Infernal - Страница 34

He licked his lips. "What on earth are you—?"

He never got to finish the sentence and she never got to exposing her breasts. Just her abdomen.

Tom looked, blinked, looked again. He felt his jaw drop, his tongue turn to sand. The cup slipped from his fingers and bounced on the deck.

The girl had a hole through her. Just to the right of her navel. Clear through her. He could see the yellow wall of the marina office shack behind her through the opening.

"T'row it back," she said, then lowered her shirt and walked away.

Whistling the chorus from Alice Cooper's "School's Out"—stuck in his head since the second viewing of Dazed and Confused—Jack arrived back at the dock with two sacks of groceries, a bag of ice, and a feeling that he'd wasted nearly a week of his life. Except for a weird, mysterious piece of junk, Tom was in the same straits now as when they'd set sail.

Despite that he was feeling pretty good. He'd talked to Gia. She and Vicks and the baby were all fine. In two days he'd be back with her.

He'd also checked his voice mail. No word yet from Joey.

In a way that was a relief. Meant he hadn't missed out on anything. His rage had receded underwater. Real-life cares seemed a world away down there. He couldn't help feeling guilty about that.

But soon he'd be home and back to the reality of the streets. Soon he'd rejoin the hunt for payback.

Back at the boat, he found Tom sweeping pieces of what looked like shattered ceramic into a pile on the deck. He looked pale, shaken.

"What happened?"

"Dropped a cup."

"You okay? You don't look so hot."

"Don't feel so hot."

"Sick?"

He shook his head and gave Jack a wan smile. "Nah. I guess I'm not used to the active lifestyle. I tend to eat more and exercise less. Maybe that's why the vodka hit me so hard."

Oh, hell, Jack thought. Am I going to have to drive all the way back to the States?

"You're drunk?"

He shook his head. "Don't feel drunk. But I think I hallucinated a little while ago."

"Yeah? What did you see?"

Another head shake. "Too weird to even talk about." He swept the fragments through a scupper and into the water, then pointed to the neatly dressed, middle-aged black man standing by the pump. "Pay the man and let's get out of here."

Jack pulled out his credit card as he approached.

"What's the damage?"

The man looked at the gauge and said, "Two thousand seven hundred and two dollars and seventy cents."

Jack laughed. "Very funny. Now give me the real number."

The man looked at him. "That is the real number, sir."

"Twenty-seven hundred bucks for gas? You've gotta be kidding!"

"Twenty-seven hundred and two bucks, sir. And seventy cents."

Jack looked at the meter. "Twenty-five hundred and seventy-four gallons! This thing only holds seven hundred!"

"Those are liters, sir. In gallons that would be somewhat less than seven hundred, but not much."

"Liters?"

Jack studied the sign over the diesel pump: 1.05/L. He'd been so happy to see such a cheap price that his brain apparently had registered only the number and assumed it was the gallon price. He handed over his card. "No wonder everyone around here drives mopeds."

Joey climbed the subway steps up to Madison Square Park—which, for some reason he'd never been able to figure, was nowhere near Madison Square Garden. He squinted into the cold wind as he looked around. Benny the Brit had said he'd meet him on the downtown end of the park.

There. Perched on a bench just as promised.

Joey started toward him, praying this wasn't another wasted trip. Despite the support of the big shots in what was left of the families, he'd come up empty. Bel niente. Then a call from Benny. He had something. Didn't know if it would help, but meet him in the park and he'd give Joey what he had.

So here was the park and there sat Benny.

Joey seated himself a couple of feet to Benny's left. He was maybe ten years older than Joey, squat and fat—a real tappo—wearing one of those tweedy British caps that snapped onto the peak.

"Morning, Benny."

He started. "Oh, 'allo, guv. Gave me a bit o' a start there, you did."

Everybody knew Benny wasn't British. He grew up in Flatbush and had never been within a thousand miles of England. But for some reason the ceffo liked to fake an English accent. Did it so much he never stepped out of character now. Trouble was, he wasn't that good. In fact, he was freaking terrible. Picked up his accent from television—the "telly," as he liked to call it—and movies. His accent was bad even by those standards. Drove everybody bugfuck crazy, but Joey would put up with it if Benny had the goods.

