A Long Walk Up the Waterslide (29 page)
Neal was winded by the time he hit the last long slope to the top. He had to lie on his stomach and pull himself up, and his hands kept slipping.
And he heard Karen yelling. Then his hands slipped and he slid backward.
“Get down!” Karen yelled.
“What’s she saying?” asked Candy.
“Bye-bye,” Joey Beans answered.
OKAY, ONTO VULGAITIES …
Overtime centered the crosshairs on Foglio’s square forehead. He had worked out his priorities: Make Carmine happy first, then Peter, then take Polly out, then the bitch from Nevada, then maybe the one-armed dwarf who’d set him up, the gray-haired cop …
As they say, Idle hands are the devil’s playground.
He started to apply that gentle persuasion to the trigger.
Or … do Candy first, which will make Joey think he’s safe, then whack the bitch from Nevada, then the one-armed dwarf, then …
Neal grabbed onto the side and caught himself. He threw one foot out and managed to get straight and start pulling up again. Water streamed into his face. He had his mouth clamped shut, but the water was coming into his nose and he started to choke.
He craned his neck and saw Overtime’s back and the rifle come up to his cheek.
The killer was just out of reach.
Neal opened his mouth to scream.
No … do the bitch first before she spooks everyone, then Joey, then Candy, then …
One thing at a time.
He was drawing the lead on Karen when he heard a drowning voice yell, “NOOOO!”
He squeezed the trigger just as the hand grabbed his arm.
Chuck heard the crack of the rifle, knocked Candy down, and lay on top of her.
TWELVE
F-
WORDS, TWENTY OR THIRTY
SHITS …
Karen felt the rush of wind over her head and dived for cover.
Joe Graham crawled toward her.
Polly stood in the middle of the plaza, asking, “What the hell is this?”
TOO MANY
GODDAMNS,
FOR WHICH I’M SORRY, OKAY?
Hathaway ran.
Harold looked at Joey and said, “Get outta here, Joey.”
“The hell difference it makes?” Joey asked. “If Carmine wants me …”
“A day at a time, huh?” Harold said. “Go on … before I don’t have an excuse not to whack you.”
Another rifle shot went off.
THAT’S ABOUT IT, FATHER, TAKE IT EASY ON THE ACTS OF CONTRITION, HUH?
“You’re okay, Harold,” Joey said.
“Long life, boss.”
Joey Beans ran for the relative safety of the putt-putt golf course.
The second shot went off as Neal pulled back on Overtime’s arm and tried to haul him out of the starting chamber. Overtime rammed the stock back and hit Neal on the collarbone. Neal kept his grip on Overtime’s arm, braced his feet against the side of the slide, and jerked. He reached his left hand around, grabbed the killer under the chin, and pulled.
Overtime pushed his rifle hand out and probed with the barrel until he felt it touch a body.
Neal felt the barrel against him, rolled back, and pulled the man onto the slide with him as the gun went off. He was lying sideways across the slide now, with his feet braced on the edge and Overtime lying on top of him.
Neal felt as if he was drowning. Jets of water were shooting into his face and he couldn’t get his head up high enough to get a real breath. Add exhaustion, terror, and the thought that a bullet was going to blow his head off any second and it was not a happy situation.
Then why are you holding on? he asked himself.
He was considering this question when Overtime’s elbow crashed into his rib cage and he let go.
He felt the killer slide away from him as he dug his feet back into the side, reached over his head, and gripped the edge.
This isn’t as bad as the Newport Bridge, Overtime thought as he careened down the long straightaway.
Problem: Escape.
Analysis: You’re moving at high speed away from your adversaries. You still have your weapon. You can still make it out of here.
Solution: Go with the flow.
Overtime lay back to increase his speed, slid around the double corkscrew, built up tremendous velocity on the next straightaway, and flew around the first high bank. The problem came when his two hundred pounds hit the next bank a little roughly and one of Joey’s cheap sections gave way and he crashed through it like a rocket and was launched fifty feet into the warm Texas sky.
Witnesses later said that his screams were truly unsettling.
The water in the pool below got pretty hard when he hit it at the speed he was going, so he was probably already pretty banged up when the current sucked his unconscious body into the tube, plummeted him thirty feet, and shot him out like a bullet into the final pool.
There were no flotation devices, lifeguards, or emergency personnel there to meet him. There was no water, either—just the rock-hard pool bottom, a busted canvas bag, and some sand—so the twenty foot high-speed dash headfirst into the concrete is what killed him.
“Was that the man who shot Mr. Withers?” Charles asked Polly a few minutes later as they looked into the dry pool.
Polly looked at Overtime’s shattered remains and said, “Hard to tell.”
Joe Graham held on to Karen as she crawled out and grabbed Neal’s hand, but they couldn’t get enough leverage to pull him out.
“Mmmmmmm,” Watanabe said behind the duct tape.
“What’s he saying?” Graham asked.
“He’s probably telling you to shut it off!” Neal hollered. “In any case, shut it off!!”
“Oh.” Graham found the switch and the flow of water stopped.
Graham yanked the tape off Watanabe’s mouth.
Karen pulled Neal up.
“Ready to go home?” Neal huffed.
“I think so,” answered Karen.
“I am,” Neal said.
“By the way, I forgot to tell you that you’re fired,” Graham said.
“That’s good,” Neal answered as he put his arm around Karen. “That’s very good, Dad.”
Then he and Karen walked down the water slide.
Neal lined up the putt perfectly, gave it a gentle stroke, and bounced the ball off King Herod’s lip for the third time.
“You’re awful at golf,” Karen said.
“The only thing that could improve golf,” Neal said, “are snipers.”
“Not funny.”
It was a beautiful spring day in San Antonio. Both the bluebells and Candyland were in full bloom, and Neal and Karen had flown down for a long weekend.
