13

Before the bloodshed comes the rain.

South Florida, so I’ve been told, is due for a whopper of a hurricane. Sounds good to me; anything that gets this moisture out of the air and onto the ground can’t be all bad.

Miami is a fertile breeding ground for that subspecies of news anchor known as meteorologists; when they get going, there’s more hot air spewed in the television studios than there is in the weather patterns themselves. With their sharp jackets and sharper hair, they’re ready to soothe or terrify at a moment’s notice, tossing out latitudes and longitudes to anyone who doesn’t know how to change the channel.

This one guy, Brian something-or-other, this Miami weatherman whose entire career revolves around his ability to come up with sixteen synonyms for the word rain, has ’em all beat. Because he’s not only on the money with the weather this time around—he’s on the money with a lot of weather.

“Hurricane Alison has reached category five status,” he tells the viewing audience, among whose numbers I, unfortunately, count myself a member, “which means the winds are in excess of one hundred and fifteen miles an hour.” He says this last bit as if the number 115 is entirely new to human consciousness, like it’s some alien concept that we’re never going to grasp, no matter how hard he tries to make us understand.

“Alison seems to be taking her time,” he continues, completing the storm’s metamorphosis from an inanimate collection of wind and rain to a complete human personality with feelings and critical decision-making capability. I almost expect him to breathlessly announce, “Alison has ordered pastrami on rye for lunch, but her situation is so volatile, she could change that to tuna salad at any moment.”

Instead, he gives us more crucial information: “Twelve of the thirteen computer models have the hurricane striking Dade and Broward counties somewhere between eleven and eleven forty-five in the P.M., the eye coming ashore somewhere between Homestead and Hallandale.”

“That’s great,” drawls Noreen as she hurries by the TV set, a cardboard box in her arms. “A hundred miles of possibility. Thanks for the warning, Brian.”

Hurricane preparations at the Dugan penthouse are in full swing. Metal shutters are slowly rolled across the tall plate-glass windows; chaise lounges are dragged inside as we clear the patio of all furniture and debris. With hundred-mile-an-hour winds—excuse me, hundred-and-fifteen-mile-an-hour winds—it’s not neighborly to leave potential six-foot projectiles out in the open. Everyone’s making like turtles, sneaking back into the protection of the shell. Somewhere on the grounds, there’s probably a team of Hadrosaurs figuring out how to encase the entire place in a gigantic condom.

Due to the proximity of the Intracoastal and the Atlantic Ocean, everyone east of US 1 has been ordered to evacuate their homes, and that includes all the nice folks residing in One Island Place, Noreen and Company included. The mafia, though well connected, doesn’t get a pass on natural disasters.

“Where you want this box?” Glenda inquires as she staggers by, a heavy load dragging her shoulders down.

“Behind the bar,” Noreen tells her. “Careful—”

“Yeah, yeah, sister, I got it.”

Nerves are frayed all through the penthouse, and the constant drone from the radio and television doesn’t help matters. You’d think these newscasters would have some sort of obligation to keep the peace, but their inflammatory predictions of the potential storm damage just make the natives more restless.

“What we’re seeing here, Jane,” one of the talking heads is saying, “is a storm of massive proportions—”

“Just massive, John—”

“Going back to Andrew, maybe even worse than that, back to Gloria—”

“Just massive, John.”

I finish dragging the last of the patio furniture into the upstairs living room and decide to take a breather on one of the chairs. My muscles ache; my back is sore. My tail is stiff inside my guise, and if it weren’t for the possibility of the condo guards coming up to check on our progress, I’d whip it out and go free and clear for a few minutes. It’s a good thing I can make a living as a PI, because I definitely suck at moving furniture.

Noreen pulls a chair up next to mine, her movements slow but fluid. There’s strength left in this gal yet, and I have no idea where she gets it from. I shoot her a weary smile, and she flashes one in return.

“How you holdin’ up?” I ask.

“I’m up. Two hours left, looks like we’ll get it all done. If it weren’t for Glenda, we’d be in trouble. That girl knows how to hustle.” She pours herself a small glass of Infusion and sucks it down. “Oh,” she says, “I’m sorry, I forgot—”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t bother me anymore.” Liar! After a hard day like today, there’s nothing I’d usually want more than a tall plant and a hole to curl up in and chew. But that’s advertising for you. YOU’RE WORKING FOR TWO RIVAL MOB FAMILIES, reads the billboard in my mind. YOUR OLDEST FRIEND WAS JUST ASSASSINATED. NO ONE TRUSTS YOU FURTHER THAN THEY CAN SPIT, AND NOW THE STORM OF THE CENTURY IS BEARING DOWN ON YOUR SCALY LITTLE ASS. BUT YOU JUST HAULED EIGHTEEN HUNDRED POUNDS OF FURNITURE, AND THOSE ENDORPHINS ARE KICKING IN. IT’S BASIL TIME!

“Where’s Nelly?” I ask, just to get the conversation off herbs. “Kinda odd he’s not here.”

“His mom lives by herself on the other side of town,” says Noreen. “We’re all heading to the safe house in Lauderhill, but she didn’t want to go all the way up there, so he took her over to a shelter.”

So Nelson Hagstrom is a mama’s boy. Who’d have guessed?

