“It’s been a long time,” he said.
“Last time I saw you was in a boat under a bridge,” Hathaway said.
“That’s right.”
“Although you’ve heard from me from time to time,” Hathaway added.
It’s true, Overtime thought. His old roomie had been very clever about sneaking his money out of the States. He would never have been able to hide for so long if it hadn’t been for Hathaway’s ingenuity.
“Now I need a favor,” Hathaway said.
“I can give you a discount,” Overtime answered.
Hathaway agreed to his price and gave him the setup.
“Hello,” Candy crooned into the phone.
“Mrs. Landis, it’s Peter Hathaway. This has all gone on long enough, don’t you think?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, after the funeral,” Candy told the group in the room. “Hathaway, Polly, and I will meet at Candy land to inspect the property and discuss an arrangement.”
“It’s for you, Joey,” Harold said.
“Take a message.”
“Who is this?” Harold asked. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
Harold whispered, “It’s Stumpy.”
Joey grabbed the phone. “What do you want, you bastard?”
“Hey, Joey Beans!” Graham warbled. “We have some unfinished business.”
“We do?”
“Yeah,” Graham said. “Unfinished business named Walter Withers.”
“What about him?”
“I’m going to kill you, that’s what about him.”
“Anywhere, anyplace, anytime,” Foglio said.
“Somewhere we won’t be disturbed, clown,” answered Graham.
“Candyland, tomorrow afternoon,” Graham said to the group in the room. He dialed the phone again. “Ed? Let me ask you something about Marc Merolla.”
Marc Merolla listened to what Ed Levine had to tell him about Peter Hathaway.
“I’m shocked, Ed,” he said. “What can I say? What can I do?”
Ethan Kitteredge came to the door of his house and was surprised to see Marc Merolla standing there. “Won’t you come in?” Kitteredge asked.
“I won’t be a minute,” Marc said in the hallway. “I came for a favor.”
“Do you think this is going to work?” Karen asked Neal late
that night.
“You know,” Neal said, “I really think it is.”
There are only thirty thousand things that can go wrong, Neal thought, but at some point you just have to have some faith.
Musashi Watanabe could see everything from the top of the water slide.
He could see the entirety of Candyland, from the vast parking lot to the condominiums. He could see the Circle of Life Ferris Wheel, The History of the American Family Tunnel of Love, The Richard Milhous Nixon Roller-Coaster Ride, the petting-zoo pens, the concession stands, and even the Journey Through the Holy Land Putt-Putt Golf Course, for which he had personally designed the Parting of the Red Sea Water Hazard.
If he looked past Candyland to the south, he could see the downtown San Antonio skyline with its distinctive Space Tower. Just to the east, in the rolling hills, he could see the long procession of cars snaking out to Jack Landis’s funeral.
None of these sights interested Musashi Watanabe. What interested him was his pride and joy, the work of his life, his masterpiece—the tallest, longest, fastest water slide in the world, which, thanks to that stupid contest, had yet to be named. Musashi didn’t care what they named it. To him, the designer, it would always have one name and one name only: Banzai!
Because this was a water slide for samurai. Starting one hundred feet in the air, it flumed at an eighty-degree angle straight down to build up speed, then wrapped into a double corkscrew turn before plunging down another steep straightaway, which curved into a high-banked right turn, then bent back to the left into an even higher bank to give the rider the illusion he was about to be launched over the top of the rim into space. But then the rider would plunge down to the right into another corkscrew and then into a fifty-foot shallow straightaway and then splash into a pool.
This is where things got interesting.
The truly ingenious Watanabe touch went into action here, as the rider would be sucked sideways across the pool by a powerful current and into a tube that ran virtually straight down for thirty feet to a twenty-foot open-air drop into a deeper pool, where lifeguards, flotation devices, and emergency medical personnel would be standing by if needed.
This was not a game for children, Watanabe thought with satisfaction. This was the device with which he hoped to realize a lifelong dream of seeing aqua gliding take its rightful place as an Olympic event. After all, the luge was merely a frozen water slide.
Of course, it would require a spectacular televised fatality to truly popularize the sport…
He dismissed this pleasant thought and concentrated on the task at hand, lugging a 150-pound sandbag into the starting chamber for the safety test. Mrs. Landis had vetoed his idea—which Jack had heartily approved—of using volunteer convicts, which would have given them a much more aquadynamically accurate test. It wasn’t that Watanabe had any doubts about his engineering—it was meticulous—but he did have some concerns about the cheaper materials that Mr. Foglio had insisted on using.
