Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [53]
Charlie recognized the models from the display window of the ultrachic kitchen and bathroom store in the West Village that carried the French brand name. “They’re gorgeous,” he said. “The thing is, the washer we want is a three-hundred-buck Perriman piece of crap.”
Fielding might have upgraded to a pricier nuclear bomb container, but it was unlikely: The Cavalry’s Perriman Pristina models had specially modified linings to thwart radiation detectors.
Charlie snapped open the round door on the machine’s face, knelt, and looked in. “This is only good for doing laundry.”
As Drummond bent over to take a turn inspecting the machine, a Hispanic baritone resounded from the stairwell. “You looking for a bomb?”
Startled, Charlie spun around.
The watchtower guard took the last three steps in a leap. He was armed with a smaller machine gun than before. More than ample to shred two intruders, though.
“I was just wondering what in the world this washing machine does that makes it so expensive,” Charlie said.
The guard rubbed his chin, as if trying to make sense of Charlie’s words. Meanwhile Drummond unfolded himself from the washer.
“I knowed that was you, Señor Lesser,” the guard exclaimed.
Fear, like molten metal, filled Charlie’s intestines.
“How are you?” Drummond asked.
“Real, real good, gracias.” The guard smiled, seemingly flattered by Señor Lesser’s interest. “Except that real estate fucker called the cops on you.”
“Didn’t see that coming,” Charlie said.
“I have an idea,” the guard said, waving for them to follow him up the staircase. “Also, the washer you want’s not on the island no more.”
Charlie looked to Drummond for a sign of assurance.
Drummond started up the stairs. Good enough.
At the top of the staircase the guard hurried to the kitchen and opened a screen door, taking them out the back of the pool house.
Drummond looked the guard over. “You’re Henrique, right? Or Hector …”
“Sí, Hector. Hector Manzanillo.” He led the way across a cricket field as lush and well tended as a golf course.
A smile creased Drummond’s face. “With the brother who pitches in the Milwaukee Brewers farm system? Rico, yes?”
Charlie could almost see lucidity surging into his father: As Drummond walked, he appeared to grow taller, his stride becoming more resolute, and the old glow returning to his eyes. Had Hector Manzanillo sparked him whereas du Frongipanier or Odelette’s children had not? Possibly. Sticking his head inside a washing machine might also have sparked him. Whichever, Charlie was elated. They needed an exit strategy, and when Drummond Clark was on, he was an escape artist.
“Rico blew out his shoulder last season,” Hector said.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Drummond.
“Don’t be. He’s doing way better now selling ‘bananas’ for the Bucagas.”
“First-class operation,” said Drummond of the drug dealers.
The trio reached a staircase whose eight flights zigzagged down a cliff face speckled with patches of grass and scrawny trees. From this far up, the choppy sea looked like tinfoil.
Hector pointed down to the beach that wrapped around the rock wall. “Follow the shore ’round to the pier, shouldn’t take you no more than a minute, then blast off in that fancy-ass speedboat you came in. I’ll go the other way, gunning one of the launches from the private dock, do what I can to draw away the cops.”
Drummond nodded his approval. “I owe you one, Hector.”
“I still owe you way more than that, señor.” The guard clambered down the stairs, unconcerned by the creaks and groans that suggested loose moorings.
Right behind him, Drummond said, “Hector, do you have any idea what Fielding did with the other washing machine?”
“The Perriman Pristina? Wish I did. Woulda saved me two broken ribs and fuck-near getting drowned.