Second Skin (11 page)

Vesper’s thoughts snapped back to the present. She was sitting at a table in a trendy Palm Beach restaurant with Lew Croaker. Outside, along Worth Avenue, the heart and soul of Palm Beach, the inveterate shoppers needed something to stoke their second wind. In twos and threes, they staggered in out of the oppressive heat, shopping bags clutched between lacquered talons as long as finishing nails.

Vesper, preparing herself mentally, looked into the enormous mirror that ran along the side wall so she could keep an eye on the entrance without turning her head. The restaurant was ostensibly owned by a pair of enterprising Argentine brothers, dark and smoldering, who loved women more than they did business. Which was just as well, because they were a front. Il Palazzo was, in fact, owned by Caesare Leonforte – or, to be perfectly accurate, one of his subsidiary corporations.

Vesper crossed her legs, ordered another martini. She was heartstoppingly beautiful with cornflower-blue eyes and hair like spun gold, blunt cut, that hung over one side of her face. She wore a sleeveless Hervé Leger dress that showed her long legs – and every other part of her – to their best advantage. That was, she reflected, what a $3,000 outfit could do for you – make you look drop-dead sexy instead of cheap.

An hour ago, Croaker, looking like a high-living dude on the prowl, had picked her up at the marble-topped bar that snaked its way down one side of the restaurant. Plenty of people had seen him do it, which was the point – they were not supposed to know one another.

He was a bear of a man with a rumpled, almost pushed-in face that somehow made him seem resolute rather than plain. You could also be intrigued by that weird polycarbonate and titanium biomechanical hand the Japanese surgeons had given him. They were sharing a huge bowl of Manila clams and a Caesar salad, and to anyone who looked their way they certainly seemed to be having a time of it. He told jokes and she laughed.

Speak of the devil, she thought, as in the mirror she saw Caesare enter Il Palazzo with his entourage, larger than usual today. This was her cue.

Caesare apparently was a creature of habit. He had come here for lunch every day this week, which was why Croaker had suggested they make contact here. Initially, Vesper had been against his plan. Croaker had told her about his run-ins with Caesare. Leonforte had tried to use Croaker against Margarite, knowing that they had been having an affair, and when Croaker had tried to get away, had made an attempt on Croaker’s life.

This is nuts. Bad Clams’ll kill you on sight,
she had said.

But Croaker had shaken his head.
Not this bastard. That’s too direct. Trust me, he’ll want to torture me first.

Caesare was swaggering into the restaurant. Vesper closed her eyes now and, one sense at a time, detached herself from the world around her. Soon enough, she was enveloped by the beating of her heart, thundering like the beat of ceremonial drums. She could feel the air rushing in and out of her lungs as they inflated and deflated. As she concentrated on this, her heartbeat receded until there was only the peculiar silence of thought. The
beat-beat-beat
as the wings of unseen birds filled her up as if she were a crystal vessel.

She turned her head, her eyes snapped open, and she found herself gazing into Caesare Leonforte’s eyes. Croaker had been correct. In person, there was something feral, almost deranged, flickering in their depths. Even from across the large room he seemed impressive. He had powerful arms, a narrow waist, and an unruly shock of coarse hair. This, combined with his wide, wry grin, gave him the aspect of a reckless adolescent. Then, you came to the eyes and a chill went through you.

While Caesare stared at her, she sat by Croaker’s side, entirely relaxed, waiting. She was fully briefed on Caesare; she knew he was not your typical gun-toting hood. Smart and perhaps half-mad, Bad Clams ruled the West Coast Families without quarter or remorse. Ever since he had come to power, he had coveted Dominic Goldoni’s hold on the East Coast, and with Dom’s assassination fifteen months ago he had begun to probe for weaknesses.

‘He’s seen us,’ Vesper whispered to Croaker, and for Caesare’s benefit, threw her head back and laughed at something clever Croaker might have said.

Then she whispered, ‘All your backups have been set.’ She was talking of their unit of the Anti-Cartel Task Force.

Something in the tone of her voice warned him. ‘If you’re getting cold feet, forget it. And for Christ’s sake don’t worry about me. I’ve been around feds almost all my life. I can handle them.’

‘Forrest’s a good man but hardheaded – like you.’

‘I said, don’t worry. I’ll handle Wade Forrest and all my other fed playmates at the ACTF. They’re bureaucrats at heart – political and ruthless. That makes them predictable.’

