It was the first full day of summer vacation. Marvon Jefferies and Bitta Smalls had put their books away, stored their lunch pails in the closet and were ready for summer. Normally, they would have been ecstatic, thinking of the fish they would catch, the exploring they would do, sitting on a blanket in the shade of an old live oak on days too hot to play and just generally being lackadaisical, doing what they wanted when they wanted to do it. But things weren’t normal. They had a man in a green truck watching them They had seen him. There was no ease to be found.
The boys were sitting in the back of the shed. They had put a barrier up against the door on the outside chance that someone might try to get in, but they weren’t really worried about that. If they were asked why they barricaded the door, they could always admit to looking at the old Playboy magazine they had found in the trash last winter. What they were really doing would get them in a lot more trouble than looking at naked women.
It was almost time for Bitta’s parents to get home, and Marvon was getting nervous. They both stared down at the small piles of money spread out on an old oilcloth they had pulled off a pile of musty and mildewed magazines gathered in the corner of the shed. The foil wrappers in which the money had been wrapped lay next to the oilcloth. The small stacks of bills were neatly arranged, so they would all fit on the cloth.
“Cain’ be,” Marvon said. “Jus’ cain’ be. I don’ blieve it.”
“Well, it is. We done coun’ it three times,” Bitta Smalls said, looking at the older boy.
“You done made a mistake.”
“I ain’ made no mistake. You coun’ it dis time. One mo’ time, an’ then we bes’ put it away and decide what we gone do.”
“Las’ time,” Marvon said and began counting the money. Bitta watched him as he pointed to each pile and said the number out loud. The younger boy was silently counting with him, his lips moving in concert with Marvon’s sounds. It seemed they had been counting for hours.
“Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine. Forty-nine piles. Fifty hunderd dollar bills in each pile. Dat’s five thousand in a pile, right?”
“Right.” Bitta shook his head emphatically in agreement.
“Den dat’s two hunderd and forty-five thousand dollars.”
“Cain’ be,” Bitta said, shaking his head.
“Damn it, Bitta, it two hunderd and forty-five thousand dollars, an’ we got it, an’ we in trouble. Now wha’ we gon’ do wid it?”
“Put it away, Dumb Ass. We cain’ leave it layin’ out here.”
“Help me,” Marvon said and began re-wrapping the money in foil.
“Where you ’pose dat ol’ man git all dis money?”
“Stole it, I reckon,” Marvon said.
“Well, if he stole it, he ain’ got no right to it, right?”
“I guess.”
“Well den, we didn’t steal it. Cain’ steal somepin’ already been stole,” Bitta said.
“”I ain’ sho ’bout dat. We in trouble any way you look at it. ’At po-liceman ain’ care who stole it from who. He ain’ gone go away.”
“He gots to catch us, an’ we ain’ got to go to school no mo’ ’til nex’ year.”
Marvon wrapped the last bundle, placed all of them back in the shopping bag, and Bitta put it back in the box seat on the old tractor.
“Bitta we gots to decide wha’ we gone do. I done say dat a thousand times. I ain’ foolin’ no mo. We gots to decide.”
“We gots to trus’ somebody,” Bitta said.
“Who?”
“My uncle. I b’lieve we gots to trus’ him. Ain’ nobody else, an’ he smart. Axe him what to do.”
“When?” Marvon asked.
“He off on Mondays. Le’s go Monday. Maybe dat po-liceman give up on us by den.”
“He ain’ gone give up, Bitta. He don’ fin’ dat money, he gone do somepin’ bad to us.”
“You scarin’ me again, Marvon.” Bitta’s eyes teared up. It seemed to be happening all the time. He hadn’t even told Marvon about waking up in the night with bad dreams about the policeman and crying himself back to sleep.
“We bes’ stay scared ’til we go talk to yo’ uncle. Afta’ dat I ain’ got nothin’ to do wid it. Help me get de’s boxes away from de do’. I gots to go home.”
“Me, too,” Bitta said, wiping his eyes as if they were burning and helping Marvon take the barrier down.
