The sound of the truck had scarcely died away when Johnny’s bedroom door opened and Freda came in.
In the grey light of the dawn, she looked to Johnny the most desirable woman in the world, but this was no time for love.
She sat on the side of his bed.
“He talked to me last night,” she said.
“I know. I heard every word,” Johnny said and put his hand on hers. “You played it smart, but when he comes back tonight… what’s going to happen?”
“I’ll tell him I’m sure you’re not the man he thinks you are. I’ll tell him I’ve seen your driving license and it’s in the name of Bianco. I’ll say there’s no St. Christopher medal.”
Johnny shook his head.
“That won’t stop him. He’s money hungry. As he said; what’s there to lose except the price of a telephone call?”
“Then let’s get out of here,” Freda said. “Let’s get the money and get lost. I know where I can hire a car in the village. We’ll drive to East City, pick up the money, then head North? What do you say?”
He lay back on his pillow and marvelled at her ignorance of the net that was closing around him. “If only it could be as simple as that,” he said. “But they don’t know me!” Freda said impatiently.
“Where have you hidden the money? Why can’t I get it while you wait, out of sight?”
“East City is swarming with Massino’s Men. Every one of them will have a description of the bags, holding the money. Two shabby red hold-alls with black leather handles,” Johnny said. “Anyone seen carrying two such bags wouldn’t survive five minutes.”
“Then we’ll buy a trunk and put the two bags in the trunk… what’s the matter with that?”
Johnny now felt he had to tell her everything.
“The bags are in a left-luggage locker in the Greyhound bus
station, right opposite Massino’s office. You couldn’t load them into a trunk without being seen.”
“But there must be some way I could get them!”
“Massino’s sharp. Maybe he has thought of the lockers. Maybe he has them staked out. Before we do anything, I’ve got to check.” Johnny thought for a moment. “Where’s the nearest call booth?”
“In the village… the local store.”
“I’ve a contact in East City. He’ll tell me what’s happening. How soon does the store open?”
“Seven-thirty.”
He looked at his watch. The time was 05.30.
“Will you take me across in the boat?”
She hesitated.
“They’re all eyes and ears over there. So far, they don’t know you exist. You could cause a sensation.”
“I’ve got to get to a phone.”
She thought for a long moment.
“Suppose I tell Salvadore you’re my step-brother on a visit? Be nice to him. He’s easy to con: you just have to be nice to him.”
“An Italian?” Johnny stiffened. “Who’s he?”
“He owns the store: Salvadore Bruno. He’s harmless. If we time our arrival as the store opens, no one will be around. You really mean you must phone?”
“Yes.”
“You mean once you know it will be all right, we can hire a car and get the money?”
“I’ve got to know first.”
She nodded.
“I’ll get coffee. There’s time.”
He reached out and pulled her down on him. “There’s also time for coffee.”
The motorboat drifted into the little harbour. Johnny could see the store: a low, ramshackle building, facing the waterfront. He glanced at his watch. It was a minute after 07.30 and he saw the door leading into the store, was standing open.
He was wearing his bush jacket to conceal his gun and holster. His eyes darted along the waterfront, but there was no sign of life.
Freda jumped onto the quay. Johnny tossed the rope to her and she secured the boat.
Together they crossed the dirt road and walked into the store.
“The phone’s there,” Freda said and pointed.
As Johnny stepped into the call booth, he saw a short, fat man come out from behind a curtain. He shut the door, then turned his back and inserted coins. He called Sammy’s apartment.
There was a delay, then Sammy’s sleepy voice came over the line.
“Who’s this?”
“Sammy! Wake up! This is Johnny!”
“Who?”
“Johnny!”
A low moan of fear came over the line.
“Listen, Sammy… what’s happening up there? What’s the news?”
“Mr. Johnny… I asked you… I begged you not to contact me. I could get into real trouble. I…”
“Cut it out,” Sammy! You’re my friend… remember? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know nothin’. No one talks any more, Mr. Johnny. I swear I don’t know nothin’!”
“I want you to do something for me, Sammy.”
“Me? Haven’t I done enough, Mr. Johnny? You’ve got all my money. Cloe keeps worrying me for money and I’ve got none now to give her. My brother…”
“Skip it, Sammy! I told you: you’ll get your money back. Now listen carefully. You know the Greyhound bus station?”
“Yeah. I know it.”
“When you have driven the boss to his office, go in there and buy a newspaper. Wander around. I want to know if any of the mob are staked out there. You getting this, Sammy?”
