Dying for Revenge (59 page)

I could pretend to be Jean-Claude. Pretend to be Jean-Claude the same way Batman pretended to be Bruce Wayne. I could pretend that there wasn’t a demon inside me, that I wasn’t part Golgo 13.

Soon the phone would ring and Konstantin would be on the other end.

And once again I would be on a plane, or in a car, going to do someone else’s dirty work.

That was what I did.

It took money to raise a family. Cost money to stay alive in this world.

Konstantin was back at work too. Cost the man over a hundred dollars a day to stay on top of the soil. He had to put men under so he could stay on top. I hoped I didn’t end up in his ironic situation.

The boys kicked the ball and it hit the basement door.

I went to the basement door and looked out in the backyard. Watched them run and play.

My name is Gideon. But before I became Gideon I was a child.

A child who grew up in red-light districts, a child who had been hardened by heinous things.

Like the two boys playing soccer in the backyard.

Never had a house like this to live in. Or a backyard to play in. Or a friend.

I had killed a man when I was seven years old.

Killed a man who was trying to murder my mother.

He was choking her to death. I shot that man with his own gun.

That man was my father.

Steven told me he had shot a man. A man who had attacked his mother.

He had shot that man before they moved to London. He had killed a man in Germany.

I wondered if Nusaybah’s son had done the same.

I wondered that as I stepped into the backyard and they kicked me the ball.

They laughed at the way I kicked the ball back.

I went after them, did an easy jog into the quarter acre behind the house.

We set up a triangle and kicked the ball to one another.

Robert came over to me. “I can teach you, help you get better.”

“Remind me of the rules.”

“Football is played—”

“Soccer. Your football is called soccer in America.”

“Soccer is played with one goalkeeper and ten field players.”

“Okay.”

Steven, the boy who used to be Andrew-Sven, said, “And there are three positions.”

“What are those?”

“Defenders, the midfield players, and forwards.”

They told me more of the rules, told me about basic formations, like four-four-two and three-five-two.

I paused, stared out at the grounds, at the neighbors’ homes, looked for trouble, expected to see a sniper on one of the roofs, in one of the windows, a rifle aimed in my direction with my core or head in its crosshairs. My life had been filled with mystery and death, every breath closer to being my last.

Detroit was dead. The death verified. I hoped my problem was dead as well.

The winds were calm, the air balmy, birds flying overhead.

Nothing was there. No one was there. Today trouble had taken a holiday.

We all needed rest. A short break from the rainy season. A
petit carême.

Today was calm. Tomorrow would bring whatever tomorrow would bring.

Once I started playing soccer and laughing, pains went away and every fear was put on hold. I became a kid having fun with his brothers. I was playing with them, but in the back of my mind I was doing something else, working them out, making them strong enough to survive a hard world.

My problem in Detroit had spent a lot of money to find me.

I needed to reverse-engineer that paper trail. If that was possible.

And there was only one person I knew who could do that.

Only one woman. A grifter named Arizona. Soon it would be time to go back to that well.

Whoever Detroit had financed to track me in London, to find me in Huntsville, to get information about Powder Springs, whoever she had paid for that information, they knew about me as well.

They probably knew more about me than Detroit did, only passed her what she paid for.

I had to protect Catherine and the kids. Once a man had a family he was never safe.

They would never be out of harm’s way, not as long as they lived under my shadow.

That was why the basement was being built with impenetrable doors and cinder-block walls.

That was why I had twelve cameras inside and around the house.

That was why as I had fun kicking the soccer ball, a nine rested in the small of my back.

Maybe it was done.

Maybe it wasn’t.

I’d fooled myself into thinking it was done before.

I just knew that today I was still alive. And I knew life was a temporary state of being.

This was my season between storms. I was waiting. Waiting for my
petit carême
to end.

We chose our wars.

But sometimes our wars chose us.

—Latin proverb

Acknowledgments

I went to Antigua, West Indies, the land of 365 beaches.

I made friends and chatted at the Antigua and Barbuda Literary Festival.

I stayed.

I went to Antigua for the book festival, fell in love with the beaches, the people, the weather, and the next thing you know there were EJD sightings all over the island, at movie premieres, at Best of Books, shopping on Market Street, at poetry readings at Funky Buddha on Redcliffe, eating at KFC, working out at Sandals, liming and writing and pigging out at Big Banana in town, doing more of the same at the Sticky Wicket. Man, in the name of research, I was all over the place. Old Road. Doing the zip line. Devil’s Bridge. Betty’s Hope. Learning the history of the island. Every day a new experience.

Every day I looked for something new to give the characters.

I was practically an Antiguan. Well, in my mind. You know how fiction writers are. ☺

I guess when you go to a place that seems like heaven’s waiting room, you want to belong. Four trips in a few months. So I guess I had become a fan of Antigua, a
Fan
tiguan.

It was impossible not to become smitten with a tropical island that stimulated me in so many ways and allowed my creative juices to flow, an island that gave me a much needed setting for my writing. Caribbean people are beautiful, delighted me with their charm and warmth every day I was on the island.

Before I arrived I had heard there were 365 beaches, but since I didn’t see any of the beaches numbered, I guess I’ll have to take the tourism peeps’ word on that one. Dickenson Bay. Coconut Grove. The view is outrageous. Like stepping inside someone else’s fantasy. Wonderful stretch of white sand. Half Moon Bay. Simply beautiful. Rendezvous Bay. If you want some privacy, you have to go there. If you drive to Hawksbill, make your way to the
third
beach. No clothing required, no cameras allowed.

