Guilty Pleasures (29 page)

“Drop it,” Art said shortly. “We could work something out, Jack. The trapeze could be good.”

“Knives,” Gavin said. “I still say we do the knife thing.”

Jen snatched one of his brushes away. “Why are you pushing this thing? Art and I don’t do a knife act. We’ve never done one.”

“We’d mock it up.” Gavin made a grab for his lost brush but missed. “And we could be politically correct. You get to throw the knives, Jen.” With his remaining brush, he pretended to aim at Art.

Art cried out and threw his forearms over his face.

“Jesus.” Gavin took a step backward. “What’s with him?”

Jennifer Loder went to her brother. “It’s okay, Art.” She caught at his sleeve and turned to Gavin. “Let it go, asshole.”

“I only—”

“I told you to let it go. We lost a good friend okay? He was knifed.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

Jack smelled disaster. He smelled the disintegration of everything he’d set out to accomplish if he couldn’t pull the power back into his hands.

Art dropped his arms. He went from a standstill into a series of somersaults and ended by vaulting, in a headfirst roll, over the trestle. “Gavin’s a bloody marvel. That’s how we’ll play it, Jen. I’ll be scared out of my ruddy wits and you’ll win me over.”

Jennifer laughed. She tossed the brush at Gavin and followed her brother’s lead tumbling and somersaulting as she went.

There was something that had to be done, Jack thought, and
done very quickly. The surface shine on his cast didn’t fool him. Cracks were appearing. He couldn’t afford to allow
Polly’
s Place
to crumble and die—not yet. Soon it wouldn’t matter, but he had things to accomplish first.

“Why don’t we take a break,” Mary said, leaning against him and looking up into his face. “Come on, Jack. Let’s go home and kick back. We’re both too wound up.”

He considered, then said, “Mary and I are taking five, kiddies. Knock it off for a couple of hours, then meet us back here.”

“Ooh, Jack and Mary are taking five for a couple of hours, kiddies,” Gavin said. He caught Jack’s eye, and added, “Sounds like a good idea to us, doesn’t it? See you later.”

Jack got Mary to the Mercedes before she started unzipping his fly. He drove with her head in his lap and managed to park in the slot under their condo building before she finished what she’d started.

Mary was always a good, predictable lay. Very predictable. She came. She slept.

He’d make sure she was exhausted enough to sleep long and deep today. And he’d be asleep beside her when she woke up.

Twenty-t
w
o

F
rom the single room in the top of the unlikely windmill at Belle Rose, Nasty had an almost perfect view over the estate. Polly was with Rose, going through catalogues with every sign of enjoying herself.

Women were a puzzle.

Walking from one unglazed window to the next, he swept his glasses over the surrounding area. Nothing moved but trees and shrubs as they bent gently in the early-afte
rn
oon breeze.

The wisdom behind this move had been to draw the enemy into the open. And he would come—or they would come. Who the hell knew how many of them there were?

He’d made a mistake—a huge mistake.

The cell phone lay in the open lid of the case he’d brought with him. He’d be as secure using a phone as a radio from here.

He dialed, and before the first ring ended, Dusty picked up at the other end. “Room Below.”

“I’m drawing trouble my way, Dust.”

A slight pause. “Yeah. That’s the idea.”

“I’ve got civilians with me. Not a good idea.”

“You’re a civilian.”

“Stay on track, Dust. If we could believe the only target was Polly—and that the old loon, Festus, was our sole mark— dandy. But there were two divers that night. Two damn good, damn experienced divers. No rickety pseudo
-
warlocks there. And they were after me. They tried to—”

“Do a purse-seine number on you,” Dusty finished for him. “Turn you into a future fresh catch of the day. Yeah, I know.”

“Neither of us are talking about it.” Nasty kept his glasses trained on the house. “The South Americans. They promised they’d get me.”

Dusty grunted. “You thought you heard the honcho say he’d find a way to bring you back. You were pretty much out of it with a busted-up ankle at the time. How d’you know it was him? Or that you really heard anyone at all? And how d’you know what’s happening now is something to do with the Bogota thing?”

“I know it was Emilio that night. I’d never met him, but I had heard his voice, remember. He thought I was already away, thank God. But he said he would find a way to bring me back.
I think that’s what’s happening now. Part of what’s happening.”

“Did you hear any harps when the guy was promising you a return ticket to the big hacienda?”

“Don’t kid around. If this is Emilio’s gig,
I
should get the hell out of here and make sure I leave a trail.”

