Филип Керр - A Five Year Plan

‘There’s no law against that.’

‘The previous owner was a guy by the name of Lou Malta, formerly an associate of Tony Nudelli. Even you must have heard of Tony Nudelli.’

Kate stayed silent.

‘Naked Tony Nudelli. I say formerly an associate, because Lou Malta is listed with the Miami Police Department as a missing person. No one has seen him in months.’

Kate shrugged and said, ‘I don’t see what that proves.’

‘Nothing. Except maybe that this Lou Malta guy has been murdered.’

‘All we ask of someone when they sell us something is that they possess a proper title to the goods. Not that they are a proper person.’

‘S’right, Kent,’ agreed Sam Brockman. ‘Guy who sold me my first car was one of the biggest crooks in Florida.’

‘Keep out of this,’ said Bowen.

‘Be careful, Sam,’ said Kate. ‘Or the crazy son of a bitch’ll open a file on you too.’

Bowen said, ‘I haven’t been able to find out about the other guy. The knuckles he has for company. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was some kind of mobster too.’

‘You sound like you’ve already established a prima facie case against David,’ said Kate. ‘What I’ve heard so far is about as circumstantial as the time on your cheap watch. Boy, when you throw up it’s not just last night’s dinner, is it? It’s a lot of other bile and rat shit as well. In case you’ve forgotten, Kent, it’s dogs that are interested in puke, not the DA. He’d laugh you out of his office with what you’ve told me so far.’

‘I never said I had anything other than—’ Bowen stopped, gulped biliously before covering his mouth and then waiting for another wave of nausea to subside. After a moment or two, he added, ‘Other than a strong suspicion, that he was not, a proper person for an agent to become, associated with.’ Then he belched.

‘Most intelligent sound you’ve made all morning, Kent,’ said Kate, standing up. ‘I’m going outside. The air in here is getting kind of sour.’

‘Agent Furey? I haven’t finished yet,’ said Bowen, and threw up into the sink.

‘It sure doesn’t look like it,’ said Kate, squeezing out from behind the table.

Almost as soon as Bowen had straightened again, a large fly landed on his puke, buzzing loudly.

‘Well, what do you know, Kent?’ said Kate, on her way out of the galley door. ‘Looks like one of your friends just dropped by.’

Kate spent the rest of the afternoon alone in her stateroom, avoiding everyone, Dave included. She heard him come aboard just after six, but when Sam came down to tell her, she told him to say she was sick and that she’d catch him tomorrow.

She was hardly to know that the next time she saw Dave he’d have a gun in his hand.

By dinnertime, with the squall still blowing hard and the sea as rough as ever, Dave returned to Al’s cabin with an omelette he had cooked for him, a piece of lemon pie, and a cup of strong black coffee.

‘Your in-flight meal,’ he said, coming in the door. ‘How are you feeling?’

Al sat up on the bed and yawned cheesily. He returned the dental plates to his mouth and said, ‘Better. Thanks. That stuff really works.’

‘I think you’d better eat something.’ Dave laid the tray on the bed. ‘It’s you who needs to be ready to rumble, not your stomach. With all that we’ve got to do, you’re going to need some energy.’

Al nodded, then wolfed down the omelette hungrily.

‘How about a beer?’ he asked.

‘Uh-uh,’ said Dave. ‘See those two Bandaids on your arms? Health warnings. They say the Surgeon-General has determined you remain dry until we’re aboard the Ercolano. Because of the medication. After that it’s champagne for the rest of your life.’

‘I don’t like champagne,’ said Al, attacking the pie. ‘It gives me gas.’

‘That’s the whole idea.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Sure. It’s the gas that lets you get loaded quickly.’

Al looked as if he hadn’t ever considered this possibility and spooned the rest of the pie into his mouth. Dave wondered if Al had ever heard of indigestion.

‘Thanks for the meal. ‘Predate it.’

‘No problem.’

‘My stomach was as empty as a fuckin’ campaign promise.’ Al burped happily and then drained his coffee cup. ‘Fuckin’ weather, huh? Reckon it’s going to slow us up any?’

Dave said, ‘If it keeps up like this, it’s certainly not going to make things any easier.’

‘How come you don’t ever get seasick?’

‘Mind over matter, I guess. I don’t mind. And it don’t matter.’ Dave lit a cigarette and grinned. ‘Besides, I figure thirty, forty million bucks’ll cure just about anything that ails me. Shit, man, I may never get sick again.’

Al grinned back. There were times when he quite liked the younger man. Times like this one. He promised himself that when the time came to kill Dave he’d make it quick. A bullet in the back of the head. The guy wouldn’t know a thing. It seemed the least that he could do.

Jimmy Figaro believed in history. But what was the use of it if you didn’t learn from it? You didn’t know about it, you were doomed to repeat its mistakes, and one thing Figaro could not afford was a mistake. Not with his client list. With some of these guys you fucked up just once and that was it. Then it was you that was history.

One of history’s lessons was to do with being the bearer of bad news. A cop he once knew in Orlando got woken in the middle of the night by another cop on his doorstep telling the guy he had some bad news for him. As it happened the bad news was just that the guy had been ordered to take charge of an accident investigation in which a lot of kids had drowned, and the cop was going to have to look at the kids’ bodies. But the guy was so annoyed with the other cop when he found out it wasn’t really bad news for him at all, and that none of his own family were dead or anything, that he pulled a gun and shot the cop on the doorstep dead.

There were a lot of permutations on the don’t-shoot-the-messenger theme. Nobody liked the guy who brought bad news. And that nobody could turn nasty when he was someone like Tony Nudelli. It was ironic how Figaro’s own bad tidings were tied up with the very same thing that had taught him to be extra careful of Nudelli and his quick temper in the first place. Which was Benny Cecchino.

Benny Cecchino had been a made man, a loan shark who had borrowed 8250,000 from Tony, at half a percent per week, to put out on the street at whatever vig he liked. One percent, or a hundred percent, Tony didn’t care who got charged or how much just as long as he got his 1,250 a week from Cecchino. Cecchino had lent $4,000 to an individual called Nicky Rosen, who promptly disappeared. Three weeks later Cecchino had been driving up Collins and thought he saw Rosen in another car. By the time Cecchino realized that the guy was someone else he had smashed his Mercedes into the lookalike and put him in hospital. An honest mistake, except that the lookalike turned out to be Tony Nudelli’s own brother-in-law. It was just bad luck and Nudelli might have excused this, but for the fact that Cecchino had gone around the Beach talking about it like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened. Like he didn’t give a shit whose brother-in-law it was. And the minute Nudelli heard about that he took a gun, drove down to the restaurant where Cecchino was usually to be found, which was a mob-owned place, and took care of the insult himself. And not just any gun either, but an awesome little Derringer-sized twelve-gauge pistol, firing one single capiscum round that was capable of crippling a grizzly bear. It was like having a shotgun in the palm of your hand. A make-sure killer’s gun that left most of Cecchino’s head in his lap.