The thing was, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Rosey was going to spoil Buchanan's deal for both of us. He was attracting way too much attention, and the cops were bound to get him sooner or later, and when they did, he would turn back into the aggrieved party, he would tell them how I had fucked him out of his money. That would get them looking, and from there it was just a short hop to the SEC, and I would be broke again. And worse than that, Bookman already had Nicky. I started adding it up: There was the initial heist, and stealing money is against the law, even if you steal it from bad guys. Then there were those three dead guys in the Dumpster, the cops would try hard to get me as an accessory to that. On top of that, I had snatched Nicky, I didn't know if they would call that kidnapping or not, but they'd get me for it either way. And now there was a dead Russian in the Calais hospital, not to mention the stiff that Rosey had dumped in the McDonald's parking lot.
First things first, I told myself. All you gotta do right now is get to Nicky, then you can figure out what comes next.
* * *
I pulled into Bookman's driveway. Their dog went ape shit, he came running over to the minivan, barking and showing his teeth. I opened the door a crack and he jumped back, started running around in circles and generally making as much noise as it is possible for a dog to make. Stupid mutt. He was afraid, I guess, but he was trying like hell to do his job. The front door to Bookman's house opened and he came out, down the steps and into the yard. The dog was more afraid of him than he was of me, and he began making larger circles, avoiding Bookman altogether, barking the whole time.
Bookman did not seem his normal imperturbable self. "Scruffy!" he bellowed at the dog. "Get over here!" At once the dog stopped barking and running. He flattened himself down as close to the ground as he could get and still be able to walk, and he went slinking over toward Bookman, his ears flat back on his head. "Be quiet!" Bookman thundered at the dog. He pointed in the direction of his backyard. "And get outta here!" The dog looked at him, glanced back at me, and did his crab walk back toward the rear of the house. He stopped when he got to the back corner of the house, and lay down in the grass, watching the two of us. Bookman turned and looked at me, visibly struggling to regain his composure. It was going to be my turn next. "Fuckin' dog," he said, but it was unclear whether he was talking about me or Scruffy.
Behind him, the front door to his house opened again, and Mrs. Bookman came out carrying Nicky's knapsack. Bookman heard her, but he didn't even turn around. Instead he dropped his shoulders, looked straight up at the sky, sucked in a big breath, held it, blew it out. She marched right past him, came over to me, and thrust Nicky's knapsack into my hands.
"I'm going to miss him so much," she said. "We all will. Especially Franklin." Behind her, Bookman stared at the ground, shaking his head. She turned and looked at him. It was obvious that the two of them had discussed what they should do about Nicky and me, but it was just as obvious that Mrs. Bookman had reached her own conclusions, which were not subject to debate. One thing I've noticed about women, you can't tell them what to do, particularly the good ones. They won't listen, especially if they think they know something you don't. She turned back to me, reached out and squeezed my arm. "That child is going to be something special," she said. She turned away then, headed back to her house. She stopped in front of her husband. "Taylor," she said firmly. "Go get them."
He had the barest hint of a smile on his face. "Yes, deah," he said. She glared at him for a second, and then she went back inside the house. Bookman stared at me until he heard the front door slam. "Women," he said. "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."
I didn't dare to smile. I turned away instead, silently thanking whatever goddesses had interceded on my behalf, and I stuck Nicky's knapsack into the minivan. "Come on," Bookman said. "Theyah down over the hill, fishing." He looked at me. "Listen," he said. "That boy belongs with you. You understand me? The thing is, there's plenty of people think they know bettah than you. The state, the teachahs at school, the ministah at yaw church, they all wanna tell you what's best for yaw kids. You got any goddam brains at all, you'll take that boy fah away from heah. You keep mucking around, yaw going to lose him."
"I hear you."
We walked out past the cars, out toward the back of Bookman's house. He paused when we got to where his dog was laying in the grass. Bookman pointed his finger down at the dog. "Stay," he said. The dog stared back at him, watching intently with big brown eyes. "Stay, damn you."
