Maynard Chalk, Bill Slagget, and Tahereh hung on with death grips in her careening inflatable. The boat was designed to plane at high speeds, not slow-tow balky loads like Hiram’s outboard skiff. A ride on Coney Island’s Cyclone would have been restful in comparison. Tahereh vomited. Chalk appreciated that she parked her cookies to leeward.
Tahereh’s three surviving men all bailed the skiff astern as if their lives depended on it, which was actually the case. If the makeshift patches on the bullet holes did not stay put, and they gave every indication they wouldn’t, the skiff would founder with all hands. That was Chalk’s promise anyway. No reversing the inflatable’s course to hunt for survivors. Or as he phrased it, No bobbing for Ba’athists. Let them deal. They’d put the damn holes there in the first place. For now the old skiff yanked and tugged at the towline like a peevish wallowing hog.
Chalk recalled The Kid saying he’d seen Ben Blackshaw toting a shovel. With Tahereh’s team neutralized and pressed into service, they were now going back to Deep Banks for a closer look. Chalk would like to see Dick and his son dig up his gold, and then scratch a little deeper for their own graves.
Chalk’s phone blared a few bars of the Merry Macs playing their hit Mairzy Doats. He answered, “Scrote-Lick! About time! Let’s have it.”
A panicky voice, pitched high and pressured, talking fast. “Where’s Corporal Bryce? What’d you do with her?”
Not The Kid. Chalk bellowed, “Who’s this?”
The caller sounded like he was trying to keep his cool, but was failing. “You dropped by my place this morning.”
“Ben Blackshaw? Son of a gun! Put The Kid on for a second.”
“First answer my question! Where’s Corporal Bryce? I know you’ve got her. Don’t you?”
“Simmer down, peckernut. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.” Chalk knew he was back in control. By the sound of it, the Blackshaw whelp was about to crap his drawers with worry. “How about my property. Let’s confab a little about that.”
“I have the gold. And the other thing. I’ll trade it all for LuAnna safe and sound.”
“Oh my! A big-time wheeler-dealer! And chivalrous, too. Fair enough. You just bought yourself one slightly used officer of the law.”
“If you hurt her—”
“You’ll do what, marsh monkey? What the fuck will you do? Not a damn thing, that’s what. Now you bring my shit out to Point No Point Lighthouse before sunset. Think you can manage that? And come alone. Do it, or your gal’s gonna get to know my boys a whole lot better. Three at a time. We have an understanding?”
“No! Please don’t do that!”
“Do what I say and we got no problems. And here’s the kicker, you little shit. Fuck with me again, and you’ll never see the girl, or your mother! I got her, too! You miss her tucking you in for prayers at bedtime? Well, I got her, and you can take that to the bank, punk!” Chalk ended the call. Not since schoolyard days had he spat out a “Yo mama” to such good effect. He smirked at Slagget and Tahereh. “You heard. Let’s get back to the lighthouse and set up.”
Slagget said, “We got the kid’s mother? Dick Blackshaw’s wife?”
Chalk grinned. “Let’s say I have a pretty damn good idea where I can lay hands on her.”
This was the best possible outcome. No more hunting for the gold. It was about to be delivered to him like a pizza. Soon he could murder some cracker-ass Blackshaws, get the gold to the dirty bomb vendors, make good, and get home. He would put up his feet with a stogie and a highball and think deep thoughts like they always did at the end of Boston Legal. It had been a long day already and it was barely half over. Something momentarily nagged at the back of his mind. Where was The Kid? No matter. He had written off that Hotspur hours ago.
Chalk dug his fingers into a shirt pocket beneath his poncho. Took out what looked like a grey piece of soggy parchment. He looked at the Lat/Long numbers he had jotted down on LuAnna’s skin in black Sharpie. Grinning, he flicked the ragged flesh over the side.