“What changed your mind? I thought—”

“Maybe I’m not thinking as clearly as I should. I need to watch out for Polly. I’ve got to until I’m sure she’s safe. But I won’t help her or Bobby—or Rose—if I bring a couple of cartel shooters up here.”

“Hold it.” Sounds of Dusty pushing things aside came along the line. Then Nasty heard the doors at Down Below being locked. “Okay. Just want to be sure we don’t get interrupted. Now you listen, and I talk. Got it?”

Bobby Crow emerged from the kitchen door at the back of Belle Rose. Spike shot into the open behind him and gamboled in circles. “Got it,” Nasty said, distracted. “Bobby’s a nice kid.”

“What brought that on?”

“Forget it.”

The boy meandered among rows of vegetables in the kitchen
garden. He gathered stones and shied them, one by one, high into the air.

“Nasty?”

“Here.”

“I’m gonna get hold of the guy who took care of things when we went to Montana for that weekend. When we wen
t to see Marta after she was born
.”

Bobby wandered from the back of the house to the side closest to Nasty and sat down to take off his tennis shoes. The dog stopped running and padded up to sit beside his boss. “Why do that?” Swinging the shoes by the laces, Bobby got up and set off again, in the direction of a path through scrubby trees to the windmill.

“You’re really thinking about taking off, aren’t you?”

Nasty kept the glasses o
n Bobby and Spike. “I may have
to. First I’ve got to figure out how to cover Polly and Bobby. He’s on his way to my location right now.”

“The boy?”

“Yeah. I need to pack up before he arrives. No point scaring him more than he’s
already sc
ared.”

“Okay. Just promise me one thing. Don’t make a major move until you hear from me.”

“Dust—”

“Let someone else do the thinking for once. Someone whose pants aren’t cutting off his circulation.”

“Dusty—”

“Be good to Bobby. He’s a
nice kid. You’ll hear from me
before dark.”

Dusty hung up and Nasty knew better than to place the call again. If the bad-news feeling persisted throughout the day— and if he didn’t get some flash from Dusty—he’d figure a way to cover Polly and Bobby and prepare to move on.

With the precision of long practice, he replaced his glasses and the phone in the lid of the case. He glanced at the disassembled rifle nestled in the bottom. He didn’t have to hold it to sense its exact weight against his shoulder, to feel cool pressure on his cheek as he lined up along the sight. Please God he wouldn’t have to use it at Belle Rose. He straightened and located Bobby immediately below.

A life without surprises, without the need to live by his wits, hadn’t figured in Nasty’s plans until the Navy had offered him their desk job. Then he’d had to face the future and consider what he would do with the rest of his life.

His scalp tightened. He hadn’t faced the future. Even now he wasn’t sure what he intended to do. Teaching weekend divers in a heated swimming pool wasn’t going to cut it for much longer.

Hesitant feet brushed the wooden steps at the entrance to the mill. Set on a knoll, the blue structure had no real purpose other than decoration. Rose’s father had built it because she’d told him she thought windmills were pretty. White flowers and green vines were kept freshly painted on the blades.

Spike leapt from the stairway. At the sight of Nasty, he skidded to a halt. Tail wagging hard enough to shift his entire rear end, he snuffled at the floor, then came to sniff around Nasty’s legs.

“Hey, down below!” Nasty called out because he didn’t want Bobby shocked by suddenly finding there was someone in the mill. “That you, Bobby?”

The footsteps stopped.

“Come on up. Wait till you see
the view from up here.”

“What’s
it for?” Bobby said, taking the steps quickly now. “It’s the windmill Dusty talked about, isn’t it?”

“Yup.” Nasty watched Bobby’s mussed towhead appear, and the boy himself. All arms and legs, he was a thin boy, but tall as far as Nasty could figure. “This is the place. And it’s not for anything but to look at. Rose had a dad who liked to do things to make her happy.”

Bobby pulled at the neck of his baggy, striped T-shirt. “She asked for a windmill?” The shirt wanted to slide off one shoulder or the other. “Weird.”

Nasty smiled. “I guess you could say that’s pretty weird.”

“Yeah.”

A seven-year-old shouldn’t be so serious. Unhappy even? “We’re going fishing like Du
sty promised.” The feeling was
foreign, the inexplicable affini
ty that made him say something
he shouldn’t say because he wanted the child to look caref
ree.
“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Mom could come, too?”

A child should not sound so flat, or look so apprehensive. “Of course your mom will come. She wouldn’t stay behind. You know how she is.”

“Yeah.”

