Prayers For Rain Part 66

On Monday we went to work in earnest. Angie planned to spend the day trying to contact a friend at the IRS in Pittsburgh, see if she could get any hits on Wesley Dawe's revenue info for the years before he disappeared, and Bubba promised he'd try the same with a guy he knew at the Ma.s.sachusetts Department of Revenue, though he seemed to remember something shady happened concerning his friend but couldn't recall what that was.

I used the computer in the office to search the Net's national phone books and any other databases I could think of. Typing in Wesley Dawe Wesley Dawe over and over and over and getting nothing, nothing, and nothing. over and over and over and getting nothing, nothing, and nothing.

Angie's friend at the IRS kept her hanging all afternoon, and Bubba never called to report on his progress, and finally, sick of brick walls, I drove downtown to check out Naomi Dawe at the Hall of Records.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in either her birth or death records, but I copied all the info down in a notepad anyway and stuck it in my back pocket as I left City Hall.

I stepped out onto the rear of City Hall Plaza and two beefy guys, both balding, both wearing aviator gla.s.ses and thin Hawaiian s.h.i.+rts untucked over jeans, fell into step beside me.

"We're going to take a little walk," the guy on my right said.

"Cool," I said. "If we go to the park, will you buy me an ice cream?"

"Guy's a comedian," the one on my left said.

"Sure," the other guy said. "He's f.u.c.king Jay Leno over here."

We crossed the plaza toward Cambridge Street and a small gang of pigeons took flight in front of us. I could hear both guys breathing a little heavy, a daily const.i.tutional apparently not something they worked into their schedules.

It was hot, but a colder than normal sweat broke out on my forehead as I noticed the dark pink Lincoln double-parked on Cambridge. I'd seen the same Lincoln parked in Stevie Zambuca's driveway on Sat.u.r.day.

"Stevie felt like chatting," I said. "How nice."

"You notice his delivery was a little shaky on that one?" the guy on my right side said.

"Maybe this ain't so funny no more," the other guy said, and with an amazingly smooth and swift move for a guy his size, his hand slipped under my own s.h.i.+rt and removed my gun.

"Don't worry," he told me, "I'll keep it in a safe place."

The back door of the Lincoln opened as we approached and a thin young guy got out of the car and held the door open for me.

I could make a scene, and the two guys beside me would kneecap me and shove me in anyway, broad daylight or not.

I decided to proceed with grace.

I climbed in the car beside Stevie Zambuca and they shut the door behind me.

The front seats were empty. Apparently my beefy handlers did the driving.

Stevie Zambuca said, "Someday that old guy? He's gonna die. He's, what, eighty-four now, right?"

I nodded.

"So he dies someday, I'll fly out to his funeral, pay my respects, and come back and take a pipe to your f.u.c.king elbows, Kenzie. You just be ready for that day, because I will be."

"Okay."

"Okay?" He smiled. "Think you're pretty f.u.c.king cool, don't you?"

I didn't say anything.

"Well, you ain't. But for now, I'll play ball." He tossed a brown paper bag on my lap. "There's eight thou in there. This guy, he paid me ten to back you off."

"So you've done business with him?"

"No. It was a straight job. Ten grand to keep you off his back. Never met the guy until Friday night. He approached one of my people, made his pitch."

"Did he tell you to threaten Bubba to get to me?"

Stevie stroked his chin. "Matter of fact, yeah. He knows a lot about you, Kenzie. A lot. And he don't like you. At all, motherf.u.c.ker. At all."

"You know anything about where he lives, works, that sort of thing?"

Stevie shook his head. "No. Guy I know in K.C. vouched for him. Heard he was stand-up."

"K.C.?".

Stevie's eyes met my own. "K.C. Why's that bother you?"

I shrugged. "It just doesn't seem to fit."

"Yeah, well, whatever. When you see him, give him the eight Gs, tell him the other two Gs are for my aggravation."

"How do you know I'll see him?"

"He's got a real hard-on for you, Kenzie. Like diamond-cutter hard. He kept saying you 'interfered.' And Vincent Patriso might be able to back me off, but he can't back this guy off. He wants you dead."

"No. He wants me to wish I were."

Stevie chuckled. "Maybe you got something there. This guy? He's smart, speaks real well, but in there with all that brain power, there's disease, Kenzie. Personally, I think he's got rocks in his head, and the rocks got little birds flying around in 'em." He laughed, brought his hand down on my knee. "And you p.i.s.sed him off. Ain't that great?" He pressed a b.u.t.ton on his door console and the locks popped up. "See you later, Kenzie."

"See you, Stevie."

I opened the door, blinked in the sun.

"Yeah, you'll see me," Stevie said as I stepped out of the car. "After the old guy's funeral. Up close. In Technicolor."

One of the beefy guys handed me my gun. "Take it easy, comedian. Try not to shoot off your own foot."

My cell phone rang as I walked back across City Hall Plaza toward the parking garage where I'd left my car.

I knew it was him before I even said, "h.e.l.lo."

"Pat, buddy. How are you?"

"Not bad, Wes. Yourself?"