The Triggerman Dance (37 page)

"To record whoever's been cheating Mr. Holt."

"You're the one's been cheating Mr. Holt."

"You ought to listen to me, Snakey."

"Shut up, Bubba."

John heard footsteps as Snakey headed toward the phone. "Hey little doggies," he said. "How about some more snacks? You dogs are gonna like hangin' with Snakey. This fag you got for a keeper now, he won't be around anymore. There, good dogs . .. there you go. Maybe I'll get you some of them spiked collars, make you look badass. Kinda fuckin' dogs are these, anyway?"

"Labrador retrievers."

"Where's Labrador at?"

"Up north."

John heard the telltale crunch of teeth on biscuits. He turned his head slightly, and could just make out the blurred shape of Snakey kneeling in front of the cellular phone.

"Two buttons," said Snakey. "Who for?"

Think.

"The red one's for Mr. Holt. The black one goes to Lane."

"That's a lie."

"Push one and find out."

Snakey laughed. It was the laugh of someone not quite sure if the joke is for him or on him. "This thing reach all the way to Grand Cayman?"

"Easily."

"Oh, yeah, Bubba. This little piece of shit's gonna reach 'em way out in that ocean?"

"It's linked up by satellite. I could call Mars, if that's where Mr. Holt was going to be."

"Shut up."

"Call him. Ask him if I'm working for him or not."

"We wouldn't have slapped you around if you were working for us. Kinda idiot you think I am?"

Think.

"Lane did it for you two. He and Mr. Holt both know someone's smuggling out docs."

"Docks?"

"Documents. The deal with Titisi. Titisi's lowballing Mr. Holt, but Titisi's desperate, too. It's not adding up."

"Holt thinks someone's spying for that boogie?"

"That's why Lane and I went through that little routine yesterday. So you guys would think I'm under the gun. So if you need another ear, you might try me. Lane thinks one of you might be the leak. You or Partch."

"Me?
Me?
It ain't me, Bubba. You're talking shit again. It's that old fart Messinger if it's anyone."

"Tell that to Mr. Holt and get this thing straightened out. If you don't, he'll blow his stack when he finds out you messed up my job."

"Shut up," said Snakey, quietly.

"Ask Fargo what you should—"

"—Shut up, Bubba."

There was a long silence behind John. Snakey was still in the far periphery of his vision, just an unclear figure now standing where he'd found the phone. John moved his right hand onto the Colt .45 in the crook of the branch.

If you ever need it, you will probably die with it in your hand.

Snakey was moving now. He disappeared from John's field of vision, but his footsteps still registered. He was moving toward the fence, toward the tunnel. John put his finger through the trigger guard of the Colt just as he heard Snakey's shoe hit the tunnel cover. With a gentle prying of his wrist, John unmoored the automatic from its clip.

"The fuck's this?"

"The tunnel he dug."

"The what?"

John's neck was straining as he tried for a sight of Snakey.

"Don't move, man! I'm close to shootin' you. I'm real close.

Just keep screwin' that pine tree with your hands up. Shit, man— look at this hole."

John heard the cover sliding over dry earth, heard the hollow thudding of the wood as Snakey pushed it away from the opening.

"Where's it go?"

"Under the fence, to the other side."

"What for?"

"So he can get in and out if he has to. We're pretty sure it's where he drops the docs, then someone on the other side picks them up."

"You're more jive than a boogie, Bubba."

"It's the truth."

"We'll ask Fargo and Mr. Holt if it's the truth. See, I gotta job to do, and it's keep an eye on you. I got lots to report. You slobber all over his daughter 'til late at night, you pick into the trophy room, you got a bag of paper you took from somewhere and you got a bunch of spy gadgets and a phone hidden in a box in the fuckin' dirt. You're history, man. You're iced."

He's right, thinks John.

Snakey and him went somewhere. Snakey came back.

"You did your job well, Snakey. But you got the wrong guy."

