The deep end, p.5
The Deep End, page 5
“He’s going to try.” Parker shrugged. “Harley is afraid Uncle Ray will pressure the lawyer to see it his way.”
“Nice guy.”
“Right.” Parker nodded toward the counter. “Grab your coffee. I’ll wait.”
Angelica marched to the front counter, eyes on the glass shelves of donuts mounted on the wall behind the counter. Unfortunately, the cash in her pocket wasn’t going to stretch that far.
“Somebody’s up and at ’em early.” Victoria Lopez smoothed her apron and breezed over to Angelica’s end of the counter. She was fortyish and single. Easy smile. Contagious laugh. Comfortable in her own skin.
“Hey, Pez.”
“Getting coffee for your dad this morning—or just yourself?”
Angelica held up two fingers, and Pez went to work without asking more than that. It was amazing how she seemed to know everybody, including her dad in the week since he’d arrived. Angelica rose up on tiptoe to slide onto the mushroom-style stools lining the counter. Pez moved with such grace, it masked how fast she worked. Every movement smooth. Efficient. Like she worked to the strains of some orchestra playing a waltz in her head.
Angelica’s mind drifted back to the original Eden. And even as great as the place had been, it wasn’t perfect. There was an enemy who didn’t want Adam and Eve to live happily ever after. The serpent was there to disrupt things—and the creepy reptile executed the plan well. Eve took the bait. Adam took his bite too. And it was adios, paradise.
Were the smoke bombs at Harley’s last night nothing more than a well-planned robbery of an undermanned store? Or was there a reptilian influence behind it—targeting Harley?
“One small latte for Miss Angelica.” Pez smiled. “And an extra-large coffee for that alligator-hunting dad of yours—with extra cream and lots of sugar.”
Baby coffee. That’s what Dad called it. “Yes, he loves his sweets,” Angelica said.
“Nothing wrong with a man who loves his air salty and his coffee sweet. But how come he’s got you making the coffee run instead of coming here himself?”
“He worked a long shift—and got in late. Thought I’d pick this up and surprise him.”
Pez took a pair of tongs and reached for an apple-cider cinnamon donut. “In that case, bring this to that sweet dad of yours too.” She slipped the ring of happiness into one of those waxy bags made to keep the donuts extra fresh.
“Oooh, you definitely know what he likes.”
Pez patted Angelica’s hand. “Well, you remind him you got it from somebody really sweet.” She held up the bag and gave it a gentle shake. “You tell him to stop by and say hi, would you?”
Angelica definitely would. What she’d really like is if her dad asked Pez out. Her mom had walked out, what, over two years ago now? She’d gotten tired of the Everglades, the wife and mom routine, or maybe of being a decent human being. She went looking for her own Garden of Eden. Whether she found it or not, Angelica had no idea. All she knew was that Mom had sent the divorce papers six months before they’d moved up here. Traitor.
Dad let the envelope sit unopened on their bed for days. It wasn’t like it was in the way or anything. He slept on the couch anyway. Had done so ever since Mom walked out. Like maybe he expected her to show up some night, and he’d be right there to welcome her back. Dad had worked extra shifts while the papers sat cooling on the bed.
It was a full two weeks before Dad opened the envelope. He asked Angelica if deep down she wanted him to sign—or hold out in case Mom changed her mind and finally agreed to try again.
“Sign them, Dad. And don’t use a pencil.” She’d handed him a Sharpie permanent marker. “Make your signature as big and strong as you are. And when the transfer comes in, don’t bother sending her our new address in Rockport.”
“If she asks, I have to let her know where we’ve moved. You know that.” But Dad uncapped the marker and signed with flair.
And that was that. If Dad grieved, he was careful to hide it around her. He seemed way more concerned that she was doing all right than he was about himself. Dad got in the habit of texting Angelica three or four times a day—just to make sure she was okay.
