Live by Night (35 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

Higher Ground

J
oe woke to blackness.

He couldn't see and he couldn't speak. At first he feared somebody had gone so far as to stitch his lips together, but after a minute or so, he suspected something that pressed up against the base of his nose might be tape. The more he accepted this, the more the tacky sensation around his lips, as if the skin were smeared with bubble gum, made sense.

His eyes weren't taped, though. What had initially presented itself as total dark began to give way to the occasional shape on the other side of a dense shroud of wool or rope.

It's a hood, something in his chest told him. They've got a hood over you.

His hands were cuffed behind his back. Definitely not rope binding them; metal all the way. His legs felt tied, and not terribly tight judging by how much he could move them—what felt like a full inch before he met resistance.

He lay on his right side, his face pressed to warm wood. He could smell low tide. He could smell fish and fish blood. He realized he'd been hearing the engine for some time before he recognized it as such. He'd been on enough boats in his life to recognize what it powered. And then the other sensations coalesced and made sense—the slap of waves against the hull, the rise and fall of the wood on which he lay. He could hardly be sure of this but he didn't hear any other engines, no matter how hard he concentrated on isolating the various sounds around him. He heard men's voices and footsteps passing back and forth on the deck and, after a while, he discerned the sharp inhale and fluttering exhale of someone close by smoking a cigarette. But no other engines, and the boat wasn't going terribly fast. Didn't feel like it anyway. Didn't sound like something in flight. Which meant it was fair to assume no one was coming after them.

“Someone get Albert. He's awake.”

Then they were lifting him—one hand sinking through the hood and into his hair, two more hands under his armpits. He was dragged back along the deck and dropped into a chair, could feel the hard wooden seat under him and the hard wood slats at his back. Hands slid over his wrists and then the cuffs were unlocked. They'd barely had time to pop open before his arms were pulled around the back of the chair and the cuffs were snapped back on. Someone tied his arms and chest to the chair, tied them just short of too tight to breathe. Then someone—maybe the same someone, maybe someone else—did the same to his legs, tying them so tight to the chair legs that movement was out of the question.

They tilted the chair back and he screamed against the tape, the sound of it in his ears, because they were pushing him over the side of the boat. Even with the hood covering his head, he clenched his eyes shut, and he could hear his breath exit his nostrils so desperate and ragged. If breath could beg, his did.

The chair stopped tipping when it met a wall. Joe sat there at a forty-degree angle or so. He guessed his feet and the front chair legs were a foot and a half to two feet off the deck.

Someone removed his shoes. Then his socks. Then the hood.

He batted his eyelids rapid-time at the sudden return of light. And not any light—Florida light, immeasurably strong even though it was diffused by banks of roiling gray clouds. He couldn't see any sun, but the light managed to bounce off a nickel-plated sea. Somehow the brightness lived in the gray, lived in the clouds, lived in the sea, not strong enough to point to, just strong enough for him to feel its effect.

When he could see clearly again, the first thing that came into focus was his father's watch. It dangled in front of his eyes. Then Albert's face came into focus behind it. He let Joe see as he opened the pocket of his cheap vest and dropped the watch in. “I was making do with an Elgin, myself,” he said and leaned forward, hands on his knees. He smiled his small smile at Joe. Behind him, two men dragged something heavy across the deck toward them. Black metal of some kind. With silver handles. The men neared them. Albert stepped back with a bow and a flourish, and they slid the object just below Joe's bare feet.

It was a tub. The kind one saw at summer cocktail parties. The hosts would have it filled with ice and bottles of white wine and good beer. There wasn't any ice in it now, though. Or wine. Or good beer.

Just cement.

Joe bucked against his ropes but it was like bucking against a brick house as it fell on top of him.

Albert stepped behind him and slapped the back of the chair and the chair dropped forward and Joe's legs sank into the cement.

Albert watched him struggle—or try to—with the distant curiosity of a scientist. About the only thing Joe could move was his head. As soon as his feet entered the bucket, they were there to stay. His legs were already bound fast, ankles to knees, not a twitch of mobility available. The cement had been mixed a little earlier judging by the feel of it. It wasn't soupy. His feet sank into it like they were sinking into slits in a sponge.

