Magic City (18 page)

“Your skills, Edward, they're in serious decline. You used to be such an efficient killer.” Stanton took the last bite of his fish sandwich and pushed it aside.

“The guy ambushed me. I got the fuck out.”

“Perhaps it's a precipitous drop in your testosterone level. I'd have it checked. You're going to lose your charter membership in Bullies of America.”

“She was dead when I left.”

“Well, she wasn't dead enough, Runyon. Her Prince Charming saved her and took her away.”

Runyon's green aloha shirt was rumpled, but the burn in his eyes still simmered. An injured bull, more dangerous than a healthy one.

They were at an all-night Burger King, Dixie and Twenty-seventh, on the fringes of Coconut Grove. A booth in back. Except for the Asian kid mopping the floor, the place was empty. It was three in the morning. Runyon halfway through his second double cheeseburger and down to slurping the foam at the bottom of his chocolate shake.

“You've played one round of golf too many, Edward. Lost your edge.”

Runyon drew a breath and said, “I know when I've killed someone.”

“My source tells me otherwise. Security tapes show her walking out with her arm over the shoulder of a tall sandy-headed fellow.”

He folded three more fries into his mouth.

“You've got a spy at the hospital?”

“This is my hometown, Runyon. Sixty years, you make friends.”

“The sandy-haired asshole is the one who ambushed me.”

“His name is Thorn. I'm told he's the woman's boyfriend.”

Runyon swallowed the last pinch of burger, wiped his lips on the paper napkin, missing a trickle of grease at the corner of his mouth.

“If she's still alive, then I'll just have to kill her again, and her boyfriend.”

“How many would that make for you, Edward? Adding it up over the years. Do you keep count?”

“What do you care?”

“Just curious. It's a lot, isn't it? So many, you can't remember.”

“I remember fine.”

“Forty-odd years, a handful a year, that could be over a hundred.”

Runyon pushed the food away and glanced at his reflection in the glass.

“You going to finish your fries?”

“I try to imagine how it is to be someone like you, Runyon. Blameless and self-certain. Triggerman for presidents.”

“Prisses like you never get it.”

“Oh, yes, I know all the clichés. You're on the frontline defense for democracy. Without you and your black-ops comrades, we wouldn't have burgers and fries. The only reason we enjoy the pampered life we do is because animals like you are prowling the perimeter.”

Runyon picked at his mustache, eyeing King with a shadow of disdain.

“How many have I done?” Runyon said. “Face-to-face, it's not that many. Ten, fifteen. Other things I was involved in, bigger operations, that kicks the number up. But I don't keep track of those.”

“You're amazing, Edward.”

“Numbers don't mean shit. It's the fucking target that matters. Kill the right guy, you could be tipping the balance, save a million lives.”

“Is that how they brainwash you? Get together on weekend retreats, sit around in a circle, and tell each other lies about how many lives you've saved?”

Runyon wet his finger and ran it around the inside of the empty box of fries. Getting his salt quotient.

“Here's what you really want to hear,” Runyon said. “I get off on it. That creeps you out, doesn't it, old liberal pussy like you? All these years, taking someone down still gives me a hard-on.”

Runyon grinned. He sucked his finger clean and dabbed it into the box for the last grains.

“I called Caufield earlier. Warned her we're in over our head.”

Runyon met Stanton's eyes in the window.

“You stupid fuck. You don't play footsie with that woman. I met rattlesnakes I trusted more.”

“She's giving us a bit more time to set things straight before she calls for reinforcements.”

“Don't call her anymore. You want to talk to somebody, talk to me.”

Edward turned the gaudy diamond on his finger. His eyes were as bitter and gray as thawing ice.

“You underestimate me, Runyon. I know you've been calling her, too. You want me to have no contact so you'll be in full control. Well, forget that. I have as much at stake in this as you. I'll consult with Pauline whenever I like.”

Stanton King smiled. He couldn't help himself. All evening he'd been in a buoyant mood. An old weight finally lifting. He'd been thinking of Hotei, the happy Buddha, his arms thrown skyward in hilarious celebration. His large ungirdled belly jutting out. So absurd, all of it. Casting aside all his cares. What did any of it matter? The sins of Stanton's youth, the even more egregious sins of his nation's leaders, a poisonous boil that festered silently and out of sight for lo these many decades had been revealed by a random snapshot taken at a cosmically inappropriate split second. A wonderfully absurd coincidence.

A chance for Stanton to make amends in the twilight of his life for the one horrendous misstep he'd made forty years before. Let it all pour forth, let Humpty Dumpty come crashing.

“Tell me something, King. Nineteen sixty-four, that operation, I always thought it was suspicious, a guy like you, all-American Joe, apple cheeks, mixed up in that. Soon as you came into it, that operation started to stink.”

Stanton's smile backed down.

He glanced over at the Asian kid tirelessly mopping the floor. The lad was going to run his own Burger King franchise one day. America was still grinding on, full of dreams and dreamers. Optimists, true believers.