Outside, the sky is clear as ever, the sun shining bright on the blue ocean water, not even a trace of wind troubling the air. “Looks okay to me,” I say.

“Calm before the storm. Every time.” She shifts in her chair, and I get a whiff of the lemongrass riding her mango scent. Something’s coming.

“Vincent,” she begins, “I think you should spend the storm down south.”

Down south. She means with Eddie Tallarico and his gang. “I’d rather stay with you,” I say, “make sure you’re okay.”

Noreen smiles sweetly, but I know it’s all business. “There’s going to be a lot of confusion during the storm, and I need a pair of eyes down there. They think you’re working for them. So much the better. If anything . . . hinky goes down, I need to know about it.”

“So there’s no chance of you and Eddie burying the hatchet? Before this thing gets . . . out of hand?”

Noreen turns away from me. “It’s not that easy.”

“That’s what they always say.”

“Maybe they’re always right.”

I hadn’t considered that. “What is it?” I ask, turning my chair to face hers. “Is it the honor? That whole mafia thing?”

“No, no—”

“He killed your brother. I get that. I know that. I feel it, too. Not like you, but I feel it. And so you kill one of them, and then they’re gonna find out and kill one of your guys, and—”

She kicks out at the seat of a chaise lounge, a sudden fire in her belly. “There’s someone in here,” she hisses. “He’s got a guy in with us. Feeding him information. Telling him what we do, what we say. Do you know what that does? The betrayal? The paranoia?”

“It’s tough—”

“I’m a prisoner in my own house. I can’t trust anyone—”

“I know—”

“—because one of them . . .” She slows down here, regaining control, but the passion is still riding strong within her, flushing her false skin to a deep bronze. “One of them killed Jack, Vincent. And I know that next time, they’ll be gunning for me.”

She’s right, of course. Noreen is the next logical hit on the Tallarico list, but short of wrapping her in plate mail, surrounding her with trained, rabid samurai, and prepping the house with antiterrorist devices, there’s absolutely no way to guarantee her safety 100 percent.

Better not to bring that up.

“What is it?” I ask. “The two families, the bad blood . . . There’s fourteen, fifteen different crews down here, what’s so bad between the Hadrosaurs and Raptors?”

“It’s Eddie,” she says plainly.

“He’s a fruitcake, I’ll give you that much—”

“When his brother ran things, it was different. There was enough action for everyone, and nobody complained. There was a war . . . oh, hell, fifteen, twenty years before we even got down here, and it crippled the families. These are just stories I heard, mind you, but it happened. And afterwards, when the dust settled, they came together, all of them, and forged a new peace, and that’s what Jack and I came into. When Francesco ran the Hadrosaurs and Frank Tallarico was in charge of the Raptors . . . It was good. It worked.”

I prod her along. “And then Eddie took over.”

“Eddie.”

“So he’s to blame for all this.”

Noreen shrugs, looks away. “There’s a lot of blame to go around.”

A two-tone chime from the television set—it’s 7:00 P.M. and the newest round of scare tactics is about to begin. True to form, the newscasters have donned their somber faces, eyes half-closed and cheeks hollow, as if they’ve just watched their children being eaten alive by monitor lizards. Then again, they’ve probably saved that footage for “film at eleven.”

“Alison is bearing down on the coast,” they practically scream, the glee in their voices belying their mellow, FCC-suitable demeanor, “and we’re here to bring it all to you, live, as it breaks. Final evacuations are continuing for the following areas—”

Noreen clicks off the tube and tosses the remote across the room. “Go,” she says. “Do what I need you to do.”

I stand and stretch my arms, wishing like hell I could get into a bathroom and loosen up this tail. But I’ve got a long cab ride ahead of me, and the traffic heading away from the beach is gonna be a bitch, what with the Mother of All Storms—moniker courtesy Channel 7 News—about to toast the coast. “You think someone could call me a taxi?”

“Now? You’ll never find one—everyone’s home, putting up their shutters, hoarding their Oreo cookies. We’ll loan you a car.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “Take it.”

“But—”

“Go.”

There’s no arguing with Noreen, and eventually I accept the use of a fine loaner—a 1998 Mercedes SL600, no less, the substantial German auto sweeping into the driveway outside the lobby in anticipation of my arrival. I slide into the rich leather seat, the contours of which just seem to caress my body.

“Oooh,” I say to Noreen as I adjust the rearview mirror—electronically, no less. “I could get used to this.”

“Don’t get too used to it,” she replies. “It was Jack’s. Before . . . when he could walk.”

She looks away, the hitch in her voice giving away her sadness. I adjust the lumbar support to cushion my crunched-up tail. “Oh,” I say, sticking my head out of the window, “is there anything I’m supposed to do? Safety-wise?”

“Like what?”

“Back home, when there’s an earthquake, you’re supposed to huddle under a doorway, for the structural support. That kind of thing. Things to keep me from becoming less alive.”

“If the roof comes off, run to the bathroom.”

“If the roof comes off.”

“Right. You run to the bathroom. Get in the tub.”

“Why?”

She thinks it over for a moment. “I don’t know. That’s just what they teach you to do.”

“Bathroom. Tub. Got it.”

