The deep end, p.7
The Deep End, page 7
“Harley Lotitto.” Scorza dropped the hose and set his hands on his hips. “Come to see what my dad bought me?”
Orange body. Oversize tires. Spare tire mounted on the tailgate, wrapped in a new-looking cover with one of those Jeepy slogans written across it: Don’t follow me. I won’t stop when you get stuck.
Harley almost laughed at the idea. Harley would never follow Scorza anywhere. Not ever again. “I came to see you, barf bag. Not your Wrangler.”
“It’s a 2004,” Scorza said. “Needs a little work, but my dad and I will have plenty of time to work on it before I’ll have my license.”
Already Scorza hit him with the dad-jab? In Harley’s book, Scorza officially took the first swing. Harley was going to smack that smile off Scorza’s face so hard, it wouldn’t land for blocks. “You did it, right? Busted the window. Tossed in the smoke bombs.”
Scorza shrugged. “Why? Because my best friend deserted me for a group of loser friends? Pretty weak motive.”
“You stay away from Kemosabe.”
If someone were watching from inside, Scorza would probably come off as being downright friendly. A regular sweet-tea kind of polite.
“You did it. Admit it.”
Scorza had that smirk thing down to a science. “Unlike you, I’ll get a football scholarship. If I get caught messing with your stupid motorcycle, I could lose that. Not worth the risk. And that antique probably won’t even be running by the time you get your license.”
Was he just trying to get Harley to take a swing at him? To jump the line of scrimmage early? Sometimes in a game an opponent would trash-talk him from the other side of the line. There were some who just had the ability to get through Harley’s helmet and pads with their words. Their talk would penetrate all the way to a vault hidden deep inside him. The rage cage. And if Harley opened the door? The instant the center snapped the ball, that big-mouthed player would get a hit that would rattle his teeth—and shatter his nerve.
Scorza definitely had the gift of getting through—and had a set of keys to Harley’s cage, it seemed. Keep the cage locked, Harley. Keep it. Locked.
“You stay away from my shed.” Did the drapes move? Harley glanced at the windows again. “You know what I can do.”
“Sounds like the rage is slipping out of the cage,” Scorza said. “Better be careful, my friend.”
“I am not your friend. And you’re the one who needs to watch himself. If I even see you near that shed, I’ll—”
“Do what?” Scorza didn’t make any aggressive gestures. Didn’t get in Harley’s face. Had an almost eerie calm thing going on. “You come to my house—and get up in my face with your big talk. But you can’t back it up, Lottie.”
His annoying nickname for Harley since the rift between them grew to canyon size. But he wasn’t about to show how it bothered him. “I’m giving you fair warning.”
Scorza laughed. “You don’t dare touch me. You know it—and I know it. You’re running scared, Lottie.”
“Me? Scared of you?”
“Oh yeah. Because you know in the middle of the night—when you’re riding the sleepy town train and dreaming about Black Beauty—someone just might walk by your shed and start a real fire. That shed would go up in minutes. Bye-bye, Kemosabe.”
Was Harley shaking? “Shut. Up.”
“Yeah, all that work you did with your Daddy. Poof! Up in smoke.”
Harley stepped into Scorza. Chest-bumped him. Hard.
Scorza raised both hands like he was totally innocent. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then you stay away—or I’m going to rip off your scholarship passing arm and beat you over the head with it.”
The screen door burst open and Scorza’s dad strode out of the house. Big guy—like he used to play for the NFL back in his day.
“I’ve heard just about enough.” He glared at Harley. “Back off, Lotitto. You heard my boy. If he says he didn’t touch your motorcycle, he didn’t touch it. He’s never lied to me.”
His dad had no idea of half the things Scorza did.
An F-150 pickup roared up to the curb and the passenger door flew open. Parker? And his dad at the wheel. What? Parker told his dad where Harley was going? The two hustled toward them.
“You stay away from my boy,” Mr. Scorza said—loud enough for even Mr. Buckman and Parks to hear.
