Honeymoon

Chapter 61

THE TOURIST—ah, the poor Tourist—was feeling restless and frustrated and bent out of shape. There were at least a hundred other places he’d rather have been, but this place—his temporary home away from home—was where he needed to be.

He still hadn’t figured out the list of offshore accounts. Obviously, the people in the file were evading taxes, right? But who were they? What was the price of admission to the list? And why had the file been worth someone’s life?

He’d already read the newspaper, and finished off a fat Nelson DeMille novel about Vietnam. Now he was sitting on the couch, reading the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. While he was in the middle of an article on the Boston Red Sox’s fading pennant hopes for the year, the silence of the living room was broken.

Someone was at the door.

Quietly, he grabbed the Beretta by his side and stood. He walked to the window, pulling back the drawn shade for a peek at the front stoop. To make things worse, it was pouring outside, turning everything to mud.

Standing there was some guy with a flat, square box in his hand. Behind him, in the driveway, was a Toyota Camry with the engine running.

The Tourist smiled. Dinner is served.

Tucking the gun behind his back and underneath his shirt, he opened the door and greeted yet another delivery guy from Pepe’s House of Pizza. He’d already ordered half a dozen times from there since he arrived.

“Sausage and onion?” asked the delivery guy. He looked college-aged, maybe a little older. Tough to tell under the brim of his Yankees baseball cap.

“Yep. How much?”

“Sixteen-fifty.”

“You’d think I’d know that by now,” the Tourist muttered to himself. He reached into his trouser pocket. His hand came up empty. “Wait a minute, let me get my wallet.” He was about to turn around when he noticed that the delivery guy was being rained on. “Why don’t you come on in,” he offered.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

The guy stepped inside while the Tourist headed toward the kitchen for his wallet. “It looks pretty wet out there,” he said over his shoulder.

“Yeah. Wet means we’re busier than usual.”

“I bet. Why go out for dinner in the rain when you can have someone bring it to you, right?”

The Tourist returned with a twenty in his hand. “Here you go,” he said. “Call it even.”

The delivery guy handed over the pizza and took the twenty. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” He reached inside his raincoat and smiled. “Only we’re not quite even yet.”

The Tourist frantically swung a hand behind his back, but it was too late, too slow. His gun was a distant second to the one pointed at his chest.

“Don’t move!” said the pizza guy. He walked around and relieved the Tourist of the Beretta tucked into his jeans. “Now place both hands against the wall.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the guy who’s gonna make you wish you’d ordered Chinese, O’Hara.”