I wave good-bye to Noreen—that phrase running over and over through my head—if the roof comes off, if the roof comes off—imagining the process, the sounds of ripping shingles, creaking wood, the entire structure battered like the doll house of an angry preschooler—if the roof comes off, if the roof comes off—the screams and the terror and the eyes cast upwards as the sky suddenly bursts through, winds whipping down like giant fingers to stir up a whole heap of trouble and cut off lives before they’ve ever really gotten started—if the roof comes off, if the roof comes off—

And I gun the car engine—

Only realizing a split second later that I have just started the personal automobile of a known mafia kingpin—

And lived to tell the tale. The light hum of a precision engine rewards my turn of the key, and I ease down into the seat, exhaling softly.

Noreen must have noticed the anxiety etched into my face, because she just looks at me, laughs, and says, “Boom.”

It takes me a while to get all of the adjustments right on the Mercedes; Jack was a lot bigger than I am and the mirrors and seat settings were all set to his specifications. Fortunately, the Tallaricos aren’t into explosives; let’s just hope they’re not into cutting brake lines, either.

I eventually get the car’s mojo working with my own, and pull the smooth wonder of German craftsmanship down the sloping driveway, heading for the gates—

Nearly slamming into a beige Buick sedan shooting out from the parking garage. I slam on the brakes, my hand instinctively batting the horn. The Buick shoots right on through, paying me little, if any, attention, and as it passes by, I get a glimpse of the passengers:

The gals from the talent pool. Five of them, at least, packed into the backseat of the car. And the driver is none other than Madame Audrey, her bob of gray hair barely popping over the steering wheel. I wonder how she can drive with her line of sight obscured like that, then realize that’s probably why she nearly broadsided the first Mercedes I’ve ever driven.

I don’t have any time to make side trips; if I don’t start motoring down toward Tallarico’s now, I’ll never make it before the storm.

But I can’t pass up an opportunity like this, a chance to learn a little more about Audrey and these ubiquitous girls. I drop behind the Buick, allowing a few cars to get between us as I follow them through the sluggish traffic leaving the beaches and across I-95, into the more central areas of the county. The homes are smaller here, the front lawns untended. Weeds choke off the surrounding foliage, and I get the impression that this is not the version of Florida they put on the brochures.

A faded sign on the side of the road reads WELCOME TO OPA-LOCKA. No wonder they let it get so run-down; it’s hard to have pride in your town when you can’t say the name with a straight face.

I follow the Buick down a series of short, evenly spaced streets, the homes adorned in a wide array of neon-glow colors. Back in L.A., you’d be roundly tossed from the neighborhood for even considering such a paint job; out here, it seems to be a badge of honor to throw a hundred bottles of Pepto Bismol on your stucco and call it a day.

Audrey manages to park the Buick in a small driveway, knocking over two lawn flamingoes as she goes; I hang back five houses and pull into an empty carport, hoping that the lengthening shadows will obscure the Mercedes.

The girls from the Dugan place tumble out and shuffle onto the small front porch. One knocks on the door, and a few seconds later, someone on the inside opens up, allowing the girls access. Audrey follows them inside.

A moment later, she emerges again, leading four girls back into the car. These gals are different ones, though; the guises are similar, but I can detect a change in their overall scent. The doors slam shut, and the Buick pulls out and disappears down the street.

Thirty seconds later, I’m creeping up the front walk, wondering if there’s a window I can peer into, a hole through which I can peep—

The smell hits me first. Now, I’m an L.A. detective, and I take my fair share of cases that send me into the homelands of poverty and squalor. And while I know we’ve got some serious competition out here in the wilds of America, it’s hard to beat the slums of Los Angeles when it comes to pure, unadulterated degradation. Crumbling ceilings, nonexistent plumbing, rats using major appliances as playground equipment, the works.

I had a case once that took me down to the Shacks, a four-block stretch of road near L.A.’s Little Tokyo, just a small section of a town where the American Dream has slammed on the brakes, smashed into a light pole, and been flattened by a meteor. Sheets of raw aluminum hastily nailed together form makeshift shelters, an encampment of the disenfranchised and disillusioned.

Humans, dinosaurs, and whatever wild creatures they’ve welcomed as pets pack into these makeshift cabins in the hopes of attaining some sort of protection from the elements. Three to a cot, head to toe, tail to claw, whatever it takes.

That’s the first time I picked up on this odor. I’d hoped it would be the last. There’s a stench that comes with sickness, a bitter alkaline that floats in the air, but that wasn’t it. There’s another that comes with decay, a sickly sweet burn that turns your stomach in and out and, at the same time, turns it on. But that wasn’t it, either. It took me a second, back in the day, the same way it’s taking me a moment now, to place this smell, but I know it’s the very same one:

It’s resignation.

The scent that says I give up. I’ve had enough, and it’s never getting any better. And it’s worse than the most fetid corpse, the moldiest bit of cheese. It’s the smell of death—not of the body, but of the mind—and it’s impossibly hard to accept.

As I pry open the front door and step inside, I realize the odor has coalesced into a mist, an awful gray pallor hanging over everything like a thick layer of dust. The living room—if that’s what it is—sports a single sofa, circa 1969, the light-brown plaid stained with a thousand liquids better left unidentified. A twelve-inch television, black-and-white, one knob missing, is shot through with static, the picture flipping up and over every few seconds, but through it all I can make out Brian the weatherman, soothsaying his portents of doom.

