The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“Scram. Now.”

“I’d appreciate it if I could stay a little longer.”

“You’ll appreciate being alive if I have to repeat myself.”

“Was one of them a big guy? His name is Devon Horowitz.”

The bartender stabbed his finger an inch from my nose.

I went out the door. An old gas-guzzler packed with children passed by. I thought I saw the little Mexican girl from the park waving at me. I raised my hand in reply, but the car turned a corner and was gone.

On the next block, I saw the station wagon parked at the curb in front of a pawnshop, the sunlight’s reflection as bright as an acetylene torch on the windshield. Inside the glare, I thought I saw a man step out on the curb, but even with my hat brim shadowing my eyes, I couldn’t make out his features.

The driver shifted into reverse, turned around in the middle of the intersection, and drove away. I got into my heap and headed for Vick Atlas’s apartment building in the Montrose district.

THE CONCIERGE STOPPED me at the desk. “Sir, you can’t go upstairs.”

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you the person who attacked Mr. Atlas?”

“I have no memory of that. Is Vick in?”

“Mr. Atlas went somewhere. Please leave.”

“You mean he’s not here?”

“If you go upstairs, I’ll call the police.”

“I’ll go up there and check. You’re doing a good job. I’ll tell Vick.”

I rode up to the penthouse and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I walked to the end of the corridor and looked down into the alley. Two men in dark trousers and immaculate long-sleeved white shirts billowing with wind, the cuffs rolled, were talking by the maroon station wagon. They were young and lithe and had long black hair combed straight back, a small pigtail like a matador’s on the nape of the neck. I opened the window and stepped out on the fire escape, the steel grid screeching under my weight. They both looked up. I leaned over the handrail and lifted a hand in greeting. Neither reacted. They started talking again, glancing at the street and at the other end of the alley where my heap was parked. They didn’t recognize me. Cisco Napolitano had said Jaime Atlas’s hired killers were imports who never knew their target. The only one who might recognize me was Devon Horowitz. He had taken a photo of me at a bad angle in poor light in front of the theater.

Vick Atlas had not shown up at the bar and poolroom in the Heights. Now he had eluded me again. I stepped back inside and took the elevator down to the lobby. “You’re right,” I said to the concierge. “Vick isn’t here. Two of his friends are in the alley, though. They’re killers from Sicily. I’ll tell them you want them off the property.”

I walked outside. The sun was a reddish-purple melt in the west, the clouds aflame, the breeze out of the south, fresh and cool and smelling of rain and flowers. I saw no sign of the maroon station wagon or the two men who looked like matadors. I got into my heap and drove to River Oaks, my mufflers purring on the asphalt in the cooling of the day.

Chapter

35

BUT FIRST I STOPPED at a drugstore and called home. My mother answered. “Decide to have supper with us?”

“Sorry, Mother, I got tied up.”

Then she surprised me. “That’s all right. I put your plate in the icebox. Where are you?”

“Out on Westheimer. I’ll be there soon. Is Daddy there?”

“I’ll put him on. Are you all right, Aaron?”

“Sure.”

“Just a minute.”

She set down the phone. A moment later my father picked it up. “Have trouble with your car?” he said.

“No, sir. I need to take care of some things. I want to ask you something.”