Brogan snored away on a chaise lounge as Brezhnev watched the one-sided match and wagged his tail when Karen hit her shot. The old bartender and the dog had a free lifetime condo at Candyland and used it frequently.
“You want to go on the water slide?” Polly asked Neal. She held six-week-old Karrie Landis—the reason for Neal and Karen’s visit—in her arms.
“No thank you,” Neal said. He lined up the ball again and this time got it past Herod’s molars. A moment later, Herod’s tongue spat it back out.
“Where’s Graham?” he asked.
“Three holes ahead,” Karen answered. “With one arm.”
Graham loved miniature golf. It was so tidy.
A lot had happened over the fall and winter.
Marc Merolla cashed in his marker with Ethan Kitteredge and ended up with 50 percent of the Family Cable Network in his own name. His grandfather died in prison shortly afterward.
Ed Levine bought a house down the street from Marc Merolla and became the managing director of Friends of the Family. Ethan Kitteredge stayed on as director emeritus but spent most of his time on his boat. One of Ed’s first official acts was to confirm the termination of Neal Carey with the brusque message: Get a life.
“The Polly and Candy Family Hour” became a huge hit on FCN, barely skipping a beat. They gained a lot of new viewers, lost some old ones, but most of the audience stayed for the recipes. And the show took a slightly new direction—it still stressed family but broadened the definition to include just about any combination of people living together and caring for one another, including the big house that Candy, Polly, and Karrie shared. The day that Candy endorsed gay adoptions cost her a few thousand viewers and half a dozen sponsors, but most of the audience still stayed for the recipes and new advertisers signed on.
Karrie Landis’s first appearance on the show became the highest-rated hour in the history of cable television.
Chuck Whiting stayed on as head of security, stayed married to his wife, and stayed distantly in love with Candy Landis.
Harold opened a dry-cleaning business in Chalmette Oaks.
Joey Foglio was never heard from again.
Once a month, cemetery workers in Queens would see a one-armed man sit beside a headstone marked
WALTER WITHERS—HE PLAYED THE GAME,
turn on a cassette of Blossom Dearie, and let it run for an hour or so.
Neal transferred his credits from Columbia to Nevada and rented a small apartment in Reno, where he stayed a couple of nights a week. The severance pay, pension check, and disability (mental) that Ed sent were more than enough to cover expenses. Neal’s thesis title, “Tobias Smollett: The Image of the Outsider In the Eighteenth-Century English Novel,” was accepted by a suspicious but tolerant faculty.
Karen went back to teaching school and was also a frequent guest on “The Polly and Candy Family Hour” to talk about kids. On the nights Neal was in Reno, she’d usually go out with Evelyn or Peggy Mills, have a few drinks, and talk about men. On the nights Neal was home, she liked to go to bed early.
“I can’t wait any longer,” Neal said. He set the golf club down. “I have to find Graham.”
“You’re hopelessly behind, anyway,” Karen said, and kissed him on the lips.
“What’s going on?” Polly asked.
Karen shrugged.
Neal stalked off. He wound his way through the Red Sea, across the Sinai Desert, and over the Mount of Olives. He just couldn’t wait any longer to ask Graham to be his best man.
Don Winslow is the
New York Times
bestselling author of thirteen crime and mystery novels as well as a number of short stories and screenplays. His first novel,
A Cool Breeze on the Underground
(1991), was nominated for an Edgar Award, and
California Fire and Life
(1999) received the Shamus Award, which honors the year’s best detective novel.
Winslow was born in 1953 in New York City, and he grew up in Perryville, Rhode Island, a small coastal town. His mother was a librarian and his father a Navy officer. Both parents instilled in Winslow a love of storytelling, and the bookshelves at home were well stocked with literary classics, which Winslow was encouraged to explore. When his father stayed up late swapping sailor stories with his buddies, Winslow would hide under the dining room table to eavesdrop.
Winslow had an unusually varied career before becoming a fulltime writer, beginning with a series of jobs as a child actor. After high school, he attended the University of Nebraska and majored in African history. He then moved back to New York City where he managed movie theaters and became a private investigator. Winslow moonlighted as a PI while pursuing a master’s degree in military history. He also lived for a time in Africa, where he worked as a safari guide, and in China, where he led hiking tours. Winslow completed
A Cool Breeze on the Underground
while in China.
A Cool Breeze
draws from Winslow’s experiences tracking missing persons while in New York. Protagonist Neal Carey is a graduate student studying English literature who is drawn by past underworld connections into a career as a private investigator. Winslow went on to write four other novels with Neal Carey as the main character, often set in locales where the author had resided at some point.
The Trail to Buddha’s Mirror
(1992) has Carey chasing a scientist through China.
Way Down on the High Lonely
(1993) and
While Drowning in the Desert
(1996) are set on the west coast of the United States, where Winslow moved after marrying his wife, Jean, and publishing his first novel.
Winslow’s recent fiction is often set in Southern California, where he currently lives. The cross-border drug war, California organized crime, and surf culture are common themes in his later work. His style bears the spirit of his settings, and his prose is notable for its spare dialogue and deadpan narration, as well as the technical accuracy that comes from his many years working as a private investigator.
A number of Winslow’s novels have been adapted for film. A 2007 movie based on
The Death and Life of Bobby Z
(1997) starred Laurence Fishburne, and
The Winter of Frankie Machine
(2006) is under production and set to star Robert DeNiro. Winslow’s latest novel,
Savages
(2010), has received stellar reviews, and the author is currently adapting the novel for film with Oliver Stone.
A Winslow family photo taken in Rhode Island in the 1960s. Winslow (front left) is seen here with his father, mother, both sets of grandparents, sister (Kristine Rolofson, also a novelist), and dog.