Sounds—and smells—from the back room. I keep my head low and footsteps soft as I make my way down the hall. The girls are talking in some Asian language I’ve no hope of deciphering unless they suddenly break into dim-sum menu speak. I’m sure my presence will alarm them, so the best choice would be to stay down and silent.

“Hey gals,” I say as I stroll inside. “How’s it going?”

I expect them to shriek, or call for help, but they just give me a once-over and go back to their business of sitting and doing little to nothing. The room is trimmed with peeling wallpaper, ten small cots evenly spaced throughout. Another small door is set into the wall at the back of the room. Since no one’s particularly interested in stopping me, I take a gander inside.

Four makeshift hospital beds have somehow been squeezed into this tiny space, and in each one is a half-guised Ornithomimus. Their torsos and faces remain human, while everything below the waist is relaxed and reptilian. The kicker is that the girls are all lying on their sides, their tails bandaged and freshly bloody.

“What happened?” I ask, moving to a girl whose scent I believe I recognize.

She looks up, and I see the telltale herb in her eyes. They’ve got the gals doped up. “Mr. Vincent?” she asks dreamily.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. I know you, right? From the Dugans’?” She nods. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, even though it’s clear she’s been through something serious. “They let us chew before and after,” she sighs. “I don’t mind it so bad.”

A commotion from the main room behind me; I spin and get a look through the door. A stooped-over, elderly female, probably another Ornitho, is barking at the girls in her native tongue. She minces her way across the threadbare carpet, her short, hopping steps making me wonder if they bound her claws when she was a kid.

“You’d better go,” says the girl, drawing me back to her. “She won’t be happy you’re here. We need our rest.”

“I’ll go, but first tell me what happened to your tail.”

“They cut it,” she says, as if tail-slicing is as natural as a manicure.

“Who?”

“The lady.”

“The lady?” I repeat. “What lady? What’s she look like?”

“The old lady on the boat.” As the girl tries to sit up, a wave of pain registers in her face, twisting her features into a grimace. She reaches into a brown leather pouch sewn into the side of the bed and pulls out a wad of leaves. It’s not even the good stuff—mostly stems and seeds—but she shoves the herbs into her mouth and chews. I resist the urge to plant a kiss on her and suck the stuff down my own throat. Seconds later, the pain subsides, and she relaxes again.

“It’s not so bad,” she says, reaching down and stroking the bandage where the remainder of her tail used to be. “It only hurts when it grows back.”

“When what grows back?”

“My tail. It itches. Very badly.”

Must be the herb talking. “Tails don’t grow back,” I tell her, ruining whatever fairy-tale dreams she might have of one day waving her scaled appendage again in the breeze. “Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

“Mine grows back. And the other girls’. This is my third time.” She leans in then, and says, in a hopeful whisper, “Four more and I get to go home.”

This doesn’t make any sense. Dinos have our own special set of skills, but flesh and bone and nerve are flesh and bone and nerve, and once they’re gone, that’s the end of the game.

As I lean in to get a closer look at her tail, maybe figure out whatever bullshit parlor trick is being pulled on these poor unsuspecting girls, I’m whacked across the head with a broom.

“Get out!” shouts the crone in charge, who’s managed to sneak her way into the room behind me. She takes another whack with her broom, the bristles ripping across my cheeks. Lady’s old, but she sure knows how to choke up on a cleaning utensil.

“I was just asking a few questions—”

“Out!” she shrieks again, and this time she’s shuffling toward the closet. From the way she’s moving, I can tell she’s got some weapon in there that’s more effective than her current one, and though I could probably take out whatever firepower she’s got, it would be unseemly to battle someone three times my age and of the fairer sex.

“I’m going, I’m going.” I back out of the room as she pulls an old six-shooter from the closet. This is a gun that even Jesse James would have considered an antique, but I’ve no doubt that it has the capacity to shoot small hunks of lead far enough into my body to cause major discomfort. I turn heel and jog through the house, keeping an eye over my shoulder at Annie Oakley as I go.

My foot catches on the edge of the front porch, and I stumble out onto the front walk, rolling over into a pile of rocks and drying mud.

“Don’t tell me he’s got you doin’ my job now. Fuck!”

I look up to find Sherman standing over me, hitting himself in the forehead with his palm and cursing at the top of his lungs. Staggering to my feet, I grab his arms and try to calm him down.

“Sherm, Sherm. Deep breaths. One, two. One, two.”

Poor guy’s crestfallen, his saggy cheeks hanging even lower. “I got a family to support, Rubio. If Eddie’s tryin’ to replace me—”

“Forget about it,” I tell him. “I was up here on my own. Checkin’ out the gals.”

“Really?” he asks, wide-eyed as a five-year-old who wants so hard to believe that little Ruffles will indeed be frolicking with the other poochies up in doggie heaven.

“Really. You came down to . . . ?”

“Drop off the girls. Before the storm. Eddie don’t want ’em hanging around at the hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“Eddie boarded up the house. Says he wants us further inland, some hotel downtown.” Sherman takes a look at his watch. “And we better hustle if we’re gonna get this job done.”

