The scotch did not calm Bull’s-Eye down. It increased his sense of frustration. He felt trapped. If Bingo gave him up, it wouldn’t take long for the Feds to arrive in a helicopter, or pull up on a boat, and that would be the end.
He got up from the bed, poured himself another scotch, pulled open the drawer next to the liquor cabinet, and found a jar of peanuts, a package of Hershey’s Kisses, and a roll of breath mints. It took about a minute and a half to polish them off. If Highbridge was going to use up all the hot water, he was going to eat everything he could get his hands on.
Most of the other drawers were empty. Whoever was staying in this room had packed lightly for the cruise. Then, in the last drawer he opened, Bull’s-Eye found a tube of gray paste. He read the label. It was costume makeup. A spark of suspicion, the kind of instinct that had always served him well, made Tony curious to check out everything else in the room.
He walked over to the closet, opened the door, and the light went on automatically. Three jackets and a tuxedo were hanging there. Forty-four Extra Large, he noted. I could wear these, he thought. He checked the pockets, and in the third one his fingers closed around a gun. It was a Glock, a weapon he preferred. Who is this guy, he wondered as he transferred the gun to the pocket of his robe. Then he reached up and felt along the ledge under the life jackets. His fingers touched soft leather. Some kind of bag, he guessed, as he pulled it down carefully. It was an expensive-looking briefcase that zipped on three sides and had no handle.
He brought it back to the bed, picked up the scotch, took another gulp, and opened the briefcase. Grunting in surprise, he stared down at what appeared to be a dozen packets of one-hundred-dollar bills. Bull’s-Eye dumped the contents onto the bed. Three United States passports tumbled from a pocket. He opened one of them, and when he saw the picture, his body stiffened. Quickly, he looked at the second and third pictures. The three faces looked entirely different, but close study showed they were the same man. And it was a man he knew.
Eddie Gordon, the rat whose testimony had sent Tony’s father to prison. Bull’s-Eye had been looking for him for fifteen years. Gordon went under different aliases. From the date of issue on the passports, the latest was Harry Crater.
He’s not on this cruise because he’s a do-gooder, Bull’s-Eye thought. I wonder what he’s up to. Eric said he’s in the infirmary. Another thought struck him—could Eddie Gordon be faking his need to be there?
Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Whether he’s faking or not, by the time I get through with him, he’ll be beyond medical care.