The Shadow Box (46 page)

The Baron was pacing. He stopped at a window, stared
out at the city.

“Does
Doyle have Turkel?” he asked.

”No.”¯

“What has you so sure?”

“
Because if Doyle had the first clue that you were wired
into the FDA, and could prove it, how could he resist
dropping a bomb like that on Bellows? He's got nothing,
Mr. Rast.”

The Baron nodded slowly. He tended to agree but he
said it didn't matter. Doyle had told Bellows that he'd be
filing this afternoon. The mere act of filing that suit, which would then be public record, would be enough to throw
AdChem's stock into free fall.

“Do you understand what that would mean?”

“Yeah.” It means I lose a lot of money, thought Parker.
“Yeah, I do.”

“Silence him.”

“U
m
. . . let's slow down here, okay?”

“
‘Did I just give you an order?’'

“Instead, what if we—”

“Damn you
...
DO IT!!”

The scream was a vein popper. It made two of his
Germans rush in. The Baron cocked his head toward him
and then toward the door. The bigger of the two Germans
nodded, then crossed the room reaching for him.

“Come,” said the bodyguard. “For you it's time to
go.”

Parker's shoe caught him full in the crotch
.
As he folded
in two, Parker snatched his Beretta from the small of his
back and chopped at the big German's ear. The man
yelped. Parker hit him again as he went down. He raised the pistol to the second man's face and then dropped its
sights to his knee. The second bodyguard froze.

Parker backed away toward the Baron. With his free
hand, he made a calming gesture toward the second Ger
man. Now, with that hand, he reached for the Baron's
shoulder and turned his lips to the Baron's ear.

“Don't fuck with me, Mr. Rasmussen,” he whispered.

Chapter 28

Moon could
not put it off much longer.

He would have to face Doyle and get it over with. But
first he'd go visit with Jake.

He had not lingered in Maine. He stayed just long
enough to make sure that the blaze was out of control and
to watch two security guards running around like Chi
namen. They were yelling in what could have
been
Chi
nese for all he knew. For sure, it wasn't English. They were shooting at shadows, not even trying to turn on a
hose. But a hose would not have helped. He had shut off
all the water before he lit the match.

They had automatic weapons this time. And they
weren't sitting by some pool. These two, he realized, had
been waiting for him in the woods. Real quiet, had the
road covered, had the house in a crossfire. Thing is, one
was smoking hashish that he smelled from a quarter mile
away and the other wore a big yellow slicker that squeaked
like cheap shoes every time he moved. You'd think they'd
have hired better help by now.

It had taken him an hour to circle back to his car. He
headed due west, over the New Hampshire state line and
on through Vermont until he reached the New York State
Thruway. It was not the fastest way back to Brooklyn but
he was in no big hurry. The fastest way would be straight
down 1-95. But that road is too easy to watch. It funnels all
the traffic from six New England states into one narrow
stretch way down in the corner of Connecticut. Men drive
up from the Bronx all the time to do burglaries in Greenwich
or shoplift in Stamford and they wonder why the state police
keep pulling them over on their way back down.

Moon had stayed the night at a Yonkers motel in an
other mostly black area. This morning, he had poked along
with the rush hour traffic, reaching midtown Manhattan
before nine. He found a meter on Madison Avenue and
walked two blocks back to a florist he'd passed. He made
two purchases. The first was a spray of bluebells and
heather because these were Jake's favorites. The other was
a box of long-stemmed lilies.

He left the lilies, no card, with the doorman at Bart
Hobbs's apartment house up Fifth Avenue near the mu
seum. There was no need for a card because he'd packed
a new Louisville Slugger with the lilies. From there, he
drove out to Holy Cross Cemetery, where he tidied Jake's
grave, put the floral spray in place, and spent the next
hour bringing Jake up to date.

Jake, as he expected, wasn't all that happy with him either.

“Lilies?”
Jake asked him.
“You actually sent lilies?”

Well
...
all he'd
meant
to do was buy a long box for
the bat. But, Easter being over, all the lilies were on sale
at half price and . . .

“
Moon . . . do yourself a favor. Don 't tell Brendan or
Julie you did that. Ten years from now, they'll still be
giving you crap about it.''

Doyle, maybe. But Julie, thought Moon, would have
sent him Walter's ears.

As for the rest of what he'd been up to—torching houses
and cars—putting the fear of God into Hobbs and all those
other suits—Jake could see how this was personally satis
fying but he thought it wasn't really what you'd call a plan.
A plan, Jake reminded him, is suckering your opponent into
making a mistake and being ready to hammer him when
he does.

“
Say the torching works. Say one or more of them pan
ics. Do you have anything set up?”

“No.”

“What, by the way, do you have against Rolls-Royces?”

“House was a town house,” Moon told him. “It had
two others flush up against it. Might have burned the whole block down so I settled for the car.”

He could feel Jake shaking his head, thinking,
“That's
something else I wouldn't mention to Julie.”

But the fact is, thought Moon, Fat Julie would under
stand. Not the part about being so considerate, maybe, but
he knows that nothing scares a man like knowing he's
being hunted.

Plan or no plan, the thing is to
do
something. That way,
the man you're doing it to sets to wondering what your
plan is and so he comes up with one of his own. His
won't work either because it's built on what he only
thinks
you're doing.

Big Jake heard that. He's thinking,
“Moon, I heard
some loony logic in my day, but…”
He thought it but
he didn't say it.

“Fine,”
he said instead.
“But, suppose one of them
wants to make a deal. Say it's Hobbs. Can he even get a
message to you?”

“Won't be no deal.”

“Okay, look . . . you remember back in Mike's freshman
year? You remember that thumping you gave him? You
remember why?”

“Yeah. I know.” It was for playing Lone Ranger.

“It's why you have friends, Moon. I want you to stop
this and go talk to your friends.''

Moon knew that this was only his own heart talking.
That, and knowing what Jake would have said if he was
still alive. He would also have said that having friends is
a two-way street. He'd say maybe Parker and that bunch
can't find you but they can damned well find Doyle. You
should be watching Brendan's back.

That had bothered Moon some. He didn't think they'd
risk hurting Doyle, not with him on the loose. Still, Jake
was right. The least he could have done was ask Julie
Giordano to keep an eye on him. But he did call Doyle's
home and office a few times just to see he was alive and
hear how he sounded. Didn't talk to him, though. Hung
up when he answered.

He had also called Michael one time. He called him at
that inn he bought in Edgartown and Michael answered
the phone himself. Moon had figured that a desk clerk
would answer. But it was Michael and he sounded real
upbeat. He said,
“
Taylor House, Michael speaking.” He
said it in a glad-to-meet-you kind of way. Except when
he got no answer he sort of sucked in his breath like he
wondered if trouble had found him again. Moon wished he hadn't made that call. Doyle, on the other hand, knew
it was him. “Moon? It's you, right? Moon, you dumb
fuck, talk to me.” Nice to know he's still his old self.

“
He 's liable to belt you one when you see him,
”
said
Jake.

Moon grumbled. “Doyle swings on me,” he answered,
“he better be ready to hit on them too.”