And that’s all I’m gonna say.

It may not be a big thing for the people on the island, but I learned to drive on the opposite side of the road. Inside a small rental car with the steering wheel on the opposite side. Granted, I probably scared the hell out of a couple hundred people in town when my brain had me on the American side of the road for a moment. A thousand apologies for any heart attacks I may have caused.

I enjoyed Sailing Week, enjoyed cricket matches at the stadium, got caught up in J’ouvert, went to house parties with the staff at Antigua Yacht Club, had fun at many other wonderful events.

I’m coming back. This Fantiguan is coming back.

And I am going to make a point of bringing a Sharpie so I can number the beaches.

Until then, let me thank a few people for helping me create the novel you have in your hands.

To my wonderful people in Falmouth Harbour at Antigua Yacht Club, my Caribbean family who took great care of me from the moment my plane landed until I headed back to the airport. Eloise, Ever-lie, Devin, Beverley, Sean, Foster, Iris, Esther, Nakisha, Bernadette, Samantha, Gailann, Vendella, Jackie, Ms. Morrell, Kerry-Ann, Ranny. I hope I spelled all of your names correctly. If it’s wrong, blame Devin.

To everyone at Siboney Beach Club and Coconut Grove, thanks for the wonderful hospitality.

Maria Pentkovski in San Francisco, thanks for the wonderful Russian lingo. It was great meeting and chatting with you up in the Bay. Christina Pattyn and Club Bleu in Detroit, thanks for everything Motown. LOL. Hope you enjoy the book. Asami King in Chi-town, my MySpace homie, thanks for allowing me to pop in your screen for some English-to-Japanese translation. Most of it wasn’t used, things changed along the way, but the character stayed in the book, her role small but meaningful. ☺

Nerissa Percival in Antigua, West Indies, thanks for the dialect and the information. LOL.

Susan Noyce in Antigua, West Indies, thanks for helping with the same.

Nadine Greenaway, thanks for showing me around Sandals.

Now let’s recruit some of my fans at Christ the King to help me count the beaches.

And to the founders of the Antigua and Barbuda Literary Festival, Pam Arthurton and Joy Bramble, thanks for everything. K. C. Nash, you are the best. Thanks for taking me all over the island. Your new home rocks! And shout-outs (do people still say
shout-out
?) to Barbara Arrindell and Treasa James. Troy Byrne of Digicel, thanks for the kind words you said at the festival. Man, that caught me off guard.

Before I go on, I
love
classic noir. I love the darkness, the danger, the duplicity, the desperation . . . the list of what I love about that genre is endless. While I was working on this novel I paused to watch
Du Rififi Chez les Hommes
. Loved what they did to it on the big screen. Loved it so much I had my characters pause in the middle of this novel and watch it with me. In the film there is a wonderful twenty- to thirty-minute sequence that has no dialogue, no score. Suspense and tension. And some damn good acting. It is mesmerizing and simply brilliant. I won’t spoil it for anyone who might love classic noir and missed that one. But the ride is worth the ticket. At least it was for me. Somewhere in this book you’re holding is a small tribute to what made that section of the film work: tension, and at times silence.

And now to thank the people back home.

Denea Marcel McBroom, thanks for reading this as I worked and reworked the pages.

I have to thank a few of the people who drove me around on the
Pleasure
book tour, people who allowed me to ask them a ton of questions as I traveled from city to city, working on the novel you have in your hands. I made it up as I went along, and I couldn’t have done it without you. Nashville—Michele Buc. Huntsville—Shawana Ariel. Atlanta—Robert Fisher. Pittsburgh—Sandi Kopler. Dallas—Linda Veteto.

Now, I have to thank the people behind the man who writes the books.

Always wanted to say that. ROFL. ☺

Sara Camilli, my wonderful agent, the journey continues. How many more books to go?

Lisa Johnson, Beth Parker, Stacy Noble, and all the peeps in publicity at Dutton, thanks for the continued hard work and support. Couldn’t do it without you and everybody back there in NYC.

And special thanks to Brian Tart. Hope you enjoy this installment of Gideon.

John Paine, thanks for looking this over in its early stages. Your input was invaluable.

Thanks to Erika Imranyi. Welcome aboard and I look forward to working with you.

Last but not least, to my fantastic editor, Julie Doughty, thanks! You are the best of the best!

In case I left a few peeps out, quit complaining; scribble in your name and keep it moving. ☺

 

Me wan’ fu tank ___________ fu all the help s/he min give me when me min all ova de place, and dung dey inna Antigua. If you no min help me out wid all de so-and-so and so-and-so, me couldnta write dis book ya.

 

Oh? You didn’t understand a word I just said? ☺ Well, neither did I.

 

I want to thank ___________ for all of his/her help while I was all over the country and down in Antigua working on this project. Without your help, insight, and wisdom there is no way I would have been able to write this book.

Gray sweats, white T, Nike cap on, about to go find some lunch at Baja Fresh.

 

See ya!

About the Author

Originally from Memphis, Tennessee, Eric Jerome Dickey is the author of sixteen novels, including the
New York Times
bestsellers
Pleasure Waking with Enemies, Sleeping with Strangers, Chasing Destiny, Genevieve, Drive Me Crazy, Naughty or Nice, The Other Woman,
and
Thieves’ Paradise.
He is also the author of a six-issue miniseries of comic books for Marvel Enterprises featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. He lives on the road and rests in Southern California.