The End Game

There was a fire engine, a Lexus and quite a bit of mess on the street. And Timothy Sherman walking towards the scene in what looked to be a rather significant state of agitation. “What happened?” Fi said to a teenage boy wearing a backwards Marlins cap.

“Man got shot,” he said. He pointed to the Lexus. “Half his head is over there on the ground.” He was so nonchalant it almost startled Fi. She looked at where the kid was pointing and sure enough, a good portion of Roberge’s head was on the pavement, along with glass and blood and brain matter. Bad day to be Rob Roberge, Fi thought. After spending some time observing the scene, she decided it would be prudent to give me a call and fill me in.

“Still not seeing the funny,” I said when she was through.

“Neither was Mr. Sherman’s proxy,” she said.

“He look to be involved?” I said.

“He seems to be cooperating with the police, mostly by sobbing and shaking.”

“Who would have wanted us away from Gennaro?” I said, but even as I said it, I knew the answer. The only way someone would know about me as it related to Gennaro prior to my meeting with Bonaventura this morning would be if they were privy to our conversation at the Setai the night previous. Which meant Dinino. But it didn’t explain why this poor sap was dead on my street.

“I think you’ve been set up, Michael,” she said. “I think you’ve been given a nice round of diversions.”

“Seems that way,” I said.

“Who do I get to shoot?”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. “Stay close and I’ll call you when I know what the plan is.”

“Yay,” she said without much enthusiasm.

I hung up with Fi and looked back outside. Gennaro was still making adjustments on his boat. He was due to launch shortly.

“You need to stay here and watch Gennaro while he’s on land and on the water. He’s not safe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s a good chance someone might shoot him.”

“What’s going on?”

“Timothy Sherman’s driver from yesterday is dead,” I said. “And I have a pretty good feeling that Dinino bugged Gennaro’s room at the Setai. We’re in the middle of something here, Sam, and it’s not just about this job.”

“Got it, Mikey.” He dusted off the rest of his beer and stood up. “Sea looks nice and calm.”

“That’s the bay. The sea is a little farther out.”

Sam seemed to consider this. “You think they sell Dramamine in this joint somewhere?”

“Maybe try the gift shop,” I said. “Maybe see if they have more appropriate clothes, too. When you get back, get your friend Jimenez on the phone and have him find out who planted this girl, who might have the juice to pull something like this on Dinino. I need a name.”

“Mikey, it’s nine hours ahead of us in Italy right now. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Your friend Jimenez got us into this,” I said. “He can have a sleepless night.”

Sam agreed, if begrudgingly. “Where you gonna be?”

“I need to have a conversation with Alex Kyle,” I said.

“You’re not going back to Bonaventura’s, are you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Alex Kyle will find me.”

“This boat you want,” Sam said, “can Virgil be on it?”

I liked Virgil.

Really.

It was just that Virgil meant my mother, and my mother meant problems.

“If he has to be,” I said.

“The man is a valuable asset,” Sam said.

“Make it happen,” I said, “however it happens.”

When Sam left, I called Nate and told him that I needed another favor.

“You need me or Slade Switchblade?”

“Slade Switchblade?”

“If you’re Tommy the Ice Pick,” he said, “I’m Slade Switchblade.”

“When was the last time you actually saw a switchblade, Nate?”

“When was the last time you actually saw an ice pick, Michael?” Nate said. I paused. The truth was that the last time I saw an ice pick, I was shoving it into a man’s chest in Siberia, so, best as I could recall, about the fall of 1999. But my hesitation was enough of an opening for Nate. “And anyway, it’s about reputation, right? Isn’t that what you said? So maybe Slade used a switchblade back in the day, and now, now he uses a howitzer, but no one knows. People are more scared of a switchblade than a howitzer, right? More personal, right? So that’s why he’s Slade Switchblade not Slade Howitzer.”

“Right,” I said. While I liked that Nate had actually thought through his own personal narrative, I wasn’t comfortable with it actually making sense. “Look, I don’t need Slade. But if I do, you give him whatever nickname you want.”

“Slade Six-Gun was another one I came up with,” he said.

“Great,” I said. “If Wyatt Earp comes through town, I’ll let him know you’re ready to mount up. In the meantime, I need you to talk to your friends in the betting industries. Find out who is putting money against the Pax Bellicosa in the Miami-to-Nassua. Not five hundred or even a thousand dollars, but numbers with lots of zeros.”

“Someone rich rolling,” he said.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Someone rich rolling. Anyone owes you any favors, I need you to call them in.” Nate was silent. I thought I heard him writing something down. “You still there?”

“Just getting this all on paper so I don’t forget anything.”