“I wanna do this tomorrow,” he was saying. “I gotta get home for my wife’s birthday. She’s forty.” Then he farted loudly and pretended not to hear it.
“Forty? No kidding?” said Bud Schwartz. He had been expecting something quite different in the way of a mob assassin. Perhaps it wasn’t fair, but Bud Schwartz was disappointed in Lou’s appearance. For Francis Kingsbury’s killer, he had envisioned someone taut, snake-eyed and menacing—not fat, balding and flatulent.
Just goes to show, thought Bud Schwartz, these days everything’s hype. Even the damn Mafia.
From the back seat, Danny Pogue asked: “How’re you gonna do it? What kinda gun?”
Lou puffed out his cheeks and said, “Brand X. The fuck do you care, what kinda gun?”
“Danny,” Bud Schwartz said, “let’s stay out of the man’s private business, okay?”
“I didn’t mean nothin’.”
“You usually don’t.”
The man named Lou said, “This the neighborhood?”
“We’re almost there,” said Bud Schwartz.
“I can’t get over all these trees,” Lou said. “Parts a Jersey look like this. My wife’s mother lives in Jersey, a terrific old lady. Seventy-seven years old, she bowls twice a week! In a league!”
Bud Schwartz smiled weakly. Perfect. A hit man who loves his mother-in-law. What next—he collects for the United Way?
The burglar said to Lou: “Maybe it’s better if you rent a car. For tomorrow, I mean.”
“Sure. Usually I do my own driving.”
Danny Pogue tapped his partner on the shoulder and said, “Slow down, Bud, it’s up here on the right.”
Kingsbury’s estate was bathed in pale orange lights. Gray sedans with green bubble lights were parked to block both ends of the driveway. Three men sat in each sedan; two more, in security-guard uniforms, were posted at the front door. It was, essentially, the complete private security force of the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills—except for Pedro Luz, who was inside the house, his wheelchair parked vigilantly at Francis Kingsbury’s bedroom door.
Bud Schwartz drove by slowly. “Look at this shit,” he muttered. Once they had passed the house, he put some muscle into the accelerator.
“An army,” Lou said, “that’s what it was.”
Danny Pogue sank low in the back seat. With both hands he clutched the Macy’s bag to his chest. “Let’s just go,” he said. “Bud, let’s just haul ass.”
TWENTY-NINE
On the morning of August 2, Jake Harp crawled into the back of a white limousine and rode in a dismal gin-soaked stupor to the construction site on North Key Largo. There he was met by Charles Chelsea, Francis X. Kingsbury and a phalanx of armed security men whose crisp blue uniforms failed to mitigate their shifty felonious smirks. The entourage moved briskly across a recently bulldozed plateau, barren except for a bright green hillock that was cordoned with rope and ringed by reporters, photographers and television cameramen. Kingsbury took Jake Harp by the elbow and, ascending the grassy knob, waved mechanically; it reminded Charles Chelsea of the rigidly determined way that Richard Nixon had saluted before boarding the presidential chopper for the final time. Except that, compared to Francis Kingsbury, Nixon was about as tense as Pee Wee Herman.
Jake Harp heard himself pleading for coffee, please God, even decaf, but Kingsbury seemed not to hear him. Jake Harp blinked amphibiously and struggled to focus on the scene. It was early. He was outdoors. The sun was intensely bright. The Atlantic Ocean murmured at his back. And somebody had dressed him: Izod shirt, Sansibelt slacks, tasseled Footjoy golf shoes. What could this be! Then he heard the scratchy click of a portable microphone and the oily voice of Charles Chelsea.
“Welcome, everybody. We’re standing on what will soon be the first tee of the Falcon Trace Championship Golf Course. As you can see, we’ve got a little work ahead of us….”
Laughter. These numbnuts are laughing, thought Jake Harp. He squinted at the white upturned faces and recognized one or two as sportswriters.
More from Chelsea: “…and we thought it would be fun to inaugurate the construction of this magnificent golfing layout with a hitting clinic.”
Jake Harp’s stomach clenched as somebody folded a three-wood into his fingers. The golf pro stared in disgust: a graphite head. They expect me to hit with metal!