The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [117]
“Heaven above,” the Judge said as tears pooled in his eyes. “You actually found it. Praise you, Ellis. Praise you.”
Hands shaking, the Judge reached for the leather case, then had Ellis place the horn back into the wad of bubble wrap and tissue paper. “The markings . . . the crossed sickles: This is it,” the Judge said, looking at Ellis. “This is it!” His hands still shaking, he carefully carried the ancient carved horn toward the back room of the bungalow. “I need my magnifier.”
But as he followed the Judge into the back bedroom, the only thing Ellis saw were two older men—they looked like twins, both in their late sixties—dressed in herringbone overcoats.
Motherf—
Ellis just stood there, arms plainly at his side, as the first silenced shot was fired.
The Judge was smiling and holding the birthright as the bullet pierced Ellis’s neck.
Ftt.
Benoni! Benoni, attack! Ellis screamed, crumpling awkwardly onto his side as he hit the floor. But his words were lost in the bubbling froth of blood from his shattered voice box.
Ftt. Ftt. Ftt. Ftt. Ftt.
Five hushed gunshots. All of them in Ellis’s chest.
As Ellis lay there on his back, the last thing he saw was the Judge standing over him, staring down. He suddenly didn’t look so old anymore.
“Just remember, Ellis. No one likes a bully.”
Within seconds, the Judge, the room, the world went blurry.
“Heil, Thule,” one of the other men called out.
“Yes— Heil—of course,” the Judge said. “Now get me my gloves. Time to open the Book of Truth.”
79
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
It’s a trap, Cal! It’s always a trap!” Alberto screams.
I nod, tugging Alberto to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist, and trying to steady him as we leave the alley and walk past the Thai restaurant’s front brick patio. He’s wearing the same ratty clothes he had on last week, though he’s added a REHAB IS FOR QUITTERS bumper sticker that he’s taped around his ankle.
“I clipped my toenails into that soup!” Alberto shouts, pointing to a blond patron’s bowl.
“H-He’s joking,” the restaurant manager swears as he follows behind us. But the way the blonde scowls at her waiter, who then scowls at me, it’s clear no one believes it.
“Alberto . . .”
“Don’t fight with me, Cal! Where you been, anyway? This sonuvabitch thinks he owns the whole block!”
“I hear you. I’ll take care of it. But no more yelling, okay?”
“Cal, he—!”
I cup my hand, pressing it into the small of Alberto’s back. I don’t press hard. I don’t need to. He gets the picture. I’m here for him.
“Alberto, when you talk . . . I’m listening. You understand? I’m listening.”
His bloodshot, hound-dog eyes study me a moment, but not for long. I wait for him to say something—to say anything—but he just clutches his old RC Cola can with the plastic wrap on top, then turns to the curb, where I’ve parked the used maroon van I borrowed from another shelter.
“Where’s Roosevelt?” he blurts.
“In jail.”
He thinks on this a moment. “I heard.” Then, in a reassuring voice, “You don’t need him.”
Without another word, he hops in through the open side door of the van. “You got coffee for me?” he asks, fishing around on the front seats.
“Hey, listen—before you go,” a voice calls out behind me.
I turn back to find the restaurant manager—a sweaty Asian in a shiny hipster suit—making his way toward me.
“Thanks again for your help,” the manager says. “I wouldn’t’ve called, but the customers started complaining.”
He extends a handshake, all set to slip me a fifty. “Just to say thanks for getting here so fast,” he says.
I look down at my old black T-shirt, faded sweats, and Vans sneakers. Nothing’s changed.
Except me.
I step toward the manager and wrap an arm around him with newfound ease.
“Listen, I’m not allowed to take cash like that, but can I ask a favor?