“If he comes near my bike again,” Harley said, just as Mr. Buckman and Parker chugged to a stop, “I’ll make him live to regret it. I promise you that.”
“You just threatened my son,” Mr. Scorza said. “And you”—he pointed at Parker and his dad—“are my witnesses.”
What?
Mr. Buckman put a hand on Harley’s shoulder. “We should go.”
“Not until Scorza admits he did this.”
“Harley,” Parker’s dad said. “C’mon. Let’s back away and talk about it.”
Parker’s dad was messing where he didn’t belong. Harley gave Parker the side-eye. How could he snitch and get his dad involved?
“I know you did it.” He stepped closer to Number 8, but Mr. Buckman held him back by the shoulders. Harley knew he was making a mistake—but he couldn’t stop himself. “And you’re going to admit it if I have to beat it out of you.”
“That would be assault,” Mr. Scorza said. He positioned himself between his son and Harley. “Go. You’re trespassing. Leave, now.”
Harley strained to lock eyes with Scorza. “You even get close to that shed, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“More threats,” Mr. Scorza said. Bryce leaned around his dad and smiled.
That was it. Harley broke free from Mr. Buckman’s grip and plowed ahead. Mr. Scorza stepped into Harley, and they collided. Not real hard—but Mr. Scorza stumbled backward in a totally exaggerated way, like NBA players hoping to get a foul called on their opponent. “He hit me. You all are witnesses. That’s battery!”
Parker’s dad had Harley by the shoulders again, but with one arm across Harley’s chest, pulling him back. “Easy, Harley.” He spoke close to his ear. “They’re baiting you. Walk away.” But Harley couldn’t look weak. Wouldn’t that just be inviting Scorza to try again? His threat had to look real.
A police siren sounded—and close. Who’d called them? Parker already betrayed him by bringing his dad here. Did he call the police too?
Harley was still struggling against Mr. Buckman, but his heart wasn’t in it.
The Gloucester cop strode up the lawn.
“Officer!” Mr. Scorza shouted. “This young man is trespassing. He threatened my son multiple times—and just attacked me. I want to file a complaint—and a restraining order.”
Attacked? Restraining order? “I only—”
The cop grabbed Harley and had him up against the Wrangler. “Hands where I can see them. Now.”
Harley obeyed. “This is crazy.”
The cop pulled one of Harley’s arms down. Cracked his wrist with a steel cuff. The loop swung around and ratcheted in place. “Now the other one.” Harley lowered his other hand and the cop snugged both wrists good.
“I’m going to lead you to the car, and we’re going to have a little talk.” He spun Harley to face him and pointed at Mr. Buckman. “This your dad?”
Harley shook his head. “I don’t have a dad.” He shot a look at Parker. The guy he’d thought was his friend looked guilty as sin. He’d betrayed him—and he knew it.
“Got somebody I should call?”
Harley looked away from Parker. Kept his eyes on the cop’s combat boots. “I got nobody. I’m on my own.”
CHAPTER 11
Saturday, August 6, 9:25 p.m.
RAY PULLED INTO A PARKING SLIP at the Cape Ann Marina fifteen minutes early. His feet automatically led him to the slip where Deep Trouble was securely tied with brand-new dock lines.
Mr. Lochran had requested the meeting—which did nothing to set Ray at ease. The loan wasn’t due for eight days, so why the face-to-face? But Ray would show him he was on top of things. It was all good.
He had a good view of a huge chunk of the marina from here. It was easy to see if anybody was within earshot. Totally out in the open—and uniquely isolated. No wonder Lochran picked this spot to meet.
Lochran strode down the dock precisely on time. A big man. Massive shoulders. Arms like a tuna fisherman. And he could probably squeeze open a can of tuna with his bare hands, too. A man followed maybe twenty feet behind him. Wiry. Six inches shorter than Lochran, at least. But the guy was no lightweight. Weird that Lochran had a bodyguard smaller than he was. But something about the way Wiry-guy carried himself said he had ways of getting the job done other than sheer size and muscle. Right now, though, Ray needed to keep his head in the game. Ray stood to climb out of the boat as Lochran approached.
