Nightlife (35 page)

“At this point, I can live with drastic.”

“Maybe”—she was biting her lip, uncertain—“maybe we could knock out a power transformer? We’ve got a silenced gun, you know.”

Wipe out electrical service to the whole complex? Drastic indeed. But nothing would be remotely as effective. Besides taking care of the lights, it would also deactivate any electrical alarms Tony might have rigged to his balcony door.

They wheeled back out to Westshore; traffic was light. Justin headed south, an arbitrary decision. They kept their eyes skyward, both sides of the road, scanning the rows of power poles and their lifelines of cables. They were all the way down near a neighboring apartment complex before spotting one.

“Got to be one closer than this,” Justin said, and reversed direction.

They found the likely target about fifty yards north of the turn-in for Tony’s complex, hanging on to the pole like a huge gray capsule. He cruised past it, continued north until they could stop for a moment in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. Had to decide who got the honors. Kerebawa, with no firearm experience, was out of the question. Justin pulled the Beretta from beneath the front seat.

“How much shooting have
you
done?” he asked April.

“Besides a couple nights ago?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve played Nintendo games. How about you?”

“Few times at a pistol range with a client. He was a real gung-ho NRA type.”

April patted him on the thigh. “You’re elected.” She craned her neck, gazed back down Westshore. “A drive-by shooting?”

He nodded, and they played musical chairs. April slid behind the wheel, Kerebawa rode shotgun. Justin had her slide the seat forward, scrunching their legs, but it gave him more room to lie on his back in the rear floorboard. Not very comfortable, but with luck, this would not take long.

“If there’s no traffic, stop alongside the transformer. I’m not good enough to manage this on the roll,” Justin said.

He felt the thump as they left the lot for the boulevard. In the floor, every little vibration felt magnified tenfold. Through the open passenger window, Justin watched his slice of skyline traveling past, nothing visible to link it with any landmark. Just the domino row of utility poles, the tops of trees.

He drew his knees together so their curve formed a notch, then steadied his wrist into it. Held the pistol at the ready.

“Almost there,” April said. He could barely see the back of her head from this angle. “Wait! Car coming.”

They had to make two more passes before it was clear. The Aries braked, sat idling. His slice of skyline froze like a section of a mural.

“Do it,” she said.

Knees locked rigid, gun steadied. He brought its sights squarely onto the middle of the transformer. Squeezed the trigger. The gun coughed and bucked in his hand, the ejection port spat a hot shell casing onto the back seat. He squeezed again, again, again, again, swiveling his wrist minutely to cover as much area as possible. The transformer erupted into Fourth of July sparks, streamers of smoke, agitated sizzling. All at once, darkness fell beside them like a partial eclipse.

“Oh, beautiful,” April said, and the car started to roll again. “That whole place just went out like a candle.”

He raised himself up to peer out. In the beginning was darkness, and it was good. April drove to the south apartment complex again to wait a bit before returning. Hoping that nobody was noticing this same car, however bland, rolling back and forth, back and forth. Justin was getting the necessities together when April ran them back to the condos, now sitting in inky gloom. Even the moon seemed on their side, a mere crescent sliver showing. Their headlights seemed unnaturally bright as she drove them to a different lot from the one they’d used all day. No sense pushing their luck, wearing out their welcome.

Justin took the Beretta and tucked it into his waistband, its safety on. It felt too loose for climbing, so he taped the butt to his bare stomach with a roll of masking tape bought earlier. On the other side of his waistband he clipped a walkie-talkie. The flashlight used two nights ago in the cypress swamp he thrust into a back pocket. Kerebawa did likewise with a second flashlight bought this morning. Justin fit the roll of tape over his wrist like a bracelet. Then he retrieved from a cooler of melted ice in the trunk a surprise package—a plastic sandwich bag. He looked at it a moment, then handed it to Kerebawa.

“Would you mind carrying this?”

He did not, and secured it inside his shirt.

They returned to the car for a few moments, sat there loaded and ready to go, waiting, waiting. Justin’s heart and stomach felt quite hollow. He swallowed, and it sounded too loud.

“If the
hekura-teri
is found, this will solve my problem,” Kerebawa said softly. “Do you know what would solve yours?”