There was a neatly mowed patch of green lawn out behind Bookman's house, and a field of tall yellow grass behind that. A rock wall bordered the far side of his property, and some big maple trees grew along the border, along with some smaller trees and puckerbushes. We followed a path that paralleled the wall. It led up a long hill behind the house.
"You know how I wound up with that fucking dog?" Bookman said.
"No idea."
"Someone driving past the house," he said, "must have chucked him out the windah when he was a puppy. Franklin found the stupid thing. It was hurt, naturally, and nothing would do but I had to take it to the vet." He shook his head. "Cost me over a hundred bucks to fix up a fifty-nine-cent mutt, but Franklin was in love with the goddam thing, and my wife wouldn't have it any uthah way." He walked a few paces in silence. "So now I'm stuck with him," he said. "I still think about shooting or drowning him 'bout once a day, though. Do you undahstand where I'm going with this, Manny?"
"I think so."
"You and that goddam mutt have got a lot in common."
"That's what I thought you meant."
"The dog," he said, "earns his keep, I guess. Bahks whenevah someone he don't know comes around. He is, mahginally, less trouble than he's worth. But there is a limit, if you know what I mean."
"I get it."
"I found out what you did for EleanorAvery," he said.
I had forgotten all about that. "Okay."
"You keep surprising me," he said. "First by being bettah than I thought you were, then by being worse. How come you never told me about this other character? The one caused all that trouble up to the Calais hospital?"
"I was trying to get rid of him," I said. "I was going to pick him up this morning, as a matter of fact. I had intended to put him on a plane today, but I found out he had kicked over the trash cans while I was down in Manhattan."
"What's his name?"
I thought briefly about giving him a phony name. If the cops got Rosey, then the master plan Buchanan and I had put together would still come crumbling down. I couldn't do it, though. Not after what had just happened. I still had some cash in my duffel bag over in Louis's house, I could settle for that, as long as I got to keep Nicky. "Rosey," I told him. "Rosario Colón."
"Do you have any idea what Mr. Colón is going to do next?"
We had reached the crest of the hill, and the field fell away in front of us. The rock wall, the trees along the border that it made, and the path through the tall grass sloped gradually down to a stream at the far end, maybe a hundred yards away. There was an enormous beech tree at the far end of the field, right next to the road that ran along the bank of the stream. The tree had to be four feet thick at the base. A raven flew out of the top of the beech tree, cawing sharply as he went. Telling his friends, Watch out, palefaces coming. There was a green station wagon parked under the tree, with one of its back doors open. Rosario stood next to the car, and he had Nicky by the hair.
Twelve
"OH, SHIT," Bookman said. I took off and left him there. I could hear Nicky's sharp cries, faint in the distance, I could see him struggling in Rosario's grip. It didn't do him any good, of course. Rosey tossed him into the back of the station wagon and slammed the door closed. He turned and headed for the driver's side, and as he did so he must have caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, because he turned and looked in my direction. It was too far to tell for sure, but I thought I saw him grinning, I thought I could read triumph in the way he stood, looking in my direction. I was moving as fast as I possibly could, but I was too far away. He had plenty of time, and he knew it. So did I, but I kept on anyway. What else could I do? I heard Bookman yelling behind me, I heard a pistol shot. He couldn't run, he was middle-aged and out of shape, but he was doing what he could, I guess. The pistol shot was just an empty threat, though, he was too far away to hit anything, and he wouldn't take a chance on hitting Nicky anyhow.
Franklin came lumbering up the stream bank behind Rosey. He dropped the two fishing rods he was carrying and he wrapped his hairy arm around Rosey's throat. I couldn't run any faster, I couldn't do anything but keep going. Just hang on to him, Franklin, I thought, just hold him there
. But there was no way. No matter what he looked like, Franklin was a gentle soul, a little boy. Rosario broke his hold, turned, and crashed an elbow to Franklin's jaw, and Franklin melted down into the grass at the side of the road.
