The Book of Fate

89

Five minutes ago, I started telling Rogo the story about The Four, and the note from Boyle, and what Lisbeth said about Dreidel. Under normal circumstances, Rogo would’ve been screaming for a fistfight and stacking up the I-told-you-sos. But like any good actor, he’s well aware of his audience.

“What’s he saying?” Dreidel asks in the background.

“Tell him the Mannings gave me tomorrow off,” I shoot back through the phone, my newfound anger barely covering my still-smoldering anxieties.

“The Mannings gave him tomorrow off — just to calm down from all the Nico mess,” Rogo says like an old pro. Back to me, he adds, “You have any idea why he did it?”

“Who? Manning? I have no idea — the First Lady said maybe they suckered him. All I know is when The Three recruited Boyle, they were blackmailing him with this supposed kid. But to get something on a sitting President of the United States…”

“… we’re talking one hell of a secret,” he agrees. “Wes, you’re gonna need to be careful.”

“Careful of what?” Dreidel interrupts, clearly frustrated. “What’s he saying?”

“Rogo,” I warn, “don’t give him—”

“Just relax, okay? We’re talking about O’Shea and Micah,” Rogo says, clearly in control. When Dreidel doesn’t respond, I wonder if I’m being too harsh. Even if what Lisbeth said is true — about Manning and Dreidel being ranked the same…

“Ask Wes if he wants to meet up,” Dreidel calls out in the background. “Just so we can compare our notes in one place.”

“Actually, that’s a great idea,” Rogo says. For Dreidel, Rogo’s tone is completely enthusiastic. For me, his undertone is just as clear: He’d gnaw his own thumbs off before letting that meeting ever happen.

As Rogo continues to hold him at bay, I make a sharp right out of the rush-hour traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard and cut through the wide-open space of the Publix supermarket parking lot. It’s not my usual path, but as I check the rearview, the vast emptiness of the lot is the best way to see I’m still alone.

“So when should we meet?” Rogo asks, still trying to keep Dreidel happy.

“I assume you’re joking, right?” I ask, looping back through the parking lot and following the narrow two-lane street to the familiar building at the end of the block.

“Ya-huh… of course.”

“Fine, then just keep him away,” I say. “Away from me and away from Boyle.”

“Dammit, Rogo, you missed the turn!” Dreidel shouts in the background. “The on-ramp’s back that way!”

Without a word, I know Rogo understands. By the time they get to Dr. Eng’s office, then back to Palm Beach, Dreidel’s officially one less crisis I have to deal with.

“Okay, eight o’clock tonight at Dreidel’s hotel — you got it, Wes,” Rogo says. “Ya-huh, yeah… of course,” he adds, even though I’m silent. Through the phone, he takes a deep breath. His voice slows down. “Just make sure you’re safe, okay?” I know that tone. The last time I heard it, he was standing by my hospital bed. “I’m serious, Wes. Be safe.”

“I will,” I tell him as a sharp right takes me up the paved brick driveway that’s shaped like a horseshoe in front of my apartment building. Driving past the main entrance, I pull around to the open-air parking lot in back. “Though I gotta be honest, Rogo — I figured you’d be happy I was finally fighting back.”

“Yeah, well… next time try swimming a few laps before you decide to cross the English Channel.”

“I gave my life to him, Rogo. I need to get it back.”

“You’re telling me? Wes, I fight with everyone. I love fighting with everyone — I fight with the snot bagboy who tries to cheap me out by giving me plastic instead of paper. But let me tell you something: You don’t fight with people like this. You get your proof, you lock it up somewhere safe, and then you run to the press… to the authorities… to whoever’s in the best position to keep them from knocking your teeth out through your colon. And believe me, when they find you, they’re gonna hit back.”

“You still talking about Micah and O’Shea?” Dreidel interrupts in the background.

“Who else would we talk about?” Rogo shoots back.

“Rogo,” I interrupt, “I know how they hit. They’re not getting another crack.”

“Good — that’s what I wanna hear. Okay, so if you can’t go home, where you gonna hide out for the next few hours: that crappy hotel my mom stayed at, or maybe somewhere more out in the open, y’know, like the lobby of the Breakers or something?”

I’m silent for a moment, coasting toward my parking spot in back. “Whattya mean?”

“Look at the time, Wes — you’ve still got two hours to kill — so assuming you don’t wanna be at home…”

I’m silent again.

I swear I can hear Rogo shaking his head. “You’re home right now, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” I say as the car bounces over a speed bump.

“Not exactly? What’s not exactly?”

“It’s… it means I’m… it means I’m kinda in the parking lot.”

“Aw, jeez! Wes, why would you—? Get out of there!”

“You don’t think our security in front can—?”

“That’s not security. It’s a doorman with a sewn-on badge!”

“I’m talking about the cameras, Rogo. That’s what they’re afraid of — being seen! And no offense, but until you just blurted it to Dreidel, I probably would’ve been fine.”

“Just go. Now!”

“Y’think?” I ask, pulling into an open spot for a quick three-point turn.

“Just turn the car around and get your ass outta there before—!”

As I throw the car into reverse, there’s a knock against the driver’s-side window. Turning to my left, I spot the tip of a gun tapping against the glass.

O’Shea points his pistol right at me and raises his pointer finger to his lips.

“Tell them you’re fine,” O’Shea says, his voice muffled through the window.

I stare at the gun. “L–Listen, Rogo — I’m fine,” I say into the phone.

Rogo says something, but I can’t hear him.

“Tell them you’ll call back when you find someplace safe,” O’Shea adds.

For a moment, I hesitate. O’Shea tightens his finger against the trigger.

“Rogo, I’ll call you back when I find someplace safe.”

I shut the phone. O’Shea rips open my car door.

“Nice to see you again,” he says. “How was Key West?”