Flamingo Lane, page 14
Great. So all I need now, Chance said—is this, Bellum interjected. He reached into one of his vest’s hidden pockets and retrieved a white envelope. Everything you need is right here, he explained, tapping the envelope. Expenses. Directions to the car dealership where you’ll do the exchange. And oh yeah, a brochure on the fish camp up on the Wakulla where you’ll be staying now. You checked out of the Gibson this morning, right?
Right.
Then on your way back, stop at the camp and check in. They know us there.
Bellum offered his hand and Chance stood up to shake it.
It was a pleasure to meet you, young man. Take care of yourself. And good luck.
Chance stared at the envelope. It had all been decided, he realized, before he even left Crooked River. Bellum, Mestival’s surrogate, had simply been testing his resolve.
Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.
Of course you won’t! Bellum picked up his car keys from the table and slipped his sunglasses on.
By the way, I understand you’re from Oregon. Eugene is it?
Yep. Eugene.
Beautiful country. I did some fishing out there once. Steelhead.
It was a great place to grow up.
I bet it was. And I understand your mother still lives there, right? In Eugene?
Chance hesitated before responding, his heartbeat suddenly increasing. There was more. Before they let you go, there was always more. Insinuation. Innuendo. A veiled threat. If you take off with the cash, if you get cold feet and don’t complete the assignment, if you fuck up the deal, this is what will happen.
My mother?
Yeah, your mom. In that house on, what is it? Pershing Road?
Chance’s mouth had gone dry. Without answering Bellum’s question, he spun on his heel and marched away.
Beautiful woman, your mother, Bellum called after him.
He waited for the parking valet to bring the car, his swell of anger gradually subsiding. Looking out at the yachts in the marina, he vowed that one day he would board a ship of his own and sail into oblivion. Wake to the sun on the water and a brisk wind filling the sails as he parted the waves of earthly strife and passed, enlightened, through the “gateless gates” of satori.
On the highway he pressed down on the accelerator, rocketing past the slower traffic. After exchanging cars he would drive to the fish camp on the Wakulla and settle in for the night. And tomorrow, return to Crooked River. No more delays, no more second-guessing. He has known all along that it wasn’t going to be easy to eliminate someone he once loved, but he has no choice now. He has run out of options. He has run out of time.
Faye
Waking, fully rested, on Monday morning, Faye hears a stream of water sliding down the gutter spout then a clatter of fronds, the next-door neighbor’s cabbage palm under assault as a thunderstorm off the Gulf sweeps across Crooked River. Wrapping the sheet and blanket tightly around her, she gazes out a window now streaked with drops of rain.
The rain will keep falling off and on all morning, but it won’t dampen her spirits or temper her upbeat mood. For she has woken happy, miraculously happy. By telling Dave Kershaw about Mexico last night, a great burden has been lifted from her shoulders, and she feels light on her feet today, skipping down the stairs.
In the kitchen she looks out at the grey rain and leaden sky, considering the days, weeks, months she carried all those horrendous secrets bottled up inside her like a ticking bomb because she didn’t trust anyone, anyone, to understand her plight. Not to sympathize but simply to recognize—clearly, without blinders—the evil the human monster she encountered in Quintana Roo embodies. All those interminable months she buried that knowledge, those primal emotions, those dreadful mental images so deep inside her no one, not her therapist or her parents or even her sister Hannah could possibly unearth them. On the other hand, if anyone would know how she felt it would be a cop. And that’s what made Kershaw such a godsend. Without planning to, last night she had instinctively opened the bottle and poured the poison out, and no matter what happens between her and Kershaw now, she will always be grateful for his empathy. For his compassion. For telling her, when she finished, that she was brave.