“They are staked out there, Mr. Johnny. Don’t ask me why, but they are. I went in there last night to get cigarettes and Toni and Ernie were hanging around.”
Johnny nodded to himself. So Massino suspected the money was in one of those lockers.
“Okay, Sammy. Now don’t worry about your money. I’ll send it to you soon,” and he hung up.
For a long moment, Johnny stood staring at the coin box. It was a matter of patience. For how long would Massino have the lockers watched? He could not know the money was there: he was guessing. This had to be thought about. How to deal with Scott tonight?
He pushed open the booth door and moved into the store.
“Johnny! Come and meet Salvadore,” Freda called. She was standing by one of the counters. On the other side was the short, fat man who thrust out his hand.
“Glad to meet you,” he said with a wide smile. “Big surprise. Mrs. Freda never told me she had a half-brother. Welcome to Little Creek.”
As Johnny shook hands, he took this man in with a quick searching glance: balding, around sixty, a bushy moustache, small, intelligent eyes and a stubbly chin.
“Passing through,” he said. “Got business in Miami. Nice store you have here.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s all right.” The little eyes dwelt on Johnny’s face. “You Italian like me?”
“My mother was Italian,” Johnny said. “Our old man was a
Swede.” He looked at Freda who nodded. “Mother comes out in you, huh?”
“You can say that.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “You staying long?”
“It’s pretty nice up here. I’m in no hurry to get to work.” Johnny forced a laugh. “I heard a lot about this place when Freda wrote, but I had no idea it’s as good this.”
“You fish?”
“I like it. Yesterday, I landed a four-pounder first try… a bass.”
Salvadore beamed.
“So you’re a fisherman.”
“Could I have two pounds of bacon and a dozen eggs,” Freda broke in.
“In a moment.”
Salvadore hurried to another counter. Johnny and Freda exchanged glances. They didn’t say anything.
Ten minutes later, after more talk, they walked across the quay to the boat.
Salvadore watched them go. The benign expression on his fat face slowly faded and his little eyes became like marbles.
He reached under the counter and produced yesterday’s Florida Times. Quickly, he thumbed through the pages until he came to the Have You Seen This Man? advertisement. He stared for several moments at the photograph, then taking a pencil from behind his ear, he carefully pencilled in a beard. After staring at the photograph again, he crossed to the call booth, inserted a coin and dialled a number.
A growling voice replied.
“Bruno. Little Creek,” Salvadore said. “This guy Johnny Bianda. There’s a guy just arrived, calling himself Johnny who looks like him.”
“What guy?”
Salvadore talked.
“If she says he’s her half-brother why the hell can’t he be her half-brother.”
“This doll isn’t getting it from her husband. It’s my bet she’d say anything to get it and it’s my bet this guy is giving it to her.”
“Okay. I’ll send someone to take a look. We’ve got hundreds of goddamn suspects to check out, but I’ll send someone.”
“When?”
“How do I know? When I’ve got a man free.”
“If it’s him, I get the reward?”
“If it’s him,” and the line went dead.
The noise of the outboard engine made conversation impossible. Johnny sat in the prow of the boat, his mind active. The store-keeper had alerted his sense of danger. He had had to phone Sammy, but now he realized the risk he had taken. There were Mafiosi everywhere. So they were watching the lockers at the Greyhound bus station! As he sat in the prow of the boat, feeling the breeze against his face, watching the prow cut through the still waters, he felt the net closing in on him.
When he had tied up and had followed Freda on to the deck of the houseboat, he dropped into one of the bamboo chairs.
“Well?”
She stood over him and he looked up into her bright blue eyes.
“They’re watching the lockers.”
The disappointment in her eyes made him uneasy. She was so money hungry, he thought. She sat by his side.
“So what do we do?”
“That’s right… so what do we do?” He thought, staring across the lake. “When I planned this steal, baby, I told myself I would have to be patient. I told myself it wouldn’t be safe spending that money for a couple of years.”
She stiffened.
“Two years?”
“As long as the money stays in the locker, it’s safe. Try and move it and you and me are dead and the money goes back to Massino. Sooner or later, he’ll get tired of watching the lockers. It might take a month… even six months, but I have my contact in East City. He’ll tell me when the heat’s off and until it’s off, we have to wait.”
“You’re not planning to stay here six months, are you?”
“No… I’ve got to find myself a job. I’m handy with boats. I’ll go to Tampa… I’ll find something there.”
“And what about me?” The hard note in her voice made him look at her. She was staring at him, her eyes glittering.
