Rain Gods (Hackberry Holland 2)

Isaac?s eyes were open wide when he struck the floor. Preacher Jack Collins looked at him briefly, fitted his hands on the cleaning cart, and worked his way down the walkway to the stairs at the far end of the building.

11

NO MATTER HOW many pain pills Artie Rooney ate, the throbbing in his hand wouldn?t quit. Nor could he rid himself of the well of fear that was eating its way through the bottom of his stomach. Nor could he get the name of Jack Collins out of his head. It hovered behind his eyes; he woke with it in the morning; it was in his food; it was in his coupling with his whores.

And now it was in his conversation with Hugo Cistranos, here, inside his elegant beachfront office, his helplessness as palpable as the smell of fear that rose from his armpits. He couldn?t believe that only weeks ago, Jack Collins had been a name without a face, the mention of which would have caused him to yawn.

?Jack wants a half million from you?? Hugo said, slumped comfortably in a white leather chair, dressed in golf slacks and a print shirt and Roman sandals, his red-streaked hair glistening with gel.

?He blames me for the loss of his soul,? Artie said.

?Jack doesn?t have one. How can he blame you for losing it??

?Because he?s crazy??

Hugo studied the backs of his hands. ?You just sat there and let Jack cut off your finger? That?s hard to believe, Artie.?

?He was going to cut my throat. He held the razor right by my eye.?

Hugo?s expression became philosophical. ?Yeah, I guess Jack?s capable of that. Must have been terrible. How?d you explain it at the hospital??

Artie got up from his desk, cradling his injured hand. A hurricane was building in intensity by the hour, three hundred miles southeast of Galveston. Through the enormous glass wall that fronted the beach, he could see a band of greenish cobalt along the southern horizon, and the slick leathery backs of stingrays in the swells and waves threading into yellow froth inside the wind. He wanted to put a bullet in Hugo Cistranos.

?You didn?t tell anybody what happened, huh?? Hugo said. ?That was probably the right choice. Must be hard accepting all this?I mean, a religious creep like that walking into your office and turning your desk into a chopping block. Gives me the willies thinking about it.?

?Collins is onto us,? Artie said.

?Who?s this ?us? you?re talking about??

?You set up the scam, Hugo. It was your idea to kidnap the Russian?s whores. You got Nick Dolan to think he was boosting the girls from me, and you got him to believe the mow-down was on him, too. From the beginning, this whole nightmare has had your name all over it.?

But Hugo was already waving a finger back and forth. ?Oh, no, you don?t. You knew those girls? stomachs were loaded with China white, and you thought you?d rip off the Russian for both his cooze and his skag at the same time. You got greedy, Artie. I?m not taking your weight on this, my friend.?

?I didn?t tell you to kill them.?

?When did you ever tell me not to kill somebody? Remember that sex freak who creeped your house in Metairie? Why is it you never asked about him, Artie? The Times-Picayune did a big spread on the body parts that floated up into a picnic ground. You never made the connection??

Artie Rooney?s face had an expression on it like that of a blowfish with a hook in its mouth. Hugo took a stick of peppermint from the big clear plastic jar on Artie?s desk. He gazed reflectively at the beach and the waves exploding on the tip of a jetty. ?It?s too bad about the whores. But they could have stayed in Thailand if they wanted. There?s a gold mine in sex tours for Japanese businessmen. I?m sorry about what happened out there. But there wasn?t any choice in the matter. The balloons were busting in their stomachs, and they were screaming about going to a hospital. ?Hey, guys, pump out my nine whores loaded with fifteen balloons each of uncut white heroin. While you?re at it, let them tell you about the coyote we capped and buried on federal land.??

?Oh, funny man.?

?Artie, we?re all sacks of fertilizer. You, me, Preacher Jack, your secretary, the families out there on the beach. You think if it was us buried by that dozer, the Asian girls would be burning incense in a Buddhist temple? They?d be shopping for makeup at Walmart.?

Artie stared wanly at the Gulf and at the hurricane warning flags snapping straight out from their lanyards. Then it struck him: Hugo was talking too much, too cleverly, filling the air with words at Artie?s expense in order to control the conversation. ?You?re scared of him,? he said.

?I?ve worked with Preacher before. I respect his boundaries, I respect his talents.?

?His boundaries? You been watching Dr. Phil or something? You just called Collins a religious creep. I think you?re starting to rattle. I think you?ve had some kind of confrontation with him.?

Hugo crossed his legs and untwisted the cellophane from the stick of peppermint, sucking in his cheeks thoughtfully. ?Good try, no cigar. You ought to spend some time at the library, Artie, bone up on some history. Foot soldiers don?t go to the wall. Officers do. Foot soldiers are always given the chance to adjust. Your bandage is leaking.?

?What??

?You?re spotting your shirt. You ought to go to the hospital. What?d you do with the finger? If you put it on ice, maybe they can sew it back on.?

Artie?s desk phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver with his good hand. ?I told you not to disturb me,? he said.

?A Mr. Nick Dolan and his wife are here to see you.?