As he watched her now, he could see something shift in her breathing, see her begin to rise up slowly through the layers of sleep and gradually reclaim her body. And at last her eyes twitched and she opened them, stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then looked over at him.
"I was dreaming," she said. Her throaty voice.
"Yeah. So was I."
"You go first."
"If we tell them before breakfast they may come true," Sugarman said.
She smiled.
"I think maybe mine already has."
"Then go ahead," he said. "Might as well."
"I was dreaming about Bermuda fire-worms."
"Do what?"
"They're creatures that live in the coral reefs off Bermuda. Shrimplike things. They may live other places, but that's where I saw them a long time ago."
"Oh." Sugarman lay back, pressed his head into the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling. "You were dreaming about worms."
"Well, these are special worms. They have a unique mating ritual."
"Okay," he said. "That's better."
"What happens is, when the females come into heat, all of them float in a huge mass up to the surface of the ocean at night. And they become luminescent. So picture this. Swarms and swarms of glowing female worms rising up through the dark water, and they begin to drift about on the surface of the ocean, and as the males see them up there and swim toward them, they also begin to glow."
"That's good," he said.
"There's more." She lay her head against the pillow, and closed her eyes. "Eventually they find each other and begin to mate, and just at the exact second that each couple joins in the darkness, they make a bright flash like a firecracker, or a flashbulb exploding. Then immediately afterward, each worm goes dark, completely dark. And then the ova and the sperm and all the exhausted worms drift back to the bottom of the ocean."
Sugarman was looking at her now. Her eyes closed, her hair in a blond tangle on the pillow.
"You dreamed that?"
She nodded, opened her eyes.
"So let's hear yours."
"Mine doesn't measure up."
He reached for her, his hand sliding under the sheet, touching her waist, then her stomach, a layer of soft flesh there, but with tightness just below. Not like Jeanne, who was all bone and dangerous angles. From hours at the gym she'd firmed herself into metallic perfection. Sugarman admired her condition, but lately he'd begun to think of her body as inhospitable, like hardscrabble farmland. Ground so tough and barren, no seed could possibly take root there. While Doris had a womanly lushness. Like the velvety dirt of a freshly tilled field.
Maybe not the pretty words a woman might want to hear about her body, but for Sugarman it seemed great praise. Doris was both strong and yielding, a woman who seemed fertile and abundant, a woman who made him, for the first time in his life, feel fertile too.
"Let me hear your dream," she said. "It's only fair."
Her hand moving out to touch him, nails tickling through the sparse hair on his chest. Scraping his left nipple, a fingertip against the tender nub, toying with it till it was firm.
"Wildflowers," he said. "A field of flowers."
"We were there, you and me?"
"Yeah," he said. "It was us."
She traced the line of his collarbone, then came slowly back to the nipple, hardened it again.
"What were we doing in the wildflowers?"
"I was chasing you. We were naked."
"I see."
"I woke up before I caught you."
"But then here I was."
Sugarman looked across the room at the antique oak dressing table, a small white vase sitting on it. Three roses in it, all of different shades of red. And the wallpaper was printed with small sprigs of wildflowers. His dream no dream at all.
"I've never had much imagination," he said. "Never learned how to dream."
"It takes practice," she said. "Like anything else."
Her hand going lower now as she snuggled close. Down between his legs. Finding him, that part which lately he had begun to wonder about. The part which had started to seem to him like some old pathetic war medal that still dangled there meaninglessly.
"Worms," Sugarman said. "I never met a woman before who dreamed about luminescent worms."
"Well," she said. "You're my first wildflower man."
"Good."
"Of course, I'm fairly inexperienced in these matters."
"Me too."
"Two husbands, and now you."
"That's all?"
"Not a long list by today's standards, I guess."
"Well," Sugarman said. "You're still one ahead of me."
Downstairs the coffee was finished perking. The toilets were quiet and the shower was off. Now there were voices, a breakfast conversation. News papers rattling. The pleasant clink of knives and forks, strangers meeting each other, talking for the first time over Danish and bacon, as Sugarman and Doris pushed away the sheets and began to improve in the gauzy daylight what they had begun so well the night before.
