Ded Reckoning (14 page)

"I think it'll work.  I don't think Zachary will like it.  Probably won't go along with it, but then, who knows.  You're the boss."

"Yeah, it would seem.  But if not, in the end, I am my own sheltering angel.  Besides I'm not going to tell them everything.  They just want me to get it done and quickly."  He pauses for a moment.  Grins.  "Hey, I'm ready for one more before we call it quits for the night.  We'll go over this in detail tomorrow and get done what needs to be completed."  He feigns a coy smile and asks, "What say ye, lassie?"  He starts to get up.

Dee says, "Sit down, laddie.   Ready me is and I'll be gettin' some pints."  She laughs, then, "And that's as close as an Italian girl can get to sounding like an Irish lass."

"Did great, however let me get the drinks.  I don't want you to ..."

"Sit."  She slides over to his quarter of the Jacuzzi with her snifter in her hand.  Snatches his glass, then stands on the seat, facing him, straddling Hunter while he remains seated in the tub.  She shuffles forward several inches, leans over ever so slightly, hesitates one moment as he is face to...well, certainly not to face.  Dee whispers, "While I'm gone, rethink your definition of partner."  She giggles and steps up and over his head, taking the snifters into the house, water dripping onto his face from her thighs and ...

Hunter sits staring.  A blink or two.  Mutters, "Hmmmm.  Gives a bit of a tang to the water."  Turns, stares after her.  "Good Lord, all that from one rib."  

When Dee returns with the half-filled snifters, Hunter looks away as she reenters the Jacuzzi.  When she settles, and this time it is beside him, she says, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"I can tell by your tone of voice that you're miffed.  Not muffed."  She lets out one of her throaty, evil giggles.  "I just thought that if you got a glimpse of all of me, you would truly appreciate what you're missing and consequently I would see and get what I'm missing.  I realize what you've been saying all day.  I understand your reasoning.  You just don't seem to ... I just thought ... that eventually nature would ..."

"Shut up and listen to me.  Not hear me, listen."

Dee starts to render another lilting remark but is silenced by Hunter hurling his half-full brandy snifter against the fence between their two yards.  He stares at the fence for a moment, then glares at Dee.  "We are not going to do it.  We are not going to have a relationship.  This is a partnership, and not by my choosing.  It's all business or it's not going to be any of your business.  I made a mistake today by taking you to the Del.  If we get personally involved, one or both of us will die.  It is to be hoped only one more person is going to die and that's going to be Pisces.  If others die it will be collateral damage and nobody I know.   I'm going to hunt the bastard, Pisces, down and kill him, and I can't do that with images of your pussy in my face or us screwing our brains out.  Do you understand that?"

Dee's eyes narrow to slits.  "Yes."

"Good.  Because if you don't, one or both of us will die.  Now I'm goin' to bed, and I'll see you over here in the morning.  After breakfast.  Do you understand that as well?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."  Hunter stands and says, "Night.  I'd offer you a hand ..."  He turns and heads into his house, disappearing in the darkness of the living room.  Within a minute his bedroom light comes on, it's reflection bouncing from ripple to ripple in the pool as a cooling breeze creeps across the yard.

Dee sits virtually motionless in the Jacuzzi sipping her brandy staring up into the misty night sky.  It resembles June gloom.  She remains inert until she sees Hunter's bedroom light blink off.  She turns her head and stares at the bedroom window for several moments, then murmurs, "You're right."  Takes a sip of brandy.  
And thus it will be, and you'll be surprised just how efficient and tough I am.  But when it's all over, Hunter Kerrigan, you will wish you had taken the moment ... or moments.  
Another sip while her mind continues.
"Mister.  I've known of you for some time.  I've seen your Bio and
I've
been briefed.  And Mister, I've heard the sea stories."
   Her next sip of brandy drains the snifter.  She says loud enough for it to carry to at least the bedroom window.  "So, Mister BAE ... that's big ass ego so beware because this Hawk's tail feathers are ruffled."  With that last comment, Dee pushes herself up and out of the Jacuzzi.  Places her snifter on a nearby table, and departs through the back gate leaving behind her towel, the still cold and damp yellow bikini and a large lump of pride or hate.  Neither attracts flies, but always attention.  