“You're right about one thing, Edward. Murdering eight men, women, and children for a political pipe dream, yes, I'd say that smells. Even after all these years, it still reeks.”

Runyon snapped the lid off his shake and tipped it up for a last swallow.

Digging the cell from his pocket, Stanton dialed Friendly Cab.

When the dispatcher answered, Stanton said, “Nelson, it's me again. You talk to him yet? Find out anything?”

“I was just dialing you,” Nelson said.

“What do you have?”

“This is gonna cost you extra, Mr. King. Double what we said.”

“Yes? And why's that?”

“I know where Snake is going to be in about five minutes. The exact address. And the other guy you mentioned, too.”

“Thorn?”

“Same place,” Nelson said. “What's it worth to you?”

Stanton shut the phone and looked at Runyon and smiled.

“You ready to ride?”

“You're not going to check in with your boss lady first?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why not? I'll tell her where we're headed. Make her feel better.”

“Don't do it, Stanton. The less she knows, the better.”

Stanton smiled. He opened his phone and punched in Pauline's number. It rang twice and there she was. Stanton feeling a ripple of the old power. People like Caufield taking his calls again. Just like the old days.

 

Up in the dark attic. Aiming through the slats. The pool, the patio spread before her. A possum waddled from the woods. It snuck along the edge of the water, had a sip, waddled on
.

From her sniper's lair, she'd brought down a handful of birds. Late one night she winged a rat and watched it crawl away to die. She'd nailed half a dozen cats, sent them yowling. Sharpening her aim. Sharpening
.

She steadied on the gray possum, its hairy back
.

Beside her the nest was quiet. The paper wasps were at rest
.

Plonk, plonk, plonk.
Two out of three found flesh. The possum jerked. It skidded forward on the flagstone. Then pushed itself up on its tiny feet and toddled toward the safety of the woods
. Plonk
and again
plonk.

Its back legs failed, but it dragged itself on. Dragged itself on toward the dark woods
.

She lowered the Walther Red Hawk, went back to her rocker. Sat
.

Killing was no longer the point
.

Stinging was
.

Sting as she'd been stung
.

The prick, the stab, the throb of pain. Sting, sting, as she was stung. There were worse fates than dying
.

The TV people had shut down for the night. Snake's street, St. Gaudens, was clear. He'd decided his taxi was too noticeable and wanted to switch cars. He dumped his cab in a neighbor's drive, stole back through the yards. Went inside the house, got Lola's keys from the desk in the foyer, then went out and eased her gray Audi down the drive.

He headed west on Poinciana, across Le Jeune into Coral Gables, and on to the Riviera Motel. Half a block away he killed the lights, eased down the street and into a church parking lot across from the motel. He surveyed the area and picked his spot.

Staying low, Snake slid through the shadows to a clump of bushes at the base of a tree. Foliage meant to shield the expensive homes from the distasteful sight of the motel and the busy highway. He had to shift around before he got the view he wanted. Lit up orange by the security lights, the parking lot stretched the entire back of the motel.

Two insomniacs were still up, lamps shining around the blinds, one room on the bottom floor, one on top. A dozen cars scattered about the lot.

He was settling into a squat, trying to pick out room 212, when a whippy stem sprang loose and flicked him in the eye.

Blinded, he rubbed his eye. Before him the parking lot, the motel, the cars became a blur, which sent him sailing back to Cassius again. Cassius and Liston. That night.

Snake is a kid, listening on the radio. He's a freshly minted American boy, rooting for his outrageous hero. But Cassius, noble Cassius, is blinded by something on Liston's glove. And he's lost hope, wants to quit. It is between rounds four and five. Cassius whines that he wants to cave in to the jeering fans, let Sonny Liston prevail.

Never mind the thousand grueling hours, jogging in street clothes and combat boots across Julia Tuttle Causeway, ten miles between his ghetto hotel and the Fifth Street Gym, running that ten miles in the morning, then again after a day of workouts and sparring and the heavy bag, jumping rope, ten more miles back home in heavy leather boots. Harassed by cops, stopped, questioned, searched, like a street thief running from a crime. Day after day he's done that, the punishing hours in the Miami sun, and now, with eyes stinging, he wants to quit. A little pain, and blurry vision.

Astonishing how a man with such deep-rooted passion can suddenly lose it. How fragile a strong man can be. One small splinter of doubt piercing deep into the tissues of confidence, whispering that you aren't going to succeed, that you'd better climb down from the ring while you still can, run for the exit. Start over in some other place, give up your dreams, abandon hope.

But his corner man, Dundee, won't let him quit. Blind or not, this is Clay's chance. It is fight or die. Endure the doubt, survive the blindness, and punch his way through. Dance and jab. A moment like this comes once.

As he settled back in his roost, a taxi pulled into the lot.

It idled for a few seconds, then honked twice.