***
"I paid for the goddamn Sony video camera, I paid for the gold Maxell tape, I paid to have the whole fucking thing installed in my store. I think I'm fucking well entitled to have that tape."
"Sugarman said no. So it's no."
Roy Murtha glanced up at the cheap flicker of a fluorescent bulb. He expelled a breath, then eased down onto the green leather couch across from Andy Stutmeyer. The skinny kid had taken a minute to look up as Murtha came into the office, then he took another thirty seconds to pull his earphones off. Murtha in his black shirt, gray slacks, a beige sport coat.
"I don't get it. Are you saying Sugarman told you not to give the tape to me? He mentioned me by name?"
"That's ri-ight." Using a kindergarten singsong voice.
"I want to speak to him."
"No can do," Andy said. "He's out of town."
"He tell you where?"
"Over to Naples on business."
"And he left you to mind the store."
"You got it." Andy was bobbing his head, still listening to the music from the headset around his neck, his eyes jigging around the room.
"A lot of responsibility for a young man, running an office like this."
"I can handle it."
"What I want to know is where in Naples?"
"Beats the shit out of me. He just said Naples."
"Well, what'd he go over there for?"
Murtha crossed his legs, put both arms up on the back of the couch, getting comfortable, going to wait this out. Ask as many questions as it required.
"Sugarman doesn't tell me every piddly little thing he's going to do." The boy smirked.
"Do you know Doris Albright, Andy?"
Andy mumbled in the affirmative.
"When I called over to Albright's Fish House," Murtha said, "someone was kind enough to tell me that Mrs. Albright had gone somewhere with Mr. Sugarman. But they didn't seem to know where."
"Naples," Andy said.
"Yes, I think we've established that now." With a single finger Murtha touched the butt of the Ruger in the pocket of his jacket, getting a little lift from that.
He said, "But what we haven't established is the exact location in Naples. That's why I mentioned Mrs. Albright. I thought perhaps, being a smart young man, being left in charge, you might remember something you'd heard about Mrs. Albright, something about Naples maybe, and we could draw some conclusions about where the fuck the two of them might be."
"I don't see where it's any of your business."
Murtha uncrossed his legs. He could smell the rank chemical fumes of the beauty shop next door. That odor was settling in his stomach, curdling the coffee and six donuts he'd had for breakfast. And through the half-open door into Sugarman's office he could see through the spy mirror, a flurry of movement in the salon, and hear the blare of voices, phones and dryers and buzzing shears.
"Andy," he said. "Are you ready
to die? Have you made your peace?"
The boy looked up. His head had stopped bobbing. His sneer melted away and in that moment Murtha could picture the face of the man Andy might become. His snarl taking root, becoming a mask of contempt. Murtha recognized the look.
He'd seen the same expression for years on the faces of men he'd worked with, the petty hoodlums, neighborhood gangsters who used those smirks to hide their stupidity, their crassness. Year after year, Ray Bianetti had climbed higher and higher up the mountain of their sneering corpses until finally he was three men from the top of his organization, his personal territory spreading from New York to Detroit, south to Baltimore. Swag and skag and hags. And then in June of '75, Ray Bianetti started seeing something in the eyes of his men. Holding his gaze a half second longer than they used to do. Challenging him. A half second, that was all. But it was enough to let him know things were over. Ray the Clink had gotten too fat; he'd softened, lost his grip. The hit was on. So he decided he'd just fucking well do it himself. And on the night of June thirtieth, Ray Bianetti was murdered. The grand style. Face in the pasta, a dozen bullets.
Shortly thereafter Roy Murtha was born, leaving behind in Bianetti's bank account over seven million dollars from his accumulated past sins. All he took along was a couple of hundred thou. Paying off one photographer at the Post, a couple of waiters at Tulipano, and a young intern he knew at Cedars Sinai, then vanishing into the giant tangle of highways and churches and fried food places that was America. Traveling, a week here, a month there, until he'd decided what he wanted to do. Be near the only family he had. His daughter. Maybe someday work up the nerve, try to make amends.
