'And life everlasting in Jesus Christ...'
'And life everlasting in Jesus Christ.'
'What I have said here is the truth, so help me God.'
'What I've said here is the truth, so help me God.'
'Now kiss the Bible with that sucker of yours.'
Willy kissed the Bible until it was wet with saliva.
'You're not brought up by Jesuits, I hope,' said Dave. 'Only those guys were so tricky they could swear one thing, think another, kiss a bible and get away with it thanks to the doctrine of equivocation.'
'No man, no--'
'OK, I believe you.' Dave stood up again and took another sip of his drink. 'All right. I'm gonna untie you now. Just remember though. I've got that little Phoenix Arms twenty-two in my pocket. You try anything ungrateful Moose and I'll take some of the pressure off that brain of yours. Give you an extra fuckin' blowhole. You clear on that?'
'Yeah, clear.'
Dave untied Willy and stood back as slowly, painfully, the big man sat up on the floor. Willy checked his balls and then pressed the heel of his hand gingerly against his injured eye. Through his one good eye Willy looked across the suite at the man now sitting down on a large cream-colored sofa. Laid out on the floor in front of Delano, like the Jerry Seinfeld American Express ad, were the results of what looked to have been a fairly major shopping expedition: several pairs of shoes, piles of shirts, sports shirts, sweaters and pants, and a brand new Apple laptop. There was nothing cheap on view. Even the suite, with a wrap-around balcony and a sea view looked like three or four hundred a night.
'How's your eye?' Dave asked.
'Hurts.'
'Sorry 'bout that, Moose. Take a hand towel from the bathroom if you like and some ice from the refrigerator. Make yourself a cold compress. Should keep some of the swelling down.'
'Thanks, man.' Moose fetched the ice. He was regretting the passing of his ice business with cousin Tommy. But for that he wouldn't be sitting there with the risk of losing an eye. And maybe he wasn't quite cut out for the tough stuff after all. There had to be something easier.
Watching Willy fix his cold compress Dave felt sorry for the big lunk, even though he was sure that Willy would have broken his fingers like he'd said, and without any remorse.
'You can tell Tony how disappointed I am about this,' said Dave. Cruelly, he added: 'When you see him.'
'If I see him,' Willy said bitterly. 'My fuckin' eye. I think you blinded me.'
'Disappointed but not resentful. Tell him that despite this little misunderstanding, we're still friends. Tell him that. Maybe even future business associates. Yeah, tell Tony I've got a business proposition for him. Chance to make a big score. That ought to help reassure him... Tell him, I'll be in touch through Jimmy Figaro.'
Willy picked up the Magnum and slid it into the clip inside his pants. He glanced around for the .22 then remembered that Delano had it in his pocket. Dave guessed what he was looking for, took it out and hefted it in his hand.
'I'll just hang onto this a while,' he said. 'First rule of self-defense. Have a gun.'
'Can I leave now?' Willy sounded contrite. Contrite and concerned. 'I'd like to get to a hospital.'
'Sure, but aren't you forgetting something?' Dave nodded at Willy's bare feet and the matchbooks between his toes. 'Your dogs, guy.'
Willy started to pick them out.
'I never figured you for no Dennis Hopper, man,' said Willy, shaking his head. 'In those clothes, you don't look so tough. More like a fuckin' college boy.'
'The apparel does oft proclaim the man,' said Dave. 'But you should have seen me at eight o'clock this morning.'
Willy pocketed one of the matchbooks.
'Souvenir,' he said. 'I collect them.'
'That should be one to remember,' suggested Dave.
'Would you really have done that? Set my toes on fire?'
Dave shrugged.
'Moose? I've been asking myself that same question.'
Chapter SIX
Special Agent Kate Furey stared out of the window of a third-floor conference room in FBI headquarters and stifled a deep yawn as her boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Kent Bowen, began to tell the story. It was one of those unpleasant, cruel stories that her male colleagues seemed to relish. Most of them were already grinning since everyone knew that the subject of the story was how Bolivar Suarez, a cousin of the Colombian Ambassador, and one of Miami's major cocaine traffickers, had met his untimely death the night before last.
'So you wanna see where this asshole lives, on Delray Beach. Jesus. Two acres of ocean-front estate. And the house is like something out of James Bond. Battleship gray, 10,000 square feet, looks like the Guggenheim Museum in New York. But inside it's a goddamn palace. Marble floors, mahogany doors and windows, art deco fixtures and lights from Paris. You get the idea. Florida living in the lap to the tune of $10 million.
