Authors: John R. Maxim
She had explained that to Michael when he told her of
his dream. When she sees a thing, when she's awake, what she sees is always real. She might not interpret it correctly,
and it's not even necessarily significant. People, she told
him, think psychics only see really dramatic stuff, like
telegrams coming from the war department but the truth is
that most of it's more like junk mail. Still, it's always real.
Dreams aren't real, not even for psychics. Her shrink
had taught her that. He said they can't be interpreted be
cause all they are are random memories—fantasies and
fears and self-doubts included—popping off like sparks as
you sleep. The subconscious mind doesn't like disorder.
So it tries to organize them, interpret them. The result is a dream that now seems to have a plot.
You say, yes but in my dream there was this person, a
woman, for example. I can still see her in my mind and
I'm absolutely certain that I've never laid eyes on her
before so she must be someone in my future. Don't hold
your breath. You dreamed about a woman, true. You
didn't know her, also true. That's why your subconscious
had to give her a face. And because it likes order, it throws
in the details. It gives her a hairdo, clothing, freckled shoulders, even an accent sometimes.
A dream can scare you, sure. It can evoke any emotion
that your mind decides on while it's piecing this mess
together. It can amuse you just as easily. It can also piss
you off.
Michael agreed that this seemed to make sense. And talking it out had seemed to help him. He no longer had
that same recurring dream and he'd gotten so he could
enjoy his regular dreams again. He did enjoy some of
th
em, he told her. Always had. He loved having sex
dreams where he finds himself in bed with a naked lady
because you wake up with a smile and no regrets. And
you're right, Megan, he said. Those women were never
anyone he'd ever seen before.
He rushed to say that he didn't do that anymore either.
The only naked lady he dreamed about now, both asleep
and awake, was Mysterious Megan and she was all the
woman he could handle.
Silver-tongued devil.
And she was right, he said, about dreams that piss you off. There was one in particular. He was in a bed some
where, not his own, but he was by himself. But suddenly this girl climbed in with him. She walked into the room,
said a sexy ‘.‘Hi,” pulled off her dress, unhooked her bra,
tossed it, and climbed in. He's still half asleep so he didn't
argue. He's not sure he was even that interested.
She starts tickling his back. She runs her fingers, soft
and slow, from his neck all the way down to his bun.
Back and forth, back and forth. Naturally, he starts to get,
um, unsleepy. He rolls over a bit and begins touching her
in return. He moves closer. He feels the warmth of her
body up against his. He leans forward to kiss her. But she
backs away. She says, “Maybe we better not,” gets up, grabs her clothes, and leaves the room.
He could have killed her. ”I mean,” he told Megan,
“this is my
dream,
right? Did I invite her? Did I so much
as make room in the bed for her? I get blown off enough
in real life without getting it in my own goddamned sex
dream.”
Megan thought this was hilarious. But it served him
right. Dream or no dream, he should have jumped up and
run out of the room saying, “What do you take me for, you minx? I'm saving myself for Megan Cole.”
“Good morning, gorgeous.”
She heard his sleepy voice. She didn't turn.
“Hi, sailor,” she answered huskily. She hid the Colt in
the folds of the coverlet. The bed creaked and he was up.
A few groggy steps and she felt warm hands on her shoul
ders, his lips against her hair. They stood for several mo
me
n
ts, looking out at the gathering light, at the sailboats
dozing at anchor.
“How about some coffee?” he asked her. “I'll go make
some coffee.”
“I'll be here,” she told him.
He picked up his robe and left the room. She heard
him on the stairs. She turned back toward his night table,
intending to put the gun away. But that wouldn't do. Mi
chael's friend, Mrs. Mayfield, would be here in a few hours. Can't leave it for her to find.
She went to the canvas tote she'd brought her things in,
placed the heavy Colt inside, and covered it over with her
toiletries kit. This way she won't forget it. She'll tell him
it's there when they get back to her boat.
In the meantime, a cup of coffee sounds good. This
lovely room feels good. Her body feels good. And she
had a pretty strong hunch that in about fifteen minutes it
would feel even better.