She always assured him she was fine—even when she wasn’t. But since she’d been here, in Rockport—with Parker and his parents, Ella and Grams, and even with Harley—she’d been doing the best ever. Her home in the Everglades was forever wrecked. Thanks, Mom! But here, it had truly been a new start. She had no idea how a woman like Pez could tell right away that Dad was a really good guy, but Mom—who’d been married to him for eighteen years—never figured that out. As far as Angelica knew, Dad never sent the new address—which could only mean Mom never asked.
Which meant there was no chance Mom would show up in Rockport out of the blue. But still, Angelica found herself watching for her at the weirdest times.
Like now.
Parker walked her outside. “Harley is absolutely positive it was Scorza. The smoke bombs, anyway.”
“That doesn’t make sense. The smoke bombs and the robbery are totally connected. You can’t separate them. So he did both—or he didn’t do either one. And Scorza doesn’t have what it takes to pull off a robbery like that, if you ask me.”
“Brains or nerve?”
She gave that a moment’s thought. “He’s smart, but he’s a weasel. He might get someone else to do it, but he wouldn’t risk it himself.”
Parker nodded. “Agreed. I think somebody wanted to rob the store, and they set up the smoke bombs as a decoy. Plain and simple.”
Parker was naive. He was forgetting all about the sign written in blood—or whatever it was. This was more than a robbery. There was something darker going on here. “So you think this was completely about the robbery . . . and there was nothing personal aimed at Harley or his uncle in all this?”
“Exactly.” He slowed as he passed the mouth of Bearskin Neck, like maybe he wanted to go check on Harley. “Don’t you see it that way?”
It was amazing to her how the boys just weren’t connecting the dots on this. They weren’t seeing the whole picture—and that’s what made all the difference. Which confirmed exactly what she and Ella had talked about. They’d have to watch the boys. Make sure they weren’t getting in over their heads. “So, whoever robbed the place just picked the Rockport Dive Company out of all the shops on Bearskin Neck? Why not pick a shop that has a lot more business—which means more money in the register? Why not Roy Moore’s?”
Parker looked at her like he thought she was being ridiculous. “Roy Moore’s has a couple of guys working there all the time. Even if the robber did create a distraction to get one of them out of the store, there’d still be one left inside. And the men working there . . . well, they can handle themselves, you know?”
“So . . . you’re saying they can’t be robbed?”
“No, I’m saying nobody would dare. Anyone who tried would find himself stuffed in a lobster tank before he got away with the money.”
Angelica just wasn’t ready to buy into the whole “this was a random robbery” angle. “The way you see it, the dive shop was picked for no other reason than it looked like an easy target—even though they just happened to do it on the same day that some jokester planted a threatening sign on the door. And nobody is out to nail Harley or Ray?”
“Bingo.”
Angelica resisted the urge to roll her eyes. But it made no sense to continue arguing the point now. “I hope you’re right.” Part of her wished they’d taken a little detour to check out the front door of the dive shop—just to make sure there wasn’t another warning sign today. “You think Harley will go after Scorza?”
“I’m definitely trying to talk him off that ledge, but it’s not going to be easy.” He gave kind of a half smile. “It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
And Angelica did too. She’d need to keep her ear to the ground without them getting suspicious. The boys wouldn’t love knowing Angelica felt they needed her protection. And if she was going to keep them out of danger, she’d have to stop Harley from going after Scorza. If she didn’t, it was only a matter of time before Parker did something stupid himself.
Angelica stepped up her pace. She wanted to get the coffee to her dad while it was still hot. But still, when Parker sidetracked onto the T-wharf she went along with him. He stood at the end for a moment, looking out over Rockport Harbor. This is where it all started . . . the day she’d come to her Garden of Eden. But Parker wasn’t looking at the harbor. His gaze seemed to be fixed on Harley’s shed.
“So, you’re going to talk Harley out of doing something stupid, right?” Angelica had to word this carefully. “If he even talks to Scorza—you do know it will get ugly fast, right?”
Parker nodded. “I’m on it.”
She hoped so. “How do you know he’s not headed there right now—before the shop opens?”
