Sucker bet - James Swain [65]
Tiger nearly jumped overboard, believing a hungry gator had snuck up on him. Only, what came out of the water was human, but no less dangerous. He watched the familiar figure climb aboard and flop down across from him.
“You scared me, man. What if I had a gun?”
“Then I would have had to take it away from you.”
“Like hell you would,” Tiger said.
His name was Joe Deerslayer, but everyone called him Slash. In and out of trouble his whole life, he’d hidden in the swamps rather than go to prison for robbing a 7-Eleven and shooting the owner in the face. He wore nothing but ratty underwear, his body covered in red sores.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Tiger said.
“Not interested.”
“Smooth Stone sent me.”
Slash helped himself to Tiger’s water bottle. “What’s he want me to do?”
“Pressure a guy.”
A powerfully bad smell was coming off Slash’s body. He shook out his stringy black hair, which fell well past his shoulders, and said, “Who?”
“Name’s Tony Valentine. There’s a woman who works for him. She’s old. Smooth Stone wants you to scare this old woman and make Valentine go home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Palm Harbor. It’s on the west coat, near St. Petersburg.”
“I know where it is. What’s Smooth Stone paying?”
Tiger reached under his seat and removed a bundle of bills wrapped in Saran Wrap. He tossed the bundle to Slash. “Thirty-five hundred. There’s a red Chevy Impala waiting for you in the casino parking lot. The keys are under the mat. In the trunk there are clothes and a map to Valentine’s house. The old woman works there.”
“Make it five,” Slash said.
“Come on. It’s an easy job.”
“Old women bite as hard as anyone else. It’s gonna cost you five.”
Tiger swallowed hard. Five grand was what it cost to have someone killed. He’d seen it in the newspaper a hundred times. Irate spouses or jealous girlfriends would hire hit men to kill their mates. The hit men always charged five grand.
“Harry just wants you to scare her.”
“Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” Slash said.
The swamp grew deathly still, and Tiger heard the sound of his own breathing.
“Put the rest of the money in the trunk of the car,” Slash said, as if the matter were already settled.
“I’ll . . . have to ask Smooth Stone.”
“And a gun. Something small and light.”
“Right.”
“With ammo.”
“Right . . .”
“And give Smooth Stone a message for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell him next time, don’t send a boy to do a man’s job.”
Tiger did not know what stung more, the mosquito chewing his face, or the insult. He watched Slash dive over the side of the johnboat and disappear in the brown-black water, then started up the engine and headed back toward civilization.
The town clown’s name was Russell Popjoy. He was a sergeant with the Broward County police, assigned to the Davie area. A week ago, he had paid Ray Hicks a visit and shaken him down for forty-two hundred dollars so Hicks could run his carnival without fear of being harassed or shut down.
Hicks had not expected him to show up at the hospital. But Popjoy had, walking into Mr. Beauregard’s room Saturday night, right as visiting hours were ending. He was an inch shy of being a giant, with bulging weight-lifter muscles and red freckled skin. He stared at Mr. Beauregard strapped to the hospital bed, then at the monitor taking his heartbeat. Then he’d shaken his head.
“Is he—”
“Going to be okay,” Hicks said.
Mr. Beauregard had passed the critical stage the night before. He’d lost a lot of blood, but chimps could do that and still survive, their hearts big and strong.
“I saw him once in Louisiana,” Popjoy said. “I’m from there. Saw him in a pet shop. I was a kid.” The sergeant rotated his hat in his hands, holding back, then said it anyway. “The owner was a crazy old coot. He said, ‘Gimme a dollar and he’ll play a song for you.’ So I gave him a dollar. Then I walked over to his cage.”
Mr. Beauregard’s eyelids fluttered, and he made a gurgling