Albert sat on the deck in front of him and watched Joe's eyes as the cement began to set. The sponge sensation gave way to something firmer under the soles of his feet that proceeded to snake around his ankles.

“Takes a while to harden,” Albert said. “Longer than some would think.”

Joe got his bearings when he saw a small barrier island off to his left that looked an awful lot like Egmont Key. Otherwise, nothing around them but water and sky.

Ilario Nobile brought Albert a canvas folding chair and wouldn't meet Joe's eyes. Albert rose from the deck. He adjusted the chair so the glare off the sea was off his face. He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. They were on a tugboat. Joe and his chair leaned against the rear wall of the wheelhouse, looking out at the back of the boat. It was a great choice in crafts, Joe had to admit; you wouldn't know it to look at one, but tugs were fast and they could turn on a fucking dime.

Albert spun Thomas Coughlin's watch on its chain for a minute, like a boy with his yo-yo, sending it out into the air and then back into his palm with a snap. He said to Joe, “It's running slow. You know that?”

Even if he could have spoken, Joe doubted he would have.

“Big, expensive watch like this, and it can't even keep the fucking time right.” He shrugged. “All the money in the world, am I right, Joe? All the money in the world, and some things are just meant to run their course.” Albert looked up at the gray sky and out at the gray sea. “This isn't a race we enter to place second. We all know the stakes. Fuck up, you die. Trust the wrong person? Stake the wrong horse?” He snapped his fingers. “Lights-out. Have a wife? Kids? That's unfortunate. Planning a trip to Merry Olde England next summer? The plan just changed. Thought you'd be breathing tomorrow? Fucking, eating, taking a bath? You won't.” He leaned forward and stabbed his finger into Joe's chest. “You will be sitting at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. And the world will be shut to you. Hell, if two fish go up your nose and a few nibble your eyes? You won't mind. You'll be with God. Or the devil. Or no place. Where you won't be, Joe?” He raised his hands to the clouds. “Is here. So take a good last look. Take some deep breaths. Really suck that oxygen in.” He slipped the watch back into his vest, leaned in, grasped Joe's face in his hands, and kissed the top of his head. “Because you die now.”

The cement had hardened. It squeezed Joe's toes, heels, ankles. It squeezed everything so hard he could only assume some of the bones in his feet were broken. Maybe all of them.

He met Albert's eyes and flicked his own at his left inside pocket.

“Stand him up.”

“No,” Joe tried to say, “look in my pocket.”

“Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!” Albert mimicked, his eyes bulging. “Coughlin, show a little class. Don't beg.”

They slashed the rope over Joe's chest. Gino Valocco walked over with a hacksaw and dropped to his knees and sawed away at the front chair legs, cutting them free of the chair bottom.

“Albert,” he said through the tape, “look in this pocket. This pocket. This pocket. This one.”

Every time he said “this,” he jerked his head and his eyes toward the pocket.

Albert laughed and continued to mimic him and some of the other men joined in, Fausto Scarfone going so far as to imitate an ape. He made “hoo hoo hoo” sounds and scratched his armpits. Over and over, he jerked his head to the left.

The left chair leg came free of the seat, and Gino went to work on the right.

“Those are good cuffs,” Albert said to Ilario Nobile. “Take 'em off. He ain't going anywhere.”

Joe could see he'd hooked him. He wanted to see in Joe's pocket, but he had to find a way to do it without appearing to give in to his victim's wishes.

Ilario removed the cuffs and tossed them to Albert's feet because apparently Albert hadn't earned enough respect to have them handed to him.

The right chair leg broke free of the seat and they pulled the chair off Joe and he stood upright in the tub of cement.

Albert said, “You get to use your hand once. You either rip the tape off your mouth or you show me what you're trying to buy your pathetic fucking life with. You can't do both.”

Joe didn't hesitate. He reached into his pocket. He removed the photograph and flung it at Albert's feet.

