The left chair leg came free of the seat, and Gino went to work on the right.
“Those are good cuffs,” Albert said to Ilario Nobile. “Take ’em off. He ain’t going anywhere.”
Joe could see he’d hooked him. He wanted to see in Joe’s pocket, but he had to find a way to do it without appearing to give in to his victim’s wishes.
Ilario removed the cuffs and tossed them to Albert’s feet because apparently Albert hadn’t earned enough respect to have them handed to him.
The right chair leg broke free of the seat and they pulled the chair off Joe and he stood upright in the tub of cement.
Albert said, “You get to use your hand once. You either rip the tape off your mouth or you show me what you’re trying to buy your pathetic fucking life with. You can’t do both.”
Joe didn’t hesitate. He reached into his pocket. He removed the photograph and flung it at Albert’s feet.
Albert picked it up off the deck as a dot appeared over his left shoulder, just beyond Egmont Key. Albert looked at the photo with a cocked eyebrow and that small, smug fucking smile of his, and he saw nothing special about it. His eyes flicked all the way to the left again and he began to move them slowly to the right and then his head went very still.
The dot became a dark triangle, moving fast over the glassy gray sea—a hell of a lot faster than the tug, fast as it was, could move.
Albert looked at Joe. It was a sharp and furious look. Joe saw clearly that he wasn’t furious because Joe had stumbled upon his secret. He was furious because he’d been kept as deep in the dark as Joe.
All this time, he’d thought she was dead too.
Christ, Albert, he wanted to say, in this we’re both her sons.
Even with six inches of electrical tape across his mouth, Joe knew Albert could see him smile.
The dark triangle was now, quite clearly, a boat. A classic runabout modified to accommodate extra passengers or bottles in the stern. Cut its speed by a third but that still made it faster than anything on the water. Several of the men on deck pointed and nudged one another.
Albert ripped the tape off Joe’s mouth.
The sound of the boat reached them. A buzz, like a distant wasp swarm.
Albert held the photograph in Joe’s face. “She’s dead.”
“Look dead to you, does she?”
“Where is she?” Albert’s voice was ragged enough for several men to look over at him.
“In the fucking picture, Albert.”
“Tell me where it was taken.”
“Sure,” Joe said, “and I’m sure nothing will happen to me then.”
Albert slammed both his fists into Joe’s ears and the sky pinwheeled overhead.
Gino Valocco shouted something in Italian. He pointed starboard.
A second boat had appeared, another modified runabout, with four men in it, coming out from behind a spoil bank about four hundred yards away.
“Where is she?”
The ringing in Joe’s ears was like a cymbal symphony. He shook his head repeatedly.
“Love to tell you,” he said, “but I’d love not to fucking drown more.”
Albert pointed at first one boat, then the other. “They won’t stop us. Are you a fucking idiot? Where is she?”
“Oh, let me think,” Joe said.
“Where?”
“In the photograph.”
“It’s an old one. You just folded up an old—”
“Yeah, I thought that too at first. But look at that asshole in the tux. The tall one, all the way to the right, leaning against the piano? Look at the newspaper. The one by his elbow, Albert. Look at the fucking headline.”
PRESIDENT-ELECT ROOSEVELT SURVIVES MIAMI ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT
“That was last month, Albert.”
Now both boats were within 350 yards.
Albert looked at the boats, looked at Maso’s men, looked back at Joe. He let out a long breath through pursed lips. “You think they’re going to rescue you? They’re half our size and we have the high ground. You could send six boats our way and we’ll turn every last one of them into fucking matchsticks.” He turned to the men. “Kill them.”
They lined up along the gunwales. They knelt. Joe counted an even dozen of them. Five to starboard, five to port, Ilario and Fausto heading into the cabin for something. Most of the men on deck carried tommy guns and a few handguns but none had the rifles necessary for long-range shooting.
Ilario and Fausto made that point moot when they dragged a crate back out of the cabin. Joe noticed for the first time that there was a bronze tripod bolted to the deck at the gunwale and a toolbox sitting beside it. Then he realized it wasn’t a tripod exactly; it was a deck mount. For a gun. A big fucking gun. Ilario reached into the crate and removed two ammunition belts of .30-06 rounds that he lay beside the tripod. He and Fausto then reached into the crate and came back out with a 1903 ten-barrel Gatling. They placed it on top of the deck mount and went to work securing it.
The approaching runabouts grew louder. They were maybe 250 yards away now, which put them about a hundred yards out of range for anything but the Gatling. But once that fucker got locked onto the deck mount, it was capable of firing up to nine hundred rounds a minute. One sustained burst into either of the boats and the only thing left would be meat for the sharks.
Albert said, “Tell me where she is, and I’ll make it fast. One shot. You’ll never feel it. If you make me force it out of you, I’ll tear the pieces off you long after you’ve told me. I’ll stack them on the deck until the stack falls over.”
The men shouted at one another, changing their positions as the runabouts began to move erratically, the one on the port side adopting a serpentine pattern while the starboard assault boat jerked right-left, right-left, the engines ratcheting up in pitch.
Albert said, “Just tell me.”
Joe shook his head.
“Please,” Albert said so quietly no one else could hear. With the boat engines and the Gatling assembly, Joe could barely hear. “I love her.”
“I loved her too.”
“No,” Albert said. “I love her.”
They finished securing the Gatling to the deck mount. Ilario inserted the ammunition belt into the feed guide and blew at any dust that might be in the hopper.
Albert leaned into Joe. He looked around them. “I don’t want this. Who wants this? I just want to feel like I felt when I made her laugh or when she threw an ashtray at my head. I don’t even care about the fucking. I just want to watch her drink coffee in a hotel bathrobe. You have that, I hear. With the spic woman?”