“I’ve some money. It’ll be rough like this, but if you want to come, I’d like to have you with me.”
“How much money did you take from this man, Johnny? You haven’t told me.”
And he wasn’t going to tell her.
“Around fifty thousand,” he said.
“You’re risking your life for fifty thousand?”
“That’s it. I want to own a boat. I can get one for that money.”
She stared at him and he saw she didn’t believe him.
“It’s more than that, isn’t it? You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know. I never got around to counting it. My guess is fifty, but it could be more… could be less.
She sat still, thinking.
He watched her, then said quietly. “You’re wondering if ten thousand in the hand is better than fifty thousand in the bush, aren’t you?”
She stiffened, then shook her head.
“No. I’m trying to imagine myself on a boat,” but he knew she was lying.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he said. “Look, suppose when you go over for the mail you call these attorneys. Let me tell you what will happen. Five or six men will arrive. They’ll try to take me alive, because dead, they will never find the money. One thing I’m sure about: no one takes me alive. I’ve seen what happens to men who have tried to doublecross Massino. He has them tied to chairs and beats them with a baseball bat: careful not to kill them, breaking their bones and then he finally sticks a butcher’s hook in their throats and hangs them in the chair until they die: so no one is taking me alive. So there will be a gun battle and during the gun battle you’ll stop a bullet. Believe me, baby, no one will live to collect that ten thousand dollar reward: that’s just bait. So don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
She shivered, then put her hand on his.
“I wouldn’t betray you, Johnny, I swear I wouldn’t, but what about Ed?”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about him. Here’s what you tell him. You tried to get into my suitcase while I was fishing, but it was locked. So when I got back, you went over to collect the mail and the newspaper. You telephoned these attorneys and said you thought the man they were looking for was in Little Creek. And what do you imagine they said?” Johnny looked at her. “They said the man had been found in Miami and they thanked you for calling them and they were sorry you had been troubled. How will Ed react to that?” She relaxed.
“That’s smart. He won’t want to spend more money on a long distance. Yes, he’ll drop it.”
“That’s the way I figured it. I can stay here until the end of the week, then I’ll tell him I’m moving on. We’ll hire that car you talked about and we’ll go to Tampa.”
“Why wait? Why not go tomorrow?”
“That’s not the way to play it. During the next five days, you’re going to fall in love with me and you’ll leave him a letter telling him so and that you and me are going off together. Rush it and he’ll get suspicious. He might even phone these attorneys. He might ask at the village and find out what car we’ve hired. Then we wouldn’t get far, baby. Believe me, this is a game of patience.”
“Wait! That’s all I do! Wait!” Freda got to her feet. “God! I’m sick
of this life!”
“It’s better to be sick of life than not have a life.” Johnny stood up. “I’ll go get some supper.”
He left her and went to his room. Closing the door, he slid the bolt. Then taking out a spare khaki shirt, he felt in the breast pocket. From it he took the key to the left-luggage locker. He looked at it for a brief moment. Engraved on it was the number of the locker: 176: the key to $186,000!
Sitting on the bed, he untied his shoe lace, put the key into his shoe and then tightened the lace. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was safe!
A few minutes later he returned to the deck.
Freda was in the living-room, using the vacuum cleaner.
“I’ll be back,” he called, then went to the boat, started the engine and headed out to the middle of the lake.
The telephone bell rang just as Massino was about to leave his office for home.
“Get it!” he barked to Lu Berilli who scooped up the receiver.
“It’s Mr. Tanza,” he said and offered the receiver.
Cursing, Massino snatched the receiver from him, sat on the corner of his desk and said, “What is it, Carlo? I’m just going home.”
“Just had a hot tip come in,” Carlo said. “Could be nothing, but could be something. A man, answering to Bianda’s description is living in a houseboat near Little Creek: that’s five miles from New Symara. He’s been there about two days and living with a man and his wife. The woman has hot pants. The husband is a trucker and away all day. She’s Swedish and says this guy is her half-brother. He’s as Italian as we are. This is a straight tip and the source is reliable.”
“So why bother me?” Massino demanded. “You’re looking for him, aren’t you? Well, check this punk out.”
“We want one of your boys to identify him. No point in starting anything without being sure. Can you send someone?”
“Okay. I’ll send Toni.”
“Fine. Tell him to fly to New Symara and then take a taxi to the
Waterfront Bar. All the taxidrivers know it. He’s to ask for Luigi. He’s our contact man. He’ll fix it Toni has three or four men who’ll take him to Little Creek. Okay?”