Murtha slid the Ruger out of his coat pocket, found a comfortable grip, raised it till it was pointing at Andy's face.
"Why don't you try thinking, Andy. See, maybe if you can remember anything might suggest a location in Naples, a place where Sugarman and Doris Albright could be."
Andy opened his mouth, seemed to form a word, then another one, but no sound emerged. He tried again, and this time said, "Fish farm. Something about a fish farm."
"Fish farm?"
"Mrs. Albright wanted to go see somebody who lived on a fish farm. That's all I heard."
"You have an address for this fish farm?"
"Christ, how many fish farms could there be?" Andy took another look at the pistol, paled, and said, "No, I'm sorry, I don't have an address."
"Could you turn that fucking music off, please?"
In a spasm of agreeableness, Andy fumbled for his Walkman, found the off switch and snapped it. Murtha taking another look at the boy. A few years past a teenager, but seeming younger now that he'd lost the sneer.
"Thank you," Murtha said. But he kept the unwavering pistol sighted on Andy. "Isn't it strange, Andy, isn't it fucking ironic how it takes guns to make people civilized? Like you. Now you're being a good boy. Now you're on your best behavior. Very well mannered now. Just because you know I'll kill you if you aren't. Isn't that strange? I mean, I drive around up in Miami sometimes, and it amazes me how polite everyone is. No one honks their horns. Nobody makes obscene gestures in traffic, no matter what stunts another driver pulls. Why is this, Andy? Is it because people in Miami are more polite than people elsewhere? No, I don't think so. No. It's because in Miami everyone has a gun in their car. Everyone is armed. You have to be very polite, or you'll be killed. Guns, guns, guns. They've turned Miami into the most courteous town in America."
Andy stared down at the desk, wet his lips, looking queasy.
"I remember," Andy said. "It was a fish farm owned by Doris Albright's first husband. Winchester is his name. I just remembered that. Winchester. "
"Isn't it remarkable how guns do that too? Great memory enhancers. Help us recall things we've forgotten. Like some wonderful goddamn drug."
Murtha was silent for a moment. Eyes on Andy, feeling the pistol begin to weigh down his hand.
In a faint voice Andy said, "I told you what I know. A fish farm in Naples."
"Do you know who I am?" Murtha said.
"Mr. Murtha."
"Sugarman told you, didn't he? He told you my real name."
"No," Andy said. "He doesn't tell me stuff."
"I'm afraid I can't take that chance, Andy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to push you over."
Murtha took another grip on the Ruger and pitched it underhanded out onto the floor. It clattered and slid near the side of Andy's desk. Two steps from the boy, six or seven from Murtha.
Andy looked down at the Ruger, then at Murtha. Then he slid his eyes around the room. Looked at the underwater photographs, Sugarman's police citations. He took a couple of deep breaths, his chin wavering, and then brought his eyes back to Murtha. Andy's face was sapped of color and expression.
"It's there," Murtha said. "Loaded. Safety off."
The boy rocked from side to side in the chair as if he had to take an urgent piss.
"You're trying to trick me. You got another gun."
"No, Andy. I'm just an old man. An old man who's sick of pistols and bullets. It's yours if you want it. Go on, Andy, pick it up. Defend yourself from an old retired mobster."
Andy stood up, came around the desk, touched a tentative toe to the weapon. A sleepy look on his face. The boy was swallowing more and more. His eyes roved up to the ceiling and stayed there, squinting as though he were about to give blood and couldn't bear to watch the needle enter him.
"Why don't you just go on and shoot me?"
There were tears growing in his eyes. Years fell from his face. He looked seventeen, fifteen. A shivering child.
"The videotape," Andy said. "It's in his office. I'll show you where it is."
"It's a little late for that, don't you think, Andy? A little late to kiss and make up."