It was seven o’clock when Sam pulled out of the driveway to his house and headed toward Route 37. Karen had called the night before and asked him to meet her at The Hermit Crab at nine o’clock. He told her he would arrive early to make sure no one was there that would put them together as a team. In all of his significant life-experiences—the Merchant Marine, law enforcement and prison—his caution never caused him embarrassment. It had, however, saved his life on occasion. Now that he was in, there was no room for mistakes. He, Sam Larkin, was an unknown element to the bad guys, and he wanted to keep it that way.
He had spoken with Skeeter several times since Hamilton made his overtures, but he made it casual. His contact with Chaney was kept to a minimum and only by telephone. Until tonight. There was no reason to suspect that anyone was monitoring either of them, but, to his way of thinking, vigilance was preferable to surprise.
Shortly after turning onto Route 37, he was blinded by the headlights from the vehicle behind him, reflecting off his rear-view mirror. Even when he adjusted it to cut the glare, they still bore into his eyes. There was no open highway where he could put any distance between the vehicles without breaking the speed limit. He didn’t think the other driver had his high-beams on It was the level of the lights that was causing the problem. He guessed it was some kind of jacked-up truck. The driver probably wasn’t even aware he was creating a problem. He thought about pulling off the road and letting whoever it was go ahead, but the shoulder was narrow, so he pushed the mirror aside instead.
When he turned off the main highway and headed toward The Hermit Crab, the other vehicle continued down the road. That was a relief, but the idea of the same driver being behind him all the way from Matthew’s put his senses on alert. All of his perceptions and intuitions were armed and on guard, something he hadn’t experienced since prison where it was a way of life. They would stay that way until the present situation was resolved.
The Crab had a good early evening crowd, which was not unusual on a week night. It was home away from home for local shrimpers, fishermen, sportsmen of all varieties, assorted outlaws, ladies shopping for someone to go home with and other classic lowcountry types. It smelled of spilled beer, cigarette smoke, loud perfume and sweat, with a few other unidentifiable elements thrown in the mix. The odor was familiar and comfortable for most of the people there, who listened and tried to override Moe Bandy blaring from the jukebox what Larkin thought was probably their common biography.
You wrote cheatin’ Heart’ about
a gal like my first ex-wife;
And you moaned the blues for me and for you;
Hank Williams, you wrote my life.
The whole scene fit. Scripted for a Hollywood movie, Larkin thought, as he stood in the doorway, scanning the room. He was the stranger come to town. He got a beer and went to a table in the back of the room, adjacent to the darkened dance floor. He sat in the shadows, trying to think himself invisible as he analyzed everyone in the place and watched for Karen Chaney. There was no one there he knew or had any recollection of ever seeing. Observing the patrons doing their dance was more entertaining than television. They were masters of their craft, no matter what their purpose in being there was, and they were probably there more nights than not, practicing their same steps.
Sipping his beer, Sam caught a familiar face coming through the door. The man stopped, looked around briefly and went to the bar. Ray Breslin was not in uniform. He wore jeans, broken-down cowboy boots and a tee-shirt with a skull and the words, ‘Kill ‘em all. Let God sort ‘em out!’ emblazoned across the back. It made Larkin smile. The man was soft, but that was of no consequence; the fact that he was in The Crab was.
It was no coincidence; he was looking for someone, and that someone, Sam suspected, was right under his nose, sitting at a table in the shadows. Breslin had followed him, continued up the highway when he turned off and then doubled back. Sam watched him. Breslin didn’t appear to know anyone else either. It would be only a couple of minutes before he was served and turned to take a closer look at the surroundings. It was decision time. The one thing he couldn’t allow was for Breslin to see Karen Chaney come through the door.
Breslin’s back was still to the room when Sam came up behind him.
“You following me, Ray?” he asked. Breslin started at the sound of his voice and quickly turned. He looked at Larkin, but said nothing. “I asked if you were following me?”
Breslin smiled.
“Why the fuck would I be following you, Larkin? I know where you live.”
“I have no idea, but I’d be willing to bet that if I went out to the parking lot, I could find the jacked-up vehicle that was behind me all the way from Matthew’s Island still making cool-down sounds.”
“Go fuck yourself, Larkin. I imagine that’s what you long-haired artists do all the time anyway. Just sit around smokin’ dope and spankin’ the monkey.” Breslin laughed and looked around for approval. No one was paying any attention.
