"Get the Cadillac," he said. "Right now. Pick me up at the front."
He took the keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the table in front of me. Then he crouched down and unzipped his bag and came out with two New York license plates and a screwdriver. Handed them to me.
"Put these on it first," he said.
I saw guns in the bag. Two Heckler amp; Koch MP5Ks, short and fat and black with big bulbous molded handles. Futuristic, like movie props.
"Where are we going?" I said.
"We're following Duke down to Hartford, Connecticut," he said. "We've got some business there, remember?"
He zipped the bag and stood up and carried it back out into the hallway. I sat still for a second. Then I raised my glass of water and toasted the blank wall in front of me.
"Here's to bloody wars and dread diseases," I said to myself.
Chapter 7
I left the rest of the water in the kitchen and headed out toward the garage block. Dusk was gathering on the ocean horizon, a hundred miles away in the east. The wind was blowing hard and the waves were pounding. I stopped walking and turned a casual circle. Saw nobody else out and about. So I ducked out of sight down the side of the courtyard wall. Found my hidden bundle and laid the phony plates and the screwdriver on the rocks and unwrapped both guns. Duffy's Glock went into my right-hand coat pocket. Doll's PSM went into my left. I put the spare Glock mags in my socks. Stowed the rag and picked up the plates and the screwdriver and backtracked to the courtyard entrance.
The mechanic was busy in the third garage. The empty one. He had the doors wide open and was oiling the hinges. The space behind him was even cleaner than when I had seen it in the night. It was immaculate. The floor had been hosed. I could see it drying in patches. I nodded to the guy and he nodded back. I opened up the left-hand garage. Squatted down and unscrewed the Maine plate off the Cadillac's trunk lid and replaced it with the New York number. Did the same at the front. Left the old plates and the screwdriver on the floor and got in and fired it up. Backed it out and headed around to the carriage circle. The mechanic watched me go.
Beck was waiting there for me. He opened the rear door himself and dropped his sports bag on the back seat. I heard the guns shifting inside. Then he closed the rear door again and slid in the front beside me.
"Go," he said. "Use I-95 south as far as Boston."
"We need gas," I said.
"OK, first place you see," he said.
Paulie was waiting at the gate. His face was all twisted up with anger. He was a problem that wouldn't keep much longer. He glared in at me. Turned his head left and right and kept his eyes on me the whole time he was opening the gate. I ignored him and drove on through. I didn't look back at him. Out of sight, out of mind was the way I wanted to play it, as far as he was concerned.
The coast road west was empty. We were on the highway twelve minutes after we left the house. I was getting used to the way the Cadillac drove. It was a nice car. Smooth, and quiet. But it was heavy on gas. That was for sure. The needle was getting seriously low. I could almost see it moving. The way I recalled it the first gas stop was the one south of Kennebunk. The place where I had met with Duffy and Eliot on the way down to New London. We reached it within fifteen minutes. It felt very familiar to me. I drove past the parking lot where we had broken into the van and headed down to the pumps. Beck said nothing. I got out and filled the tank. It took a long time. Eighteen gallons. I screwed the cap back on and Beck buzzed his window down and gave me a wad of cash.
"Always buy gas with cash," he said. "Safer that way."
I kept the change, which was a little over fifteen bucks. I figured I was entitled. I hadn't been paid yet. I got back on the road and settled in for the trip. I was tired. Nothing worse than mile after mile of lonely highway when you're tired. Beck was quiet beside me. At first I thought he was just morose. Or shy, or inhibited. Then I realized he was nervous. I guessed he wasn't entirely comfortable heading into battle. I was. Especially because I knew for sure we weren't going to find anybody to fight.
"How's Richard?" I asked him.
"He's fine," he said. "He's got inner strength. He's a good son."
"Is he?" I said, because I needed to say something. I needed him to talk to keep me awake.
"He's very loyal. A father can't ask for more."
Then he went quiet again, and I fought to stay awake. Five miles, ten.
"Have you ever dealt with small-time dope dealers?" he asked me.
"No," I said.
"There's something unique about them," he said.
He didn't say anything more for twenty miles. Then he picked it up again like he had spent the entire time chasing an elusive thought.
"They're completely dominated by fashion," he said.
"Are they?" I said, like I was interested. I wasn't, but I still needed him to talk.
"Of course lab drugs are fashion items anyway," he said. "Really their customers are just as bad as they are. I can't even keep track of the stuff they sell. Some different weird name every week."
"What's a lab drug?" I asked.
"A drug made in a lab," he said. "You know, something manufactured, something chemical. Not the same as something that grows naturally in the ground."
"Like marijuana."
"Or heroin. Or cocaine. Those are natural products. Organic. They're refined, obviously, but they aren't created in a beaker."
I said nothing. Just fought to keep my eyes open. The car was way too warm. You need cold air when you're tired. I bit my bottom lip to stay awake.
"The fashion thing infects everything they do," he said. "Every single thing. Shoes, for instance. These guys we're looking for tonight, every time I've seen them they've had different shoes."
"What, like sneakers?"
"Sure, like they play basketball for a living. One time they've got two-hundred-dollar Reeboks, brand new out of the box. Next time I see them, Reeboks are completely unacceptable and it's got to be Nikes or something. Air-this, air-that. Or it's suddenly Caterpillar boots, or Timberlands. Leather, then Gore-Tex, then leather again. Black, then that yellow color like a work boot. Always with the laces undone. Then it's back to the running shoes again, only this time it's Adidas, with the little stripes. Two, three hundred dollars a pop. For no reason. It's insane."
I said nothing. Just drove, with my eyelids locked open and my eyeballs stinging.
"You know why it is?" he said. "Because of the money. They've got so much money they don't know what to do with it. Like jackets. Have you seen the jackets they wear? One week it's got to be North Face, all shiny and puffy, full of goose feathers, doesn't matter whether it's winter or summer because these guys are only out at night. The next week, shiny is yesterday's news. Maybe North Face is still OK, but now it's got to be microfiber. Then it's letter jackets, wool with leather sleeves. Two, three hundred dollars a pop. Each style lasts about a week."
"Crazy," I said, because I had to say something.
"It's the money," he said again. "They don't know what to do with it, so they get into change for change's sake. It infects everything. Guns, too, of course. Like these particular guys, they liked Heckler and Koch MP5Ks. Now they have Uzis, according to you. You see what I mean? With these guys, even their weapons are fashion items, the same as their sneakers, or their jackets. Or their actual product, which brings everything full circle. Their demands change all the time, in every arena. Cars, even. They like Japanese mostly, which is about fashions coming in from the West Coast, I guess. But one week it's Toyotas, next week it's Hondas. Then it's Nissans. The Nissan Maxima was a big favorite, two, three years ago. Like the one you stole. Then it's Lexuses. It's a mania. Watches, too. They're wearing Swatches, then they're wearing Rolexes. They don't see a difference. Complete madness. Of course, being in the market, speaking as a supplier, I'm not complaining. Market obsolescence is what we aim for, but it gets a little rapid at times. Gets hard to keep up."