Fat Tuesday(79)

"Despite your lucrative sideline, you owe Del Ray in the vicinity of fifty thousand dollars, isn't that right?"

Mac had found himself in a bind when the bank-card companies threatened to cut off his credit if the outstanding balances weren't paid. He couldn't tell Toni that he'd been gambling away his income instead of taking care of their debts. Nor could he tell her to stop using the overextended credit cards.

Desperate for cash, he'd sought help, which had manifested itself in the revolting form of Del Ray Jones. Del Ray had lent him some money, which he'd lost on the Super Bowl. Since he couldn't pay back the first loan, Del Ray had lent him more. Then more.

He pledged now that if he left this building under his own power, with all his limbs intact, he would never gamble again as long as he lived.

He wouldn't bet the ponies or the major sporting events. He would swear off blackjack, craps, and poker. He'd quit cold turkey. Hell, he wouldn't even toss a coin.

Since Duvall obviously knew about his debt already, he might just as well own up to it."It's more like thirty-five thousand."

"After tonight it goes up to fifty," Duvall informed him."And tomorrow it'll be more. Or ..." Here he paused to make sure Mac was listening.

"Or your debt could be canceled. Paid in full. It's your choice."

Knowing how Duvall operated, he knew the offer was too good to be true.

His heart didn't even pitter-patter with glee."In exchange for what?"

"Basile."

Mac laughed with incredulity."I don't know where he is!"

"You must have some idea."

"He didn't confide in me when we worked together," Mac said, hearing his own voice grow thin with nervousness."He sure as hell doesn't now."

"He had dinner at your house the night before he kidnapped my wife."

Mac swallowed. Jesus, the man knew everything."It was a gesture on my part, a goodbye dinner. That's all."

"He didn't outline his kidnap plan to you?"

"Hell, no! Look, Mr. Duvall, Basile confides in nobody. Especially since Stuart died, he's a goddamn clam. Nobody's close to him. Not even Pat, really. Basile's mbliner."

"Yes," Duvall snarled."And right now he's alone with my wife."

"Well, I don't know anything about it. You've wasted your time."

Mac stood and turned to leave but came face to face with Del Ray."You could have saved yourself a trip uptown, *. I told you I didn't know anything about this. You'll get your money on Friday, just like I said."

He shoved the loan shark aside and headed for the door.

Behind him, Duvall said, "Sleep on it, Mccuen. Search your memory.

Perhaps Basile dropped a clue you don't readily remember."

Mac seized the doorknob and pulled the door open."I don't know where Basile is. Don't bother me about it anymore."

"Mr. Mccuen?"

"What?" Mac was angry and scared. How the hell was he going to come up with fifty thousand dollars? By Friday, no less. Even if he could talk Del Ray into an extension, Duvall was another matter entirely. He turned and faced the attorney with a cockiness he didn't feel."What is it, Duvall?"

"Give my regards to your wife."

Mac's heart nearly leaped from his chest."My wife?" he rasped in a voice as dry as mbhusk.

"Toni is such a lovely girl."

Mac shifted his gaze to Bardo, who made an obscene smacking sound with his lips and tongue that caused Del Ray to giggle.

When Mac slowly closed the door to Pinkie Duvall's office, he was still on the inside.

for a moment Gregory thought that he was on stage again, although the spotlight was dim and its beam diffused. He heard applause. It seemed different from a normal ovation, but it was sustained and that was gratifying.

But when he blinked the spotlight into focus, he discovered that it wasn't a theater light shining down on him after all, it was a watery moon. What he'd mistaken for applause was actually the rhythmic thumping of the boat as it rocked against a solid object in the water.

That obstruction could be a submerged tree trunk or the body of a leviathan.

Gregory didn't know and was close to not caring. Paradoxically, terror had dulled his fear.

The swamp had a timeless quality, particularly on overcast days, when the light was the same from dawn till dusk and the only subtle variance was the degree of the grayness. He estimated that thirty-six hours had transpired since he'd sneaked out of Dredd's Mercantile, leaving the bearded proprietor of that macabre place snoring in his Barc"Lounger.

Basile had been in the back room, sleeping at Mrs. Duvall's bedside sitting upright in a chair, his chin resting on his chest. Gregory had seen him through a window as he crept past on his way to the end of the pier. He feared Basile even when he was sleeping, and justifiably so.

In Basile's relaxed right hand was the pistol he'd used during the kidnapping.

Swallowing a whimper of distress, Gregory had tiptoed to the end of the pier and stepped down into the boat, which he'd spotted earlier tied to one of the slimy piles. He hadn't realized how small the boat was until he unwound the rope and pushed the craft away from the pier.

In a moment of panic, he realized that he didn't even know if the damn thing would float. He wouldn't put it past Basile to go to the extreme of European explorers to new worlds. To prevent their frightened and superstitious crews from fleeing, they'd destroyed their own ships.