I don’t like the sound of that. “What job?”

“Tell you on the way. Hop on in the car.”

Despite my need to keep a low profile in Sherman’s eyes, I can’t leave Jack’s Mercedes in the middle of Opa-Locka during a hurricane. Noreen probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I returned the car without its wheels, engine, tranny, or stereo.

“Got a car,” I say, nodding my head down the road.

Sherman gets one look at the Benz and his eyes go wide. “Damn,” he says, “that’s a fine ride, Rubio. Looks familiar.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” We walk the quarter-block to the car, and Sherman clucks his tongue. Then—“Wait a sec,” he says. “Ain’t that Jack Dugan’s car?”

I laugh it off. “Conned the broad into letting me drive it around. She’s a pushover.”

“Man, I haven’t seen that car in years. Not since . . .” Sherm’s expression suddenly turns from nostalgic to somber. “Don’t tell me you drove it here.”

“Yeah, course I did,” I tell him. “What’s up?”

Without another word, he drops to his knees and flips onto his back, shimmying beneath the car’s undercarriage, wriggling like a worm who desperately needs to see a chiropractor. His puffy belly juts out from under the car, and as I squat by his thick legs, I can hear soft grunts as he works on the metal.

A moment later, he squirms out from beneath the auto, his hands grimy with oil and road filth. In his right fist he clutches a bundle of wires, below which dangles a metallic box about eight inches long.

“You started this car yourself?” he asks me, and I nod. Sherman shakes his head, laughs, and tosses the black box into some nearby bushes; as it falls, the top pops open and two small nuggets of plastique tumble to the ground, disappearing down a storm drain. “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” he says, chuckling as he heads back to his own car. “It’s a good thing the Tallarico family sucks at planting car bombs.”

We drop the Mercedes down at the Omni Hotel, where the Tallarico clan will be holing up for the duration of Alison’s wrath. Once I’m in that beaten-up Lexus sedan, Sherman tells me that Eddie has assigned him a special job, one he’s itching to do.

“And I figure, you’re the perfect guy to help me out with it.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

Sherman drops into silence for a moment, a small drop of liquid dripping from his right eye. It may actually be a tear.

“They got Chaz,” he whimpers.

I tense up in the seat, then will my muscles to relax. He doesn’t seem to have any idea that I was instrumental in said “getting” of Chaz.

“Who?”

“Those Hadrosaur fucks!” he spits. “Animals!”

I remember that BB and Hagstrom did away with Chaz’s head and body.

“How do you know?”

“The sick bastards sent us his scent glands in the mail this morning.”

“In the mail?”

“FedEx, actually. I opened it up and got a whiff of him right away. Two little glands, that was it, but I knew . . . I knew his scent like it was my own.” Sherman’s on the verge of letting go, and for some reason I find myself patting him on the back, trying to comfort him.

“So that’s it?” I suggest. “That’s the end of it? We took Jack, they took Chaz, all done.”

“Oh no, that ain’t even close. Eddie says it’s time for the bloodletting.”

I don’t know if the bloodletting is some sort of official mob phrase, but I certainly don’t like the sound of it. I need to get to a phone and tell Noreen what’s going down.

“Man, I gotta rearrange my G-clamp. Find a gas station with a bathroom—”

“No time. We got the word that one of Dugan’s big boys is all alone, and Eddie wants us to take him down.” Sherman pulls the car onto I-95, heading north. Up toward Dugan territory. “Your job,” he continues, “is to lure him out. He knows you; he’ll trust you. Then we can go to work.”

Again, I’m bait. And, again, I’m powerless to say no. “Who is it?” I ask.

“Hagstrom,” clucks Sherman. “The little prick.” He leans in and prepares to lay out the plan of attack. “Get ready to make the front pages, Vincent. This one’s gonna have ’em talking all the way up to Tallahassee.”

This feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, this dark lump of pain down low near my bowels, might just be the stale ham sandwich I ate back at the condo. I’m hoping that’s what it is, because whereas my digestive system isn’t always on track, my intuition usually is, and it’s telling me a lot of things I don’t want to hear right now.

Other than the fact that I’m in a car heading up the South Florida coast with a history-making hurricane fifty miles offshore, on my way to interrogate, torture, and most likely kill my ex-girlfriend’s fiancé, I’m running myself ragged trying to figure out who’s informing for the Tallaricos. Someone’s pulling off a double-agent bit better than I am, and it’s partially frustration, partially professional envy, but it’s hard to get it out of my mind.

“You know who this guy is?” I ask Sherm as we drive up US 1. The roads are mostly empty, eerily silent except for the occasional burst of wind or the roar of our own partially muffled engine. Windows all around town are covered in large sheets of plywood, homemade shutters that should keep out all but the most ardent gusts.

“Who?”

“The informer. Inside Dugan’s crew.”

Sherman shakes his head. “Wish I did. I’d shake his little rat hand—first things first—and then claw him in the belly till he dies.”

There must be a communications error. “No, I’m talking about the guy who’s giving Eddie all the information about the Dugan crew—”

“Right. I’d thank the little fuck, then kill him fast as I could spit.”

“But he’s helping us out.”