The passenger door on the far side of the station wagon popped open and Nicky flew out, running for all he was worth. Rosario looked around wildly. Nicky disappeared into the weeds down at the water's edge, and I was bearing down, getting closer. Rosario was not afraid of me, but he had to know that I could hold him up long enough for Bookman to chug down there and shoot his ass. He had one option left, and he took it: he humped Franklin's inert form into the station wagon, walked calmly around to the driver's side, got in, and took off. It took me another ten seconds to get there. I got to the street in time to see him hit the brakes once, just before he went out of sight. I stood there, leaning over, my hands on my knees.
"Shit!"
I could see it again, Nicky jumping out of the far side of the car, taking off into the underbrush. I was inordinately proud of him, even though that resourcefulness had nothing to do with me, it was just a product of the need to watch out for yourself from an early age. Still
"Nicky! Nicky, come on out! It's okay, he's gone now." He didn't, though, he stayed where he was. Behind me, Bookman came huffing down the hill. He tried to talk in between big gasps of air.
"Was
that
guy
Was that
him?"
He sounded like he was having a heart attack. "Yeah, that was him. Gimme your keys."
"Huh?"
"Gimme your car keys. I'm gonna run back up to your house and bring the cruiser down here. See if you can get Nicky to come on out."
He nodded, red-faced, fished his keys out of his pocket, and handed them over.
* * *
It had been a while since I had driven anything like Bookman's cruiser. Crown Vics aren't real popular anymore, especially in the city, where you've got to worry about parking them, but you've got to wonder why we gave up on those big American sedans. Detroit puts a lot of extra stuff into cop cars, too, big fat anti-sway bars, good strong engines, serious rubber. I hauled ass out of Bookman's driveway and left a set of smoking black adolescent streaks on the road in front of his house. Detroit could do it if they wanted to, take a platform like the Crown Vic, spend the kind of serious attention on it that they're gonna waste on whatever isn't going to measure up to next year's BMW 3-Series. Quit being copycats, man, quit trying to be something you ain't and do what you know how to do. Give me a new Goat, man, put an active suspension under it, with quad discs and ABS brakes
.
When you need a distraction, anything will do. I didn't want to think about Rosey and Franklin, and I didn't want to think about what I had decided to do when I was running up that hill, because I felt lousy about it already. But your kids come first, isn't that the way it's supposed to work? Aren't I supposed to take care of him, isn't he my first priority? All I needed to do was get Nicky back, Franklin was not my problem. His father was the county sheriff, for Chrissake. Rosey probably wouldn't hurt him anyhow, once he knew I was gone. He would realize that it would do him no good to hang on to Franklin and no harm to let him go. He would dump him and take off. I mean, he'd leave him somewhere where he'd be found, right? Franklin would be okay.
I came tearing down that road by the creek, stomped the emergency brake and laid a beautiful bootlegger's turn on Bookman, pointed the car back in the direction Rosey had taken. I jumped out, left the door open.
Bookman was still catching his breath. "He wouldn't come out," he said. "Not for me. He's down along the creek there someplace." He got into the cruiser, slammed the door. "Manny," he said. "This guy Rosario. Is he flying blind here? Did he do this on impulse, or does he have someplace to go?"
It made me sick to have to answer. "He's too smart to just jump at it. He's got something set up, he's got someplace to hide, I'd bet on it." Bookman looked at me for another half a second, then went tearing off down the road.
* * *
It took me fifteen or twenty minutes to find Nicky. I couldn't blame him for not trusting methe kid had been through a lot of shit since the day I picked him up outside the Bushwick Houses. He was hiding back in under a raspberry thicket. I couldn't get to him, but when he saw me standing there, he came out, looking pale and shaken. He didn't say much at first, but then the questions started.
