"Guy lays low," Bert said. "Normal house. Doesn't show off. Showin' off, luxury, that's for other people."
They walked. A plump moon topped the palms. Bert wheezed a little as he went and the dog's breath came in quick and labored snorts.
"Bein' the boss," the old mobster continued, "it's not about luxury. It's about responsibility."
They reached the small rainbow of a bridge that arced over the canal. Bert needed to rest a moment before they went across. "And he was kind to the dog," he said. "Gave him water."
Stripped of certainties, seeking to rebuild comprehension brick by brick, Aaron said, "The guy kills people."
Bert said calmly, "A boss will do what he has to do. Be a ruthless prick when necessary. Give a thirsty dog a drink a water. It's not about cruelty and it's not about kindness. It's about knowing. Knowing what you have to do and doing it no matter what."
At the crest of the bridge Aaron breathed deep of iodine and sunken weeds. On the next street over, the sickly glow of televisions played on shaded windows. They trudged toward Ivan Cherkassky's house. The blue Camaro was gone from the driveway. Windows were closed, curtains were drawn and there was no light at the edges. The place was as blank and silent as though it had been sealed up for a year.
Bert spoke quickly, before alarm could gain an even firmer purchase. "Let's try Markov's."
They turned. The moon heightened and raccoons came out to scavenge. Noses low, the animals scrabbled through thick foliage, and Aaron's head twisted toward every rattle of leaves and snapping of dry twigs, his eyes straining to find his father, even if broken and filthy and befuddled, crawling from a ditch.
They reached Markov's cul-de-sac.
The cul-de-sac was rimmed with mangroves. A ragged border of moonlight and shadow went down the middle of the pavement. They hugged the shaded edge and moved in closer.
Markov's house was all lit up. Lamplight spilled like cream out of the windows. Floodlights gave a surreal luminosity to the nighttime garden. Ground lights etched the canopies of trees, and bare bulbs shone harshly in the open garage that held a huge dark Lincoln, and next to it, absurdly, a small red wagon, a toy. There was no hint of sound or movement, just this extravagant and disturbing brightness, this arrogant refusal to let night be night, the revenge of a child afraid of the dark.
Bert and Aaron walked on, walked almost to the pillars that marked the driveway. Bert craned his scrawny neck to peer between them. Then he retreated to the shadows. He tried to keep his voice businesslike, unpanicked. He said, "The lights. One car. I don't know what to make of it."
Aaron heard himself say, "I'm going in."
Bert grabbed him by the arm, harder than he meant to. "I don't think that's a good idea."
Aaron peered off toward the garage. There was a door that led into the house. He swallowed. "I'm going in," he said again.
"What if they grabbed 'im?" said Bert the Shirt. "They grab you too, wha' does it accomplish?"
Aaron had no answer, nor was he persuaded.
"People like this," old Bert went on, "ya don't go up against 'em without ya got the force, the guns ... Aaron, listen'a me. We go back home, we call the cops—"
"The cops?" Aaron whispered. "Sirens? Flashing lights? Cops sometimes protect a person right to death. Didn't you once say that, Bert?"
Bert could not deny it. He stood there in the shadows, moonlight arching over him like a wave about to break.
"I'm going in. I have to."
Bert tested Aaron's eyes a long moment then finally let go of his arm. There was affection and farewell in the reluctant ungrasping of his brittle fingers. Sadly the old mobster said, "Yeah, okay, ya do."
Chapter 45
"I wish you would've called me sooner," said Lieutenant Gary Stubbs.
"And what difference would it've made?" said Suki.
She said it without rancor, but it stung because it was true. Whatever the official story was, whatever the official stance, there were still two dead Russians, no leads, and innocent people under threat. Stubbs's deeper involvement would not have changed a thing. Maybe the killings were linked, and maybe only grisly coincidence connected them. Maybe he was up against a mafia and maybe he was just plain stumped.
They were standing in the kitchen of the Mangrove Arms. Suki had called the cop just minutes after Aaron left. She didn't know if she was doing right—hadn't known for what seemed like forever if she was doing right. She only knew she couldn't sit there, passive, hidden away like some fairytale damsel, and relatively safe, while Sam was in trouble on her behalf.
"Still," Stubbs muttered, shaking his head so that his thick and pinkish neck chafed against his collar. "Two old men going off like that..."