"No. You're you all right. It's pretty simple. I'm gonna collect all this stuff and I'm gonna give it to Lane. Lane the Brain. I'm telling him what you did to Val. I'm telling him the way you snuck out here and tried to use the phone. I'm giving him this picture and drawing here. If it turns out you're working for him then there's no harm in it, right? We all just laugh and you go back to doing whatever you're supposed to be doing. I ain't heard nothin' about no docks and leaks. What I heard from Lane was that you aren't trustworthy. Think I've just about proved it."

John's mind was roiling now, a chaos of fear, confusion and doubt. This was not in any of Joshua's scripts. This was a contingency not covered.

The Colt's safety was already off. There was no round chambered. He would have to cock it. And in the time it would take for him to turn, jack the live round in, find his target and fire, all Snakey had to do was pull a trigger and watch ten bullets go through John's back.

If you're blown, run. If you can't run, deny. When you can't deny, confess. It will either get you out, get you turned or get you killed.

"I'm working for the FBI, Snakey."

"Cool. I'm John Gotti."

"You'll end up in prison like Gotti, if you don't put that gun away."

"You got me shakin' now, Mr. Fart, Burp and Indigestion."

"Listen. Six months ago, Holt tried to kill a writer who'd been after him. She'd bad-mouthed Patrick after he got it up in Santa Ana. She bad-mouthed Holt himself. She made fun of everything he stands for, everything he is, everything he does. She ridiculed his politics. She ridiculed Liberty Ridge. She made it seem like what happened to his son and wife had sent him over the top. She tried to say he was a victim of violence, that it had twisted him out of shape—turned him into a vicious old fool and that he was a sign of the times. She patronized him. She ragged on him, then patted him on the head. But she was more right than she knew. He went crazy over what happened to Patrick and Carolyn and he tried to take it out on someone he hated. They've matched up shells to one of his guns. They've got fingerprints."

Snakey was quiet for a long moment.

"I'd a shot the cunt, too, for writing that."

"Jesus Christ, Snakey, he shot the wrong one! He killed a twenty-four year old woman who'd never written a thing about him. Left her in a parking lot with her heart blown to pieces. She could have been your girl."

"She wasn't."

"I know. She was mine."

Again, Snakey was quiet for a moment.

"Mr. Holt isn't that stupid. And neither am I. You're just piling on the bullshit now, thinking I'm dumb enough to buy it. Nice try, faggot."

"I'm telling the truth now, Snakey. I swear to God, I am. Work with me. Help us take down Holt."

"Can you beat two grand a week?"

"I can't pay you a dime."

"I'm supposed to sell out Mr. Holt for not even a dime?"

"He killed her. If that isn't enough for you, then you better look after yourself. Because when we take him, you're going down with him. And Fargo. And Partch. Remember that supervisor who took a trip with you and didn't come back? They'll nail you on that, too, unless you help. You've got a chance to save our own ass here, and to nail a sick old bastard who killed a girl he didn't even know. You're getting a good deal, man. Think about it for about five seconds if you got brains enough."

"Okay."

Snakey was silent for about five seconds.

"I'm done thinking. You're lying. If you weren't lying, I wouldn't help you anyway. I'm takin' you and all your shit back to show Mr. Holt and Lane. They can figure out what to do with you."

"Listen, Snakey. I'm going to tell you something now. If you help us, you live. If you don't, you die young. It's that simple."

"Pretty funny statement from a guy fuckin' a tree with a Mac pointed at him."

"I'm telling you, Snakey. Let me go. It's the right thing to do. And it's the only chance you've got. I'm begging you, man. I'm begging you."

"Shut up. I hate beggars. Beat one dead back in Jersey one night, just because he smelled so bad. Used gloves on him. Hate those fuckin' stinky homeless bums. Felt his face bones breaking. I was drunk."

John could hear Snakey moving the wooden cover back over the tunnel. He would be kneeling, with one hand on the cover and the other on his gun. John inched his left hand toward his right.

God help me, he thinks.

God forgive me.

"Help me, Snakey."

"Help your fuckin' self, man."

John closed his hand around the automatic then turned and jacked in the shell. He was falling to a crouch while he lined up the front sight with the chest of the still kneeling Snakey.