"Whatta y'got for me?"

"A bit o' tape is what I got. I tapes everyone who does business wif me, and I caught meself an Arab in the act."

"Which means?"

"Which means I sold the bloke a couple o' Tavor-twos, I did."

Joey gripped the edge of the bench seat. He was sitting next to the stronzo who'd sold the guns that had killed Frankie. He didn't know whether to kill him or kiss him. Because if he had these guys on tape…

Too freaking good to be true. Joey's livelihood was built on peddling too good to be true, so he knew what that usually meant…

"Let me get this straight: You taped an Arab buying a pair of Tavor-twos."

"'Sright, mate."

"So why the fuck didn't you tell me that the first I asked you about it?"

Benny leaned back, looking scared, and Joey realized he'd been pretty damn near shouting.

"Easy, mate. Don't 'ave to shout. I ain't Mutt an' Jeff. An' the reason I never said nuffin' was I didn't 'ave it then."

Joey worked at calming himself but wasn't doing such a hot job.

"Whatta you mean you didn't—?"

"'Ere now, don't get yer knickers in a twist. I only taped them yesterday. Got on the dog and bone and called you right away, I did."

"Yesterday? What the fuck good is that? Frankie was killed two weeks ago!"

"Think about it, guv: The blighters left their guns at the airport, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So they might be needing replacements. Not to mention the fact that he bought two 'undred hollow-points to go wif 'em. Bit much to be a coincidence, i'nit?"

Joey thought about that. Jesus, if this wasn't a freakin' coincidence, then that meant…

"You wouldn't happen to have that tape on you, would you?"

"Right 'ere in me sky rocket, mate."

Benny pulled a manila envelope out of his coat pocket and held it out. Joey snatched it and clutched it with both hands.

"And that's not all," Benny said. He pulled a plastic bag out of another pocket. Joey recognized a pistol magazine. "This 'ere's a li'l somethin' the blighter 'andled while 'e was shoppin'. Got 'is prints all over it, it does."

Joey took the Baggie and stared at the magazine.

Oh man, oh man, oh man. If this panned out…

"Got a name or something to go with these?"

"Don't get to 'ear many names in me business, mate. No credit cards neither. Strictly bangers and mash. But I fink you know that."

Yeah, Joey knew that. But it never hurt to ask.

"Thanks, Benny."

"Under normal circumstances I would 'ave told those pandies to bugger right off—I'll not be sellin' to the likes o' them—but I remembered you was lookin' for blokes of that ilk, so I made the transaction. Just for you, mate. Just for you."

Not to mention a heaping plate of "bangers and mash" to boot.

"I'll remember this, Benny. Anything I can ever do for you—"

"Just find those pandies and give 'em what fer." He hauled himself off the bench. "And now I'm off to see me trouble and strife. Left 'er in Macy's, I did. Spendin' me into the poor 'ouse, most likely."

Joey was aware of Benny moving off and taking his bad accent with him, but he didn't say good-bye. He sat in the blessed silence and stared down at the envelope.

A video of a gun-buying Arab. Great. But what was he going to do with it? How did he go about ID-ing thefiglio di puttana? Where did he go from here?

He didn't know. Have to think on that. But he didn't let it get him down.

Finally, something.

Tom had been strangely subdued as he'd piloted the Sahbon along the channel through the reef. They made it to open ocean before nightfall and headed toward the dying glow on the horizon.

After entering the coordinates for Wanchese harbor and setting the autopilot, he turned to Jack.

"Want to take the first watch?"

Jack couldn't see why not.

"Sure."

"Good. Because I'm bushed. I'm going below for a little shut-eye."

So now, after a couple of hours of dividing his attention between the empty ocean ahead and the dwindling lights of Bermuda behind, Jack was bored out of his skull. On the trip out, the concerns of being a novice sailor in the middle of the ocean, inexperienced with the navigation equipment and bound for an unfamiliar—at least to him—destination, had kept him alert and attuned. Now it seemed like old hat. The Sahbon was heading home and he was confident he could get it there on his own.

He took a good look around to confirm that no other running lights were in sight, then descended to the pilothouse to use the head.