Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 19

"I promise! Hope to die, stick a needle in my eye." He drew an imaginary zipper over his mouth. "Lets both swear to never tell anyone that we met each other in the park today. All right? Then n.o.body will ever know that you took your grandfathers tape. Deal?"

The kid hesitated a second before accepting the outstretched hand. He shook with enthusiasm.

"Deal," said the boy. "I promise, hope to die."

twenty-two.

Martin ordered a club soda, then changed his mind and asked for beer, then changed his mind again and demanded a malt whiskey, as it was, neither chilled nor mixed. Just put it in a G.o.dd.a.m.n tumbler. He downed a sip, gasped at the burn, and informed his waitress he would be outside on the patio.

"Its awful cold," she said.

"Im awful weird," he snapped. Her eyes got huge. Martin immediately felt guilty, apologized, tipped her double, grabbed a burning oil lamp from an unoccupied table, and stepped outside to the patio overlooking the river.

The typewritten note that had been delivered by courier to his office requested that he arrive by seven thirty. Martin was a few minutes early. He set the drink and the lamp on a round pub table, then collapsed into a plastic chair. He was the only customer who dared drink in the cold, and had the outdoor patio to himself.

Night had fallen. The city blazed in colored lights. The glow scrubbed the night sky of all but the brightest few stars.

The brick patio ended at a gra.s.s slope that slid steeply to the riverwalk. WaterFire, the downtown river festival for which Providence had become renowned spread out below him in Waterplace Park. Bonfires raged in floating braziers, suspended above the water on pontoons. The fires cast red embers like confetti into the night. A trail of floating bonfires led from the basin, down the river, and out of sight. Hidden audio speakers played the hypnotic voices of an all-male chorus, chanting what sounded like the prayers of Gregorian monks. Hundreds of people strolled the riverwalk below Martin, moving as slowly as the placid Providence River, which the city years ago had rerouted into man-made granite trenches and calmed to a slumberous pace. Couples walked arm in arm. Groups of teenagers strolled in clumps. There were no loud voices, and n.o.body hurried. The fires seemed to infect people with a sense of quiet reflection.

Martin inhaled a deep breath of woodsmoke. The flames, the music that seemed to come from nowhere, and the smell of burning cedar and soft pine usually combined to drive away whatever stress he carried in his body.

Not tonight.

Martin shivered, and not just from the chill. He felt suspicious and guilty, like he was meeting a mistress. That was precisely what he was doing, though she was not his mistress.

"Hi, Marty."

He stood to show his manners, and gestured her into the chair across from him. "Good evening, Nelida. Can I, uh ... get you something?"

"Maybe later."

She wore wool pants, a knit turtleneck, fleece mittens, and a puffy down jacket that probably would have gotten her safely to the peak of Denali. "At least youre dressed for the cold evening," Martin said as he sat.

"Your note said you wanted to talk outdoors, so I bought this coat at the mall today."

"My note?" Martin said, alarmed. "I thought this was your meeting. You sent a note by courier, to my office."

They both realized at the same moment they had been set up. Martin bolted up and scanned the crowd.

A deep voice commanded, "Oh, sit down, Mr. Smothers! Youre going to pull a muscle."

Martin whirled.

Lincoln Harmony walked gingerly from the restaurant with two martinis and a tumbler of whiskey on a tray. He closed the door with his foot and lamented, "Too cold for the waitstaff, apparently. Oh well. My physician says I could use the exercise."

He set one drink in front of Nelida, explaining, "Its gin, vermouth, and blackberry brandy. Its called a Desperate Martini. Fitting for you, wouldnt you say? Hee-hah!"

To Martin, he said: "Another whiskey for you, Mr. Smothers. And since this round is on my tab, I thank you for drinking the cheap stuff." He set the gla.s.s in front of Martin with a heavy clink, and a tooth-filled sneer.

"And for me, ah, something called a Fine and Dandy-the bartender recommended it," Linc Harmony cooed. "Doncha love places like this?" He put down his drink and cast the tray on an empty table. Then he dragged over another chair, sat clumsily, and waved Martin into his seat. He sipped his drink. "Mmmmm! Triple sec. Orange bitters." He made the sign of the cross in the air over the drink, like a priest at the altar, and p.r.o.nounced it "Lovely."

Nelida gaped at him.

"We havent been introduced," Harmony said to her, with a frown and a roll of his eyes toward Martin, "and Mr. Smothers is completely without manners. Im Gils brother."

"Lincoln," she said. She held out her hand to shake, though she kept it closer to her body than to his.

Harmony pinched her fingers for a moment, and then mocked her with an exaggerated grin that involved his whole face. "Gil must have told you all about me," he said. "Pillow talk can be endlessly enlightening. Hm?"

Nelida looked at Martin. He rea.s.sured her with a little nod. This guys hosed but he aint dangerous. She turned discreetly to the crowd, lifted her chin, and subtly feathered her fingers in a tiny wave.

Martin followed her eyes.