Only a second or two passed before the driver honked again, then again. An hour before daylight, a stone's throw from five-million-dollar mansions, but Ignacio didn't give a shit. He honked once more, then held the horn down for a good thirty seconds.

 

“It's a trap, Thorn. Stay put.”

“It's a trap I set. Snake's a little more creative than I thought.”

The cab honked again and Thorn stepped back from the blinds.

“If I don't go out, this guy's going to draw a crowd, then we're screwed.”

“You go out there, you don't have any idea what you're walking into.”

“I want this over with.”

“At least take my pistol, goddamn it.” Sugarman drew his holster from the computer bag and extended the nine-millimeter to Thorn.

“You keep it. Protect Alex. I'll deal with our friend.”

“Aw, come on, Thorn. Take it.”

Thorn went over to the desk and picked up the photograph and went back to the door.

“This is all I need.”

“Don't be crazy,” Sugar said.

“If things go south,” said Thorn, “get Alex out of here.”

“Take the damn gun, Thorn. I'm not letting you out of here without it.”

“Be careful, Sugar. Keep her safe.”

And Thorn was out the door.

 

Alex heard the horn blaring.

The drugs had worn off and spikes of pain shuddered through her shoulder in sync with her pulse. Her throat ached, too, where Runyon had gripped her. Another kind of pain, every breath ripping at the wet tissues, a ragged, papery burn. She'd begun to taste blood in the back of her mouth.

She blew out a breath, pushed the sheets aside, slid her legs over the edge of the bed, and rocked upright. A strobe light flared inside her skull and the room whitened and sent Alex's stomach rolling. Down her back she felt prickly trails of sweat like the march of insects. The flesh beneath the cast was already itching.

She held still until a wave of nausea passed and her vision cleared, then pushed herself to her feet and hobbled to the window and with a finger, opened a peephole in the aluminum blinds.

Thorn was walking across the parking lot toward a taxi. A swagger. Hot-dogging as she'd seen him do before when he was scared shitless.

He halted a few feet from the driver's window, bent forward, and spoke to the driver. Behind him, fifty feet or so, Alex thought she saw a shadow bob in the bushes. She craned forward and blinked but could make out nothing.

Alexandra returned to the bed and sat. She tested the flesh at her neck with a careful touch. There was a welt and some deep bruising, probably damage to her trachea. Her head wouldn't turn more than a few degrees left or right, as though a crick had taken root in the neck ligaments.

She eased the phone off the table and punched in Dan Romano's office number. Homicide detective, Miami PD, her cranky boss for the past decade. Officially retired but still pulling all-nighters three times a week, working some old cases he took personally. He claimed he wanted to tie up the last loose ends, leave a clean desk, but Alex knew Romano was having trouble letting go.

Four in the morning, Romano snapped up the phone on the first ring.

“Dan, it's Alex.”

Dan was silent for a moment, then said, “I was getting worried.”

Alexandra looked at the plastic card taped to the base of the phone.

“I'm at the Riviera Motel on Dixie. Across from UM.”

“You in danger?”

“Not really.”

“Why aren't you in the hospital?”

“Long story. I'll explain when I see you. I think Thorn's putting himself into some serious jeopardy, though. I need your help.”

The line was silent for a moment.

“Hello?”

Romano said, “Honey, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I got orders about this.”

“What orders?”

“If you should call in, there's a protocol in place.”

“What? Who gave you orders?”

“Way it came to me, I'm supposed to pass on any info pertaining to your whereabouts. It's a national-security deal. I don't have a lot of latitude.”

“Don't joke with me, Dan. National security, me?”

“Those were the words. All very hush-hush.”

“What's going on? This is me, Alex.”

“You ever hear the name Pauline Caufield?”

“No.”

“Neither had I before today. Apparently she's got some serious weight with the feds. She's some major muckety-muck with one of the undercover agencies, NSA, Army Intelligence, FBI. They didn't say. But since she called earlier, the chief and his people are standing up a little straighter. Look like they're ready to salute.”

“What're you saying, Dan? You're not making sense.”

“Something you've done, Alex, you got the interest of some powerful folks. They didn't tell me all the details, but this is a big deal. They want you to come in and talk. I heard they're even going so far as to monitor calls around here. This call, for instance, I don't think my line's secure. So, you know, what you said earlier, your whereabouts, that might be compromised.”

Alex slapped the phone down and stared at it as she backed away.

Sugarman was at her bedroom door.

“You okay, Alex? What's going on?”

“I called Dan. The feds are involved. They're after me for something.”

“Local feds? You mean Frank Sheffield's people? FBI.”

“No, this is somebody else. Pauline Caufield. You ever hear of her?”

Sugarman shook his head.

“They told Dan it was a national-security matter.”

Sugarman scrubbed a hand back and forth across his hair.

“Before I knew they were listening in, I gave Dan our location. I think we should get out of here, Sugar.”

“I'm getting that same feeling.”