In his bedroom, Hunter stares at the ceiling.  Mutters, "Pisces, I'm coming."  Then rolls over on his side, slides his hand under the second pillow resting it on the M39 and closes his eyes.

 
From one rib, damn.
 

 
 

CHAPTER 10

 

"Have a plan.

Have a back-up plan because the

first one won't work."

A gunfighter's rule

 

 

Rocco's Monday is productive and satisfying, however not nearly as pleasurable nor exhausting as last evening with Adrianna.  He meets with Carmen Messina and Carmen's sister, Rosa.  And the boy, Lorenzo, as well.  All three are excited about working for Mr. Roberto Catalano and enjoy the luxury of dinner at
Vecchio Dado's
on
Lungarno Pacinotti
.  It's an old, warm family-owned Restauranti, and Rocco's treat includes a table outside with a view of the Arno River.  The vista is made even more exquisite by the presence of the striking Adrianna joining the group.  Certainly for the young man, Lorenzo, who turns the color of tomato paste when she catches him gawking at her.  Nonetheless the dinner goes well, and Rocco gives them instructions for their travel to the villa and for settling into the living quarters over the garage.  It is a two-bedroom apartment with bath and a kitchen with an adjacent eating area.  The boy can sleep in a small room in the garage below with its own facilities.  Rocco explains that the master of the villa, Mr. Roberto Catalano, will be gone, and that he, Rocco, will be returning in a few days to make the necessary introductions when Master Catalano returns. Meanwhile his instructions are to settle, give the villa a good cleaning, keep the grounds trimmed and orderly, cars tuned and running, and pantry stocked.  He tells them where to shop and to keep the inventory up to the level listed.  And liquor cabinet always up to the desired level.  And he emphasized, no substitutes here.  Carmen and Rosa depart happy; Lorenzo departs infatuated.  Rocco will instruct the boy later on the dangers of ogling the women of the villa.

After the three leave, Rocco leans over and in a low, animated tone says, "Adrianna, how about the
Salza?
"

She squeals in delight, "Oh, yes! Yes.  I passed there today while shopping and was tempted."

The
Salza
is the
Bar Pasticcerice Salza
.  It is known for tempting people off
Borgo
Stretto
for sugar-induced wickedness.  It's been here for over fifty years.  The desserts are delicious unlike the English dessert trays that look wonderful but lack taste.  

As they get up to leave, Rocco clasps his hands together in a rubbing motion and says, "Wonderful.  And we can walk from there to the hotel to work off our over-indulgence.  Come, that taxi is ours," and he leads Adrianna from the Restauranti.  Inside the cab, on the way, Rocco adds, "We'll go to Rapallo later tomorrow for a few days or more.  Yes?"

"Yes.  Oh, yes, yes, yes. Wonderful.  I will have to shop in the morning."

"If you can walk."

"Ohhhhh, well now."  Then mischievously, "We'll see who says 'Oh pleasa stoppa' first."

Rocco laughs, roaring like a tiger in his haunt.

The taxi driver continues along, saying nothing but glancing into the rear view mirror from moment to moment to watch the gestures while listening to the verbal foreplay that continues.   He has no reason to notice the car that has been lagging a full three-car lengths behind since leaving
Vecchio Dado's
.

 

 

Muldoon sits at a far corner table of the pub.  His customary spot, always unofficially reserved for him although it is not necessary this rainy Monday night.  There is a meager crowd on hand.  His son, the Pit Bull, is his shadow as always. The two of them watch as the Shanahan lads wind their way toward them through and between the tables and past the bar.  When they arrive, the elder Muldoon nods at the two empty chairs across from him.  Danny and Sean sit and say nothing.  Not a greeting, just a stare from both.  In seconds, Danny thrusts his arms and hands outward shrugging his shoulders, as if saying, "We're here, what say you?"

Colin Muldoon's face begins to color.  "Not even a 'Hello' or a 'Good Evening' is it?"

Danny replies, "Where is Paddy?"

Conor Muldoon stirs in his chair.  His father Colin's face ripens to the color and look of a tomato.  He too stirs uneasily in his hard-back wooden chair.  He clasps his hands in front of his body, resting them on the tabletop.  Grimaces, and says in a hushed voice, "My contact's report is that the girl is dead.  Paddy did his job.  Saints bless the lad. And that ..."

"What about Paddy?  Where the devil is he?"