Neither Justin nor April said anything. Just watched him, waiting for the answer.

“If we waited in his home for his return and killed him at once.” A simple solution, even more simply put.

Justin caught April’s gaze, held it. Impossible to read her. “It’s something to think about, Justin,” she finally said. His eyes slid closed, deliberations of life and death, of morality under fire. Under the circumstances, did morality even matter anymore? He liked to think it did, somewhere deep within. That winning the game was important, but not much more than how it was played. Cold-blooded assassination? He wasn’t ready for that.

“I’m sorry.” His voice low, measured. “I can’t do it. Not like that.” He looked at Kerebawa. “And I wouldn’t want anybody else doing it for me.”

Was April’s sigh of relief real or imagined?

“You may be sorry later,” said Kerebawa.

Justin nodded. Already sorry. He leaned over the front seat and gave April a quick hug, and she ran a hand along his face. Told them both to be careful. And then they were out their respective doors. Walking briskly, amiably, across the lot and then the courtyard. Just a couple of happy condo owners, out for a stroll the night the lights went out. Justin could hear scattered voices, sometimes see vague moving shadows. From the pool came continued splashing, very feminine giggling. Oh, what acts we perform under cover of darkness. “Padre Angus taught to me a thing to say at times like this.” Justin glanced over to Kerebawa. “What was it?” Kerebawa appeared to concentrate, get the words just right. “You watch my back, I watch yours.”

They first circled Tony’s building instead of walking directly to the row of balconies. Approaching close up on the far side and creeping around the foundation. When they reached the bottom patio, Justin tested the railing. Sturdy. He took a deep breath, checked once more to make sure no one was nearby and watching. The point of no return beckoned.

“I go first?” Kerebawa said, and scarcely waited for Justin’s agreeable nod before clambering onto the railing. He secured both feet, then rose. Reached overhead to latch onto the second floor and pushed off with his feet. Kerebawa swung a leg up and caught the edge, and a moment later, the rest of him followed.

“Easy,” Kerebawa whispered, waving for Justin to follow.

Justin steadied himself against the outer wall before mounting the patio railing. After holding fast to the second floor, he heaved, hoed, dangled. Kerebawa caught his flailing leg behind the knee and helped him get secured, and that made the rest of the trip easier. Silence, however best he could manage, was primary. Grace was optional. Alongside Kerebawa, finally, he nodded. Wiped sweat.

“Easy,” he whispered in echo.

They were just rising on the second-floor railing when, scant feet away, a sliding door unlatched. Justin’s every pore seemed to flood, and then the door was opening, and there came the distinctive sound of a champagne bottle popping open, a man and a woman coming outside to enjoy the blackout. Justin and Kerebawa performed arm-straining chin-ups, hauled themselves up quicker than he thought possible. Adrenaline. They clung to the railing, squatting on the edge of the balcony directly over the couple while Justin caught his breath. His heart was in a thunder, and from below sounded the crystal chime of two glasses clinking.

After a couple of minutes, Kerebawa touched Justin’s shoulder, pointed up. Justin nodded. Higher, then. The sweat rolled, and his body felt like one giant greased hinge. After a few more silent strains and struggles, they crouched in the midst of Tony’s white patio furniture. Justin ran a hand over himself to make sure he’d not lost anything on the trip up. Things may have been twisted around, but they were all there, present, accounted for.

They duck walked directly before the patio door, and Kerebawa tried its handle. Wouldn’t budge, just as expected. Kerebawa then rapped his fingertips against the thick plate glass.

“This will cause much noise,” he said in earnest concern.

“Don’t worry,” Justin said. He freed his flashlight, cupped his hand over the end, splayed a couple of fingers until a pencil-thin beam of light shined through. He inspected the glass, the curtain on its other side. Along the glass perimeter ran a thin metallic tape strip. Wired for alarms, just as April had feared.

Justin flicked off the light, and as Kerebawa watched, he slipped the roll of masking tape off his wrist and began to peel strips away. He gridded off an area a foot square beside the door handle, filled it in until the entire portion of glass was taped over. Then he reached beneath his shirt and freed the Beretta. Winced. The tape he’d used to secure it pulled out more than its share of fine hairs. He reversed his hold on it, wrapping his hand around the barrel. He cocked his arm as if holding a hammer, then smacked the pistol grip into the taped glass.

