Salty Sky (22 page)

JOE SAW THE
tall man waiting. He debated leaving the pistol in the car but kept it in his pocket. He set his phone on the passenger seat to keep dry. Should he run through the rain? Walk calmly and collectedly? Why worry over these types of details? Details were important to a carpenter. To a developer too. Both presumed a plan, and that was the one thing Joe didn’t have.

He found this lack of focus confusing. His mind shifted between fury over his nephew and jealousy over Ashley. What happened with Ashley here last night? He wanted right on his side, justice for Gino—if Gino wasn’t full of it. But he also wanted to remove this competitor for Ashley’s affections.

He stepped out of the car. Besides the rain slicker, he wore river sandals with shorts. He didn’t sidestep puddles. With the hood low and his head ducked forward, he kept the water out of his eyes.

THE VISITOR HURRIED
through the elements. He tried to take the steps quickly but his sandal caught, and he stumbled forward. Cale stepped back slightly as the visitor regained his balance. The good news was that if the visitor knew he wanted to shoot Cale full of holes—a Colombian narcotrafficker, for instance, would already know—this would be behind them. If it was hand-to-hand combat, even worn out, Cale liked his odds.

The hood flipped up. Well, this he should have seen coming.

Ashley said this guy was great, but he wasn’t feeling it. She had forty-eight hours on a boat with him. Anybody could behave for forty-eight hours. He seemed pseudo-Mafia: He was overtly Italian,
carried rolled cash, owned an expensive boat. He oozed New York or New Jersey; Cale couldn’t really tell the difference between the two, but he could tell those two from anywhere else.

Was this guy out to avenge his muscle man? Was he looking for blood? If so, Cale’d just tell him, “Hold on one minute, buckaroo. There is a line of very mean Latin men who have already requested the pleasure of spilling my blood.” This guy wasn’t holding anything in his hands. Was he starting a lawsuit? Did the kid die? Almost unconsciously, Cale split his stance. His knees bent slightly, his hands slipped out of his pockets, and he placed his left hand flat on the front of his left leg, the other thumb resting lightly on the top lip of his hip pocket. The increased attention stopped his shivering and his belated survival mode clicked in.

HIS STUMBLING ENTRANCE
threw Joe’s focus. He felt like an old dog whose nails on his hind legs dragged when he walked uphill. He didn’t like the terrain. He was Pickett below the hill, Custer in the valley. His physical mistake stoked his anger, but he wasn’t ready to lose his decorum. He was the caller, so he’d start the conversation. He’d begin at the beginning, say what he wanted to say.

“I understand you’re Cale. From the mailbox, I take it your last name is Coleman. I’m Joe Pascarella.” He extended his right hand. His face was neither smile nor snarl. “We met briefly last night in the parking lot.”

PINGS ON COPPER
and wind muffled the words. Cale turned his head to hear better and stepped forward. He took the offered hand. Cale cupped his left ear with his hand, gave an expression that said
repeat
.

The men leaned together, their right hands clasped. Their left
hands moved to each other’s right shoulders. Joe’s hand felt solid, and he applied firm downward pressure on Cale’s shoulder. Joe repeated the introduction.

“What can I do for you, Joe?” Cale responded as they stayed locked together, any conversation more than a foot apart lost in the wind.

“My nephew, Gino. The youngster you had the staring contest with in the bar. He turned up in the hospital last night. Says you hit him from behind with a tire iron. Put it right on the police report. Is that what happened,
paesano
?”

JOE’S FACE WAS
too close to Cale’s ear to see his eyes. Bad terrain. He should have watched the man’s face. With that mistake, Joe felt another surge of anger sweep through him. He rushed the confrontation without the slightest idea of how it was received. Did a toe stub wipe out his experience? Did his stumble erase the knowledge gained from a lifetime of altercations, negotiations, managing employees, vendors, and bankers? Could a couple of years of not caring about the results completely change a man? Could he get himself back?

In general, Joe categorized people as worshipers or complainers. You found something to praise, or you found something to bemoan. You could pick either in every situation. Not a hard choice for where to live your life. He checked back into the first camp and tried to cool his temper as he returned to the reason for his visit.

CALE GENTLY SLIPPED
his left hand down from Joe’s shoulder onto Joe’s right triceps, where he could more quickly control the older man’s arm once they released hands. Cale was playing the odds that Joe was right handed. Joe was solidly built, but Cale didn’t anticipate
any issues in a conflict where he could see both hands. Nobody was in the cab of the small truck, and nobody would have ridden lying down in the bed on a day like today unless they had a snorkel. That made the going premise that Joe was truly alone.

Was this guy Mafia? He fit the old agency profile. If so, did he believe his nephew’s story? Did it matter to him if it was true or not? If you hurt one of his, would there then simply be repercussions? Cale admitted hearing that the boy was alive blew out the lingering fear clouds he’d filed away in the to-worry-about-later department; this conveniently freed up desk space for relations with domestic and international crime syndicates to fill.

The old saying,
denial ain’t just a river in Egypt
, ran through Cale’s mind, but lying wasn’t his natural state. He didn’t think he could bluff this away anyway. Inadvertently, a laugh bubbled up as he thought about why and how Gino came up with this story, and said, “That boy isn’t hurt enough to not protect his pride, I guess.”

Cale was an optimist by nature but recovered from his laugh and prepared for the worst. He wanted to try and talk this through, but the noise on the porch roof was too much of a hindrance.

“Joe, can you step inside to talk so we can get out of the wind and racket?”

JOE PAUSED BRIEFLY
before accepting the invitation inside the house. The laugh took him off guard. Coleman had the feel of a good guy, but so did Ted Bundy and every con artist he had ever known. With caution, he motioned for Coleman to lead the way into the house. Joe slipped his hand into his slicker’s pocket and cradled the pistol as he entered behind Coleman.

Inside, Cale asked, “So what are his injuries?”

“Broken arm and busted face.”

“Any big dents that look like what a tire iron would do if I was swinging it at somebody’s head?”

Cale demonstrated the speed and power of what his swing would look like, pivoting his hips and chopping his arm down and across.

Seeing his startling speed, Joe paused again, reassessing the hidden size and roped muscles of the man in front of him. He felt vulnerable watching this demonstration. He wondered if intimidation was the intent. He gripped the pistol in his pocket more firmly and slid his finger onto the trigger.

He answered, “Friend, I’m not sure what kind of mark a tire iron across the face or arm should leave. But my nephew was beaten into a lumpy mess.”