Authors: John R. Maxim
“Damned right I did.” He raised his right hand to show
the pistol that had been in Michael's belt.
Fallon understood. He felt, with his fingertips, the welt that was already rising. But he was also seeing Bronwyn.
He was seeing, at last, that what Johnny told him was
true. That everything about her was a lie. The pain of that
was greater. He buried his face in his hands.
They sat in silence a while longer.
“Let's get clear about the bat,” said the younger Gior
dano at last.
Fallon tried to get up. Johnny pulled him back.
“If I was a burglar,” Johnny said quietly, “and Jake
had walked in on me, I would have grabbed the first thing
handy. In Jake Fallon's house, the first thing handy was a
bat. This was twenty-five years after that other bat, Mike.
Don't tell me Doyle should have known.”
Fallon's eyes were still glazed.
“You listening to me?”
Fallon wet his lips and nodded.
“You want someone to blame? How about Jake and Moon? If they finished Rast back when this started, none
of this would have happened.”
Michael said nothing. He was still seeing Bronwyn. Even those violet eyes were a lie.
“And then of course there's your father. If he'd listened
to Jake in the first place, if he'd gone to him, up front,
when he saw what he was into . . .”
Johnny G. didn't bother to finish. He waved the Ad-
Chem report at Michael.
“You don't get a pass on this either,” he said. “You
go to work for a company and they pay you some nice
bucks. You see they're on a hot streak that never seems
to end but you never wonder how it is that they never
pick a loser. Why sniff the hand that feeds you, right?”
Michael's color rose. But he knew he had that coming.
“And you even speak German. Adler—eagle, eagle—
Adler. That never crossed your mind?”
It had and it hadn't. Any more than he'd think “star”
when he heard the name Stern, or “small” when he heard
the name Klein.
“And
then
,
”
'Johnny
smacked him with the brochure
for emphasis, “there's running the way you did. That's
how Jake and Moon raised you? Someone's trying to hurt
you, you couldn't have at least called
m
e?”
A sheet of paper, torn from a notebook, fell out of
the
annual report. Michael picked it up.
“What turned the corner here,” Johnny G. reminded
him, “was when you finally called in and told Doyle about
the two who tried to ice you. It was Doyle who got their names. It's thanks to him that we know what's been hap
pening here.”
The sheet of paper was a list of names and telephone
numbers. Michael recognized some of the names.
“Doyle got us where we are,” said Johnny G., “but
we could have been there months ago if only you trusted
him back then. Doyle is family, Mike. He's not blood,
neither is Moon, but they're family all the same.”
Michael took a breath. “How long has Doyle known
about Bronwyn?”
“Just since today. Since Hobbs spilled his guts.”
“So Moon knew too?”
”I guess.”
“And he never told me.”
“He probably didn't have the heart.”
“What else didn't he tell me, Johnny?”
“Mike . . . don't do that. For your own good, don't
start.”
“Yeah.” Fallon nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay.”
“Where's Moon, by the way?”
Michael told him. He told him about the bad Warfarin
that had caused internal bleeding and had almost killed
him.
Johnny G. grimaced. “You heard about Arnie
Aaronson?''
”I heard he's dead. Sheila told me,”
“Same way, Mike. They fed him drugs. Good, bad, I
don't know, but Parker overdosed him and he died.”
“Where's Parker? Do you know?”
“He'll keep. Trust me.”
Michael looked at the list he'd picked up. “Johnny,
what are these names?”
“Drug company execs. Aaronson called them for Doyle.
We think that's why Parker snatched him.”
Johnny got to his feet. He pulled Michael up with him
and steered him back toward Doyle. Doyle had been
watching them. His chin was up and his hands were balled
into fists.
“That,” said Johnny G., “is his I've-taken-enough-of-your-crap look. Go tell him you're sorry or go duke it out.
Either way, put this behind you, Mike. The three of us
have work to do.”
“What work? Except nailing Rast.”
“We're going to bring this down. You're going to help
us figure how.”
Michael folded the list.