It gave with a muffled crack, buckled inward. He followed with two more, and the section of glass peeled inward, the tape preventing an unnerving and telltale shatter. He pushed it down to the floor, then reached in to unlock the door.

Kerebawa grinned in admiration. “You know ways of treachery too. You may yet be Yanomamö inside.”

Justin smiled, feeling an odd sort of warmth. Part of the club. Such compliments surely weren’t handed out copiously by those of his homeland. All this for a trick learned in the movies.

When they were inside and the curtain rearranged, Justin brought up the walkie-talkie and whipped out the aerial and flipped the unit on. Thumbed the transmit key.

“We’re in,” he said.

“That’s a relief,” April’s voice crackled back. “I’ve been eating my fingernails down here.”

“Anything that looks remotely like Tony’s car coming back, you sing right out and pick us up at the turnoff onto Westshore.”

Justin clipped the unit back to his waistband and left the channel open. A steady pulse of static hissed, and he went for the flashlight again, its beam a welcome ally. Had to be careful where he shined it, keep it from being visible from the outside. He was about to tell Kerebawa to be careful with his own when he discounted that. With the entire complex under blackout, candles and flashlights were going to be the norm for a while.

“What about this?” Kerebawa held the sandwich bag from inside his shirt.

Justin pointed to a coffee table. Deal with it later.

“Come on, let’s see how this place is laid out,” he then said.

They moved from one end of the condo to the other, Justin sketching a mental map as they walked the darkened hallways and rooms. Kitchen, dining room and bar, living room. Central corridor for bedrooms, baths, closets. The furniture, for the most part, looked glossy and modern. Very slick, very chic. Tony didn’t lack for living in style, this was certain.

In one corner of the living room, he found a full bookcase. Lots of classics and arcane modern stuff. Probably Lupo’s; earlier, April had mentioned he had a reading list not to be believed. One shelf held a pair of interesting bookends, wedge-shaped blocks of clear Lucite. Embedded inside one was a scorpion; in the other, a tarantula. Charming.

“Let’s each take a room to start with,” Justin said. “Just look anywhere there’s a space big enough to keep a kilo.”

Kerebawa disappeared into one of the bedrooms, and Justin could hear him rummaging here, poking there. Justin shined his flashlight on the closed hallway doors, decided instead to start on the closets. He pilfered a linen closet, then one for coats. Midway down the corridor he opened another and found a wall of pitch dark. A room, no windows whatsoever. He shined in the flashlight.

He was momentarily taken aback by the unexpected. Aquariums, nothing but aquariums, and a lounger sitting in the middle of the room. The place resembled some sort of isolation chamber, soothing blues and whites, and all that water. All the more eerie because of its utter silence. No electricity to run motors, pumps, filters.

He entered with the same reverence normally reserved for a chapel. Shined his light from tank to tank, quick flashing glimpses of brilliant color, red and white and blue and black and yellow. They were lovely, and he found it difficult to reconcile the Tony Mendoza he was familiar with to the one who had built this oasis of tranquillity.

On and on, around the room. He stopped when the light fell upon one particular tank that just kept going.

He dropped to his knees. Felt himself tremble.

A dozen piranha, gliding about with the unhurried demeanor of conscienceless killers. The bottom of the tank, the gravel and larger rocks, was littered with tiny bones, tiny fragments of bones. Little rodent skulls, hairless and skinless and lying there with their teeth exposed, teeth that looked ridiculous and puny in contrast with those in the jaws swimming above them.

“Oh, Erik,” he whispered, and only when he heard the quavers in his voice did he realize he was in the first throes of crying.

He didn’t know how long he had knelt before the tank. Only came to realize that, sometime, Kerebawa had entered and was kneeling behind him. A gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You are troubled inside.” Half statement, half question.

Justin nodded. Turned, teary eyed, and nodded more fervently. “Erik, my best friend—this is how they killed him.”

Kerebawa rubbed the shoulder, a curiously comforting gesture. His eyes spoke reams, volumes, of understanding the pain of violent loss. Something that transcended culture, time, place. One of the last true universal givens known to man. All men bled the same.