Nelidas son, Jerod, stood like a sentry on the riverwalk, hands on his hips, staring up at them. Either Nelida was afraid to walk the streets alone, or her son had an overprotective streak. Or, Martin conceded, maybe Jerod was right to be paranoid for his mother, considering that her lover had been shot through the eye.

Martin grabbed the initiative. "So, Lincoln-your honor, I mean-to what do Nelida and I owe the pleasure of these invitations?"

"Oh, just can the phony politeness, Marty," he said, and then slurped his drink.

"What the f.u.c.k do you want?" Martin asked.

Harmony laughed out loud. It seemed Martin had sincerely delighted him. "Thats the way, my boy! We dont all have to speak as my brother did-all stuffy and Elizabethan, like he had a hardened t.i.tanium rod pounded up his a.r.s.e."

To Nelida, Harmony encouraged, "Drink up! Blackberry brandy is good for you. The inventors of that G.o.dd.a.m.n food pyramid recommend five servings of fruit a day." He roared at his own wittiness.

Martins brain wobbled inside his skull on a cushion of whiskey. He pushed his empty gla.s.s away, eyed the full one, and thought: What the h.e.l.l? He sipped the booze Linc Harmony had bought for him. Nelida did not touch her drink. The way she frowned at it, it could have been chilled Drano with a splash of iodine.

Linc Harmony downed the rest of his drink like a frat boy doing a liquor shot. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he leaned over the table and said, "I called you two lovebirds together-"

"Were not lovebirds," Martin interrupted sharply.

"You both loved my brother in your own ways, so dont get all literalistic on me. This aint about you! This aint your party, Marty." He snorted and laughed. "Marty party!"

He ga.s.sed Martin with his breath. Martin thought for a moment of lifting the oil lamp, to ignite Linc Harmonys fumes right in his G.o.dd.a.m.n face. Boom!

"Youre Junes lawyer, so you probably already know that Im challenging my brothers will in probate court," Harmony said. "That video Gil made was an embarra.s.sment. I get his law books? Who gives a s.h.i.t?" He jammed a meaty finger on the table. "I sacrificed growing up with that guy, and he owes me."

They should not be having this conversation outside of a courtroom, Martin thought. I should grab Nelida and walk away. But instead, he taunted Harmony: "Were you not loved enough as a boy? Did your brother get all the hugs from your daddy?"

Harmony aimed his finger at Martin. The nail was healthy pink and buffed into a perfect arc. "You have no right, and no idea what its like to see your fathers love, which you have earned, go to somebody else!" He rose a few inches out of his chair, and for a moment seemed that he would challenge Martin to a fistfight, but instead he overtly picked a wedgie out of his a.s.s and then dropped back to the seat. "All I want is what I deserve rightly, by blood!"

Spit spray landed on Martins face. He closed his eyes until the desire to throttle Linc Harmony faded away.

"Why bother Nelida with this?" Martin asked.

Harmony turned to her. His eyes widened with surprise, as if he had forgotten that she sat with them at the table. He grinned at her untouched martini, whisked the gla.s.s away by the stem, and sampled the mix. "Oooo, you dont know what you missed." He took a long pull of the drink. "You see, Nelida, youre going to be my star witness in court. My lawyer will question you at length, and in meticulous detail, about what you did with my brother. All the particulars. Where? How? And how often? See? I want to know if he preferred satin sheets to cotton. Strawberry body lotion or coconut? The little white woody pill, or the little purple one?"

"What good would all that do?" Martin said. "Youre contesting your brothers will, not divorcing him on grounds of adultery."

"Well, we have to ask these questions," Harmony said in a breezy voice. "How else will we discern my brothers state of mind and competence? Hmm?" His left eyebrow rose in an upside-down V. "Of course, if June would rather avoid all that nastiness under oath, much of which no doubt will be splashed in the press, then maybe we can reach a mutually agreeable arrangement, eh? Im not looking for much, just the one-third share of Gils estate that I had expected."

"Youre an a.s.shole," Martin said.

"Youre nothing like your brother," said Nelida. She stared at him in wonder.

"Oh, I beg to differ," Harmony said to her. "Gil and I are exactly the same." He leered, inspecting her body from the ankles to the chin. "When we see something we want-we take it, and to h.e.l.l with the consequences on anyone else. Doesnt that smell familiar?"

"Youre still an a.s.shole," Martin reminded him.

"One-third of the estate, and June can have his d.a.m.ned law books back." Harmony downed the rest of the martini. "The postmortem revelations of Gils affair must have been terribly hard on June. Why not suggest to her a way to end the pain? Look at the cost-benefit, man! This deal is a bargain."

"She already knew about the affair," Nelida blurted.

Both men stared at her. She looked away and cupped a hand over her mouth. Too late. The words were in the atmosphere.

She sighed and then helped herself to a sip of Martins whiskey. "June figured it out," she said. "Shes not a foolish woman. She confronted Gil about a month before he was killed. He told her he loved me and Jerod, and that he would be leaving her. Junes as tough as rocks. She handled it. The hard part was Brock. Gil wanted to stay in the house until he and Brock could work things out. The weekend Gil died, he had planned a father-son getaway at the beach house in Charlestown, so that Brock and he could fish together like they used to, and talk like men."