“You just got the boat. You need to enjoy every minute. Stay aboard.” Lochran motioned him away from the gunwale and stood above him, leaning on a post. “I make it a habit to pay first-time customers a visit one week away from their deadline.”
Did he emphasize the word dead—or was Ray imagining it?
“Any questions you have for me? Anything you need clarified?”
Ray shook his head. “I pay you one week from tomorrow. I’m good.”
Lochran smiled. All mouth and teeth. The eyes didn’t carry even a hint of friendliness. “You’re good. Splendid. I must have gotten some bad information.”
Ray didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to ask. But there was something about those eyes—like he was expected to ask the obvious. “Bad?”
Lochran nodded. “About that motorcycle that you practically had sold. What I heard? You don’t even have it for sale yet. And you can’t, because you don’t have possession of it. A little technicality you failed to mention earlier.”
Ray held up both hands. He did not like the way this was going. “Let me explain. I—”
“Ironically enough,” Lochran said, “those three words are often the last words from the lips of men who have disappointed me. ‘Let me explain.’” Lochran put a mocking little quiver in his voice. “I can explain.”
Lochran towered over him from where he stood on the dock. Likely a deliberate power move on his part. “If you have to explain anything to me, Mr. Lotitto, don’t try to make off like everything is good.”
Ray had no idea how the guy knew what he knew, but right now landing on his feet meant being totally honest with the guy. He gave him a version short enough to fit on an index card.
Lochran listened without interruption, his head nodding slightly like he was doing an inventory of the facts—and making sure nothing was missing.
“I wouldn’t have borrowed the money from you without a solid backup plan—and a backup for the backup.” He hoped he sounded positive enough without going all pie-in-the-sky on him. The truth was, Plan B was going to be dicey. And his Plan C would mean tapping the kid’s trust fund. Both B and C would be a lot trickier to pull off than he’d thought his Plan A was. If only the stupid kid would have just agreed to sell the bike, Ray wouldn’t need his backup plans at all.
“So, you’ll have the motorcycle in your possession . . .”
“Tomorrow night. Guaranteed.”
“Guaranteed, or you’ll give me my money back, is that it?”
For some reason that struck Ray as funny. He tried to hide his smile, but honestly, the money-back guarantee comment was kind of hilarious coming from a loan shark. “You’ll get your money back.”
“I always do. With interest. Guaranteed.” Lochran looked at him long and hard.
Ray looked back, just as hard. What was this, a staring contest or something? Ray’s survival instincts warned him not to look away. Not to blink. It felt like his eyes were beginning to water, for Pete’s sake.
Lochran seemed to be measuring him up. “I’ll need to verify.”
Good. Then he’d see Ray was the kind of guy who meant what he said. “A photo?”
Lochran shook his head. “In person. I’ll be in touch—or my associate, Mike Ironwing.” He pointed to the wiry guy.
Great name for a bodyguard. “You won’t be disappointed.” He’d wanted to sound confident, but there was a fine line between that and cocky. Had he crossed the line?
The guy stood there for a moment. “You know, Mr. Lotitto, I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about all this.”
He wanted to say something to assure him, but he couldn’t seem to think of anything. And the truth? He agreed with Lochran on that point. Ray was beginning to get a really bad feeling too.
CHAPTER 12
Saturday, August 6, 10:15 p.m.
ELLA WAS GOING TO MISS JELLY after her dad got their new home finished. Especially the talks deep into the night. The extra twin bed in her room just wouldn’t look right without Jelly lying there in some crazy position. Right now, Jelly’s back was on the mattress and her legs rested on the wall above her headboard in a perfect right angle. A string of multicolored lights around her bedroom window—her way of bringing a little Christmas into her room all year round—washed Jelly in a Candy Land of colors.
