the same herringbone coat and striped s.h.i.+rt that he had when he'd gotten off the airplane. There was still no sign of the gun, but the burglars knew he was carrying it somewhere on his corpulent profile.
Lou said, ”Since I know you're dyin' to ask, what happened was this: the a.s.shole bent over. Don't ask me why, but he bent over just as I pulled the trigger.”
”Bud thought you probably got the two guys mixed up-”
”I didn't get n.o.body mixed up.” Lou's upper lip curled when he directed this bulletin toward Bud Schwartz. ”The guy leaned over is all. Otherwise he'd be dead right now, trust me.”
Despite his doubts about Lou's marksmans.h.i.+p, Bud Schwartz didn't want him to leave Miami with hard feelings. He didn't want any hit man, even a clumsy one, to be sore at him.
”Could've happened to anybody,” Bud Schwartz said supportively. ”Sounds like one h.e.l.l of a tough shot from the water, anyway.”
A voice on the intercom announced that the Delta flight to LaGuardia was boarding at Gate 7. Lou said, ”The guy that got hit, I heard he's hanging on.”
”Yeah, some golfer named Harp,” said Danny Pogue. ”Serious but stable.”
”Maybe he'll make it,” Lou said. ”That would be good.”
Bud Schwartz asked what would happen when Lou returned to Queens.
”Have a sitdown with my people. Find out what they want to do next. Then I got this big birthday party for my wife's fortieth. I bought her one a them electric woksa”she really likes j.a.p food, don't ask me why.”
Danny Pogue said, ”Are you in big trouble?”
Lou's chest bounced when he laughed. ”With my wife or the boys? Ask me which is worse.”
He picked up his carry-on and the blue umbrella, and waddled for the gate.
Bud Schwartz waved. ”Sorry it got so screwed up.”
”What the h.e.l.l,” said Lou, still laughing. ”I got me a nice boat ride outta the deal.”
Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier met Trooper Jim Tile at the Snapper Creek Plaza on the Turnpike extension. They took a booth at the Roy Rogers and ordered burgers and shakes. Winder found the atmosphere more pleasant than it had been at Ocean Reef. Carrie asked Jim Tile if he had phoned Rikers Island.
”Yeah, I called,” the trooper said. They thought it was crazy, but they said they'd watch for anything out of the ordinary.”
”Out of the ordinary hardly begins to describe him.”
”New Yorkers,” said Jim Tile, ”think they've cornered the market on psychopaths. They don't know Florida.”
Joe Winder said, ”I don't think he's going to Rikers Island. I think he's still here.”
”I heard about Harp,” said Jim Tile, ”and my opinion is no, it wasn't the governor. I'll put money on it.”
”How can you be so sure?” asked Carrie.
”Because (a) it's not his style, and (b) he wouldn't have missed.”
Winder said, ”Mr. X was the target.”
”Had to be,” agreed Jim Tile. ”Who'd waste a perfectly good bullet on a golfer?”
Carrie speculated that it could have been a disgruntled fan. Joe Winder threw an arm around her and gave her a hug. He'd been in a good mood since tras.h.i.+ng Pedro Luz's steroid den.
The trooper was saying Skink might've headed upstate. ”This morning somebody shot up a Greyhound on the interstate outside Orlando. Sixty-seven Junior Realtors on their way to Epcot.”
Panic at Disney World! Winder thought. Kingsbury will come in his pants.
”n.o.body was hurt,” Jim Tile said, ”which leads me to believe it was you-know-who.” He pried the plastic cap off his milkshake and spooned out the ice cream. ”Eight rounds into a speeding bus and n.o.body even gets nicked. That's one h.e.l.l of a decent shot.”
Carrie said, ”I'm a.s.suming they didn't catch the culprit.”
”Vanished without a trace,” said the trooper. ”If it's him, they'll never even find a footprint. He knows that area of the state very well.”
Winder said it was a long way to go for a man with two fresh gunshot wounds.
Jim Tile shrugged. ”I called Game and Fish. The panther plane hasn't picked up the radio signal for days.”
”So he's really gone,” Carrie said.