“You are blackmailing me,” the Boss said. His tone was surprisingly quiet for a man who’d just realized he was being taken, and taken by a crook.
“You might call it that. I consider it payment for services rendered. Killing off a girl costs.”
“But you did not kill her.” The Boss sounded reasonable.
“She’s as good as dead. Trust me.”
Of course the Boss did not trust him. But he had something else in mind and right now it appeared the Russian was the only man who could carry out what he wanted. Anyone else would be too dangerous, but since the Russian was already attempting to blackmail him, why not give him the work?
“I’ll give you five now,” he said. “Five later. Plus another ten if you do what I ask.”
The Russian lit another Marlboro, crushing the empty packet under a foot the way he’d crushed out the cigarette stub earlier. The Boss frowned; he did not approve of litter.
He said, “You already fucked up, almost killed the wrong woman. Now you can get the correct victim.”
“Matthews?”
“Who else did you suppose it was? You had your orders.”
“The girl got in the way.”
“And you should have gotten her out of the way, not left her half-alive, you fool.”
The Russian did not like being called a fool. Fists clenched, he took a step closer, then thought better of it. After all, he was looking at his meal ticket.
“You were supposed to kill Matthews and get the painting,” the Boss said. “When you’ve done that and brought the painting to me, I’ll pay you. And not until then.” He turned and walked back to the side of the bunker.
“And how the fuck am I gonna do that?” the Russian yelled after him, disregarding that anybody passing might hear him.
The Boss paused. “That’s up to you,” he said, pressing the button. “That’s your job.”
The ivy-clad wall slid aside and in a second closed behind him.
It was, the Russian thought, amazed, as though he had never been there.
46
The Russian knew it was true, the task was uncompleted. He still had to get that painting from Mirabella’s room where it hung next to her bed. He had tried and failed twice. He was not a man accustomed to failure. He’d get it, one way or another.
He wasn’t afraid of her, though it would be better if she were not there. Too many killings was like spoiling the broth somehow. It made for bad soup, and bad vibes could make someone like the Colonel or the everlasting doctor latch onto him. He knew they’d already noticed him.
Yet the Boss wanted her gone, he wanted her land, he wanted her villa, he wanted that fuckin’ painting. God knows why, it was a dreary thing. But lust took many forms, as he himself knew only too well. When a man lusted after something, be it a woman or a painting, he had to possess it. And a man would pay well to do so.
It was easier to get into Mirabella’s room than the Russian had thought. Hidden in the shadow of azalea bushes that grew six feet high, he walked along the path to her house, any sound masked by the music still wafting through the night: laughter, the occasional bark from the canine patrol still working the beach, the remaining guests too busy discussing the recent happenings, puzzled and more excited than scared. After all, they did not usually come to a party, especially a grand expensive one like this, and get the thrill of a police alert and a drowned girl thrown in as the entertainment.
“Trust the Boss,” he’d heard one woman say, laughing as though it was an amusing experience. Yeah, he thought, you do that, bitch, trust the Boss and see what happens to you.
Of course Mirabella had left the french windows open. He’d tried to get in earlier but she was too alert, too frightened, it had been dangerous for him to linger. She’d slid out of there, her back to the wall, shoes in hand, unaware that he was watching her. Now, though, the place was all his.