Raw Deal (28 page)
So this was how it would end, Deal thought. He wondered how it would all be explained. Janice and Isabel. What would they be told? Some lie that would make it seem like Deal and Driscoll were the true criminals? Or were they even worthy of any explanation? Maybe they would simply disappear, buried in the bowels of the Everglades forever?
Deal had drawn his good leg under him now, had struggled to one knee. He stared up, his vision wavering. The two Torrenos swirled farther apart momentarily, then rushed together into one. And that one was smiling, enjoying Deal’s efforts. He waited for Deal to bring his face up into the light, thrust the pistol forward, and pulled the trigger.
Pulled again. And again. He turned the weapon over, staring stupidly at it, wondering. He was still staring at the gun when Deal came up off the floor, ignoring the pain in his ruined leg, taking Torreno with his shoulder.
The blow caught Torreno by surprise, striking him solidly on the chest. He staggered back against the railing, the empty pistol skittering away as his hands fought for purchase. He balanced there for an instant, his face a mask of panic as he willed his weight back toward land.
Deal caught hold of the railing, threw himself forward with his last fragment of will. His fist caught Torreno’s cheek flush, just as he was coming forward, back toward safety.
Maximum resistance, Deal was thinking…and then he fell back, his own face cracking off the decking. He’d hit a golf ball like that once. One perfect shot. That seemed good enough for a lifetime. What were the chances of two?
Deal was prone now, sinking toward the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Torreno go over the rail, hit the water with a cry. The man flailed about, seemed to propel himself upward for an instant, headed desperately back toward the overhang of the deck. If he made it, Deal thought, there’d be nothing he could do. Already his senses were closing down. The heat of the blazing roof was fading, the sounds of Torreno’s struggles had gone dim, his own shattered leg was a numb memory.
Torreno had one hand at the railing now, was hauling himself up onto the deck, some awful eel-like creature thrashing at his face, its teeth locked into his flesh like something out of a nightmare.…
Goodbye and so long, the old college try, Deal was thinking, his vision going in and out…
And then he saw it—thinking it might be a dream at first—a hand rising impossibly up from the water. Coco’s grisly hand, Deal realized, a charred ruin risen up from the deep, and now there would be two men to finish him…
…when the charred fingers locked at Torreno’s throat, locked and squeezed and pulled Torreno over backward. And then there was nothing but frenzied water and darkness.
“There’s somebody here to see you,” a voice said.
Deal blinked awake. He saw the smiling face of the nurse wavering into focus above him. She had the bed control in hand, her finger on the button that was cranking him to a sitting position, never mind if he’d said whether it was okay or not. For a moment he thought it might be the middle of the night, then saw a square of sunlight on the wall beside his bed.
“Who is it?” he managed, drawing a breath as a jolt of pain took him. They had cast his leg all the way from his toes to his hip, leaving cutouts for bolts at his knee and his ankle. A series of cables connected him to a traction machine that looked like it had come from a medieval dungeon. Sleep came rarely these days, and he was not happy to have it snatched from him.
“You’ll see,” the nurse said, cheerily disregarding his mood.
Deal stared out past the network of cables. There was a muffled clanking sound as a pair of hands clutching a walker appeared in the doorway…and then he saw her.
Janice stood in the doorway staring back at him, the bandages gone from her face. Her hair had become a bona fide crew cut by now, even edging over the bandages that still covered her ears. Her eyes, bright with fear, with anticipation, followed his gaze.
“They take a while, Deal,” she said. Her voice faltered. “The ears, I mean. The doctor says they’ll be fine, though. He’s going to do them like Debra Winger’s. She’s got the greatest ears, don’t you think?”
Deal swallowed. “Could you come over here?” he said.
She moved toward him hesitantly, the walker making skittish little sounds on the polished floor. She stood above him now, tears streaking her still swollen cheeks.
“This eye,” she said, pointing. “It has this little droop. I think it’s there to stay.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said, fighting the raspiness in his throat. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
She stared at him silently.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, lying here,” he said.
She nodded uncertainly.
“Did I ever tell you about my old man?” he said.
She looked at him strangely. “A million stories,” she said. “He was that kind of guy.”
“This is a different one,” he said. “Actually, it’s more about me. About us.”
She shook her head, still unsure. Her hand went absently to her face, traced the new skin there.
“But it can wait,” he said, struggling to raise himself. “I love you, Janice. That’s the important thing.”
“Oh Deal,” she said. Her tears were flowing freely now.