“Yeah,” says Sherm, “now he is. But a rat’s a rat, and two faces don’t change into one.” He turns in the seat, eager to dispense his wisdom, learned from hard years on a hard crew. “You find yourself a rat, don’t ever turn your back on him, ’cause no matter how close you think you are or how much you think you got on him, it don’t matter. They got teeth and whiskers for a reason, and they’ll bite you in the neck just as soon as they’ll kiss you. Then you’re on the floor bleeding out, and the rat’s telling you to lie down and let the pain take you away.”

The thing is, he’s right. If there’s one thing Ernie taught me, it’s that folks don’t change. We’re static, solid. It’s one of the things that helps in my profession—it’s easy to locate someone if you know the kinds of things they like to do when no one else is watching. Gamblers gamble. Philanderers philander. Chewers chew.

We don’t change. Period.

“This is the street,” Sherman says, pulling the Lexus onto the curb and hopping out. “Stick close, and we’ll play it like we said.”

The homes in this section of North Miami look like the homes the people in Opa-Locka would buy if they won a very small lottery jackpot. A bit bigger, slightly better tended, and the colors are less likely to burn out your retinas. Down the road is the local hurricane shelter, a windowless three-story building that looks like it could take a direct hit from an atomic bomb and still come out with a few wings intact.

“They build these shelters pretty damned big,” I say.

“It ain’t usually a shelter. Rest of the time it’s a high school.”

Indeed, there’s the sign outside the monstrosity: NORTH MIAMI BEACH SENIOR HIGH—HOME OF THE CHARGERS. “That’s a school? How do they teach in something like that?”

“Dunno,” says Sherman. “Probably not real well.”

The home of the 1993 National Team Debate Champions—according to the trophy case by the front doors—is packed with flesh this evening, sweaty bodies boxed into the hallways and open areas of the school. Mostly humans, and their stink clogs every walkway and niche of the building, infusing the stairwells with a scent like feet gone to rot. And of course, they can never smell themselves; if they could, I am wholly sure their suicide rate would quadruple overnight.

“We gotta find a single ant in this colony,” I say as we pick our way through the crowd. “Lemme stand still for a second, maybe I can sniff him out.” It’s mostly mammals in this joint; Hagstrom and his mom should stick out pretty sharp.

They do. Six minutes after the first whiff, I’ve traced them all the way up to a third-floor science lab. Here people are huddling beneath counters, fluffing their pillows and bedding down next to Bunsen burners and beakers, seemingly unconcerned with the amount of breakable glass around them. Then again, I guess if the wind is strong enough to break in the front doors, head back behind the auditorium, burst into the stairwell, and climb the three stories up into this chem lab, there are worse problems on hand than a little busted Pyrex.

“Two rooms down,” I tell Sherman. “I can smell him from here. You go wait downstairs in the car.”

“You sure you got it?” he asks.

“Positive. Go, downstairs. Trust me.”

Sherman lingers for a moment, then disappears down the stairwell, leaving me to deal with Hagstrom on my own.

They’re in a storage room, the shelves lined with sticky contact paper to keep everything in place. Eight of them in here, Hagstrom and his mother in back. Their smells are similar, and the guises have been constructed along proper family lines. As I enter, Hagstrom does a classic double take worthy of any of the original Three Stooges.

“Rubio? What happened to Noreen?”

For a moment, I’m touched that his first thoughts are of her, but there’s no time for sentimentality. “Nothing, she’s fine—”

“I thought you were down south.” He utters this cardinal direction—south—as if it were one of the seven dirty words.

“I am. I was.” I take a quick sniff around and make sure that Sherman’s nowhere nearby. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t get it,” he says.

I nod, then gesture over to the old lady at his right. “This must be your mother,” I say, and the lady looks up, making no bones about giving me the once-over.

“This one of your little friends, Nelson?” she asks.

“Yeah, Ma—yeah. Vincent, this is my ma, vice versa.”

“Does he want cookies?”

“I don’t think so, Ma. Listen, you stay here. I’ll be back in a bit.” It’s clear Hagstrom doesn’t want to talk business in front of his sainted mother.

We step into the hallway, then drop back into another, slightly less crowded, room, keeping our tones hushed. “Okay, spill it. What are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to kill you.”

There’s a claw at my side before I can get out another word; I can see the sharp talon sticking through Hagstrom’s glove, his breath suddenly doubling in my ear. “Knock it off,” I tell him, too tired to mince words. “If I was going to do it, you think I would tell you?”

A reduction in the tension at my side, but he doesn’t retract. There are humans all around us, and he’s taking great pains to keep his claws out of sight, but I don’t doubt he’d drop me in a second if it came down to go time.

“Downstairs,” I continue, “is a Lexus, and in it is Tallarico’s right-hand guy. Sherman, the one who smells like cheese.”

“The one who killed Jack.”

“That’s right. I’m supposed to get you in the car under false pretenses of going back to Noreen, and he’ll be there to hold you under a gun and get you out to the pier.”

“And then . . . that would be that?” Hagstrom asks.

“That would be that.”

He nods and slowly slides his claw back in, understanding that my plans have changed.

“So what do we do? I bolt?”

“No good,” I tell him. “If you bolt, then they blame me, and then I’m the one who ends up under the sea. No, we gotta turn this thing around.”