Watanabe flipped the starter switch and water gushed up into the chamber. He waited two minutes for the slide to get nicely wet, then gave the sandbag a kick.
“Banzai!” he yelled as the bag plunged down the long drop, swept around the double corkscrew, swooshed down the next straightaway, negotiated the first high turn, zoomed along the edge of the second big bank, double corkscrewed again, then drifted down the last straightaway and into the first pool.
The suction dragged the bag across the pool and into the tube. Four seconds later, the bag dropped out of the tube, dropped twenty feet, and exploded on the bottom of the empty receiving pool.
Goddamn cheap American sandbags, Watanabe thought. Now he’d have to vacuum the sand out again.
But Banzai worked like a Swiss watch.
Then the world went black.
Overtime finished duct-taping the Japanese guy’s mouth shut and made sure he was firmly lashed to the ladder.
Quite a view, Overtime thought. You can see everything from here, the Ferris wheel, the roller-coaster, the putt-putt golf course with the statue of Moses on the sand trap. When he looked through the scope, he could even see Joey Beans and his idiot Sancho la Bonza a good three hundred yards away on the vast Jack and Candy Plaza.
And coming from the other side … Candy Landis in the company of a tall silver-haired guy and … is that Peter? He’s put on the odd pound.
And … could it be? Yes! Walking behind them is none other than America’s Sweetheart, the girl with the nation’s most precious little bun in the oven.… Ladies and gentlemen … let’s hear it for … Miss Polly Paget!
I have to hand it to you, Joey. When you set up a shot, you set up a shot. Mr. Magoo couldn’t miss from here.
Problem: A target-rich environment demands prioritization.
Analysis: Targets are standing in a big open square.
Solution: One shot at a time.
Neal and Karen watched through binoculars from the terrace. Foglio has that cocky wise guy rolling gait, Neal thought, although his bodyguard looks nervous as hell. Candy’s walking with her no-nonsense stride, stopping here and there to point something out to Hathaway, who seems to have a special interest in the water slide. And Polly has her head down. Probably terrified to face Joey Beans.
“What do you think?” Karen said.
“I think I wish you hadn’t come,” Neal answered.
“I think it’s going to be fun.”
“What if Joey Beans goes berserk?” Neal asked.
“Then I think it’s going to be more fun.”
But what the hell does Hathaway find so interesting on top of the damn water slide? His eyes are flicking up there like he’s expecting …
“He’s up there,” Neal murmured.
“Who’s up where?” Karen asked.
“Overtime,” Neal answered.
All right, think for a change and think fast. Even if you can run down from the terrace, you’d never make it across the plaza. He’d see you, make his shot, and then gun you down. He’s waiting for a better shot or he’d have already done it. So see if you can get behind him.
Behind him, you dickhead? He’s on top of a tower. How can you get behind him?
“Stay here,” he said to Karen. “Please, for once just do what I ask without a discussion and stay here. Please.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just for a walk up the water slide. Now promise.”
“You think the killer’s up there?” Karen asked.
“Karen, we don’t have time.”
“We can shout and warn them!”
“They wouldn’t understand and he’d start shooting,” Neal said. “Think on the bright side: It’s probably just my paranoia.”
Neal started running for the base of the water slide. Then he heard the voice—
that voice
—booming across the PA system.
“Joey! Joey Beans! It’s Stumpy the Clown!”
Overtime peeked up from his hiding place.
This is different, he thought as he watched Joey freeze in place. Harold pulled his pistol. But that damn Candy Landis just kept walking. She didn’t look surprised at all.
“We have some unfinished business, Joey!”
“Where are you, you rat bastard?” Joey yelled.
Overtime saw Candy Landis walk to within about five feet of Joey. He should have shot then, but it was just so damn interesting.
“Hey, Joey! Carmine Bascaglia heard this tape last night. It goes something like …”
This is a nightmare, Joey thought. I’m going to wake up any second beside some luscious broad and laugh and—
“You didn’t leave us with any choice,” Candy Landis was saying. “We tried to tell you nicely, but you just wouldn’t listen.”