She stared into the gla.s.s. Silence fell over the table.

Lincoln Harmony broke the quiet with a soft belch. He tapped a fist on his chest. "Well, a fascinating story I cannot wait to record under oath." He stood. To Martin he said, "You take my offer back to your client."

Martin watched Harmony ramble unsteadily away.

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d ... ," Martin began, but Nelida was not listening.

She dabbed a tear with the tip of her finger and met eyes with Jerod, who stood unmovable and stone-faced on the riverwalk. People strolling the cobblestone path parted around him, the way a river yields to a boulder.

twenty-three.

The battered Ford Contour sedan that Scratch bought off the back lot of an auto-body shop in Cranston had cost four hundred in cash, twenty for a half tank of gas, a hundred for a fudged inspection sticker, and one boosted Nintendo Game Boy for the borrowed license plates. A man on the lam inside his own state cannot be registering cars: the DMV would want proof of address, and Scratch intended to remain a moving target until he discovered who had tried to kill him. That was Plan A. He would switch motels every few weeks, so he would establish no utility accounts and no permanent phone number. His mail would be forwarded among shifting addresses, so unless his attacker worked for the U.S. Postal Service, Scratch should be untraceable through government records.

The car was Plan B.

The Ford was such a s.h.i.tbox: no radio, dinged all over, and the engine coughed like a chain smoker. The front pa.s.sengers window had fallen inside the door, and had been replaced by a transparent plastic sheet and some silver duct tape, which had proven, sadly, more waterproof than the actual window on the drivers side. The plastic flapped in the wind and reminded Scratch of the bag the attacker had worn on his head.

But at least the car ran.

d.a.m.n thing was reliable; started every time. If Scratch needed to put miles between him and a bag-headed man with an ice pick, he was confident the car would get him at least to New Jersey, despite the expired tags.

The gas mileage on his four-door sled was pa.s.sable, but trips were expensive because Scratch took crazy circuitous routes everywhere he went. He was terrified of being followed.

Already today he had logged fourteen miles on a six-mile trip to the post office, to ship some boosted loot to his satisfied Internet customers.

He idled at a red light on a four-lane suburban highway near the airport. A lumbering 737 rolled away from him. The jet got smaller and smaller, then suddenly pulled a wheelie and lifted off. Going to someplace safer than here.

The streetlight turned green but Scratch did not move. The car behind him beeped after about two seconds. What took him so long to honk? This being Rhode Island.

Still, Scratch stayed put. More honking. Cars streamed by him in the right-hand lane. Drivers trapped behind Scratch jerked their cars around him and roared their engines to punish him for costing them precious seconds on their way to Hooters.

His light went yellow, then red.

Scratch pounded the gas, spun the wheel, and made a squealing U-turn in the intersection. He floored the pedal and screamed down the street, watching his mirrors for a tail.

Nope. n.o.body back there.

He meandered down back roads along Narragansett Bay, generally heading south, enjoying brief vistas of the bay between waterfront homes and stands of shedding hardwoods. He turned north onto a commercial strip, tucked his car behind an appliance shop, got out, and raced around the building on foot.

Nothing unusual. n.o.body seemed in a hurry to get him, or to get away from him.

Back on the road, he pulled his red-light U-turn again before zigzagging back to his motel near the airport, confident that no attacker could have followed him in a fricking helicopter.

He parked in front of his unit-why not? n.o.body knew he had bought a car.

The late-afternoon sun melted into the roof of an apartment house across the street. Another jet banked overhead, turning a graceful circle. For reasons Scratch had long forgotten, jets in the air reminded him of Benjamin Franklin.

Franklin was perhaps the smartest Founding Father. What if Ben Franklin were suddenly transported in time to the present? How would Scratch explain thirty tons of flying metal with no apparent moving parts?

Well, Ben, it has to do with the shape of the wing, and the way the air molecules move around it.

By george, Master Scratch ! What in heavens name is a molecule?

All those years watching jets and Scratch still wasnt prepared to meet Ben Franklin.

He scooped up his mail inside the storm door and let himself into his dreary brown flat. The one-room apartment smelled oppressively like cigarettes. Scratch had even tried burning Adams pine-scented candle, which had done nothing to clear the air.

He could have sc.r.a.ped nicotine off the walls with a spatula, pressed the brown goo into squares, and sold it as smokers gum.

He tossed the keys on the dresser and sorted his mail. Grocery store flyers and solicitations addressed to "Resident" went to the trash.

Hmm, somebody had used the post offices overnight service to send Scratch a thick five-by-seven-inch envelope with some bulky object inside.

The envelope had originally been addressed to his former apartment, to which he would never return, especially after being waylaid there by Billy Povich and that creepy fast chick with the short temper. The post office had slapped a yellow sticker on the package with his current address, which would be changing in another few days.

He tore open the envelope and dumped into his hand an object carefully bound in plastic tape and bubble wrap. He removed the padding, but still didnt know what it was.

"Huh."