Nasty made a careful visual of the area around Belle Rose. If he used the glasses, he’d spook the kid. “Something on your mind?”

“Nah.”

Amazing how one very small, very clear word could convey an exactly opposing message. “Want to tell me about it?”

The T-shirt wouldn’t stay where Bobby put it. Finally he gathered the neck in one ha
nd. “I want my mom to be happy.”

Nasty stopped in the middle of taking a breath. “You love
your mom a lot.” They were th
e first words that came to him.

“She worries.”

“Does she?”

“You’re her friend.” Bobby looked up at him, squinted against sunlight through an opening. “She likes you.”

“Think so?” Pumping a kid, he thought ruefully. Pretty low stuff.

“Mom likes lots of people.”

You deserved that, Ferrito.

“But not the way she likes you. She never talks to anyone the way she talks to you.”

He hoped he looked grown-up, and honored, and a lot calmer than he felt. “I like her, too.”

“She always took care of everyone. When we lived at the Point, she was the cook and Auntie Fab was the housekeeper. Grandma used to come a lot. But Mom looked after all of us.”

Nasty thought he could read other meanings behind what the boy said. “Some people are like that. They’re the ones who take care of other people.”

Bobby had discarded his shoes—probably at the bottom of the steps. He tilted his head. “Do you have any kids?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Apart from Roman and Phoenix’s two little girls, one of whom was barely more than a baby, Nasty’s experience with children was about zero. “I’ve never been married,” he said. He was going to have to work on his communication skills where kids were concerned.

“My mom and dad aren’t married.”

At first Nasty’s mind blanked. Then he got the connection. “Well
, I guess I meant I’d like…
For myself, I’d like to be married if I was going to have kids.” Oh, great. He was really doing a great job. He might as well tell the child he was a bastard, and that bastards were a bad idea.

The boy’s pointed
chin rose. “I would, too. When I
have kids I’m gonna be married.” His dog was beside him again.

Nasty caught a flash of red on the path to the windmill. He looked more closely and saw Polly coming toward the mill. She held Bobby’s tennis shoes in one hand. Evidently he’d left them not on the steps, but where they’d let someone suspect he’d gone to the mill.

“You know my dad’s in Kirkland now. He says he wants Mom and me.”

“Does he?” Nasty gave Bobby his full attention. “Is that what you want?”

Two thin shoulders rose. “Lots of kids don’t have a mom and dad—not together.”

“But you wish you did.”

“Yeah. I guess. My dad didn’t used to want me.”

In his mind, Nasty saw Sam Dodge’s dissolute face. “Of course he did.” What else could he say? He remembered Polly’s description of the man’s one previous visit to find her.

“He didn’t,” Bobby said. “I don’t think Mom likes him. She got mad whe
n he came before. I
think she wants him to go away again.”

“She’ll do what’s best.” If he could believe he was best for
Polly, he’d feel so good about that statement.

Bobby made a twisted wreck out of the neck of his shirt. The red cotton dress Polly wore showed in flashes as she came closer.

Part of Nasty wished she would turn around and go back to the house. An equally insistent part of him longed for her to put an end to this conversation with her so
n.

“Mom told me you’ve got a funny story about your name.
”

“Hmm?” His focus grew sharp on the boy. “Funny? Oh, yeah—real funny. I sort of chose it.”

“Your own name?” The brig
htness in Bobby’s eyes was an
improvement. “Cool. You got to choose your name. I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t really. At least, not the way I make it sound. It was kind of a nickname when I was a kid and it stuck.”

“You liked it?”

Two courses presented: truth or a lie. “
I
wanted to make a point. Dumb really. Some kid heard a man call me
…
nasty. The kid thought it was cute t
o call me nasty, too. Kind of, ‘
Here comes, Nasty.
’ ‘
Yuck,
Nasty’s here, I can smell him.’
You know the kind of thing.”

Bobby’s serious frown, the preoccupied way he shifted his feet apart, let Nasty know the boy knew very well how cruel children could be.

As she arrived at the mill, Polly passed from sight.

“I bet you were a big kid,” Bobby said.

“Pretty big.”

“You could have made the other kids call you whatever you wanted.”

Nasty thought about that and smiled slightly. “Yes. In a way I did.” He could almost see Polly standing at the bottom of
the short flight of steps, listening. “If I had it over, I’d do it differently.”

“I think Nasty’s a great name.”

He ruffled the boy’s hair. “I think you’re a great kid.” A kid who’d done his share of hurting, and learned not to want the same for others.

“Why did someone call you nasty?”