“I guess you’re right, Ray. Now let me explain something. You pissed me off two days ago when I came home and found you sitting on my deck. I invite people to do that. People I like. I didn’t invite you. You had no right to be there, and you better not ever be there again when I’m not at home unless you’ve got legal authority. Now, Ray, now you’re following me, and don’t tell me this is one of your favorite watering holes because I’ll ask the bartender and everyone sitting at the bar if they’ve ever seen you before. We both know what the answer to that would be. No one would know who the fuck you are. Don’t follow me, Ray. Ever again. It would be a mistake.” By this time a few patrons, who were sitting close, were listening to the exchange, but only because the jukebox had gone dry.
“You threatenin’ me again, Larkin?” The man tried to smile, but it didn’t play.
“Read it any way you like. You’ve been forewarned.” Sam turned and walked toward the door. He heard a muttered ‘Fuck you’ as he left.
Outside, he found a spot next to a hi-jacked Ford mud-runner from which he could see the door of the building, the Rover and what he thought was probably Ray Breslin’s pickup truck. He didn’t have to wait long. Breslin burst out of the bar and headed for his truck. On the way he noticed that Sam Larkin’s Rover was still parked where it was when he got there. He looked around, walked over to it and looked in. He knew he had been had. He turned just as Larkin stepped out from behind the mud-runner.
“I asked you not to follow me,” Sam said as he approached. This wasn’t something he wanted to do; it was necessity; Karen was getting close.
Breslin stood at full height, threw his shoulders back and stuck his chin out.
“As I said before, Larkin, fuck you.”
“You threatening me?” Sam asked.
“No, Larkin, I’m not threatenin’ you; I’m gonna whip your ass and love doin’ it,” he said and gave him a shove in the chest that forced him back a couple of steps.
“You don’t want this, Ray. You’re not in uniform, can’t hide behind your badge, and it’s not going to do either of us any good,” he said, but, inside, the animal part of him wanted Breslin to push it and he did. “Worst part of it is, you’re going to get hurt.”
Breslin came at him with a right hook that Sam managed to avoid by moving his head to the side. All Breslin caught was air. His second shot was more effective catching Sam squarely on the side of the head. He ducked and moved in, focused on Breslin’s belly. It was soft and moved independently of the rest of him. He got off three hard punches to the gut before Breslin saw them coming. He heard the air go out of the man, and he staggered backward. Sam stood his ground, knowing Breslin would come in with his head lowered. When he did, Sam caught him with an uppercut that snapped his head back. He threw another punch into the gut, which doubled Breslin over, and caught him with another uppercut as he was coming down. Breslin tried to weave, but he was clumsy, and Sam landed three lightning-fast blows to his ribs.
“Bastard. Motherfucker,” Breslin screamed and threw a punch that glanced off the man’s shoulder. While he was off-balance, Sam hit him head on and heard gristle and bone crunch as Breslin’s nose exploded, covering his face with blood and spraying Sam.
“I’m gonna kill you, you son-of-a-bitch,” Breslin said and rushed toward him again.
It was a bad move. Sam stepped aside and hit him in the kidney, turned him around and hit him square in the throat, pulling his punch to avoid killing the man. It was a prison skill, part of his rehabilitation-learning that would make him a useful member of society.
Breslin grabbed his throat with both hands and was squawking like a chicken. His eyes bulged as he saw Larkin coming toward him with the same cold look in his eyes that he had seen when he was going down the steps of the man’s house. Sam hit him in the left ear with a right and brought a left cross into his chest, just under the heart. The big man’s knees buckled, and he went down.
“I’m tired of warning you, Ray. Try again and you’ll lose every time.” Sam went to the Rover, got in and pulled out of the parking lot. In his rear-view mirror, he saw Breslin pitch forward and lay flat on the ground. He had made an enemy-for-life. The man would never let it go.
He headed toward the highway, planning to stop at the turn-off and warn Karen away, but before he made the intersection, he saw her car. He was going too fast to stop, so he blinked his lights furiously, hoping she would recognize him. In his mirror, he saw her taillights come on and her car slow. She turned around and came back to where he had managed to stop. As she pulled up beside him, she lowered her window.
“Where the hell are you going in such a hurry? Posse after you?” she asked.
