The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [151]
“Okay, eight o’clock tonight at Dreidel’s hotel—you got it, Wes,” Rogo says. “Ya-huh, yeah . . . of course,” he adds, even though I’m silent. Through the phone, he takes a deep breath. His voice slows down. “Just make sure you’re safe, okay?” I know that tone. The last time I heard it, he was standing by my hospital bed. “I’m serious, Wes. Be safe.”
“I will,” I tell him as a sharp right takes me up the paved brick driveway that’s shaped like a horseshoe in front of my apartment building. Driving past the main entrance, I pull around to the open-air parking lot in back. “Though I gotta be honest, Rogo—I figured you’d be happy I was finally fighting back.”
“Yeah, well . . . next time try swimming a few laps before you decide to cross the English Channel.”
“I gave my life to him, Rogo. I need to get it back.”
“You’re telling me? Wes, I fight with everyone. I love fighting with everyone—I fight with the snot bagboy who tries to cheap me out by giving me plastic instead of paper. But let me tell you something: You don’t fight with people like this. You get your proof, you lock it up somewhere safe, and then you run to the press . . . to the authorities . . . to whoever’s in the best position to keep them from knocking your teeth out through your colon. And believe me, when they find you, they’re gonna hit back.”
“You still talking about Micah and O’Shea?” Dreidel interrupts in the background.
“Who else would we talk about?” Rogo shoots back.
“Rogo,” I interrupt, “I know how they hit. They’re not getting another crack.”
“Good—that’s what I wanna hear. Okay, so if you can’t go home, where you gonna hide out for the next few hours: that crappy hotel my mom stayed at, or maybe somewhere more out in the open, y’know, like the lobby of the Breakers or something?”
I’m silent for a moment, coasting toward my parking spot in back. “Whattya mean?”
“Look at the time, Wes—you’ve still got two hours to kill—so assuming you don’t wanna be at home . . .”
I’m silent again.
I swear I can hear Rogo shaking his head. “You’re home right now, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly,” I say as the car bounces over a speed bump.
“Not exactly? What’s not exactly?”
“It’s . . . it means I’m . . . it means I’m kinda in the parking lot.”
“Aw, jeez! Wes, why would you—? Get out of there!”
“You don’t think our security in front can—?”
“That’s not security. It’s a doorman with a sewn-on badge!”
“I’m talking about the cameras, Rogo. That’s what they’re afraid of—being seen! And no offense, but until you just blurted it to Dreidel, I probably would’ve been fine.”
“Just go. Now!”
“Y’think?” I ask, pulling into an open spot for a quick three-point turn.
“Just turn the car around and get your ass outta there before—!”
As I throw the car into reverse, there’s a knock against the driver’s-side window. Turning to my left, I spot the tip of a gun tapping against the glass.
O’Shea points his pistol right at me and raises his pointer finger to his lips.
“Tell them you’re fine,” O’Shea says, his voice muffled through the window.
I stare at the gun. “L-Listen, Rogo—I’m fine,” I say into the phone.
Rogo says something, but I can’t hear him.
“Tell them you’ll call back when you find someplace safe,” O’Shea adds.
For a moment, I hesitate. O’Shea tightens his finger against the trigger.
“Rogo, I’ll call you back when I find someplace safe.”
I shut the phone. O’Shea rips open my car door.
“Nice to see you again,” he says. “How was Key West?”
90
Let’s go, Wes. Out,” O’Shea says, gripping the shoulder of my shirt and dragging me from the Subaru. As I stumble across the asphalt of the parking lot, I realize the car’s still running. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t think this’ll take long.
“Keep going . . . toward the fence,” he adds, barely a step behind. His gun is no longer out in the open. But through the outline in his jacket pocket, it’s still clearly pointed at me.
We head toward the back corner of the parking lot, where there’s an opening in the tall shrubs that leads to a shaded dog run that runs parallel to the lot. The dog run is narrow and