Massino scribbled on a pad.
“Yeah,” he said and hung up.
He turned to Berilli.
“Find Toni. Give him this. He’s to fly on the first flight out. Tell him his job is to identify some guy Tanza thinks is Bianda. Get going!”
Berilli found Toni drinking beer with Ernie in a bar all Massino’s men frequented. Toni and Ernie had just come off a long, boring stint of watching the left- luggage lockers and Toni was griping.
Ernie, who never minded a job where he could sit and do nothing, was listening with a bored expression on his fat face.
“Look who’s here,” he said when he saw Berilli come
“That creep!” Toni sneered. “What’s he good for?”
Berilli came over and sat at their table.
“You have yourself a job.” He hated Toni and it pleased him to be the conveyor of bad news. “The boss says you’re to fly right away to New Symara… wherever the hell that is. Here… it’s all written down.”
Toni took the scrap of paper, read it and then looked blankly at Berilli.
“What the hell’s this all about?” he demanded.
“This guy Luigi says they think they’ve spotted Johnny. They want someone to go down there and identify him before they move in.”
“Johnny?”
Toni lost colour.
“Yeah. The boss says for you to take off right away.”
“That’ll be the time,” Ernie said and chortled. “When you face Johnny. Man! Would I like to be a long distant witness!”
Toni cursed him.
“You’re sure the boss picked me?”
Berilli sneered at him.
“You call him. Don’t you want the job?”
Toni licked his lips, aware the two men were watching him and grinning. He got to his feet and left the bar.
Johnny got back to the houseboat around midday with three fairsized Black Crappie. He had been uncomfortable wearing his bush jacket but he had to wear it to hide his gun and holster. From now on, he told himself, he wouldn’t move without his gun. His instinct for danger was alert. While fishing, he had thought of Salvadore. The fat man had been friendly, but that didn’t mean a thing. Everywhere there was a Mafia contact. He remembered Salvadore saying: You Italian like me? On the face of it a harmless remark, but it could also point to trouble.
All the same the peace of the lake, the quietness, the fact no one came near, although he could see distant boats, gave him a feeling of security, but he would carry his gun.
He dumped the fish into the kitchen sink. There was no sign of Freda. He went into his room, then kneeling, he looked under the bed and he smiled.
He had placed the suitcase at a slight angle and now it was straight. That could only mean Freda had touched it. He pulled it out and examined the locks. They were flimsy enough and it was possible she had a key that could open them. He unlocked the case and counted the ten dollar bills. Of Sammy’s money, he had left $2,857. He relocked the case and pushed it under the bed, then he went up on deck.
He sat in the sun for more than an hour, then he heard Freda crossing the creaky jetty.
“Hi! Where have you been?” he asked as she came around the deck and joined him.
“A walk. Did you get any fish?”
“Three Black Crappie.”
“God! Crappie again!”
“The bass were shy.”
She went to the rail and stood against it, her hands on the rail, her body slightly bent forward. Johnny eyed the soft, sweep of her buttocks. He came up behind her, his hands cupping her breasts, his body against her softness.
She slid away from him.
“Skip it!” she said, her voice hard. “We can’t spend all the week…” She used the ugly four letter word and it shocked Johnny.
“Take it easy,” he said. “This is a game of patience.”
“I’ll fix the fish.” He had a definite feeling that she was now hostile. “Eggs and bacon for lunch.”
“Fine.”
He watched her walk into the kitchen. This woman could be tricky. He thought of Melanie: no trickiness there. He sat for a long moment, his mind active. Freda must learn he was the boss. If she didn’t recognize this fact, he could be in danger.
Getting to his feet, he walked into the kitchen. Freda was washing the fish and she glanced over her shoulder.
“What do you want?”
“Dry your hands.”
“I’m busy… go sit in the sun.”
He jerked her around and slapped her face. He was careful not to hit her too hard, but the slap was hard enough to jerk her head back. Her blue eyes blazed and her hand dropped on a kitchen knife by the fish.
He caught her wrist, squeezed and the knife dropped to the floor, then he caught hold of her, pinning her arms to her sides and shoving her out of the kitchen, he forced her along the passage to his room.
“Let me go!” she exclaimed.
She was strong and hard to hold but he handled her. He got her into his room, kicked the door shut, then released her.
“Get them off or I’ll rip them off!” he said.
“Who do you imagine you are?” Her eyes were blazing with fury. “You’ll have me when I want you and not before! Now get out!”
