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Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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looked like a drink. It wasn’t. He planned on driving home. Soon. Obviously Tommy was riding the ragged edge of the shakes.
Coming off crank was a bitch.
Tommy grabbed the bottle again and flopped into an overstuffed chair that was held together by duct tape. A lamp with a bare bulb sat on the small table nearby. It cast his grinning features in stark angles, dark hollows, too many lines and not enough teeth for a man who hadn’t seen the other side of forty yet.
“Remember when we ran that load of cigarettes to Vancouver?” Tommy asked, swiping hair out of his face with a dirty hand.
“Long time ago. We were young and stupid.”
“Sweet money.” Tommy drank and swallowed, drank and swallowed, his Adam’s apple working like a piston. “That’s smart.”
“Karl died.”
“Lucky Karl. He didn’t have to live rat-turd poor on the rez.”
Neither do you.
But Mac kept that truth to himself. A man in Tommy’s shape could teeter from normal to enraged in a heartbeat.
“But I’m getting out,” Tommy said after another long drink. “Gonna take my money from my next job and head for white man’s land. Live like a fuckin’ sheik.”
“Sounds good.”
As always.
Too bad it never came through.
The half bottle of booze that Tommy had bolted hit him suddenly. He shook his head and slumped back into the chair.
“Just the beginning,” Tommy mumbled. “And here I thought old Granny was just a mama’s boy. Turns out he’s a big swinging dick. Got rich friends.” Tommy frowned. “Mean bastard.” A shiver shook his wiry frame. “Goddam, he’s one mean son of a bitch.”
Mac frowned. Tommy wasn’t making any sense. He looked close to panic, eyes wide, sweating although the room was cold.
“You okay?” Mac asked.
Tommy took another long gulp. “Nothin’ wrong that a bottle of good bourbon won’t cure.”
Mac kept his mouth shut and wished he’d gone straight home from the marina.
Like the old saying—no good deed goes unpunished.
Before Tommy could swig again, Mac retrieved the bottle. “Careful, buddy,” Mac said. “That’s a load of alcohol hitting your system all at once.”
“Ain’t no pussy.”
“Somebody say you were?” Mac asked.
“A pussy wouldn’t take
Blackbird
out. Bad shit going down. Really bad. Gonna be rich. Gimme the bottle.”
Mac pretended to drink. Anything to keep the bourbon out of Tommy’s reach. He always had loved booze, but at the rate he was drinking, he was going to kill himself tonight.
“So when does your job begin?” Mac asked, trying to keep Tommy out of the bottle.
“What job?”
“The one that’s going to make you rich.”
“Need a drink.”
“Wait your turn.” Mac pretended to drink. The good news was that Tommy was going down fast, floating facedown in a bourbon sea.
“They been smuggling forever. Even before they got here.”
“Who?” Mac asked.
“Granny’s kind.”
Lovich,
Mac realized, understanding.
Grant Robert Lovich, known as Bobby to his cousins and Granny to the kids who hated him in school. Like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather. Outsiders to the whites and Indians alike. Determined outsiders.
“Thought we agreed a long time ago that what our parents believed was bullshit,” Mac said.
“Then how come they own Blue Water and I don’t have nothing? Only crooks make out in Rosario.”
The sullen cast to Tommy’s face was more warning than Mac needed.
Time to go.
“Gimme the bottle,” Tommy snarled. “Fuckin’ foreigners. We was here first, now we got dirt.”
And casinos.
And smuggling.
The kind of hopeless existence that destroys souls.
Mac went to the sink and poured out all but a taste of the bourbon. He gave the bottle to Tommy and walked out into the night.
Mac hoped whoever was following him caught up again. He felt like hitting something.
12
DAY TWO
ROSARIO
11:30 A.M.
E mma hated parking in the open for a surveillance, but there wasn’t any choice. The Blue Water
Coming off crank was a bitch.
Tommy grabbed the bottle again and flopped into an overstuffed chair that was held together by duct tape. A lamp with a bare bulb sat on the small table nearby. It cast his grinning features in stark angles, dark hollows, too many lines and not enough teeth for a man who hadn’t seen the other side of forty yet.
“Remember when we ran that load of cigarettes to Vancouver?” Tommy asked, swiping hair out of his face with a dirty hand.
“Long time ago. We were young and stupid.”
“Sweet money.” Tommy drank and swallowed, drank and swallowed, his Adam’s apple working like a piston. “That’s smart.”
“Karl died.”
“Lucky Karl. He didn’t have to live rat-turd poor on the rez.”
Neither do you.
But Mac kept that truth to himself. A man in Tommy’s shape could teeter from normal to enraged in a heartbeat.
“But I’m getting out,” Tommy said after another long drink. “Gonna take my money from my next job and head for white man’s land. Live like a fuckin’ sheik.”
“Sounds good.”
As always.
Too bad it never came through.
The half bottle of booze that Tommy had bolted hit him suddenly. He shook his head and slumped back into the chair.
“Just the beginning,” Tommy mumbled. “And here I thought old Granny was just a mama’s boy. Turns out he’s a big swinging dick. Got rich friends.” Tommy frowned. “Mean bastard.” A shiver shook his wiry frame. “Goddam, he’s one mean son of a bitch.”
Mac frowned. Tommy wasn’t making any sense. He looked close to panic, eyes wide, sweating although the room was cold.
“You okay?” Mac asked.
Tommy took another long gulp. “Nothin’ wrong that a bottle of good bourbon won’t cure.”
Mac kept his mouth shut and wished he’d gone straight home from the marina.
Like the old saying—no good deed goes unpunished.
Before Tommy could swig again, Mac retrieved the bottle. “Careful, buddy,” Mac said. “That’s a load of alcohol hitting your system all at once.”
“Ain’t no pussy.”
“Somebody say you were?” Mac asked.
“A pussy wouldn’t take
Blackbird
out. Bad shit going down. Really bad. Gonna be rich. Gimme the bottle.”
Mac pretended to drink. Anything to keep the bourbon out of Tommy’s reach. He always had loved booze, but at the rate he was drinking, he was going to kill himself tonight.
“So when does your job begin?” Mac asked, trying to keep Tommy out of the bottle.
“What job?”
“The one that’s going to make you rich.”
“Need a drink.”
“Wait your turn.” Mac pretended to drink. The good news was that Tommy was going down fast, floating facedown in a bourbon sea.
“They been smuggling forever. Even before they got here.”
“Who?” Mac asked.
“Granny’s kind.”
Lovich,
Mac realized, understanding.
Grant Robert Lovich, known as Bobby to his cousins and Granny to the kids who hated him in school. Like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather. Outsiders to the whites and Indians alike. Determined outsiders.
“Thought we agreed a long time ago that what our parents believed was bullshit,” Mac said.
“Then how come they own Blue Water and I don’t have nothing? Only crooks make out in Rosario.”
The sullen cast to Tommy’s face was more warning than Mac needed.
Time to go.
“Gimme the bottle,” Tommy snarled. “Fuckin’ foreigners. We was here first, now we got dirt.”
And casinos.
And smuggling.
The kind of hopeless existence that destroys souls.
Mac went to the sink and poured out all but a taste of the bourbon. He gave the bottle to Tommy and walked out into the night.
Mac hoped whoever was following him caught up again. He felt like hitting something.
12
DAY TWO
ROSARIO
11:30 A.M.
E mma hated parking in the open for a surveillance, but there wasn’t any choice. The Blue Water
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