Parker had told them more about the fiasco between Harley and Scorza. That was bad enough—especially with the threat of a restraining order. But it was the rift between Harley and Parker that had Ella worried. “Do you think maybe Parker was exaggerating—or that he read Harley wrong?”
“I asked Parker that very question.” Jelly bent her knees and let her feet walk up the wall above the headboard and back down. “He’s afraid it’s worse than he thinks. He’s texted Harley like five times. No response.”
Ella groaned. “I thought guys were supposed to get over stuff like this real quick.” And they probably would have, if Harley wasn’t wound up so tight on this. “Think they’ll be okay?” That was the big question, right? Ella loved the four of them together. She couldn’t imagine it being just three.
“Parker knows how to be a good friend,” Jelly said. “He’ll figure something out. But having said that . . .”
Ella waited as long as she could. “What?”
“I was just thinking, there’s no reason why we can’t help.”
“Any ideas?”
“Get Grams to bake up a Blueberry Ghost Pie. Invite the boys over. Get them talking again.”
It was definitely worth a shot. After all, who could resist the magic of Grams’s Blueberry Ghost Pie?
She stared at the lights. Listened to the sound of the surf pounding the Headlands. “Ever stop to think how many things have happened since that sign showed up at the dive shop yesterday?”
Jelly was quiet for a moment. “The smoke bombs.”
Which thankfully did no lasting damage. The two of them had been able to clean up her paintings and bring them back to her room.
“The missing money.”
Right again. And the massive tension between Harley and his Uncle Ray over that—and the fact that they were at an absolute impasse on the whole “sell the bike and invest in the boat” scheme. Uncle Ray had asked the unthinkable of Harley and just wouldn’t leave Harley alone about his “stupid” decision.
“Then there was Harley’s ill-advised visit to Bryce Scorza’s house.”
“Which,” Ella said, “ended with a trip to the police station and the promise of a restraining order.”
“And the wall building between Parker and Harley—something we sure didn’t see coming.”
Ella agreed. “Your world is about to change. That’s what the sign said, right?”
“Kinda spooky when you see how it’s actually coming true,” Jelly said. “And so fast.”
Too fast. Things were changing with no warning. No chance to get out in front of it—or out of the way. They were getting steamrolled by the change. “Grams fears it’s some kind of curse.” Actually, Ella believed that may be a bigger part of the weirdness than they thought. “The words did appear to be in blood, right?”
“I saw some strange things happen in the Everglades,” Jelly said. “There was a time I absolutely believed that curses were real—and powerful.”
For the next hour Jelly told her all about her experiences in the Glades. About Wilson, who was almost as good at getting them out of danger as he was at getting them into it. Ella learned so much more about the Everglades Curse than she had from Parker. They talked about her sister, Maria—and all that had gone on with Clayton Kingman. They talked about Parker’s choices, and how he put himself in harm’s way to help his friends. She filled in so many details that Parker had left unsaid. Ella actually squealed with delight when Jelly told how she’d tried to sabotage Parker’s plans.
The more they talked, the closer Ella felt they were in their beliefs—or maybe superstitions. They talked about the reality of demons, the evil of man, and the power of God. Jelly seemed to know more about God than Ella did, but still, it was nothing close to where Parker was at.
It was well after midnight and the conversation still showed no signs of slowing. Honestly, Ella was pretty sure they could talk all night.
The conversation came full circle—and they were back to Harley.
“He’s got to be feeling so alone,” Ella said. “I’m afraid he’s pulling away.”
Jelly agreed. “Somehow we have to get those boys back together.”
And soon. Because right now the world was changing for all four of them—and Ella didn’t like the direction it was going.
“I have the worst feeling,” Ella said. “If we don’t get things back to the way they should be—and soon . . .” She hesitated, knowing she shouldn’t even say the words out loud. It was bad luck.
Jelly looked at her, eyes wide in agreement. “You don’t have to say any more.”
She was the sister Ella never had. A soul sister. They could even read each other’s thoughts, it seemed. And clearly, they were on the same page. If they didn’t get things back to the way they should be soon, they never would.