“Maybe. Breslin’s at The Crab. I’ll meet you at your place, but I’ll come on foot. Leave the door open. Now get the hell out of here.”
“Okay, but...”
“No ‘buts’. Go! He might be right behind me. I’ll run interference.” He didn’t have to say any more; Karen Chaney floored the accelerator and was on her way.
A clock powered by anxiety moves slowly; Karen Chaney’s clock was moving so slowly, she was afraid it had stopped. She was anxious, to say the least. It had been more than two hours since the meeting on the road to The Hermit Crab, and there was no sign of Sam. She had never seen him as animated as he was when he gave her orders to go home. She couldn’t guess whether it was panic or energy or something within him that the situation awakened.
The fact that Ray Breslin was at The Hermit Crab was unnerving. Sitting and not knowing the details was worse. She looked at the clock; it was taking too long for him to get there. There was a temptation to call Dougherty, more to pass the time than anything else, but there was nothing to tell him. She went out to the parking lot twice and stood for ten or fifteen minutes, hoping Sam would come walking down the street. He didn’t. Back inside, she lay on the couch, building endless scenarios, some without happy endings.
At twelve-thirty, she was beginning to nod off when the door opened and closed quietly. By reflex action, even in the dregs of near-sleep, without moving her body or giving any indication that she was anything but asleep, she slowly slid her hand between the cushions of the couch and closed her fingers around the grip of the.357 she had put there when she laid down.
Sam was already far enough inside the room to see her hand movement, even though she was giving a performance that would convince any random intruder that she was sound asleep. It would have been funny, if it were not dangerous.
“Don’t shoot,” he said quietly, trying not to cause panic. A smile broke across her lips. She got up and crossed to where he was, put her arms around him and pulled him in tight to her body.
“I was worried,” she said.
“Really worried?”
“Really worried.” She pulled back and looked at him, ran a finger across the evolvingbruise on his face, took him by the hand and led him to the couch. “Where have you been? I would’ve gone out to look for you, but I didn’t know where to start. What happened to your face? Where were you?”
“Outside.”
“Outside? Outside my door? In the parking lot? That outside?” She looked at him in astonishment. “Why?”
“I wanted to make sure Breslin didn’t follow me. I parked downtown and walked over, but I didn’t use Main Street, kind of wound myself around. I was pretty sure I was clear, but better safe than sorry. We’ve got a lot riding on keeping this little partnership hidden.”
“So what did you see outside?” She had to test him one more time, knew the testing would never stop until she was totally secure with Sam Larkin, which she wasn’t sure was possible.
“What did I see? Well, I saw you come out the door twice, stand in the shadows for ten or fifteen minutes and then go back inside.”
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Within ten feet of you.”
“That’s frightening. I told you I was worr—”
“And I saw the woman two doors down being brought home by her boyfriend. I guess it was her boyfriend. He didn’t go inside or walk her to the door, but they disappeared from sight inside the car for twenty-five minutes, and it looked like she was buttoning her blouse when she got out.”
“You’re a pervert. You timed them?”
“I was bored.”
“I’ll accept that. Tell me what happened. How did you get bruised?”
“I wondered if you were going to get around to that; you were so worried and all.” He was smiling.
“I was, but you’re here now, so I’m not worried about you anymore. And you distracted me. Are you going to tell me, or do I have to get a goose-neck lamp to shine in your eyes. One way or the other, Larkin, you’re going to spill your guts,” she said, hands on her hips.
“You better get the lamp,” he said.
“Come on, Sam.”
He replayed the whole evening for her, detailing each event: the vehicle with the bright headlights following him, seeing Breslin come in The Crab, knowing he had to get out and warn her, the confrontation and making his way to where he sat. She listened, absorbed in every circumstance he described. Again, she realized it was a different Sam Larkin. His essential self hadn’t changed, but he was stimulated and invigorated.
“You left him lying in the dirt in the parking lot?” she asked. This was a Sam Larkin she found unfamiliar.
“He was on his knees when I left him. He fell forward after I got in the Rover.” Karen didn’t say anything for a moment.
“You’re not through with him you know.”
“I know and I’ll handle it when it happens, but I also think his following me is a prettystrong indication that he’s involved with whomever Hamilton’s working with. I figure it was Breslin that drove you off the road.”
