“Right.”
“Speaking of which, we also need another golfer. In case Jake croaks, God forbid.”
Chelsea recoiled at the cold-bloodedness of the assignment. “It won’t look good, sir, not with what happened this morning. It’s best if we stick by Jake.”
“Sympathy’s all fine and dandy, Charlie, but we got more than golf at stake here. We got waterfront to sell. We got patio homes. We got club memberships. Can Jake Harp—don’t get me wrong—but in his present situation can Jake do promotional appearances? TV commercials? Celebrity programs? We don’t even know if Jake can still breathe, much less swing a fucking five-iron.”
For once Francis Kingsbury expressed himself in nearly cogent syntax. It must be excellent gin, Chelsea thought.
“I want you to call Nicklaus,” Kingsbury went on. “Tell him money is no problem.”
“Jack Nicklaus,” the publicity man repeated numbly.
“No, Irving Nicklaus. Who the hell do you think! And if you can’t get the Bear, try Palmer. And if you can’t get Annie, you try Trevino. And if you can’t get the Mex, try the Shark. And so on. The bigger the better, but make it quick.”
Knowing it would do no good, Chelsea reminded Kingsbury that he had tried to recruit the top golfing names when he was first planning Falcon Trace, and that they’d all said no. Only Jake Harp had the stomach to work for him.
“I don’t care what they said before,” Kingsbury growled, “you call ’em again. Money is no problem, all right?”
“Again, I’d just like to caution you about how this might appear to people—”
“I need a hotshot golfer, Charlie. The hell do you guys call it—a media personality?” Kingsbury raised one plump fist and let it fall heavily on the desk. “I can’t sell a golf resort when my star golfer’s on a goddamn respirator. Don’t you understand? Don’t you know a goddamn thing about Florida real estate?”
They rode to the airport in edgy silence. Danny Pogue was waiting for Lou to say something. Like it was all their fault. Like the people in Queens wanted their money back.
Earlier Bud Schwartz had pulled his partner aside and said, look, they want the dough, we give it back. This is the mob, he said, and we’re not playing games with the mob. But it’s damned important, Bud Schwartz had said, that Lou and his Mafia people know that we didn’t tip off Kingsbury. How the hell he found out about the hit, it don’t matter. It wasn’t us and we gotta make that clear, okay? Danny Pogue agreed wholeheartedly. Like Bud Schwartz, he didn’t want to go through the rest of life having somebody else start his car every morning. Or peeking around corners, watching out for inconspicuous fat guys like Lou.
So when they got to the Delta Airlines terminal,
Danny Pogue shook Lou’s hand and said he was very sorry about what had happened. “Honest to God, we didn’t tell nobody.”
“That’s the truth,” said Bud Schwartz.
Lou shrugged. “Probably a wire. Don’t sweat it.”
“Thanks,” said Danny Pogue, flushed with relief. He pumped Lou’s pudgy arm vigorously. “Thanks for—well, just thanks is all.”
Lou nodded. His nose and cheeks were splashed pink with raw sunburn. He wore the same herringbone coat and striped shirt that he had when he’d gotten off the airplane. There was still no sign of the gun, but the burglars knew he was carrying it somewhere on his corpulent profile.
Lou said, “Since I know you’re dyin’ to ask, what happened was this: the asshole bent over. Don’t ask me why, but he bent over just as I pulled the trigger.”
“Bud thought you probably got the two guys mixed up-”
“I didn’t get nobody mixed up.” Lou’s upper lip curled when he directed this bulletin toward Bud Schwartz. “The guy leaned over is all. Otherwise he’d be dead right now, trust me.”
Despite his doubts about Lou’s marksmanship, Bud Schwartz didn’t want him to leave Miami with hard feelings. He didn’t want any hit man, even a clumsy one, to be sore at him.
“Could’ve happened to anybody,” Bud Schwartz said supportively. “Sounds like one hell of a tough shot from the water, anyway.”