The End Game

“I saw that explosion yesterday and figured it had to do with him,” Sam said. It was worth a shot, he figured, since Gennaro had mentioned it the night previous. And if Gennaro knew, well, then the FBI knew. And if the FBI knew, then everyone with a security clearance above a janitor at the field office over on Northwest 2nd Avenue probably already had a peek at the incident report. It was a nice office, really, with strong, soundproof walls and a good location. There was a bar across the street called the Dorsal Fin where, for the price of a shot, and on a particularly slow news day, you could probably get a few mundane state secrets.

Darleen stayed silent. When she finally did speak, all she said was, “And?”

“And, well, I’m sort of working with a friend who has business interests affected by this terrible calamity,” Sam said. When Darleen didn’t reply immediately, he added, and kept adding and adding and adding, “And as you know, I’m concerned about the intercoastal byways and that was a significant environmental accident out there, which, when you take into consideration the migration patterns of the seagull, and the swallows of Capis trano which, as you know, are endangered, could be considered a problem. Internationally. As you know.”

Sam was of the opinion that if you added the words “as you know” to anything, people tended to pretend as if they did know, if only to not seem comparatively ill informed. It was a skill he’d gleaned working with intelligence people. No one wants to seem like a moron, even if admitting they don’t know something would likely make them seem all the more reliable.

“Sam,” she said, “he got away with killing his own father. You don’t just walk up and talk to him unless you have a good reason to have the mafia on your ass. These guys are true blood killers, not a bunch of Newark posers.”

Newark.

Sam was pretty sure that was a signal.

Really, it didn’t matter. He’d recently had a brush with unwanted marriage, and then there was the fact that he was technically still married to an ex-hippie, but it was useless to dwell on the past. Well, maybe not useless, but not advisable, anyway. Faced with dealing with history or dealing with the moment, Sam always advocated the moment. It was controllable. Besides, what was nice about his current position in life was that he got to spend a long time at the old romantic buffet, but even still you never knew when your favorite place might get shut down with an E. coli break-out. Or, in the case of Veronica, whom he didn’t hate, certainly, just didn’t want to, uh, spend forever with, another marriage proposal. Though he sure missed his Cadillac.

It was tough being a desirable man, Sam knew, but he wasn’t Burger King-some people just weren’t going to get it their way.

“All I’m asking is if you know where he’s staying,” Sam said. “I’m not planning on some Elliot Ness takedown.”

Darleen kind of snorted in response. It was a weird sound coming from a woman, but then he’d heard and seen a man whistle through his false teeth today without any sense of embarrassment in the least, which made Sam think that vanity was really an underrated thing. It wasn’t even eight thirty in the morning and he was already having moments of clarity, and without any liquid encouragement.

Maybe he actually would start waking up and taking ocean swims.

Sam thought he’d try one more parry before giving up the whole story just to get an address. Worst case scenario, he’d just tell Darleen the truth. She was FBI, after all. If she really wanted the truth, she could probably get it without Sam ever knowing. “Look, fact is, it’s not really for me. It’s for a sick friend. He thinks Bonaventura might be the only person who has a matching bone marrow profile. Not even a natural-born killer can turn down someone in need of a little bone marrow. If I can make the effort to find him, well, I think Mr. Bonaventura might make the effort to help my friend.”

That should do it, Sam thought. Find some middle ground. Appeal to her emotional center. Remind her of just how cuddly old Sam Axe was. Though the more he thought about it, he was starting to think that maybe the woman there that night in Newark was actually named Carlene.

“He has a compound that he uses on Key Biscayne,” she said, though her voice sounded kind of robotic, like she was giving a report, but then gave Sam the address. “I wouldn’t stop by with a scalpel and try to get that marrow out of him; you’re likely to end up gator bait.”

“Noted,” Sam said.

“And Sam? Whoever is employing you? Tell his to pay his debt and get out of the country and then see about getting into the space program. Bonaventura is not the kind of person who chalks things up to being part of the game. It’s all personal to him.”

“Noted,” Sam said. He wasn’t sure why he kept saying noted, but he sort of thought it made him sound more official. “Anything else, Darleen?”