“I’ll have to find a way to check out his truck,” she said.
“Anything positive there would pin it down. I figure he was taken on board because of his job, or they might have thought they could use him as muscle if it was ever necessary.”
“Guess they were wrong about that,” she said. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“From your attitude, I get the feeling you might have.”
“No.” The answer came quickly, without qualification. “I’ve had enough of that kind of enjoyment to last a lifetime.”
“You must be good at it.”
“Breslin’s never been in prison.” He appeared to be getting uneasy. “Could we talk about something else? You never told me about your conversation with the friend you called.”
“You never asked.”
“I figured if and when you were ready to tell me, you would, but after tonight, it seems pertinent for me to know what’s going on.”
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, rising from the couch. “I’m going to have one.”
“Jack on the rocks would be good; I could use it.”
“I guess you could and I can do that.”
She came back with the drinks, curled her feet under her on the couch and faced him.
“Confidential?” she said.
“Confidential,” he replied.
“His name is Neil Dougherty. He’s a federal officer. DEA and my supervisor. Right now he’s working with the Florida Law Enforcement Unit investigating, what they believe is, a major international drug smuggling operation. The guy they are zoning in on is named Descartè. He’s a broker, financier, basically an engineer, putting everything together for large consortiums. He’s been in the business for years. That’s where Charley Clay’s name came up; he called Descartè at one point. Only one call, but I’m sure it connects. It’s just too coincidental to be…” She paused, looking for a word.
“Coincidence,” he said.
“Right,” she said with embarrassment.
“What did he say when you told him about Hamilton?”
“He was surprised at the size of Hamilton’s offer and agreed with our assessment. Told me to keep an eye out for Clay, see if there’s any connection between him and Hamilton and to keep him advised.”
“That’s all?”
“And to watch my back. I’m hearing that a lot lately.”
“I would surely do that,” Sam said. He sipped his drink. “How do you plan to keep an eye on Clay?”
“With your help,” she said with a smile.
“You ask a lot. Is there a plan, or do we just follow people like Inspector Clouseau?”
“Don’t be sarcastic. I’m not sure we can develop a plan until someone makes a move.”
“I have a feeling Breslin just did,” Sam said. “Something’s got him going, and when that happens, people usually screw up. What occurred tonight may have rattled him, as well. At this point he’ll either get more aggressive or run and hide, and I don’t believe whoever is behind this is going to let him do that. If I’m right about Turner Lockett’s money being lost, they’ve got to find it or risk exposure.”
“Other than the restaurant and the law office, do you have any idea what Clay does with his time?” Karen asked.
“None. He has a house on the beach out on Sangaree, but I have no idea if he spends much time out there. I could check it out.”
“Can you get on the island?”
“I know a couple of the security guys that work the gate, or I can just pick one of the resident’s names, call security, pretend I’m that person and leave a pass for myself.”
“You’re larcenous, Larkin. Is the security that lax?”
“Sometimes. I like that. Larcenous Larkin. I’ll see what I can find out. A walk on the beach would do me good. So, how did you hook up with Dougherty?”
“Knew you’d ask that eventually. I met him when I was in college. I was a freshman; he was a graduate student. Both in Law Enforcement. He’s been my friend, my mentor and my helpmate my whole career. And I know the next question. Was he my lover?”
“I would never ask that.”
“But you want to know, so I’ll tell you. Yes, we were lovers and then we were married for a short time, little more than a year. Job and jealousy interfered. His, before you ask.
End of marriage; we’re still friends.”
“I would never have asked you,” Sam said.
“I know you wouldn’t; you’re too much a gentleman. A rare commodity in this day and age, but I wanted you to know. Get it out of the way.”
“Good.” Sam stood up.
“You’re not leaving are you?” There was a look of shock and disappointment on her face. “Because of what I just told you? I can’t believe...” Sam’s fingers found her lips.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” he said. “I want to protect my house. Who knows what state of mind Ray is in. I don’t want to find it burned to the ground.”
“I’m disappointed.”
“So am I. It would be easy to stay. I’ll call you when I get up. Maybe you can sneak out tomorrow night.” He looked at his watch. “Uh, I guess that’s to-night.”
“I love sneaking.”
“So you told me.” He took her in his arms, kissed her and then he left.