Tod Goldberg - The End Game

It was tough being a desirable man, Sam knew, but he wasn’t Burger King-some people just weren’t going to get it their way.

“All I’m asking is if you know where he’s staying,” Sam said. “I’m not planning on some Elliot Ness takedown.”

Darleen kind of snorted in response. It was a weird sound coming from a woman, but then he’d heard and seen a man whistle through his false teeth today without any sense of embarrassment in the least, which made Sam think that vanity was really an underrated thing. It wasn’t even eight thirty in the morning and he was already having moments of clarity, and without any liquid encouragement.

Maybe he actually would start waking up and taking ocean swims.

Sam thought he’d try one more parry before giving up the whole story just to get an address. Worst case scenario, he’d just tell Darleen the truth. She was FBI, after all. If she really wanted the truth, she could probably get it without Sam ever knowing. “Look, fact is, it’s not really for me. It’s for a sick friend. He thinks Bonaventura might be the only person who has a matching bone marrow profile. Not even a natural-born killer can turn down someone in need of a little bone marrow. If I can make the effort to find him, well, I think Mr. Bonaventura might make the effort to help my friend.”

That should do it, Sam thought. Find some middle ground. Appeal to her emotional center. Remind her of just how cuddly old Sam Axe was. Though the more he thought about it, he was starting to think that maybe the woman there that night in Newark was actually named Carlene.

“He has a compound that he uses on Key Biscayne,” she said, though her voice sounded kind of robotic, like she was giving a report, but then gave Sam the address. “I wouldn’t stop by with a scalpel and try to get that marrow out of him; you’re likely to end up gator bait.”

“Noted,” Sam said.

“And Sam? Whoever is employing you? Tell his to pay his debt and get out of the country and then see about getting into the space program. Bonaventura is not the kind of person who chalks things up to being part of the game. It’s all personal to him.”

“Noted,” Sam said. He wasn’t sure why he kept saying noted, but he sort of thought it made him sound more official. “Anything else, Darleen?”

Sam could hear a light tapping sound, as if maybe Darleen was clicking her teeth together, getting pensive, thoughtful, conjuring that night in Newark herself. Sam Time is hard to forget. He imagined her sitting in her office and really trying to get a fix on her memories, maybe even pondering a meet up at the Dorsal Fin for a few drinks and then, well, why plan it?

He heard that tapping sound again and realized that was actually the sound of her typing in the background. “Yes,” she said, “come to think of it, one other thing. As you know, having your friend Mr. Westen involved with Bonaventura would be bad for his profile. So I’d say it would be smart to be discreet.”

Sam was always surprised by how much other people knew about his business. “Discreet it is,” he said, and then made a mental note not to let Fiona set fire to anything valuable.

Most criminals like to keep a low profile. If you’re a bank robber, the odds are you don’t carry around a card that says BANKS KNOCKED OVER 24-7! If you’re a serial killer, you probably don’t run an ad on the back page of the Miami New Times offering severed heads for sale. Even if you’re a hit man-a job predicated on people knowing about your services-it’s fair to assume you’re not standing on A1-A with a sandwich board offering your wares.

All of which made the house Christopher Bonaventura was staying in that much more suspect. It wasn’t just the phalanx of black-on-black Mercedes-Benzes and Suburbans, with bulletproof body armor, encircling the drive that made it so suspect, though that certainly wasn’t helping matters; it was also the men standing behind the front gate of the house on Harbor Drive holding modified M1911A1. 45s like they were rolling with a Marine Force Recon unit.

Thing of it was, Sam thought, they sort of looked like Marines, too. Close-cropped hair. Square jaws. Arms as thick as thighs. Used to be mafia foot soldiers were on the chunky side. It wasn’t like they were big on hand-to-hand combat. They shot you or hit you in the head with a rock or clubbed you to death with a bat and then buried you in a cornfield. Physical work, sure, but quick work. Nothing where you’d need big muscle endurance. But these guys looked like they were hitting the free weights pretty regularly. Maybe taking a syringe or two, also, since Sam thought he could make out the entire arterial path of the guy closest to the gate and he wasn’t even out of the car yet.

Despite Darleen’s admonition to avoid it, Sam figured he’d drive by the house where Bonaventura was staying for the week, anyway, just to get the lay of the land, see what was what, and any other cliche he could think of. The truth was that he just wanted to see the damn place, since a house on Harbor Drive in Key Biscayne meant bucks he frankly didn’t think even the mob could afford.

At least not publicly.

So now he was parked across the street from a house three stories tall with a visible tennis court on the roof, the mere idea of which made Sam wonder just how dedicated you have to be to a sport to put it on the roof of your house. Apart from the Benzes and Suburbans, it was about all he could really see from the street, since the front gate was thick black steel and the line of men behind it didn’t exactly allow for great sight lines, at least not from across the street. So Sam got out of his car and started walking toward the house. What was the worst that could happen? Sam thought it was unlikely that they’d open fire on him right away, plus it would be hard to explain the blood spatter all over the nice McMansion across the way. Gunfire on the nicest street in Key Biscayne was likely to cause a stir, so while these guys were strapped like they were expecting the Chinese Red Army to come stomping down the street, it was probably more about intimidation than action.

“Pardon me, boys,” Sam said, “but I’ve lost my dog. Little cocker spaniel? White and sort of off-red. Party colored, they call ’em, but I just call him Chuck. You guys see anything matching that description?” The guys looked back and forth at each other with confusion, as if Sam were speaking gibberish, so he just kept walking toward the gate and talking. “Pink tongue, tends to poke out the side of his mouth when he’s running? Just a nub of a tail? This sound familiar? Barks at every leaf and bug he sees? Anybody?” He kept phrasing everything like a question, thinking that eventually one of the guys holding the. 45s would think to respond, if only to stop the cavalcade of queries.

He stopped talking when he got close enough to the gate that he could peer in rather easily, since now all of the guys were grouped together and muttering to each other in low voices Sam couldn’t quite make out. He wasn’t even really sure what he was looking for, but had a general feeling that because of the way things normally went down, he’d probably need to scale the wall and cause a ruckus at some point, so he might as well start looking for ways in now, before he was dodging bullets.

There was a sign in the middle of the gate that warned people away with threats of armed response units and fatal levels of electricity. If a dog really did get loose in this neighborhood and decided to raise his leg on Bonaventura’s gate, he’d be electrocuted, which made Sam think that the wisdom behind HOAs was truly lost on the rich. Nevertheless, the guards didn’t seem too concerned about the electricity, if their relative proximity to that gate was any judge.