The PA system played a scratchy leader for a few seconds and then boomed: “
BLESS ME, FATHER, FOR I HAVE SINNED, IT HAS BEEN ONE DAY SINCE MY LAST CONFESSION
.”
Joey turned white.
“It sounds good,” Joe Graham said to John Culver, who was operating the system.
“A little more treble, perhaps,” Culver suggested. He tweaked a dial. “Primo system. Very tasty.”
“Keep playing it,” Graham said. Then he went out to enjoy the look on Joey Beans’s face.
Neal reached the first pool and was pleased to see that the water was running.
Of course. God would never let you climb a dry water slide. That would be too easy.
He grabbed the sides of the slide and started to pull himself
I’m wrong, he thought. There’s no one up here. They wouldn’t dare take another shot at Polly, not now, not when Bascaglia called them off.
He slipped and landed on his face as he heard:
I HAVE COMMITTED ONE ATTEMPTED MURDER … TWICE.… MAY BE PLANNING ANOTHER.… IS PLANNING A MORTAL OR VENIAL SIN? THE HELL AM I ASKING? YOU DON’T SPEAK ENGLISH.…
“You tapped a man’s confessional?” Joey croaked. “You came between a man and his God? What kind of people are you!”
“DEA,” Chuck answered.
“Baptists,” Candy said.
THERE WERE FIVE FORNICATIONS … OKAY, THREE … TWENTY-EIGHT IMPURE THOUGHTS … AND I THINK AN EXTORTION. MAYBE IT’s BLACKMAIL. HARD TO SAY.
…
“You had it coming, Joey,” Polly said.
“You should talk, you whore,” answered Joey.
THEN, OF COURSE, THERE WAS THE DAY’S PROTECTION MONEY, BUT THAT SKINFLINT CARMINE GETS A BIG PIECE OF THAT
.…
“For God’s sake, Joey,” Harold moaned. “Did you think this was a priest or dear fucking Abby?”
“Shut up.”
Graham arrived on the scene.
“Carmine heard this last night, Joey,” he said. “But I told him we wanted to surprise you. I figure you got maybe a three-hour start if you get going now. Unless Carmine’s already talked to Harold here.”
Joey looked wildly around.
“Harold, shoot somebody,” he said.
Harold’s eye was sending telegrams.
“Sorry, boss,” he said.
“Leave now, Mr. Foglio,” Candy said. “There has been more than enough dying.”
Foglio straightened himself up and looked her dead in the eye. “You’ll get yours, you bitch.”
Any second now.
The high-banked curves were tough because he kept slipping and getting water in his mouth. Neal found he could dig one foot into the curved side and push while he pulled himself up with his hands. It was taking time, though, and he was running out of time.
Karen tried to stay on the terrace. She really did. But she saw her friends down there, people she loved: Candy Landis, the flawed but somehow lovable—and pregnant—Polly Paget, and Joe Graham.
Dear, dear Joe Graham.
She ran down the stairs and started across the terrace, waving her arms and yelling.
NOW THERE WAS ONE MURDER MAYBE I HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH, BUT IT WAS REALLY THAT MUTT OVERTIME.
Excuse me, Overtime thought. I think we’ve all heard about enough.
He leaned out of the starting chamber and raised the rifle. He caught some movement from the corner of his eye and shifted the scope.
Oh, this is too good, he thought. There she is, running like a deer across a meadow. And no baseball bat. No dog.
Decisions, decisions.
Problem: So many targets, so little time.
Analysis: If you shoot her first, you’ll spook the money targets.
Consideration: Always shoot for the money. When they start dropping, she’ll freeze and you can drop her where she stands.
Decision: Get to work. Shoot for the money first, then protection, then pleasure.
Just in, just out. Professional.
Of course, there are two money targets.
ONE JERK-OFF, TWO PETTY THEFTS, ONE ASSAULT … I PRAYED FOR CARMINE TO DIE. IS THAT A SIN?
“I ain’t going down alone, Hathaway,” Joey said pointedly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hathaway asked.
“It’s all on the tape, Mr. Hathaway,” Chuck said as he pulled his revolver and pointed it at Hathaway’s chest, “but we do thank you for coming today.”
“You set me up,” Hathaway accused Candy.
Graham saw his eyes glance up at the water slide.
I MEAN, CARMINE’S WHACKED MORE GUYS THAN CARTER HAS PILLS.…