V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

“How?”

His uncle’s face registered distress. “What’s the matter with you? You know better. That’s not a question you should ever have to ask.” Alfredo studied him briefly. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

“You’ve gone all dainty on me. There was a time when you’d have taken care of this. No talk, no hesitation.”

Dante smiled. “‘Dainty.’ That’s a first.”

“You know what I mean. Man in your position can’t afford a conscience. It’s unbecoming. You don’t back away from what’s difficult. You do what needs to be done.”

“You don’t believe we are what we do?”

“Of course. We just have to accept that about ourselves. That we’re corrupt, that our sins are mortal. God knows mine lie heavy on my soul.”

“And you wish the same torment on me?”

“You know what’s right.”

“Not what’s right. I know what’s expedient. I’m trying to rise above it for a change.”

Uncle Alfredo shook his head. “Contrary to your nature.”

“I’d like to think I’m a better man at this late stage in my life.”

“Your brother doesn’t share your moral sensibilities, which gives him the upper hand.”

“That’s how he looks at it, at any rate.”

Dante took his own car, a 1988 Maserati, silver with a black leather interior. He arrived at the Hatch at 12:45 and parked his car around the corner. He’d given his chauffeur and his bodyguard the day off, opting instead for a loaded Colt Lightweight Commander that he kept in a special compartment in the driver’s-side door. He’d instituted the heavy security measures two years before, when a Colombian gang set up shop in Perdido, twenty-five miles south of Santa Teresa. A crew of ten came to town, six men and four women, using driver’s licenses that identified them as Puerto Ricans. They were, in fact, trampling on territory run by a friend of his who was a Puerto Rican by birth and took offense, not only at their encroachment, but at their maligning his country of origin. Since Dante’s friend was in prison at the time, he’d volunteered to have his own men step in. They cornered the Colombians in a motel room, where a faulty heater exploded, killing the occupants and blowing off half the roof. After that, the remaining Colombians kept their distance but let it be known they’d settle the score in their own good time. Dante’s friend had been felled by a sniper’s bullet his first day out of prison, and from that point on Dante insisted on armed household guards and armor-plated transportation.

Entering the Hatch, Dante nodded at Ollie and took a table in view of the door. He wanted a bourbon and water but decided to abstain. Ordering a drink seemed like a cheat, as though seeing Nora again was something he couldn’t manage without being fortified with booze. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she didn’t show. He was just as anxious at the idea that she would show. Then what? He’d told himself to have no expectations, but he did.

There was an impressive gathering of patrons at the bar, faces he’d seen on previous occasions. He hadn’t been at the Hatch for months, but nothing had changed. He looked around, seeing the place as Nora would see it, shabby and unappealing. No charm, no character. He’d chosen the spot because, as he’d said to her, there was no danger she’d run into anyone she knew. Those in her social circle had probably never heard of the bar and wouldn’t be caught dead there if they had.

His gaze strayed to the door, which stood open, admitting a column of daylight, smoky at the edges, as though a filter had been placed over a camera lens. The haze infused the room with a vintage air, a World War II movie set against a backdrop of loss and death and betrayal. That was a cheerful prospect. He didn’t know her at all, had no idea, for instance, whether she was punctual or habitually late. He checked his watch and saw that it was 1:00 straight up. Ten more minutes and he’d either order a drink or get up and leave. She was a happily married lady, or said she was, so why would she meet him here, or anywhere else for that matter? She was elegant. She had class. She was reserved and self-contained. There was something in her face that made him want to weep, that made him long to see her again, whatever the cost.

It was three minutes after one when she appeared in the doorway, blocking the light briefly as she came in. He stood. She saw him and crossed the room. He held a chair for her and she sat down. She wore a white wool suit with a short skirt. The jacket was neatly fitted, and where the lapels met the collar there was a rim of red lace. He nearly reached out and slid a finger down between her breasts.