A voice on the intercom announced that the Delta flight to LaGuardia was boarding at Gate 7. Lou said, “The guy that got hit, I heard he’s hanging on.”
“Yeah, some golfer named Harp,” said Danny Pogue. “Serious but stable.”
“Maybe he’ll make it,” Lou said. “That would be good.”
Bud Schwartz asked what would happen when Lou returned to Queens.
“Have a sitdown with my people. Find out what they want to do next. Then I got this big birthday party for my wife’s fortieth. I bought her one a them electric woks—she really likes Jap food, don’t ask me why.”
Danny Pogue said, “Are you in big trouble?”
Lou’s chest bounced when he laughed. “With my wife or the boys? Ask me which is worse.”
He picked up his carry-on and the blue umbrella, and waddled for the gate.
Bud Schwartz waved. “Sorry it got so screwed up.”
“What the hell,” said Lou, still laughing. “I got me a nice boat ride outta the deal.”
Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier met Trooper Jim Tile at the Snapper Creek Plaza on the Turnpike extension. They took a booth at the Roy Rogers and ordered burgers and shakes. Winder found the atmosphere more pleasant than it had been at Ocean Reef. Carrie asked Jim Tile if he had phoned Rikers Island.
“Yeah, I called,” the trooper said. They thought it was crazy, but they said they’d watch for anything out of the ordinary.”
“Out of the ordinary hardly begins to describe him.”
“New Yorkers,” said Jim Tile, “think they’ve cornered the market on psychopaths. They don’t know Florida.”
Joe Winder said, “I don’t think he’s going to Rikers Island. I think he’s still here.”
“I heard about Harp,” said Jim Tile, “and my opinion is no, it wasn’t the governor. I’ll put money on it.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Carrie.
“Because (a) it’s not his style, and (b) he wouldn’t have missed.”
Winder said, “Mr. X was the target.”
“Had to be,” agreed Jim Tile. “Who’d waste a perfectly good bullet on a golfer?”
Carrie speculated that it could have been a disgruntled fan. Joe Winder threw an arm around her and gave her a hug. He’d been in a good mood since trashing Pedro Luz’s steroid den.
The trooper was saying Skink might’ve headed upstate. “This morning somebody shot up a Greyhound on the interstate outside Orlando. Sixty-seven Junior Realtors on their way to Epcot.”
Panic at Disney World! Winder thought. Kingsbury will come in his pants.
“Nobody was hurt,” Jim Tile said, “which leads me to believe it was you-know-who.” He pried the plastic cap off his milkshake and spooned out the ice cream. “Eight rounds into a speeding bus and nobody even gets nicked. That’s one hell of a decent shot.”
Carrie said, “I’m assuming they didn’t catch the culprit.”
“Vanished without a trace,” said the trooper. “If it’s him, they’ll never even find a footprint. He knows that area of the state very well.”
Winder said it was a long way to go for a man with two fresh gunshot wounds.
Jim Tile shrugged. “I called Game and Fish. The panther plane hasn’t picked up the radio signal for days.”
“So he’s really gone,” Carrie said.
“Or hiding in a bomb shelter.”
“Joe thinks we should go ahead and make a move. He’s got a plan all worked out.”
Jim Tile raised a hand. “Don’t tell me, please. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Fair enough,” Winder said, “but I’ve got to ask a small favor.”
“The answer is no.”
“But it’s nothing illegal.”
The trooper used the corner of a paper napkin to polish the lenses of his sunglasses. “This falls into the general category of pressing your luck. Just because the governor gets away, don’t think it’s easy. Or even right.”
“Please,” said Carrie, “just listen.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Your job,” Joe Winder replied. That’s all.”
Later, in the rental boat, Joe Winder said he almost felt sorry for Charles Chelsea. “Getting your sports celebrity shot with the press watching, that’s tough.”
Carrie Lanier agreed that Chelsea was earning his salary. She was at the helm of the outboard, expertly steering a course toward the ocean shore of North Key Largo. A young man named Oscar sat shirtless on the bow, dangling his brown legs and drinking a root beer.