Andy's face was collapsing. The boy wavered, unsteady on his feet as he stared down at the pistol.
"All right," he said, the tears coming now. "All right."
From the beauty shop next door came the raucous laughter of a large woman. Others joined her. The beauty shop phone jangled. Someone dropped a heavy metal object.
Awkwardly, Andy stooped for the pistol, fumbled with it, the boy no athlete, no natural dexterity. Roy Murtha was out of his chair and behind the boy before Andy could straighten, the harp wire looped around his throat and Murtha drawing it taut.
There were those who used nothing but piano wire. Junior Monk, Mr. Sun Lee. They were the famous ones. But Murtha preferred harps for purely aesthetic reasons. He preferred the sound of harp music, so lush, not the piano, that noisy four-legged wooden box that men in tuxedos pounded on. But a harp, with its ghostly sound, played by loose-fingered women in shimmering evening gowns trilling their fingers across the strings, that was the true instrument of the angels.
His wire was two feet long, with steel ball bearings fused to each end. Similar to the steel balls Humphrey Bogart played with at the end of that mutiny movie, taking the steel balls out of his pocket in the courtroom and fondling them and giving it all away that he was crazy. Ball bearings like Bogart's, giving Murtha something to grip, and making it possible to use the wire like a bolo if necessary, sling it around the neck of his victim.
Murtha understood Bogart's fascination for the steel balls. Their weight, their perfect shape, the comfort they gave him when he rolled them in his hand. In his coat pocket the ball bearings clinked when he walked. It was how he got his nickname. The clink of death approaching. Of course, there were those who said it was the steel balls hanging between Ray Bianetti's legs that made the noise.
Gripping the wire tight across the boy's Adam's apple, feeling Andy squirm, then his slow giving in, Murtha held the steel balls, his arms crossed behind the boy's head, keeping the wire hard a few seconds more, the boy letting go, then the sudden weight of his body. And Murtha released him, let the boy crumple at his feet.
It was Ray Bianetti who stood still for a moment and listened to see if any noise had registered in the beauty
salon. Ray Bianetti waiting till finally a woman laughed, and the others joined in merrily. He leaned to his left and looked at the one-way mirror and saw the group of women and hairdressers gathered around one of the barber chairs listening to someone's story.
It was Ray who turned around and locked the office door. Walked over to where the boy was sprawled, and stooped to turn Andy Stutmeyer's body faceup. Looked into the boy's slack face.
In a while Ray would get the videotape and destroy it, but first he wanted to spend a few moments looking at Andy. For he realized now who the boy reminded him of. Another bitter child from long ago, a boy from the Bronx who wanted to be good, wanted to win the love of his parents, wanted desperately to believe in the golden promise of America. But something had happened to the boy, something lacking in his diet had slowly stunted him, turned him ugly, poisoned his heart.
Ray Bianetti could remember spending hours and hours staring at that other boy's face, fascinated by it, that sneer starting to appear, the bitterness, the cold light of ambition growing slowly in his eyes. If the boy couldn't have love, then goddamn it to hell, he would have respect.
Hours and hours Ray had looked at the boy's face in his own bedroom mirror.
CHAPTER 28
Sugarman swung open the squeaky metal gate to Winchester's farm. He paused for a moment and looked down the twenty yards of sandy road that curved around a sharp bend and disappeared. He took a leisurely breath and let it go, then turned, went back to the Mustang. He squatted down beside the open passenger window.
"Now, you sure you want to do this?" he said.
Doris touched his bare arm with a fingertip, left it there, as though she were testing the temperature of his flesh. She lifted her eyes to his, but said nothing.
"I mean, this old car still has a reverse," he said. "But whatever you want to do is fine. I sure don't mind turning around, driving right back to Key Largo. And I don't mind staying here and meeting this guy. It's completely your call."
"Is that because I'm the client? You have to do what I say?"
"Doris, Doris." Sugarman shook his head and smiled at her. "You're in a whole different category than client."
Mean High Tide (Thorn Series Book 3) Page 27