50.

“It was Crow,” Francisco said on the phone.

“I didn’t see him,” Romero said.

“It was Crow,” Francisco said. “Forget about him. Get Amber and bring her home.”

“He killed Larson,” Romero said.

“There’s a million other Larsons,” Francisco said. “Bring the kid home.”

“I don’t like having some guy shoot one of my people and walk away,” Romero said.

“I don’t give a fuck what you like. Farm Crow out to the local gangbangers. Bring the kid home now.”

“How much to the gangbangers?” Romero said.

“Ten, same as if they brought the kid home.”

“Ten?” Romero said. “To kill Crow?”

“That’s more money than they can even count,” Francisco said. “How many are there?”

“Maybe a dozen,” Romero said.

“So if Crow kills a few, no sweat,” Francisco said. “Still plenty left to do the job.”

“Ten grand,” Romero said.

“And they’ll be happy to get it,” Francisco said. “Turn Crow over to them. Bring the kid home. We got a lot of business to do down here.”

“Okay, Lou,” Romero said.

The phone went dead. Romero folded his cell phone and slid it back in his pants pocket. He looked at the other two men, Bobby Chacon and a guy named Mongo Estella, for whom Bobby had to translate.

“We give the Crow hit to Esteban,” Romero said to Bobby. “And bring the girl home.”

“We know where the girl is?” Bobby said.

“No,” Romero said.

Bobby nodded and spoke to Mongo in Spanish. Romero started the Escalade.

“First thing,” Romero said, “we make the deal with Esteban and his people.”

“You think they good enough?” Bobby said.

“No. But they are maybe crazy enough. Crazy might work better than good, with Crow.”

Bobby nodded.

Driving carefully behind them, Crow was cautious. They would be looking for him now. But the Escalade was big and uncommon on the streets of Marshport, and Crow stayed with them easily enough. He was driving a grayish-beige Toyota, of which there were usually three or four in sight at all times. At Horn Street, the Escalade parked. Two of the men got out and walked down the alley. Crow turned right and then left and parked on a parallel street where he could see the Escalade through a parking lot. In ten minutes the two men came out onto Horn Street and got into the Escalade and drove east. Crow drove parallel for a couple of blocks and then swung up onto the same street several cars behind them. He followed them for a while and then turned off left, took the next right, followed them in a rough parallel course until he passed them and turned back to their street, coming out ahead of them. He drove ahead of them, watching them in the mirror until they turned off. Then he U-turned and fell in behind them on the road to Paradise.

The Escalade parked on Sewall Street, near the house where Fiona Francisco had lived. Crow parked up on Washington Street where he could see them. The same two men got out and went to the house. The front door was locked. There was a lot of foot traffic. After a moment the two men walked around the house and Crow couldn’t see them. He waited. After about fifteen minutes the two men came back and got into the Escalade. The big car drove down Sewall Street and parked on the wharf outside the Gray Gull. All three men got out and went into the restaurant. Crow drove in and parked at the far end of the wharf.

Crow sat and looked at the restaurant, and in a short while the three men appeared on the outside deck and sat at a table. Crow sank a little lower in the front seat of his car so that he could just see through the steering wheel. They had a drink. They read the menus. Crow studied them. Why had they gone to the house? Were they looking for him? No. They wouldn’t look for him there. They were looking for the girl. If they found her, they’d take her straight to Miami. So who was going to kill him? Francisco would not let it slide. It wasn’t how he worked. No one was allowed to cross him.

Crow sat in his car and watched the men drink and eat on the deck. He could probably step out of the car and kill all three of them…too easy. Crow wanted the war to evolve a little. Such a good opportunity, though. He got out and walked between the parked cars to the near edge of the wharf. Across about ten feet of harbor water he fired one shot and hit Mongo in the back of the head. Mongo pitched forward onto the table. The tableware scattered. Romero and Bobby Chacon hit the floor behind the table, fumbling for weapons as they went down. By the time they got them out and squirmed into a position to see, Crow was gone.


Загрузка...