Hagstrom looks around the science lab, at the huddled masses, at the fear on those faces, and I wonder if he, too, has gotten caught up in the storm’s-a-brewin’ hype. “How?”

“Two of us,” I explain, “one of him. We get out to the beach and turn the tables. Maybe find out who’s ratting out the Dugans.”

Hagstrom nods; he’s game. “I give you the high sign,” he says, “and we take him.”

I agree, but add on a rider: “Until then, we hate each other. You got that?”

“Oh yeah.” He grins. “Think I can manage that . . .”

“You left out the part where you call me a dirty Raptor.”

“Don’t worry,” says Hagstrom. “I thought it.”

He pops back into the science lab to tell his mother that he’ll be back in a little bit, to sit tight and eat her Oreos. She pats us both on the head and kneels on an air mattress, keeping her attention on the Channel 7 newscast.

We hustle down the stairs and out of the school grounds, and soon we’re playing our parts to the hilt. And while my own dramatic skills might be worthy of a Golden Globe—or, in a pinch, a People’s Choice Award—Hagstrom is chewing up the scenery left and right.

“Noreen wants to see me?” he practically yells as we cross the front lawn of NMB Senior High.

“Yeah, yeah, she does,” I say, then mutter, “and keep it down, for chrissakes.”

I dated an actress once who had a recurring role on a particularly bad television show, and the one thing I remember about our short relationship—it lasted for the duration of the show’s summer hiatus, and not a day over—was how adrenaline, whether through fear, anger, or sexual excitement, threw her acting skills into overdrive. Any fight we had would then become the biggest blowout in the history of the universe, and any makeup sex was wild and passionate enough to put all the lovers of the world to shame. Our breakup, accomplished in a single, uncomfortable six-minute telephone call, was disturbingly anticlimactic; she must not have properly understood her character’s motivation.

Hagstrom’s got the same bug in him, and in the anxiety of the situation, he’s blowing things out of proportion. The Lexus waits for us at the curb, and I pull the keys from my pocket and open the passenger door. He just stands there.

“Go on,” I say, trying to keep in character. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Maybe I’ll walk,” he tells me. This was not in the script.

“Hagstrom, what’s the matter with you? Get in the freaking car.”

After a few more minutes of argument—none of which was planned—he sits in the passenger seat, buckles himself in, and we’re off. A mile down the road, Sherman pops up in the backseat, his pistol suddenly pressed against Hagstrom’s head.

“Rubio, you lousy fink!” shouts Hagstrom. Idiot thinks he’s Pacino. If he so much as utters a single hoo-ha! I’ll have to deck him.

But Sherman’s dense enough to buy the corny acting, and he gives me one of his little winks. “Take us down, Vincent,” he says confidently.

“Don’t know where I’m going.”

He deflates. “Oh. Right. Make a left.”

Street by street, Sherman directs me out to Haulover Beach, a small strip of sand and deserted boardwalks with a long wooden pier jutting out into the Atlantic. A sign at the front of the parking lot reads BEACH CLOSED. THANK YOU FOR VISITING!

“Screw it,” Sherm says. “Go on in.”

It’s easy enough to maneuver the Lexus around the sign and into the parking lot, where we hop out of the car, Hagstrom finally keeping his cool. “Which way?” I ask Sherman, but what I’m waiting for is Hagstrom’s signal.

“Out to the water,” says Sherman, shifting the gun from Hagstrom’s head to the small of his back. “The pier.”

We slog our way out across the sand single-file, Hagstrom leading the way as Sherman directs him from behind. I bring up the rear, keeping on my toes, flexing my claws beneath my gloves with every step. Whenever Hagstrom gives me the sign, I’m ready to go to work.

But we take it easy on the way out to the pier; Hagstrom’s waiting for the perfect moment, and I can’t fault him for that. We reach the steps leading up to the wooden pier itself, but Sherman shakes his head as Hagstrom grabs onto the hand rail. “Uh-uh,” he says. “Under there.”

“Under?” Hagstrom asks, peering into the darkness beneath the pier. “Goddamn you Raptors—”

This gets Sherman going, and he shoves the gun deeper into Hagstrom’s back. The Hadrosaur grudgingly takes another step forward, and we shuffle through the sand and into the heavy surf.

The thick wooden pylons that hold the pier aloft disappear into the sand, where they’re probably anchored by fifty-ton cement blocks. All manner of graffiti can be found down here, tagging and artistry alike, but we don’t have time to admire the handiwork of Miami’s gang culture.

As soon as we’re completely beneath the pier, I see Hagstrom’s right hand begin to twitch; when he raises it above his shoulder, it’s the signal to attack. It’s on the move, going up, up, at his waist—I’m prepping my glove, my claws—higher—preloosening my G-clamp, ready to release my tail—higher, almost there—the saliva building in my mouth, teeth ready to chomp, to gnash, to tear—

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

A voice, from the darkness, quickly separating itself. It’s Jerry, another of Tallarico’s many goons, his thick face roiling with hatred, a small-caliber pistol in his right hand. Next to him is another one of the faceless soldiers I’ve seen around the Tallarico compound over the last week, and he’s no prettier. Neither is his gun.

