around pretending to be him?”
“He had no idea. That’s why he hired me.”
Now the black one drew a gun from his shoulder holster, a .38 revolver. He assumed a shooting stance, feet spread wide, aiming the gun with both hands at Carver’s forehead. He said, “So you been hired. Now, you gonna be fired, or is it gonna be Smith and Wesson here?”
Carver swallowed loud enough for everyone to hear. “I suppose you’re right, I’m no longer working for Mr. Wesley.”
“That’s how it is. ’Cause there is no more Mr. Wesley. As of this moment, consider yourself unemployed as regards Frank Wesley or anything having to do with Frank Wesley.”
Carver stared into the steady dark tunnel of the gun’s bore and felt fear grow in his bowels like a cold thing with claws. “I’ll consider your little speech my pink slip.” His voice was higher than he’d intended; irritation that he’d revealed his vulnerability wormed through his fear.
The Latino was studying him with calm, somber dark eyes. With a faintly sad expression, he raised his revolver and poked it into a belt holster on his right hip. A Spanish Wyatt Earp.
“You got no business here,” the black one said to Carver. He didn’t holster his gun, held it as if it were locked onto Carver with radar.
“Then I suppose I better leave,” Carver said tentatively. Damned if he’d say please.
Somehow without moving the gun, the black man shrugged. How’d he do that? “Ain’t nothing to keep you here, Carver. Nothing to make you come back. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say.”
“We got us an understanding?”
“I’d say that, too.”
“Go back to following wayward spouses, that kinda thing,” the Latino said. “Live longer, man. Maybe even get prosperous, you peek through the right keyhole.”
“Don’t trip and fall on your way out,” the black one said. Carver turned, limped to the door, and opened it. Trying not to hurry. Salvage a shred of dignity.
The tenseness left his back muscles only after he was in the hall and had closed the door behind him. Out on the sidewalk, he found himself hurrying to where the Olds was parked. Worked up a sweat.
He drove back to the Carib Terrace and locked his door. Wedged a chair under the knob. Made sure the sliding glass door to the patio and beach was locked.
Then he got undressed and went to bed, and was vaguely surprised to feel himself relax.
He knew if the two men in Wesley’s condo had wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. They gave the impression they were experienced. Experts at their work. The fact that he was still alive meant they wouldn’t come around to see him again unless they thought he hadn’t been scared off the case.
Repeating that comforting thought like a mantra, he fell asleep.
In the morning he showered and dressed, then checked out of the motel.
He had a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice at a coffee shop on Ocean Boulevard.
It was quiet in the coffee shop, and narrow-slatted blinds were angled to deflect the brilliant morning sun. Carver took his time eating. The food tasted terrific, maybe because he was so glad he was still alive to enjoy it.
When he was finished, he ordered a second cup of coffee and unfolded the Fort Lauderdale newspaper he’d bought at the vending machine outside. Accidentally laid it in some spilled syrup and moved it aside.
A follow-up story on the Del Moray car bombing was at the bottom of page three. That was because there wasn’t much in the way of new information.
Only that the victim had been positively identified from dental records as Frank Wesley.
Chapter 9
T HOUGH IT WAS ONLY one in the afternoon, it seemed like dusk in Carver’s office. The broken window had been boarded up and would be replaced tomorrow. Apparently there was a rash of broken windows in Del Moray, according to the management company that leased Carver’s office. So for the time being he had to make do with a sheet of rough
“He had no idea. That’s why he hired me.”
Now the black one drew a gun from his shoulder holster, a .38 revolver. He assumed a shooting stance, feet spread wide, aiming the gun with both hands at Carver’s forehead. He said, “So you been hired. Now, you gonna be fired, or is it gonna be Smith and Wesson here?”
Carver swallowed loud enough for everyone to hear. “I suppose you’re right, I’m no longer working for Mr. Wesley.”
“That’s how it is. ’Cause there is no more Mr. Wesley. As of this moment, consider yourself unemployed as regards Frank Wesley or anything having to do with Frank Wesley.”
Carver stared into the steady dark tunnel of the gun’s bore and felt fear grow in his bowels like a cold thing with claws. “I’ll consider your little speech my pink slip.” His voice was higher than he’d intended; irritation that he’d revealed his vulnerability wormed through his fear.
The Latino was studying him with calm, somber dark eyes. With a faintly sad expression, he raised his revolver and poked it into a belt holster on his right hip. A Spanish Wyatt Earp.
“You got no business here,” the black one said to Carver. He didn’t holster his gun, held it as if it were locked onto Carver with radar.
“Then I suppose I better leave,” Carver said tentatively. Damned if he’d say please.
Somehow without moving the gun, the black man shrugged. How’d he do that? “Ain’t nothing to keep you here, Carver. Nothing to make you come back. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say.”
“We got us an understanding?”
“I’d say that, too.”
“Go back to following wayward spouses, that kinda thing,” the Latino said. “Live longer, man. Maybe even get prosperous, you peek through the right keyhole.”
“Don’t trip and fall on your way out,” the black one said. Carver turned, limped to the door, and opened it. Trying not to hurry. Salvage a shred of dignity.
The tenseness left his back muscles only after he was in the hall and had closed the door behind him. Out on the sidewalk, he found himself hurrying to where the Olds was parked. Worked up a sweat.
He drove back to the Carib Terrace and locked his door. Wedged a chair under the knob. Made sure the sliding glass door to the patio and beach was locked.
Then he got undressed and went to bed, and was vaguely surprised to feel himself relax.
He knew if the two men in Wesley’s condo had wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. They gave the impression they were experienced. Experts at their work. The fact that he was still alive meant they wouldn’t come around to see him again unless they thought he hadn’t been scared off the case.
Repeating that comforting thought like a mantra, he fell asleep.
In the morning he showered and dressed, then checked out of the motel.
He had a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice at a coffee shop on Ocean Boulevard.
It was quiet in the coffee shop, and narrow-slatted blinds were angled to deflect the brilliant morning sun. Carver took his time eating. The food tasted terrific, maybe because he was so glad he was still alive to enjoy it.
When he was finished, he ordered a second cup of coffee and unfolded the Fort Lauderdale newspaper he’d bought at the vending machine outside. Accidentally laid it in some spilled syrup and moved it aside.
A follow-up story on the Del Moray car bombing was at the bottom of page three. That was because there wasn’t much in the way of new information.
Only that the victim had been positively identified from dental records as Frank Wesley.
Chapter 9
T HOUGH IT WAS ONLY one in the afternoon, it seemed like dusk in Carver’s office. The broken window had been boarded up and would be replaced tomorrow. Apparently there was a rash of broken windows in Del Moray, according to the management company that leased Carver’s office. So for the time being he had to make do with a sheet of rough
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