Albert picked it up off the deck as a dot appeared over his left shoulder, just beyond Egmont Key. Albert looked at the photo with a cocked eyebrow and that small, smug fucking smile of his, and he saw nothing special about it. His eyes flicked all the way to the left again and he began to move them slowly to the right and then his head went very still.

The dot became a dark triangle, moving fast over the glassy gray sea—a hell of a lot faster than the tug, fast as it was, could move.

Albert looked at Joe. It was a sharp and furious look. Joe saw clearly that he wasn't furious because Joe had stumbled upon his secret. He was furious because he'd been kept as deep in the dark as Joe.

All this time, he'd thought she was dead too.

Christ, Albert, he wanted to say, in this we're both her sons.

Even with six inches of electrical tape across his mouth, Joe knew Albert could see him smile.

The dark triangle was now, quite clearly, a boat. A classic runabout modified to accommodate extra passengers or bottles in the stern. Cut its speed by a third but that still made it faster than anything on the water. Several of the men on deck pointed and nudged one another.

Albert ripped the tape off Joe's mouth.

The sound of the boat reached them. A buzz, like a distant wasp swarm.

Albert held the photograph in Joe's face. “She's dead.”

“Look dead to you, does she?”

“Where is she?” Albert's voice was ragged enough for several men to look over at him.

“In the fucking picture, Albert.”

“Tell me where it was taken.”

“Sure,” Joe said, “and I'm sure nothing will happen to me then.”

Albert slammed both his fists into Joe's ears and the sky pinwheeled overhead.

Gino Valocco shouted something in Italian. He pointed starboard.

A second boat had appeared, another modified runabout, with four men in it, coming out from behind a spoil bank about four hundred yards away.

“Where is she?”

The ringing in Joe's ears was like a cymbal symphony. He shook his head repeatedly.

“Love to tell you,” he said, “but I'd love not to fucking drown more.”

Albert pointed at first one boat, then the other. “They won't stop us. Are you a fucking idiot? Where is she?”

“Oh, let me think,” Joe said.

“Where?”

“In the photograph.”

“It's an old one. You just folded up an old—”

“Yeah, I thought that too at first. But look at that asshole in the tux. The tall one, all the way to the right, leaning against the piano? Look at the newspaper. The one by his elbow, Albert. Look at the fucking headline.”

PRESIDENT-ELECT ROOSEVELT SURVIVES MIAMI ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT

“That was last month, Albert.”

Now both boats were within 350 yards.

Albert looked at the boats, looked at Maso's men, looked back at Joe. He let out a long breath through pursed lips. “You think they're going to rescue you? They're half our size and we have the high ground. You could send six boats our way and we'll turn every last one of them into fucking matchsticks.” He turned to the men. “Kill them.”

They lined up along the gunwales. They knelt. Joe counted an even dozen of them. Five to starboard, five to port, Ilario and Fausto heading into the cabin for something. Most of the men on deck carried tommy guns and a few handguns but none had the rifles necessary for long-range shooting.

Ilario and Fausto made that point moot when they dragged a crate back out of the cabin. Joe noticed for the first time that there was a bronze tripod bolted to the deck at the gunwale and a toolbox sitting beside it. Then he realized it wasn't a tripod exactly; it was a deck mount. For a gun. A big fucking gun. Ilario reached into the crate and removed two ammunition belts of .30-06 rounds that he lay beside the tripod. He and Fausto then reached into the crate and came back out with a 1903 ten-barrel Gatling. They placed it on top of the deck mount and went to work securing it.

The approaching runabouts grew louder. They were maybe 250 yards away now, which put them about a hundred yards out of range for anything but the Gatling. But once that fucker got locked onto the deck mount, it was capable of firing up to nine hundred rounds a minute. One sustained burst into either of the boats and the only thing left would be meat for the sharks.

Albert said, “Tell me where she is, and I'll make it fast. One shot. You'll never feel it. If you make me force it out of you, I'll tear the pieces off you long after you've told me. I'll stack them on the deck until the stack falls over.”