Paul Levine - Paydirt

"Maybe you ought to call Vinnie before you do something that'll piss him off," Bobby said, buying time. In his heart, he knew LaBarca could order him killed as easily as he ordered linguine with clam sauce

"You think all I do is take orders from him?" Fornecchio asked, angrily.

"I think when you take a shit, you ask him for permission to wipe."

Growling like a hungry Doberman pinscher, Fornecchio jammed the barrel of the gun against the tip of Bobby's nose. "You broke my nose, asshole. How would you like me to shoot off yours?"

"Good thinking, Dino. There are only about two hundred security guards on the other side of those hedges. Why not shoot yourself in the foot at the same time?"

Fornecchio drew back the hammer of the gun, the metallic click seemingly as loud as a gunshot itself.

"Hey, wait a second, Dino," Crew Cut said. His neck seemed ready to burst the top button on his banded collar shirt. His arms were so thick they hung away from his body like a gorilla. "I didn't bargain for this. I gotta check in with Mr. K if you're gonna go ballistic."

Fornecchio's stupid face lit up like a neon sign. "If this prick tried to get away, you think Kingsley would mind if we messed him up?"

"No," the big man, said warily.

"Didn't think so."

"So?"

Hold him!" Fornecchio demanded, and Crew Cut, used to following orders, grabbed Bobby from behind, looping his arms through Bobby's armpits. "Hold him up straight."

Propped up, Bobby braced for what was coming. Fornecchio threw a hard right that landed squarely in Bobby's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. His stomach heaved once, twice, and then, he gagged and vomited straight onto Fornecchio's shoes.

"Oh shit!" Fornecchio shouted. "My wing tips! I'll never get the crud out. You're gonna lick my shoes clean, asshole, then I'm gonna inflict some pain on you."

Bobby heaved again, and this time he hurled even farther. Fornecchio stepped backward but the splash caught the cuffs of his suit pants. "You dirtbag!"

"Hey, Dino," Crew Cut said, "this smell is making me sick." He released his grip on Bobby and turned his head, trying to suck in some clean air.

Through a haze of tears, Bobby saw the path of moonbeams stretched across the bay. The light seemed to beckon to him. He got to his feet, sidestepped Fornecchio who was shaking off his pantleg, and raced to the open face of the gazebo that sat at the water's edge. He knew from fishing in the bay that the water was exceptionally shallow along the seawall. Concrete waste from repairs to the mansion formed a rocky ledge just inches below the water line. He would have to clear the ledge.

With his last step, he shot into the air in a racing dive, extending as far as he could, praying he would make it.

In a second, he felt the splash of surprisingly warm water and the tangle of sea grasses, but he had just cleared the ledge. As he kicked off his shoes and began swimming furiously away from the seawall, he heard the shout behind him.

"Get him!" Fornecchio yelled.

"I can't swim," Crew Cut replied.

"Goddamit!"

Bobby looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Fornecchio jumping off the seawall, feet first. He went up about two feet in the air and came straight down, his shoes banging the ledge like a sledgehammer breaking rocks.

Bobby heard Fornecchio's scream, the sound carrying across the water, a keening, high-pitched wail of pain.

"I broke my fucking ankles!" Fornecchio yelled into the night.

From her car, Christine called Bobby's house, then his cell. No answer. She tried the Fontainebleau to see if he'd left her a message. Nothing.

Twenty minutes later, she was in the hotel, on her way down the corridor, when she heard a commotion behind a closed door several rooms from her own.

Nightlife's room!

Approaching the door, she heard a woman's scream, then a thud, and the crash of furniture.

Oh God, now what?

She had forgotten about Lateesha. Damn it, Bobby! What have you done now?

She banged on the door. "Open up! Nightlife, open the door!"

Behind the door, there was an indecipherable sound. It could have been a cry of pain or exultation. Then another crash. Glass maybe, a lamp falling to the floor. Then, Nightlife's voice, "You bitch!" And a sharp female cry.

"Open the door!" Christine screamed. "Police! Security! Help!"

Down the corridor, a young black woman was pushing a housekeeping cart. "Yes, ma'am, can I help you?" she asked, in the lilt of the islands.

"Your key! Open the door. A woman's in trouble in there."

The housekeeper put her ear to the door just as a muffled shout came from the room. She hurriedly slipped a card key into the slot and opened the door.

Christine threw the door open. The room was a shambles. The writing desk was overturned, a lamp lay smashed on the floor. The bed coverings were balled up in a corner, and the mattress had slid off the bed. Lateesha stood in the center of the room, her dress torn open in front nearly to the waist. On the floor lay Nightlife Jackson, moaning, one hand clutching his groin, the other arm twisted at an unnatural angle away from his body.

"Omigod," Christine said. "Are you all right, Lateesha?"

"Hell no, I broke a nail," she said, examining the pinky of her right hand.

"How did you…?" Christine gestured toward the fallen man, who made no effort to get to his feet.

"Oh, he's not too much. Didn't Bobby tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I'm a three-time national karate champion. That's how I met Bobby, sort of. This ex-boyfriend of mine kept hanging around like a flea on a dog. He still had a key to my apartment, and I woke up one night to find him in my bed all hot and bothered. I lost it and let him have it. Not like it was unfair of me, unloading on him. He teaches martial arts at the Y and outweighs me by eighty pounds, but he's the one who ended up in the hospital, and I'm the one who got charged with assault and battery."

Nightlife rolled to one knee and said in a whisper, "Call a doctor, please."

"What happened?" Christine asked.

"Nightlife seemed to think I was a piece of meat he could have a slice. I told him he'd be wearing his balls as earrings if he didn't take his hands off me, but he didn't listen. Why don't men ever listen?"

"I truly don't know," Christine said.

February 5

Super Bowl Sunday

Christine lay in Bobby's bed restlessly tossing from side-to-side. She had called the police to report Bobby missing, but the dispatcher said to wait 24 hours to see if he showed up. They were awfully busy with all the people in town.

Christine had picked Scott up from her father's hotel suite where the boy was watching "Cheerleader Gang Bang" on pay-TV. He argued it was a football flick, but she made him turn it off anyway, and they headed across the causeway to the mainland.

She wanted to get as far away from her father as possible, and she figured that Bobby would come home sooner or later.

If he was okay. But what happened to you, Bobby? What have they done to you?

Scott was sleeping soundly in his room, while Christine listened to the palm fronds slapping the tin roof of the cottage. She watched the digital time display flick from 3:11 to 3:12 on the clock radio. She had dozed earlier, but her sleep was like a cocked pistol, and she kept awakening at every sound.

A ceiling fan whirled endlessly above her head, and she tried to let the whompeta-whompeta of the motor lull her back to sleep. No luck. She buried her head in the pillow, which smelled faintly of Bobby, and she remembered their lovemaking. Was it only the day before?

Oh, Bobby. Where are you? I need you.

At first she didn't hear the tapping at the window, and then, she thought it was a light rain falling. Then she heard Bobby's muffled voice.