Hagstrom shoots me a quick glance—The hell is going on?—and I risk one back—I have no idea.

Fortunately, Sherman seems just as confused, so we’re not the only odd men out.

“Jerry, I got this one.”

Jerry shrugs. “Eddie wanted I should come down, a little extra insurance.”

Sherman seems pissed that the kill’s being taken out of his control, but there’s nothing he can do about it, and he knows it. “Fine,” he says. “If that’s the way Eddie wants to play it, so be it. Are we doing this thing or not?”

“Yeah,” says Jerry, “we’re doing it, all right.” He reaches into the darkness and pulls out a duffel bag; from within, he extracts a long, thick length of rope and takes a look at his surroundings. “Which one you like?”

This is not going as planned. Now Hagstrom’s got three guns trained on him, three bullets aimed at his flesh. The odds have dramatically switched in a few short seconds, and I mentally kick myself for not turning things around sooner.

But as they stand Hagstrom up against a wooden pylon—pressing his back against the wood, making sure that the water-soaked column will hold—I realize that despite my double-dealings, despite my slow metamorphosis into whatever creature of duplicity I’m becoming, I can’t let it go down this way.

Three on two. I’ve had worse odds before and come out on top. Can’t think of anytime recent, but I’ve never let my lack of a good memory stop me before.

If Hagstrom’s not going to give me a high sign, I’ll give him one. I step behind the trio of Raptors as they muscle their Hadrosaur quarry into place, rip the glove off my right hand, slide the index claw out three inches, and raise it into the air—

“You son of a bitch!” Hagstrom roars, throwing Sherman off his body and leaping through the air, arms extended toward my throat—

I fall backwards under his assault, stumbling, trying to maintain my balance, the soft sand underfoot grabbing at my legs, drawing them under—

I go down hard, landing on my side as Hagstrom falls on top of me, his hands reaching around and pulling at the back of my wig, drawing my face into his. Sherman, Jerry, and the soldier are running over to help me—

“Don’t do it,” Hagstrom whispers harshly into my ear. “We can’t take them—”

“We can—”

“No!” he hisses. “Protect Noreen. Find out who talked—”

And just like that, they’re pulling him away, and he’s back to playing the savage beast, thrusting his claws out of their slots, flashing his arms in every direction. He gets in a few slices—a thin stream of blood spurting from Jerry’s cheek, splashing against the sand—

“Get his fucking arms! His arms—”

The soldier rears back and kicks Hagstrom in the stomach, the strong blow knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, and Sherman grabs his arms, quickly binding his hands with a length of rope. “You okay, Vinnie?” Sherman asks me.

“Yeah.” I’m still a little stunned, not so much by Hagstrom’s attack as by what he’s sacrificing for his fiancée and her extended family. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

We walk Hagstrom farther out beneath the pier—he’s spewing venom all the way, really laying it on thick—“A curse on your tails, and on your sons’ tails”—but if ever there’s a time to overact, this would certainly be it. By the time we reach the far end of the pier, the water’s up to our knees, and Sherman stops the procession by one of the wide wooden columns facing the open ocean. The storm clouds are visible even in the darkening night sky, hanging just off the coast, biding their time.

“This one’ll do,” Sherman says, and he throws Hagstrom up against the pylon. Jerry and the other soldier are instantly there with the rope, wrapping it around Hagstrom’s body, lashing him down to the column, facing him out to the wide Atlantic.

Sherman calls me over. “His hands,” he says. “Turn ’em in.” And to Hagstrom he grunts, “Don’t try nothing funny.”

Hagstrom doesn’t make me do the dirty job myself, and turns his fingers inwards, so that they’re pointing toward his chest; Sherman does the same to his other hand, and the goons quickly bind them in that position. It’s a mob trick, but I’ve seen it before: if Hagstrom tries to slide out his claws to slice the ropes, he’ll impale himself on his own weapons long before working his body free.

We back up to take a look at our handiwork, and Hagstrom just stares out at the ocean, taking in breaths as deep as the constrictive ropes will allow. A few hours from now, when Alison eventually pounds her way to shore—thirty-foot swells, hundred-mile-an-hour winds, and all—Hagstrom will be there to greet her. I hope their relationship is over fast; she’ll do him wrong, in the end.

“That’s enough,” Jerry says, testing the ropes with one hand. “It’ll hold.”

He backs off to allow Sherman a tug, as well, and he gives it a perfunctory yank, using it as an excuse to get in close to Hagstrom’s face. “You have a real nice night, Hadro,” he growls, patting Hagstrom on the head before slapping him across the face. “This one’s for Chaz.”

Then it’s left to me, and I’ve got nothing to say. If I approach him, I might be able to slide out a claw, fray up one of those ropes, but the risk is too great, and I know Hagstrom wouldn’t want it. Wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck him,” I spit, feeling that knob of flesh in my chest grow harder, darker. “Let’s get outta here.”

We shuffle across the sand, three Raptors side by side, stepping out from beneath the pier, the sounds of the rising tide roaring in our ears. I don’t look back. I don’t think about it. There’s nothing I can do, other than tell Noreen that the man she loves was killed for no reason other than revenge, and that the man she used to love stood idly by and didn’t lift a claw to save him.