As the latest shower passes over the neighborhood, followed by a brief lull in the storm, she takes Sunny for a quick jaunt around the neighborhood. By now many of the neighbors have gotten used to seeing her walking Dieter’s dog and this morning one of them, an older gentleman standing behind the black mesh screen of his lanai with a book in his hand, waves. Smiling, she returns his greeting, still a little startled by her buoyant mood. Maintaining a firm grip on Sunny’s leash, she pauses to admire the elegant old neighborhood, the trim green lawns and wooden sash windows, the flowering hibiscus and scarlet bougainvillea, the screened lanais where southern gentlemen nurse tumblers of Kentucky bourbon or read Shelby Foote’s three-volume history of the Civil War. What a fine idea it was to come here. How—what was the word?—serendipitous? If she had stayed in Terre Haute she’s convinced that she would still be miserable, still be paranoid, still be too fearful to venture out into the light of day. And her secrets would still be secret. But here in Crooked River she’s free to ramble without worry through this charming historic neighborhood, smiling and waving at people she doesn’t even know. When she first arrived at the village in Mexico, this was the attitude she projected. Optimism. Enthusiasm. Joie de vivre. And now somehow, after a long and tortuous interval, here was the joy of life again, tempered no doubt by what happened to her but not dead, not vanquished.
That afternoon Kershaw calls to ask about her plans for the rest of the day. She tells him she thought she’d clean the house, do a little grocery shopping, maybe stop by the nursery to pick up supplies for her next project, an herb garden this time.
So what would you think about meeting afterwards, around five.
Meeting?
For a drink, something to eat.
Are you asking me out on a date, sir?
I suppose, he says, I am.
She hears the amusement in his voice and realizes that they have already reached—built—a comfort zone, an emotional oasis where they’re able to banter and flirt.
Well in that case, she answers, I accept.
Great. Any preference?
How about The Tides. Oysters and beer? I’m guessing a boy from Louisiana wouldn’t object to a few fresh oysters.
On the half shell?
Of course. Is there any other way?
You have the best suggestions.
Oh yeah? Well wait’ll you hear my other ones, she says, a little shocked by her audacity.
She hangs up the phone, tingling. Despite the horrific ordeal she had described to him the night before—a story that would have chased a weaker man away—Dave Kershaw is still clearly interested in her, as she is in him. Was this really happening? Like her newfound happiness, not that long ago the idea of a mature, healthy relationship with a man had seemed out of the question. Just as it now seems, against all odds, within reach.
Chance
The fish camp on the Wakulla River wasn’t much to look at, five or six no-frills rustic cabins, a rack of battered canoes for rent, and a prefab office with a pockmarked front counter and a cluttered, airless back room where the owner slept. Hardly the kind of place Harvey Bellum or any of his well-heeled associates would choose for a weekend outing, but it fit Chance to a T: off the beaten path, far from the nearest highway, and best of all discreet.
He rearranged the trunk of the Dodge Mirada—the car he had picked up the day before, per Bellum’s instructions, in Panama City—placing the duffel back inside. Even though he planned to return to the fish camp that evening, if he happened to complete the assignment today, he would immediately head west, and he needed to have his belongings with him. Before closing the trunk he zipped open the duffel and removed the .380 and then, after confirming that the chambers were filled, locked the gun inside the glove compartment and started the car.
On his way to Crooked River, the sky abruptly darkened, and it began to rain so hard the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the downpour, the lack of visibility finally forcing him to splash into the parking lot of an abandoned pizza parlor to wait out the storm. Ten minutes later, when the rain let up, he bumped back over a riprap of muddy ruts to the road.
As he drove into town, the rain started to pummel the hood of the Mirada again. Squinting through the windshield’s furious wipers, he negotiated his way around the central square and eased over to the curb a block north of Dieter’s house. Until this latest shower passed through he wouldn’t be able to see much, but when it did clear, his vantage would be excellent, the view of the front door unobstructed.
Reclining the seat a few inches, he yanked his baseball cap low over his eyes and leaned back. He felt calmer today, safer and more secure now that he had ditched the Monte Carlo and checked out of the Gibson. He had to remain cautious, of course, but this was more his style, the kind of guerilla tactic Parrish used to describe when he and Chance, woozy from tequila, drank late into the night at the Yucatan Cafe. What you have to do, Parrish explained, is get in and get out. Obey your instincts. Make your move.