To Johnny who in the past had been in many brawls, she was pathetically easy. He weaved as she struck at him, her clawed fingers hopelessly out of range. Then he had her on her back on the bed. Her wrists now gripped in his hand.
“Going to behave, baby, or do I really get rough?” She stared up at him, then relaxed.
“I’ll behave.”
He released her wrists, undid her belt and pulled the stretch pants off her.
Later, she said, “I’m starving.” She ran her fingers down his hard back. “I love you. You’re all man. Whatever you say, whatever you do is all right with me.”
She slid off the bed and went away.
While he dressed, he heard the sizzling sound of bacon cooking. He went into the kitchen. Freda, naked, was cracking eggs into the pan.
He came up behind her and stroked her buttocks. “Stop it, Johnny, or we don’t eat.”
While they were eating, Johnny said, “In five days from now, you and me will be on the road together… starting a new life.” Freda smiled at him.
“I want it! Johnny… you don’t know how much I want it!”
They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the deck, soaking up the sun. Around 18.30, Freda said, “I’ll start supper. You take a walk. Don’t get back for an hour. I must convince Ed.”
“I’ll take the boat, maybe I’ll catch a bass.”
“If it’s Black Crappie, put it back.”
Well away from the houseboat, Johnny sat in the boat and
thought of her. He wondered too what Melanie was doing. If she had found someone to replace him. He wondered what Massino was doing. Probably taking his fat, spoilt wife on some shindig. During the hour, he caught four Black Crappie and put them back, then he turned the boat and headed back to the houseboat.
As he got on deck, he saw Scott hosing down his IF truck. He waved and Scott waved back. He went into the kitchen.
Freda nodded.
“It’s all right. There’s nothing for us to worry about. He’s dropped it.”
Johnny drew in a slow deep breath.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
A little after 11.15 an air-taxi landed at the New Symara airport and from it came Toni Cappelo.
Ten minutes later a taxi dropped him outside the Waterfront Bar. He regarded the outside of the building and was surprised. This joint, he decided, had a lot of style. Situated opposite the yacht basin, the swank district of New Symara, the Waterfront Bar was the haunt of the rich. Tables, shaded by gaily coloured umbrellas, stood before the building which was painted white with sky-blue wooden shutters. There was a red carpet leading into the bar over which was a blueand-white, barrel-shaped canopy. The tables were crowded with fat, rich-looking people off their yachts.
Toni felt a little shabby as he walked into the bar, carrying his suitcase. He was aware people were staring at him and he now wished his clothes matched theirs.
An Italian in a white jacket and blood-red trousers, intercepted him.
“You want something?” The contempt in the man’s voice gave Toni a rush of blood to his head.
“Luigi, you punk,” he snarled, “and hurry it up!”
The waiter’s eyes bulged.
“Signore Moro is busy.”
“Tell him Massino,” Toni said. “He’s expecting me!”
The waiter’s contempt went away. He pointed.
“Excuse me. Please go ahead. First door behind the bar.”
Toni found Luigi Moro behind a desk as big as a billiard table. He was scribbling figures on a scratch pad and as Toni walked in, he leaned back in his chair and nodded.
Luigi Moro was around sixty-five years of age, enormously fat, his nose slightly flattened—a gift from a tough cop when he had been young—his dark, shifty eyes as animated as the eyes of a dead fish.
“Sit down… have a cigar.” He waved to a chair and pushed a silver box containing Havanas in Toni’s direction.
Toni wasn’t a cigar smoker. He sat down on the edge of the chair. He had heard about Luigi Moro, one of the Mafia’s favourites: a man people had to respect or there was trouble.
Moro lit a cigar, taking his time, looking thoughtfully at Toni.
“I’ve heard about you: you’re good with a gun.” Toni nodded.
“How’s Joe?”
“He’s okay.”
“A big steal.” Moro laughed. “I bet he’s flipping his lid.”
Toni didn’t say anything.
“We got this tip,” Moro said. “We’ve got over a hundred tips but this one looks good. I’ve got all my men out checking other tips so suppose you go out to Little Creek and take a gander? It could be negative and I don’t want to pull my boys off the work they’re doing. You take a gander and if it’s straight up, call me and we’ll go out there and get him.”
Toni felt a chill go up his spine.
“Don’t you send anyone with me?”
Moro stared at him.
