The Boss of Hampton Beach

by Jed Power

  Chapter 13

  "Hey, there goes the turn," Wayne said as they drove past the street that led up Boar's Head to Tony Peralta's mansion. They were in the rented Sable, Tony driving, Wayne riding shotgun, his head brushing the roof.

  "I know," Tony said, his right hand on top of the steering wheel. He glanced over at Wayne beside him. The big lummox was staring out the window, a huge shit-eating grin on his face. How the hell could he be so calm–trading shots over the seawall with some jerk one minute, sitting there like nothing happened the next?

  Probably didn't have a high enough I.Q. to worry about it, Tony realized. But he, unfortunately, did.

  Tony turned his attention back to the road, every so often shooting a look up at the rearview half expecting to see a string of Hampton cruisers chasing them. "We aren't going back to the house right now. We'll go for a little ride first. Just in case someone's following us."

  "No one's following us, Boss," Wayne said. He let out a little laugh. "That asshole's probably still hugging the ground. Besides, I feel like a beer."

  "Fuck you and your beer. I think I know that guy with the gun back there. He's a state cop, for Chrissake. And he wasn't hugging the ground when he got those shots off at us, was he?"

  "Wild shots," Wayne said, shrugging his wide shoulders. "He wasn't going to hit nobody like that." Wayne picked up the .357 magnum he had in his lap and gave it a loving look. "Especially after he almost took one from this baby. He was probably shaking like a leaf."

  Tony looked at the gun and furrowed his brow. "Will you put that thing away. You missed him, but with the luck I've been having lately you'll probably shoot me."

  "No problem," Wayne said, reaching down and sliding the gun under the seat.

  Tony drove the car along Route 1A, past North Beach and into North Hampton. He'd just keep driving north for a while. Maybe go all the way to Portsmouth or a little father even, into Maine. Anything but going back to Boar's Head right away. After all, he wasn't stupid like Wayne. Tony wasn't about to lead Marlowe's white knight–cop or otherwise–right back to his home, that was for sure.

  Maybe he wouldn't drive back to Boar's Head period, at least not in this car. He'd been careful and had a stooge rent it, but if the guy back there was lucky enough to get the plate number, the stooge might give Tony up. Especially if that character on the beach turned out to be the statie Tony thought he might be.

  The guy'd looked a little like Conover, but Tony couldn't be sure. He'd been too far away and things had happened too fast. Could have been that some schmuck jogging down the beach decided to play hero. A schmuck who just happened to have a gun.

  No, Tony realized. It had to be Conover back there with the gun. And if it was, things had just gotten a thousand times worse.

  "You know something?" Tony said, glancing back and forth between Wayne and the road. "You're a fucking asshole."

  Wayne frowned. "Geez. Whattaya mean?" he asked, sounding more like a hurt little boy than a 250-pound man.

  "What do I mean?" Tony answered. "What do you think I mean? I ask you to give me a little help with a few problems I got–those two staties squeezing me, threatening my business and my beautiful home; the fed; and the connection giving me grief. You're supposed to help me with all that. Instead, you got me mixed up with that little Mick fiasco down at the High Tide and now you're shooting it out with cops. And when you're with me to boot."

  "Hey," Wayne said apologetically, "the guy we put in the ice machine . . . he's alive, so that's no big deal. And that doofus back there, I don't think he was any freakin' cop."

  "The guy you put in the ice machine. You. I didn't touch him."

  "Yeah, but we thought he was dead. You said stuffing him in there would obituate the evidence."

  "It's obliterate, dunce. Don't bet that guy on the beach wasn't a cop, either. Who the hell do you think he was, a lifeguard, for Chrissake? Lifeguards don't pack automatics, they pack sunscreen." Tony glanced in the rearview mirror again. "From now on if you feel the urge to kill anyone, do it on your own time. When I'm not around. Understand?"

  "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Can we stop for a beer now?"