When the front door of Dieter’s house swung open and Faye, looking much healthier than she had in Terre Haute, hopped down the steps and slid into Dieter’s car, adrenaline surged through Chance’s body as he thought about Parrish’s words. Get in and get out. Limit your exposure. Do what you have to do.
Maintaining a safe distance, he tailed Faye as she drove out past the honey farms to a garden center south of town, where she piled a flat metal cart with half a dozen plastic bags of fill dirt and fertilizer and a cardboard box of fresh herbs.
Back at Dieter’s, as Faye carried the garden supplies into the garage, he parked up the block again, a little paranoid now that the rain had stopped and people were working in their yards or chatting with a neighbor across a fence. Like the stakeout in Terre Haute, he was too exposed here, too vulnerable. But fortunately he didn’t have to wait long for that to change. In a matter of minutes, Dieter’s front door swung open again and a yellow Labrador pranced out, straining at her leash and dragging Faye across the lawn.
He would have to walk this time, and that was going to be tricky. On the other hand, now that the storm had swept through town and the sun glowed down on the sidewalks again, a number of residents were streaming back and forth across the plaza, providing cover. Sometimes it was easier to track your target through a crowd.
At the opposite end of the square, Faye turned west onto Banyan Street in the direction of the harbor. If he was lucky, she would veer south at the water and lead the dog to the small city park below the marina. Since that park lacked basic facilities—restrooms or picnic tables or grills—it was little used, and for a public space surprisingly private. The view to the east, toward town, was blocked by a tangle of Florida privet, to the north and south by black mangroves. An ideal spot, in other words, to complete his assignment. He patted the pocket of his jeans and felt the Walther pressing against the fabric and thought about the shadowy figure crouched behind the fence in the photograph in Blow Up. Clutching a gun.
He was itching to finish the job and move on. Freed of his debt to Mestival, he would be able to start over in Chicago or London or Rome. Crime lords were always on the lookout for good surveillance men, and with his track record in Mexico, he should be able to more or less name his price. Admittedly his final job for Mestival was particularly distasteful, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He had to put aside his petty emotions and complete the assignment with clarity and dispassion. Get in and get out, Parrish counseled. It was as simple as that.
Keeping the quarry in his field of vision, he passed through the working-class neighborhood where many of the deckhands lived. But when Faye got to the harbor she turned back to the north, toward the marina, dashing his hopes for a quick resolution. Apparently the gods were testing him again, measuring his Shaolin resolve.
When Faye disappeared inside The Tides, he looked around for a suitable spot to monitor the tavern. In the shadow of a crepe myrtle, in a ring of sodden red blossoms unloosed by the storm, he watched her step out the back door, still gripping the Lab’s taut leash, and hesitate for a moment, scanning the cedar deck. Then she raised her right hand and Chance saw a man at one of the tables stand up and return her greeting and a cold bead of sweat—of fear—trickled down his neck and crawled underneath his collar.
It was him, the guy who had snapped the photos of the Monte Carlo. That firm jaw, slender physique, sideburns cut at a sharp angle below each ear: Chance would recognize him anywhere. Stunned, he watched Faye quickly cross the deck and lean in to kiss the man on the mouth while the yellow Lab, thumping its tail against the planks, waited impatiently for the cop to kneel down and pet her.
Kershaw
Even though the rain had fallen in a fury, the tables and benches on the back deck of The Tides are already dry so they sit outside. Faye gazes up at the sky, momentarily transfixed by the remarkable azure bands, azure brushstrokes in the aftermath of the storm, radiating out from the axis of the sun.
It’s so beautiful here, she says, the sunsets, the harbor, the boats. Do you ever take it for granted? You know, hardly even notice it anymore?
