Flame

Chapter 35

The ford was still parked in the restaurant lot, but the gray Dodge was gone. Probably Ralph Palma was slouched in it somewhere watching the Bold Entrepreneur, forcing down a hamburger and coffee while the people on board the boat enjoyed their champagne and caviar. Jefferson had it figured out, all right, class-conscious bastard. No going back for him and he knew it. In love with his destiny and locked in a dark dance with death. Carver had heard that same music and knew its power to hypnotize.

As soon as he got into the Ford, he noticed the little square receiver for the transmitter he’d placed on the boat was gone from where he’d left it on the front seat. He bent forward and reached under the seat. The Colt automatic was still there, cool and heavy to the touch. It felt like doom.

He started the car and drove from the lot, down along the dock and away from where the Bold Entrepreneur was tied up. Made a couple of left turns and parked in the next block.

Between two low brick buildings, a dry cleaner and a bookstore, he could barely see the bridge of the Bold Entrepreneur. He sat in the car for a while with the engine idling and the air conditioner blasting, watching the boat, admiring how the setting sun glanced orange-red off its brightwork, letting his mind turn over. Then it occurred to him that Jefferson might be free from the handcuffs by now. Might have gotten together with Palma to go looking for him. The Ford would be easy to spot.

Carver moved the Ford down a block. Then he got the Colt out from under the front seat and tucked it in his waistband beneath his shirt, next to Jefferson’s smaller .38 revolver. A dangerous thing to do and an easy way to get your balls shot off, but it kept both guns out of sight.

He got out of the car and crossed the street. Limped back a block, to near where he’d been parked, and then went between the bookstore and dry cleaner and walked behind them.

He was in a kind of wide alley. There were dumpsters and trash cans along one side, but all neat and clean. A tidy stack of newspapers, bound with twine, sat next to one of the trash cans. Carver figured the truck that picked up the trash would suit the area, be new and bright, with a smiling, uniformed crew.

On the other side of the alley was a grassy area with palm trees and two bleached white concrete benches. Though the sun was low now, the temperature remained high. Probably in the nineties. Carver was sweating; he felt hot and oily. He limped over to one of the benches beneath the palm trees and sat down. He had a better view of the dock from here, through another line of gently swaying palms, and he wasn’t noticeable himself.

He sat patiently, practicing what he was good at: waiting. Putting together what he was going to do. Trying to, anyway.

Farneaux arrived just before dark.

A long blue Lincoln coasted along the dock, past the Bold Entrepreneur at about twenty miles an hour. It must have let Farneaux out some distance from the boat, because it was a good five minutes before Carver saw a short, well-tailored man with iron-gray hair step jauntily from the dock onto the Bold Entrepreneur and quickly duck through a door and into a companionway beneath the bridge. There were lights on aboard the boat now; the portholes glowed, and occasionally there was shadow movement beyond the thin curtains. A loop antenna above the bridge began to revolve. Heightened activity.

The boat could set to sea now. All the players were aboard.

All but one.

Carver stood up from the bench and planted his cane firmly. Limped toward the line of palm trees and the dock.

Toward the gently rising and falling white hull.

Knowing what he had to do, even if he didn’t know exactly how to do it.