God, listen to her.
He's done what all the shrinks couldn't do. Or all the
showers.
She was grinning.
Move it, Michael. Get your ass back up here.
Chapter
36
O
n Friday
morning, the day before Memorial Day weekend, Parker's taxi reached Villardi's Seafood
Palace with fifteen minutes to spare.
Hector drove, Yahya rode shotgun, Parker sat in the
rear with a Sri Lankan named Tami who, while hardly
WASP in appearance, could probably pass for a Japanese
tourist. Japs, Parker reasoned, could not be that rare on
Martha's Vineyard. Japs go everywhere they sell film.
Parker had enlisted Tami because there was still no
word from Haroun. Tami was a distinctly second choice.
What's good about Tami, Parker decided, is that he moves
very quietly and is into that ninja shit. What's bad is he's
a schmuck. He liked to prowl around at night in this black
outfit he has, with this Jap knife he has, and show the Pakis how easily he could have cut their throats. He
doesn't do that anymore and he only has half a pecker because one night he tried that on Haroun.
Don't get me started, Parker muttered to himself. On
personnel, don't get me started.
Parker told Hector to make two passes. He was most
impressed. If Johnny G. had not thought to warn him of all the security he would have kept on going. He noted
two parked vans that probably held spotters with radios,
at least one man on a rooftop signaling another on the
sidewalk, and several cars with men sitting low in them
spread out along the avenue. The man being signaled
walked over to a delivery truck and ordered the driver to
move. It was blocking the view from one of the vans.
All this seemed a little early for a two o'clock meeting
but the out-of-town bosses, he reasoned, might be planning
to grab some lunch first.
“Pull up in front,” he told Hector. “Yahya, you know
these guys. You come in with me. If it all looks kosher, go back outside and wait.”
Johnny G. was at the bar, dressed in a dark suit and tie.
The maitre d'—Paulie—the one who called—pointed
him out but Parker already knew him from the papers. He
nodded a greeting, took a slow look around, but Yahya
walked straight over to Giordano. Johnny gave him a
smile, offered his hand. Yahya took it and kissed it.
This seemed a little bit much. Now Johnny Giordano
has his hands on the Paki's head
l
ike he's giving benedic
tion. Yahya backed away, bowing.
“Hey,” Parker hissed at him. “Who do you work for?
Go wait in the car.”
Johnny G. beckoned him, saluting with his glass, pulling
out the stool next to his own. The bar was otherwise
empty.
“This is Diet Pepsi,” he said. “What can I offer you.”
”I don't know. Same thing.” He gestured vaguely
toward the street but hesitated at the presence of the
bartender.
“He's okay.” Johnny G. flicked a hand. “He's my
cousin.”
The bartender blinked.
“Yeah, well . . .” Parker cocked his head toward the street again. ”I spotted your so-called security in about
five seconds. I mean, maybe that's the idea, a show of force, but it looks more like a parade out there.”
Johnny G. turned to the bartender. “You hear that?”
The bartender blinked again.
“Go tell them to be more discreet.”
He didn't move. Not much upstairs, Parker decided.
“Jimmy . . .” Giordano repeated himself, more slowly
this time. “Go out, find whoever’s in charge, tell him to
get his act together. Then come right back. I need you to
take some notes for me here.”
The bartender hesitated, looked a little flustered. It was
like, thought Parker, “Why me? Those are scary people
out there.” But he took a deep breath and nodded.
“Sure, Johnny.” He stepped from behind the bar.
Hennessy had found Arnie Aaronson.
It had taken him until half past ten that morning to
get a warrant. This was because the Manhattan D.A. had
requested it, and because it was an election year, and be
cause the issuing judge had become very tired of issuing
warrants just so the candidates could showboat.
In the meantime, however, the detectives on stakeout near Parker Security Services, Inc., had no authority to
detain anyone leaving. They could only record the plate number of the taxi that picked up three men at 10:17
a.m.,
one of whom could have been Parker. The other two were
dark-skinned, carried camera bags, and were dressed like
tourists from Ohio.