“His uncle is driving him to see that boat as we speak,” Parker said. “Trying to convince him to sell the bike.”
Like seeing the boat would change his mind? “Good luck on that, Uncle Ray.”
“Totally. When the shop opens at ten, I’ll drop in and hang out with him.” Parker held up one hand like he was taking some kind of Boy Scout pledge. “I won’t let him out of my sight.”
Maybe a day in the dive shop would cool Harley down enough to start using his head. Angelica left Parker on the T-wharf. She had to get this coffee to her dad. As she walked, she couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened the night before. How the attack on the shed had nearly ripped Harley apart. What would he have done if the bike had actually been damaged?
Angelica wanted it to be a random robbery. Done by somebody who didn’t know Harley. She wanted to believe the warning sign on the door was all about making whoever was in the shop jumpy so they’d rush out of the store when they got the call about the smoking shed. As if it was all just a diversion set up by some lowlife who wanted to empty the cash register. Maybe the guy went from town to town with the same routine. Pick a shop that looked like an easy mark. Toss the smoke bombs in a shed or car out back. Make a call to the shop.
She’d have slept a lot easier last night if she believed that all of this was just part of a well-planned scheme like that. An elaborate decoy—and that none of it was personal. She wanted that to be the truth. She really did. Then this was already over. The smoke bomb bandit was long gone—planning another heist in some other town.
But that’s not what she believed.
Deep down she was convinced that this was personal. There was a snake in Eden—with a dark agenda. And if she was right, she had the worst feeling that this wasn’t the end of it. Angelica wasn’t going to take that lying down. She wasn’t about to let somebody mess up her little paradise—or her friends who lived there. She would fight that snake . . . once she figured out who it was.
CHAPTER 8
Saturday, August 6, 8:30 a.m.
TAKING THE WINDING ROAD FROM ROCKPORT to Gloucester would have been a dream if Harley were riding on his bike—or on the back of his dad’s bike like he used to do, close enough to smell his father’s leather jacket. Feeling the cool sea breeze. The heat radiating off the motor. Lost in the heavy bass orchestra of the straight pipes.
But riding with Uncle Ray in the second-hand-smoke-choked cab of his Silverado? Even with the windows down, it was not a great way to start the day.
“I got something to say to you, Harley. Man to man.” Uncle Ray crossed the bridge over Blynman Canal on the far end of the Gloucester waterfront. “And I’d like you to listen.”
Like he had a choice.
“For a week you’ve made things pretty clear that you aren’t interested in selling your cycle.”
Got that right.
“But one thing has changed—and another is about to. So I’m going to give you one last chance.”
Harley didn’t need to rethink anything. Honestly, if Uncle Ray thought—
“Last night, if things had been just a little different, you could have lost your motorcycle,” Uncle Ray said. “You know it, and I know it. Am I right?”
Harley wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of nodding.
“I say someone wanted to send you a message. And you know what that message was?”
Harley just couldn’t wait to hear it. “What?”
His uncle gave him the “Laser Ray” stare. “Somebody wants you to know that they can take that bike from you anytime they want. And that somebody wants to make you squirm. What happened in that shed wasn’t just a diversion for a robbery. We don’t normally have that kind of dough in the register. They got lucky and picked a good day.”
Pretty much what Harley was thinking.
“I think the robbery was the diversion—meant to keep the cops focused there instead of on what happened in the shed. That robbery was all about making you know just how easy it is to outmaneuver you. They got you running to the shed. Then they got you running back to the store. You were easy. Mr. Day-late-and-a-dollar-short Harley.”
Harley wanted to pull the cigarette dangling from his uncle’s lips and shove it up his nose.
“You got an enemy, boy.”
“Scorza.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
Harley was way ahead of his uncle. He’d pay Scorza a visit. He’d probably be there right now if not for Uncle Ray’s little field trip—and Ella practically begging him to wait until Monday. “Have a little talk with him.”