“I told you… the boys are busy.” He flicked ash into the big,
silver ash-tray on his desk. “You’re Massino’s top gunman, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine. You can handle this.” He pressed a button on his desk and a minute or so later the door opened and a young long-haired Italian came in. “Take this guy to Little Creek, Leo, wise him up. Introduce him to Salvadore. Tell the old buzzard my compliments.”
The young man stared at Toni, then jerked his head to the door. Toni followed him out into the passage, hating him: a possible homo : very lean, white-faced, glittering eyes, could be on pot.
In silence they walked out of the building by the back exit to a shabby Lincoln.
Leo slid under the wheel and Toni got in the passenger’s seat.
Leo turned and stared at Toni.
“I heard about you… a trigger man.” He grinned, showing good white teeth. “Rather you than me.”
“Get going,” Toni snarled. “Rest the lip.”
“Tough too?” Leo laughed. “You watch the telly?”
“Get moving!”
Leo opened the glove compartment and dropped a pair of powerful field glasses in Toni’s lap.
“They’re for you.”
Thirty minutes later they pulled up outside Salvadore Bruno’s store.
“This is where I kiss you off,” Leo said. “Have a ball. If it’s him, call us. Okay?”
The time now was 11.45. There was some activity on the waterfront. As Toni got out of the car he was aware people were looking curiously at him. He slung the field glasses by their strap on his shoulder and walked into the store as Leo drove away.
Salvadore was busy serving customers. When he saw Toni, he called and his fat wife appeared to take over.
Salvadore beckoned to Toni who followed him behind the curtain and into Salvadore’s living-room. “You from Luigi?”
“Yeah.”
Salvadore opened a drawer in the table and took out a largescale map.
“Here’s where we are: here’s where he is,” he said, pointing with a pencil. “You can take my boat or you can take my car and drive around the lake.”
Toni blotted sweat off his face with his sleeve.
“Maybe the boat is better.”
He didn’t want to get too close to Johnny if this suspect was Johnny.
“Yes. There are always fishermen on the lake.” Salvadore eyed the field glasses. “With those you can see without being seen. I’ll loan you a fishing rod. Just go out on the lake and act you’re fishing.. okay?”
“Yeah.”
A pause, then Salvadore said, “If it’s him, I get the reward… yes?”
“How the hell do I know?” Toni snarled. “Why the hell should I care anyway?”
“That’s no way to talk to your betters,” Salvadore said. “I ask a polite question: I expect a polite answer.”
“So get stuffed!” Toni snarled. “How’s about something to eat?”
Salvadore moved forward. His hand caught Toni’s wrist in a grip of steel, his vast belly, rock hard, smashed into Toni’s side, driving the breath out of him. His arm was twisted and he found himself gasping and on his knees. He felt a hard, sweaty hand slap him heavily around his ears, then dazed, he groped for his gun as Salvadore released him.
“Don’t do it!”
The snap in Salvadore’s voice made him turn and look up. He found himself looking into the menacing barrel of a .45.
“All right, my friend,” Salvadore said gently, “so now you’ll be polite. I may be fat and old, but I’ve eaten boys like you for breakfast. So now you ask politely for dinner.”
Toni got unsteadily to his feet.
Salvadore put his gun back into its holster, hidden under his thin coat.
“Look,” he said and the gun appeared in his hand, then he chuckled. “I was Lucky’s best man. I’m still good. Okay, so I’m old, but I’ve never lost the sharpness,” and the gun disappeared. He patted Toni’s shoulder. “So you want something to eat, huh?”
“Yes, please and thank you,” Toni said huskily. “I guess I could eat something.”
Salvadore put his thick arm around Toni’s shoulders.
“Come.” He led him into the kitchen. “Always in my home there is good food.”
An hour later, Toni got into Salvadore’s small fishing boat, awkwardly carrying a fishing rod and the field glasses. Salvadore had fitted him out in a dark blue shirt, a pair of Levis and a bush hat. He showed him how to start the outboard engine.
“Just put the rod in here,” he said pointing to a clip on the side of the boat. “Don’t get too close to the houseboat. If anyone comes up to you… there are many fishermen on the lake… tell them you are my friend. They won’t bother you.”
Toni steered the boat out into the middle of the lake, then cut the engine. He could see, in the distance, the houseboat. He clipped the rod into position, then focused the glasses on the houseboat.
He was startled at the power of the glasses.
The houseboat seemed to spring forward at him as he peered through the eyepieces. He could see the sun burning his back and settled himself to flaked paint, the holes in the deck and the rust on the rails. There was no one to be seen. He sat there, feel-watch.