Croaker was right about her. Like a bride just before her wedding, she had begun to have doubts about this whole scheme. She had had to make a deal with Forrest, who headed the special group within ACTF that had been after the Leonfortes for years: his intelligence and backup in exchange for sharing whatever they learned and letting him in on the kill – if there was one. Forrest had had to admit that the plan she and Croaker had cooked up, though unorthodox and dangerous, was the best shot at getting inside the Leonforte organization.
If
Bad Clams is the one siphoning off the country’s most advanced weapons out of the DARPA labs, I’ll find out,
she had confidently told him. Forrest was impelled to believe her, not only because of her record with Looking-Glass but because he had to. He had run out of other options. So he had agreed to play backup, which was fine as far as it went. But as Vesper had taken great pains to point out to Croaker, though Forrest was absolutely reliable, as a fed he was sure to have his own agenda.

She was going to use Bad Clams’ vulnerable spot – his love of beautiful women – to get inside his organization, get close to him. But in doing so, she was putting her neck on the chopping block; as Forrest had pointed out, she’d be totally vulnerable and beyond immediate help should the scam blow up in her face. It was a daring and dangerous plan, but it was their only chance to bring Bad Clams down. Or it was going to get all of them dead.

‘He’s coming over,’ Vesper said.

Caesare disengaged himself from his entourage as they were being seated at a round table laden with flowers on the upper level and, like a moth to a flame, headed toward Croaker and Vesper. He waved away two of his bodyguards who had begun to follow him. Still, they quartered the room with their narrow, blank eyes, like hunting dogs on point.

‘And the signal,’ Vesper said with a false laugh.

‘Don’t for God’s sake worry,’ Croaker said. ‘Your luscious body at the window. How could I forget that?’

Vesper, smiling sweetly at Croaker, felt Bad Clams’ proximity. It was as if she had spent too much time in the Florida sun. Her skin prickled, burning slightly as if it had been rubbed raw.

‘Croaker,’ Caesare rumbled, ‘fuck’re you doing here?’

Croaker looked up into Bad Clams’ face to see that he was unabashedly staring down Vesper’s cleavage.

‘What does it look like?’ Croaker spread his hands. ‘I’m taking a vacation before I get back to my sportfishing business in Marco Island.’

‘You’re blowing smoke up my ass,’ Caesare said in his most charming voice. ‘Your business is
morto,
dead.’ His head swung around and he fixed Croaker with a steely gaze. ‘Shouldn’t you be back in NYC, trying to get into Margarite’s panties?’

‘Who the hell is Margarite?’ Vesper said, playacting in a small, hurt voice.

Caesare’s face opened up into his most charming grin. It was the one he used when he wanted to win over and influence people. ‘I don’t know what line this wise guy’s been feeding you, but he’s got a steady squeeze back home. A
married
squeeze, to boot.’

‘Shit!’ She threw down her napkin. ‘And I thought you were being straight with me.’

‘Sit down!’ Croaker blazed, continuing their charade. He was actually enjoying it, Vesper was a born actor. ‘Don’t listen to this guy. He’s got a hard-on for me.’

Caesare’s grin got wider as he bent over Vesper. ‘The only thing I got a hard-on for, my dear, is you.’ He extended a hand. ‘How about you join my company over there. I’ll show you a really good time.’

‘Butt out,’ Croaker said.

At which point, Caesare turned on him. ‘You better watch your mouth, wise guy, before you find yourself eating outta your neck.’

Croaker moved his biomechanical hand, the stainless-steel nails beginning to extrude from the finger ends, when Caesare slammed down a knife with a short, thick blade. The point pierced the hand’s titanium back, pinning it to the table.

Caesare put his face up against Croaker’s. ‘I told you once before not to fuck with me, asshole, but you just go along whistling your own tune. Now you’ll see how stupid that was.’

He gave an oddly courtly bow, looking like an Old World doge as he presented Vesper with a red rose from an adjoining table. ‘A beautiful flower for a beautiful woman.’

Vesper inhaled its fragrance as Caesare took her hand. She smiled up into his face as he led her away. As he did so, he turned back to Croaker. That demented light in his eyes flared like a nova as he grinned broadly. ‘Know what, asshole? I’m gonna take my time an’ think of what else I can take away from you.’