“I can’t get up,” he said. “I want to kiss you and I can’t get up.”
She shook her head. “I can’t bend over,” she said helplessly. She glanced down at the walker. “I can’t let go of this damned thing. I made them let me walk in here, but I can’t let go of this thing.”
But he wasn’t listening. He was fighting up off his pillows as she spoke, she was flinging the walker aside as he did. Her embrace was the promise of life itself.
“What’s that thing on the wall?” the woman asked. She was sitting across from him in the new office, rearranging herself on the chair he’d had delivered yesterday from Office Mart. He hadn’t bothered to try it out. If it was as uncomfortable as the number he was on, he didn’t want to know about it.
She’d dried her sniffles, had gotten her voice under control finally. She was fifty trying to look thirty. Too bad, he thought. She’d be a drop-dead fifty.
It had taken her a while to get through the story. Some sleazewad who couldn’t appreciate it had hooked up with her, run off with her car and the cash he hadn’t talked her into spending yet. The cops had been sympathetic. The guy had done the same thing to a couple of other nice ladies in town. But they doubted they’d ever catch the guy. The question on the table was whether
he
could—this private detective, who if the truth were known was meeting with his very first client. Take a note, he thought, speaking to an imaginary secretary: Thank Berto and the boys down at Metro for this referral.
“It’s just a memento,” he said finally.
“That’s an odd memento,” she said. She was quiet for a moment, studying the arrangement.
“I would think you’d have something to advertise how you uncovered that Torreno scandal,” she said. “What you two men went through…” She broke off and turned to him, shaking her head, her eyes wide.
Driscoll turned away, reddening. “Just a public service,” he mumbled. They had nailed Torreno, of course, uncovered his embezzlements, even connected him to the museum bombing and the murder of the Valles brothers. Driscoll had, in fact, received a letter of thanks from Jorge Vas, the chairman of the Patriots’ Foundation himself, expressing gratitude for Driscoll’s efforts on their behalf. He supposed he could frame that letter, but the irony seemed a bit rich.
What still galled him was that the subsequent search of Torreno’s property, delayed by the department for reasons never made clear to Driscoll, had not yielded the biggest prize. No notes, no documents, no letter from the President. Any chance of proving the deal Torreno had cut with the government had gone to the grave with Tommy Holsum. Half a loaf, Driscoll told himself. Half a loaf.
He shook his head to clear it and glanced up at the thing his new client had pointed out. Actually it looked like a piece of art, some kind of weird collage, framed and matted behind glass like it was: a spray of gears, spindles, a metal case. There were two mangled batteries and a tiny notebook, its leather cover pierced by a neat hole. A bird’s-nest swirl of micro Mylar tape held it all together. His partner’s wife’s idea, framing the shattered tape recorder that had saved his life.
He rubbed his chest absently, remembering the night the bullet had struck him—and how could he not, the only time in his life he’d ever been shot. If he pressed down hard, he believed, he could feel the knot of the slug they’d left inside him, even though the doctors claimed it was impossible.
The whine of the tattoo needle from the shop next door started up, bringing him out of his reverie. He wondered if the woman heard it too. He worried about how the sound carried in the cheap offices, but what the hey, he was just starting out. “My partner gave that to me,” he said finally. “I call it ‘Shape of a Fat Man’s Luck’.”
“You don’t look so fat,” she said, giving him an appraising look. He felt the color rising in his cheeks. She
was
a lovely woman.
“Which one are you again?” she asked, studying the card he’d given her. “Driscoll? Or Deal?”
He laughed then. “Oh, I’m Driscoll,” he said. “The other guy builds houses.”
She stared at him, puzzled. “He’s not a detective? Then why is his name on the agency?”
Driscoll laughed again, felt a twinge in his ribs. “It’s a long story, ma’am,” he said.
Behind the puzzlement in her eyes was the pain that had brought her into his office. He had a sudden flash then, of all the people who’d been drawn to this oddest of cities, of all the bewilderment and sadness out there. And then he found himself thinking of dark water. Of creatures feeding upon one another, of the snake that eats its tail. He’d found himself thinking about a lot of things lately, and he thought that was good.
He smiled at the puzzled, pain-filled lady, pointed at the card she held. “But trust me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
For other books, upcoming author events, or more information please go to:
To receive a free catalog of Poisoned Pen Press titles, please contact us in one of the following ways:
Phone: 1-800-421-3976
Facsimile: 1-480-949-1707
Email:
[email protected]
Website:
www.poisonedpenpress.com
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave. Ste. 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
