“Yes, Tommy. But only if I get a first edition of The Estrangement. Autographed personally by the author.”
“Christ, Mary Andrea, there’s no book. I was just ranting.”
“Good,” she said to her future ex-husband. “Then we’ve got a deal. Now put down that damn aquarium so I can give you a proper hug.”
Bernard Squires was a light drinker, but after supper he accepted one glass of sherry from Mrs. Hendricks at the bed-and-breakfast; then another, and one more after that. He wouldn’t have drunk so much liquor in front of other guests, particularly the two attractive women who’d arrived the previous night. But they’d already checked out, so Squires felt that seemly comportment was no longer a priority.
The poor fellow was suffering, Mrs. Hendricks could see that. He told her the deal had fallen through, the whole reason he’d come all the way to Grange from Chicago, Illinois.
Kaput! Finished!
Mrs. Hendricks sympathized—”Oh dear, these things happen”—and tried to nudge the conversation toward cheerier topics such as the Dow Jones, but Mr. Squires clammed up. Slouched on the antique deacon’s bench, he stared dolefully at his shoe tops. After a while Mrs. Hendricks went upstairs, leaving him with the sherry bottle.
When it was empty, he snatched up his briefcase and went wandering. Crumpled in a pocket of his coat were three telephone messages in Mrs. Hendricks’ flawless penmanship. The messages had come from Mr. Richard Tarbone and were progressively more insistent. Bernard Squires could not summon the courage to call the hot-tempered gangster and tell him what had happened.
Squires himself wasn’t sure. He didn’t know who the black girl was, or where she’d gotten so much dough. He didn’t know how the hard-ass ATF agent got involved, or why. All Bernard Squires knew for certain was that neither the pension fund nor the Tarbone crime family could afford another front-page headline, and that meant the Simmons Wood deal was queered.
And it wasn’t his fault. None of it.
But that wouldn’t matter, because Richard the Icepick didn’t believe in explanations. He believed in slaying the messenger.
Each passing minute reduced the odds of Bernard Squires’ surviving the week. He knew this; drunk or sober, he knew.
In his career as a mob money launderer, Squires had faced few predicaments that a quarter million dollars cash could not resolve. That was the amount he’d brought to Grange, to secure the Simmons Wood parcel. Afterwards, when the deal officially turned to dogshit, Clara Markham had made a special trip to the bank to retrieve the money and had even helped Squires count the bundles as he repacked the briefcase.
Which he now carried nonchalantly through the sleeping streets of Grange. It was a lovely, still autumn evening; so different from how he’d always pictured Florida. The air was cool, and it smelled earthy and sweet. He stepped around an orange tomcat, snoozing beneath a street-lamp, which barely favored him with a glance. Occasionally a dog barked in a backyard. Through the windows of the homes he could see the calming violet flicker of televisions.
Squires hoped the night air might clear his muddled brain. Eventually he would figure out what to do—he always did. So he kept walking. Before long he found himself on the same street where he’d been two nights before, under the same oak in front of the same bland one-story house. From behind the drawn curtains he heard lively conversation. Several cars were parked in the driveway.
But Bernard Squires was alone at the glazed shrine of the Virgin Mary. No one attended the spotlit statue, its fiberglass hands frozen in benediction. From his distance it was impossible for Squires to see if there were teardrops in the statue’s eyes.
Edging forward, he spotted a lone figure in the moat; the linen-clad man, his knees pulled up to his chest.
Hearing no chanting, Squires ventured closer.
“Hello, pilgrim,” the man said, as if he’d been watching the entire time. His face remained obscured by a shadow.
Squires said, “Oh. Am I interrupting?”
“No, you’re fine.”
“Are you all right in there?”
“Couldn’t be better.” The man lowered his knees and reclined slowly into the water. As he spread his arms, the white bedsheet billowed around him, an angelic effect.