”I already know how,” he said.
Moon had finally been unplugged.
He was given a bed in a four-room ward and served
cod cakes and Jell-O for dinner. Only one other bed was
occupied, a man with a bleeding ulcer who seemed less than pleased at having him for a roommate.
Moon waited until his tray was collected. He gathered his clothing and went into the bathroom to dress. The
puncture in his arm began to seep from the effort. He packed it with another gauze pad and taped it.
He told his roommate that he thought he'd scout the
day rooms, find a good jigsaw puzzle to work on. The ulcer patient ignored him. Moon said then he'd drop by
the office
,
see about getting a different room. Wouldn't
want to aggravate an ulcer, he said. The man still ignored
him. But he looked up at the ceiling as if to say, “Thank
you, God.”
For his sake, God'd better be white.
He was out of the hospital five minutes later. He saw
a bus stop nearby but decided he'd better walk a while,
get his legs back, give those cod cakes a chance to settle.
He walked down into Oak Bluffs where he found a taxi. He was back in Edgartown before dark.
Chapter 43
L
ena Mayfield
was loving it.
She had this whole
big room to herself. A four-poster
bed with a goosedown comforter. Oriental rugs. An uphol
stered rocker. Thick velvet drapes and chintz curtains.
All
this and a bathroom to die for.
In fact, with everyone gone to dinner she had this whole
big house to herself. Except, just now, for Megan. Megan
had stopped by to leave that sick man's car and was down
stairs gathering up some extra pillows and blankets. Two more friends of Michael's, she said, would be sleeping on her boat.
Lena, meanwhile, had undressed down to her slip, put
on a big soft terry robe, and started filling the tub. She
had brought up a tray from the kitchen with a bottle of wine, some crackers, and three kinds of cheese and set
them on a chair next to the Jacuzzi. She had wheeled the
TV in, lit a scented candle, and turned off all the lights.
In about ten minutes, she would be in heaven.
“Mrs. Mayfield?” Megan's voice from below. “Are
you sure you're okay here alone?”
“It's Lena, child. And you just scoot.”
“We'll go sailing tomorrow. How's that?”
“Sounds pretty. Now git.”
She heard the front door slam. Lena crossed to her win
dow and saw Megan, a
bundle
of linens flung over her
shoulder, starting down the hill. The bundle was bigger than she was. But suddenly Megan slowed in the middle
of the street. She looked around. She seemed puzzled by
something, cocked her head like a dog. Lena saw no one else. After a moment, she looked up at the window and
waved. That must have been it, thought Lena. Megan must
have felt a pair of eyes on her. But now, satisfied, she
hitched up her bundle and went on.
A sail might be nice, thought Lena. She'd never been
on a real sailboat. Been on a cruise ship though. Cruised
to Nassau with her husband the year before he died. Right
now, though, the only water she's interested in is what
she's going to soak in once she figures out how to get
that Jacuzzi swirling.
Candlelight and wine, she thought. And a big bubbly
tub. The only thing missing is a man. And isn't it just her
luck that the only black man her age on this whole island
is laid up over in that hospital.
Megan says it's not true he's the only one. She says
Myra knows a bunch more. One runs the hardware store
in Tisbury—he's a bachelor—and another is a retired State Trooper—he's a widower. She says Myra's already offered
to fix her up with either one.
But this Moon sounds more interesting, mostly because when Megan talks about him she gets all smiley and girly.
She says he's sweet and kind. She says he's loyal and
true. Lena teased her some about that.
“You got your cap set for him, white girl?”
”I could do worse.”
“Old buck like him? What's he got over Michael?”
She thought for a second. She said, “Michael makes me feel good. Moon makes me feel safe.”
She wasn't done yet either. She went through about six
more adjectives, all with her head cocked the way she
does, as if someone's calling them in to her from another
part of the house. Like “strong.” Like “rugged.” Like
hands that could crush a full beer can. She didn't mention
a thick head of hair but she said he's “sort of rich” which
made up for that failing real nicely.