“Stupid move.” Uncle Ray pulled into the Cape Ann Marina on the south side of Gloucester. “You stay away from him, hear? You rough him up, and we get trouble. I got a business—and since you work there, anything you do will impact that business. Capisce?”
Of course Harley understood. He’d already gone over this, hadn’t he?
“There will be a time to deal with that joker. But not now. It’s too obvious.” Uncle Ray pulled into a handicap parking space and pushed the gearshift into Park. “Look, I’m going to give it to you straight. You know why I’m alive today—and your dad isn’t?”
Definitely not because Uncle Ray was a better man. “Cruel twist of fate?”
“Uncle Ray’s Rules . . . number three.”
Harley groaned inside. He should have all the rules on a list. That way Uncle Ray could just point at one of them rather than Harley having to hear them over and over.
“Be the survivor.” Uncle Ray took a squinty-eyed drag on the cigarette. Blew it out with a slow nod like he’d just revealed some great cosmic truth. “It’s a choice, boy. I watch out for myself—because I learned a long time ago that nobody else will. Your daddy didn’t have the mental muscle to be a survivor.”
Right now, Harley really just wanted to jump out of the cab, yank open his uncle’s door, and serve him a double-decker knuckle sandwich.
“I was fifteen. Just like you. I was out in the park. Your dad was there—with a bunch of his stupid friends. They used to play this half-brained game called ‘piggy-pile.’ Someone shouts a name, and suddenly everyone chases that kid until they tackle him. And then they pile on. I hated the game.”
Why was he telling him this?
Uncle Ray’s jaw muscles flexed and released. Flexed and released. “I wasn’t the fastest kid in the group. Always a little stocky. My growth spurt hit kind of late. Suddenly I hear ‘Let’s get Fatso!’ You know who said it? Can you guess?”
“No idea.”
Uncle Ray took a long pull on the cigarette. “I think you do.” His eyes got that squinty look like he was daring the smoke to make his eyes water. “My big brother. Your dad.”
Great.
“‘Let’s turn Fatso into Flatso!’” Those were your dad’s exact words.” He stared at Harley for a moment like he wanted to be sure the words sunk in.
“I ran as fast as my stubby legs could carry me, but those boys took me down at the base of a big rock. There was broken glass everywhere. Someone had probably tossed their empty longnecks against the rock to hear them shatter. I landed on my back—right on the broken glass. Before I could roll onto my stomach and get my arms under me so I could breathe, they were already piling on. I was pinned there—I mean it was like I was staked to the ground—except for my right arm.”
He took another drag and blew the smoke out his open window.
“I didn’t have enough air in my lungs to say I. Can’t. Breathe. I beat the guy on top of me with that free hand—but he wasn’t moving. I couldn’t get any power in my swing. And they kept coming. Right there in that park, I was pretty sure I was going to die.” He stared out the windshield like he was reliving the whole thing.
“But you made it.”
Uncle Ray locked eyes with Harley. “No thanks to your dad.”
“So did they just get off you?”
“Oh, no.” His uncle smirked. “No, no, no. There was nobody looking out for poor little Fatso. I needed a rock. Something harder than my fist to get them off me. So I swept the ground with that free hand, frantic like, because I’m thinking I’m not going to last much longer. And I found the neck of one of those busted beer bottles. I gripped that thing knowing I might only get one shot at this—and I’d better get it right.” He flicked his Marlboro out the window.
“Did you actually . . . ?” Harley made a stabbing motion like he was holding the broken bottle himself.
“Yeah. I stabbed at everyone within reach. Gave the bottle a little twist each time I connected. Drew blood every time. I was proud of that.”
“Sheesh.”
“Three of them went in for stiches. I was proud of that too. But they peeled off me quicker than you’d pull off a burning T-shirt. Blood everywhere. And I learned something that you need to hear.”
So now Uncle Ray was going to teach him life lessons?
Uncle Ray leaned closer. “You want to be a survivor? Then don’t be waiting for somebody to rescue you. You get out in front. You make something happen. The worst moment of my life became my best day ever. You think those boys called me Fatso—or Flatso—after that?”