It took all of Croaker’s resolve to sit tight, stare at a spot behind and above Leonforte’s left shoulder, and ignore his manic cackle.
What next?
he thought.
Will he kick up his feet and click his heels in delight?

Bad Clams might laugh as he took Vesper away. But the laugh was on him, wasn’t it? Croaker thought, pulling the blade out of his hand. He flexed his fingers, one by one, testing their response. He felt no pain, and of course there was no blood. Many of the hand’s circuits were self-repairing, but there were others that could be damaged. He put on a sour glance as he saw Bad Clams seating Vesper next to him at the large round table. His plan had worked. Vesper, posing as a Florida bimbo, was inside, as close to Leonforte as you could possibly get. Now, she would have to use all her skills to stay there. Caesare was attracted to her, that much was obvious, but she would have to work to ensure that he did not view her as simply a one-night stand.

Margarite, preoccupied with Rich Cooper’s betrayal, was heading toward her Lexus. Memory was so odd. Afterward, she could recall only seeing Frankie, her driver, swing out of the Lexus where he had been reading the
Daily News’
racing pages. She could see his smile as he headed around the front of the car. She could even remember seeing the bulge under his jacket where his .38 was holstered in his armpit.

Then it seemed everything happened at once. Her bodyguard, Rocco, appeared to slip, going down by her side. She looked down, saw one leg crumpled under his body. He was clawing for his gun when his head blew backward, spraying blood and brains all over a dowager walking down the block. She screamed and Margarite turned to see Frankie crouching down beside the offside fender of the Lexus. He was shouting for her to get down. Then he was running toward her, stretching out, leaping in front of her, twisting in midair as a bullet caught him beneath the chin, destroying his cricoid cartilage. Another shattered his right shoulder blade, but as a practical matter, he never felt it because he was already dead.

Margarite felt a hot spurt as Frankie fell against her. She tried to catch him but he was dead weight and she went to her knees.

‘Frankie! Jesus and Mary, Frankie!’

Her hand, trapped under him, felt the cool metal edge of his .38. Instinctively, she pulled it out from under him. She was already aware of a swirl of movement, of people screaming, yes, the beginning of chaos, but within that the outlines of three thugs running toward her, guns drawn. Who were they? Imported talent. Out-of-town professional hit men, she’d bet. Her heart was pounding painfully.
He’s coming after me,
she thought.
First the Leonfortes murdered Dom and now it’s my turn.

She tried to stand up, but the .38 was caught in a fold of Frankie’s coat. Margarite cried out, used the heel of her shoe to roll him over, his dead eyes turned upward, a line of red spittle running from the corner of his mouth down his chin.

One of the three thugs was on his knee, leaning against a parked car in a sharpshooter’s stance, a .45 aimed at her. Margarite got the gun free, swung it at the end of an iron-straight arm, squeezed the trigger. The kneeling man was blown backward by the shot, his arms upraised. His two pals stopped dead in their tracks, momentarily stunned.

She got off another shot, then she was up and running, swinging into the Lexus through the open driver’s door, switching on the ignition even before she had fully slid behind the wheel. One foot found the accelerator, slid off it in her near panic as she threw the Lexus in gear. She screamed as a shot shattered her rear window and she stamped on the accelerator, swinging out into traffic without checking the side mirror, clipping the headlight of an oncoming taxi. Horns shrilled angrily along with brakes.

Another shot ripped through the interior of the Lexus and she was off, correcting for the overswing caused by the crash, speeding through a red light, almost broad-siding a dilapidated truck that was lumbering along, clearing it and almost running over a delivery cyclist, stamping hard on the brakes, making the U-turn on Park Avenue in a welter of flying safety glass and torn chrome and plastic, heading downtown like a bat out of hell toward the Midtown Tunnel and home in Old Westbury.

The driver turned the bulletproof limo into the crushed-shell driveway of the huge white mansion in West Palm Beach with its Tara-like columns, Old World porte cochere, thick hedges, and pristine manicured lawn. It stood at the end of Linda Lane where it debouched onto Flagler Drive. Its site was not as flashy, perhaps, as one on Ocean Boulevard just to the northeast of West Palm in Palm Beach proper, but then it was far more secluded, and just as important, its approach was through a solid middle-class residential district, rather than the black ghetto just west of Palm Beach.