  "Forget your beer," Tony answered. They were somewhere in Rye now and Tony caught himself going over the speed limit. He slowed it down. This was no time to draw attention from the law. "We still have to get this Marlowe jerk and find out two things. One, where's the coke? That's for me–I want it. Number two, who killed those two sailor boys down at the harbor? That's for the staties–keep them off my back. No way I'm losing my business and palace because of those two assholes. Who the hell were they to me six months ago? Nobody, that's who. Now I have to devote all my precious time to chasing people around the beach for them? I don't think so."

  Tony drove in silence for a couple of miles. Finally he said, "The mistake we made was trying to take Marlowe on his jog. Out in the open like that. I thought it was smart, but it wasn't. It was stupid. The smart way is to grab him at his cottage when he's alone. I heard his wife and kids left him or something, so nabbing him shouldn't be hard. We'll get him when he's sleeping. What could go wrong then?"

  Tony glanced at Wayne. "You can control yourself this time, can't you?"

  "Sure I can," Wayne said.

  Right. But Tony had to have some muscle along. If not Wayne, then who? There was nobody else. Besides leg breakers were all the same–all muscle, no brains. The job description didn't include being the shiniest shell on the beach.

  "Hold the steering wheel," Tony said. Wayne reached over with his left hand and held the car to the road. Tony reached under the big man's arm, popped the glove compartment, and removed a small glass vial of coke. He quickly unscrewed the cap and dipped a tiny spoon attached to it by a thin chain into the vial. The spoon came out with a mound of white powder. Tony put the spoon to his right nostril and quickly snorted the coke. He repeated the process with the other nostril, put the cap back on, and tossed the vial back into the glove compartment.

  "Hey, what about me?" Wayne asked.

  "Coke's for management," Tony replied. "Not workers." Last thing he needed was Wayne on coke.

  Tony took back the wheel. He'd been feeling muddled before. Now his thoughts were crystal clear. He'd use Wayne again. The two of them would go to this Dan Marlowe's cottage. Scare the prick a little. Find out where the coke was and who did the harbor job. When Tony had the coke safely tucked away, he'd give the names of the shooters to those two goddamn cops, Bartolo and Conover. Then he'd do his best to play dumb with the fed and his connection. Tell them he tried hard but couldn't turn up anything.

  He hoped Marlowe wouldn't turn out to be the one who whacked the guys at the harbor. That would present a problem–like maybe Marlowe trying to stay off death row by telling the cops who had the coke after Tony was done with him. Maybe he'd let Wayne have his fun with Marlowe, after all. Just like he did with the Irishman. Except this time, Tony'd let Wayne finish the job.

  He'd find someone to take the fall for the Marlowe murder rap. Some poor sap who didn't know his head from his ass. That way Tony'd still have his nice little business and his nice little house, both of which were anything but little. To top it all off, he'd have the coke too.

  Nice and easy. Just the way he liked it.

  They were coming into downtown Portsmouth with a small pub on the right and a donut joint on the left. Tony pulled into the parking lot beside the pub. "You still want that beer, Wayne?"

  Wayne smiled like a kid. "Sure I do. I love beer."

  "All right then," Tony said. Damn, he did feel better about this now. Everything was going to work out just fine. He could feel it in his gut. "Come on. Let's go get that brew."

  Wayne reached under the seat. Tony grabbed his arm. "Leave the gun here," he said, feeling good but not crazy. "My limit's one gunfight a day. All right?"

  "Okay, Boss, okay," Wayne sai
d, an ear-to-ear grin stretched wide across his face. "Whatever you say."

  Tony let Wayne get out of the car. Then he reached over, took the vial from the glove box, and put it in his shirt pocket. What the hell–things were looking good and he'd be a fool not to want to keep them that way. Besides, they had a lot of heavy work ahead of them. He might as well get fortified. Tony climbed out of the car and followed Wayne into the pub.

  ~*~*~