"I'm about to say, lad.  'Tis not easy.  It appears that Paddy fell down a steep canyon and died from the fall.  The U.S. Federals are involved.  That is all we have.  My contact is staying there to dig up more.  He will ..."

"Paddy is dead, snarls Danny.  "My brother is dead.  And you say ..." The lad stops in mid sentence slamming his fist on the table.  Then gripping the edges of the table with both hands he barks, "Paddy Shanahan did not die by falling down.  Shanahans don't die by tripping or stumbling or falling down.  Perhaps Muldoons do, but not a Shanahan.  Someone pushed him and killed him."  He pauses, breathing heavier.  "Who?"  Then louder and red-faced, "Who, damn you, who?"

The Pit Bull starts to stand but is pushed back in his seat by the elder Muldoon's arm.  Colin Muldoon's face is still red, not as deep as before, but the mixed expression of anger and frustration is still waxed over his jowls.  "You listen to me, Danny, me lad.  This is all I know for now.  I will have more in a few days.  Until then, remain calm."  He pauses, leans over close to the Shanahan brothers and in a whisper says, "You have a duty tonight, lads."

"We'll be havin' no duty tonight, nor any other night, until you tell us all there is to know, or Paddy is back here, in his home.  And speakin' of that, if he is gone, what of his body?  What then?"

Muldoon drops his head to his chest.  Raises it as slowly as a curious turtle coming to the surface.  His beet colored face has faded to his natural ancestral potato farming Irish hue.  He unclasps his hands.  They remain on the table but in closed fists as huge and craggy as rocks on an Irish meadow's stone wall.  "All right now, lads.  I'll be givin' ya a night or two off.  But you will stay in touch and be where I can reach you when I have more word.  And if Paddy is truly dead, I and the Army will arrange to have him returned home to rest whenever they release his blessed heroic Irish body.  Are you clear on this?"

"We are clear.  And when you get all your information."  Danny's distinct pause between his comments emphasizes his anger.  "All your ducks in order.  We'll be wantin' to know what the Army will be doin' about his death?  His killer?  'Cause Shanahans don't die by falling down.  And Shanahans don't take lightly the killin' of one of our own."  Danny pauses, glowering at the elder Muldoon.  "Am I clear?"

Conor Muldoon does stand now, pushing his father's hand aside.  "You two be doin' what me father says or I'll be breakin' the both of you in two like the rotten little twigs ya be ... like I've been wantin' to do for years."

The father puts his arm across his son's body.  With the other points a finger at the two Shanahan lads and says, "Nary a word.  No more talk.  Go and wait.  Now.  Be good, lads."

Danny and Sean stand for a moment staring at the younger Muldoon, fists clenched and veins bulging in their arms.  "You're right, Master Muldoon.  There will be no more talk."  Danny turns, shoving Sean before him, and both stride towards the exit not caring about who they bump on the way out and in fact do shove some noisy pint drinkers aside.

The elder Muldoon yanks his son down into his chair by his belt.  The old man stares after the two Shanahans.  Then says, "There's goin' to be trouble from those two.  If it comes to that, we'll have to make the good little Mrs. Shanahan a true childless widow."  He stops to get his breath and allow his blood pressure to drop.  His color goes from that of a beet to that of a peeled potato.  He raps his knuckles on the table top, and says to his son, "Now get that full breasted barmaid that gave you the clap over here so we can have a pint or two."

"Pa?"

"Shut up and get me a pint.  I'm stressed out enough."

"Yes, sir."

 

 

Hunter finishes his morning run.  The first in several days and it shows.  He went up Arcola to Jutland, down the hill to Moreno, then south to the intersection of Balboa Boulevard.  Turnaround and back north on Moreno to the end and circle back to the bottom of Jutland.  Up Jutland to Atwell, and down the one block of Atwell, finishing in front of his house.  The patrol car is still there.  Earlier one other had "picked him up" on Moreno and trailed along, about a hundred yards back.  With his M39 tucked in the waistband of his shorts, the contingent of him and the squad car are well prepared.  For what, no one knows, certainly not the patrolman.

Hunter waves goodbye to the patrol car behind him on Atwell and to the parked cop on Arcola.  He enters his house to the sound of clattering dishes, the aroma of fresh coffee and the scent of a woman smelling like a field of wild flowers.