Kershaw raises his glass, savoring the cold sting of beer, and ponders her question.
Well I’ve been around water my entire life, he eventually replies, but no, I don’t think I take it for granted.
It’s part of you, who you are.
I suppose it is. He looks at the oyster impaled on the tines of her fork, which is suspended in midair, apparently forgotten.
So you gonna eat that or what?
Laughing, she swallows the oyster whole, chasing it with a gulp of wine.
She can’t imagine a more pleasant spot for her second date with Dave Kershaw, her second date with anyone, it occurs to her, in the last four years. And yet even in the midst of their laughter and camaraderie she notices that Kershaw seems a little distant today. And that worries her. She fears that she may have been wrong about her confession, that all those graphic details might be causing him to have second thoughts about their relationship after all. Or perhaps there’s another explanation for his apparent preoccupation, an unsolved case at the precinct or further complications as he attempts to repair, to re-establish, his relationship with his dad.
Listen, Dave, I get this feeling . . .
This feeling?
That something’s bothering you. You seem a little, I don’t know, pensive today?
He nods, unable to look her in the eye. Staring out at the harbor, he admits that there is, in fact, something they need to discuss.
Deflated, she puts down her fork and lifts the wineglass, her hand all of a sudden unsteady. Five minutes ago when she opened the back door and saw Kershaw waiting for her on the deck, her heart had pounded with joy. Now, blurred by worry, she watches him place a photograph on the table: two men standing side by side beneath a palm tree, smiling at the camera, a photograph she remembers taking one day on the beach behind the Yucatan Café. She can’t comprehend why the photo is in Kershaw’s possession, or what possible reason he has for showing it to her.
I know you know Dieter, he says, tapping the man on the left. But what about this guy?
She shakes her head, unwilling to accept what is happening. That morning, for the first time since she returned from Mexico, she had woken optimistic, genuinely optimistic. For once, the future had not seemed like a dead end.
Faye?
Closing her eyes, she sees the blue Monte Carlo race past Lureen’s car a few days ago, traveling in the opposite direction, on the road to the beach on Christopher Key.
What kind of car?
A Monte Carlo. A blue Monte Carlo.
But you didn’t say anything about it. You didn’t tell me.
I didn’t think it was important. I didn’t think it was him.
Why?
His hair. It used to be blond.
Kershaw nods, checking another item off his mental list.
Chance, she mutters. It’s like expelling a breath of bad air, poison air. He’s here? He’s really here?
Yes.
What the fuck?
When’s the last time you saw him?
Four years ago. In the village.
Not since?
Not since.
It’s unbearable, having to dredge it all up again. But what other choice does she have? She tells him about a conversation she overheard at the hacienda between a maid and the cook.
They were talking about Chance. They said he was working for Mestival.
Working.
They called him a contractor. I wasn’t sure what that meant.
Sensing Faye’s distress, Kershaw instinctively covers her hands with his own. Look, you’re safe. That’s the thing you need to remember. You’re safe. Protected. You’re gonna be okay.
You’re gonna be okay. It was their mantra, their fucking mantra. Her mom and dad, Hannah. Her therapist. And now Kershaw. As if merely saying those useless words would somehow make them true.
Because she isn’t okay, she’s the opposite of okay. She’s a target. Mestival has hired Chance—Chance!—to hunt her down because she knows too much, the location of his safe houses and airstrips, the names of his key associates. She glances at the photo again, recoiling, withdrawing. You were friends with him, Kershaw says. In the village.
Since this isn’t a question, she doesn’t feel the need to respond.
Dazed, she watches a woman in a red halter top trim the mainsail of a schooner named Patti Belle. Gaining speed, the boat hydroplanes across the harbor.
We ran the plates on the car, Kershaw says.
And?
And it’s registered to someone called Herrera, Rafael Herrera. Name ring a bell?
No.
He registered it in Juarez. Recently. How about Juarez? You ever been to Juarez?
