"Not the kind of guys you ask why," he says.
"So all you've got is a phone number?"
"Yeah, and that's all I know. Swear to God."
"What's the number?"
"I don't have it in my head. I've got to look it up."
I slide off his chest. We both stand.
"You can't tell them where you got it," the bartender says. "You've got to promise, OK?"
"Sure, cross my heart, hope to die. What's the number?"
The bartender pulls out his cell phone, punches some buttons.
"OK, here it is. Six-oh-three ..."
He stops.
"You want to write this down?"
"No, don't think so."
I grab the cell phone. The number is displayed on the screen. I hit the green button, hear it dialing.
"No, man, you can't ..."
The bartender moves toward me. I push him back. "Quiet," I say. "Can't you see I'm on the phone?" "But they'll know you got the number from me. They'll see the caller ID."
"Technology," I say. "Ain't it a beautiful thing?"
39.
"What makes you think they will come, Zachary?"
"They'll come," I say. "They want to see who they are up against."
"You and me."
"Yeah," I say. "You and me."
"And we will strike fear into their hearts."
I look at Boggy.
"Did you smile when you said that?"
He shakes his head, no.
"Well, you should have," I say.
We're sitting in Brewster Trimmingham's office. We've been sitting there for almost three hours.
I am in the swivel chair, my feet up on the desk. Boggy leans in a corner, near the door. We've traded positions a couple of times, just to break the monotony.
The ceiling fan spins round and round. Its long metal chain rattles against the fan's frame.
Irritating.
I get up, turn off the fan, sit back down with my feet on the desk.
Now it's hot.
I get up, turn the fan on again.
The guy who answered the phone when I called from Benny's Lounge, I told him we would be here until 7:00 P.M. It's almost that time.
"You didn't happen to bring that big-ass knife of yours, did you, the one that can slice through a watermelon in midair?"
"No," Boggy says. "I did not think it would get past airport security."
"You could have at least tried."
Boggy shrugs.
"That would have been foolish," he says.
"Unlike calling the bad guys on the phone, inviting them to come see us, then actually hanging around for three hours to see if they show up. And not taking into consideration that there might be a whole bunch of them and they might just decide to wipe the floor with us."
"I think it will not be that easy for them."
"Not if you had that big-ass knife."
As it turns out there's three of them. They actually knock at the door. How very polite.
I nod Boggy to stay put in the corner. I leave my feet on the desk. All the better for impressing them with my laid-back demeanor and convincing myself that I'm not even a teeny bit scared.
"Entrez-vous" I say.
Maybe I can impress them with my international flair, too.
The door swings open. They step inside.
It's the same two guys who worked over Trimmingham-one big, one small. The third guy, I'm thinking, must have been the driver. He's the biggest of them all.
They notice Boggy behind them and back away, fanning out so that they can keep their eyes on both of us. Ah, already we have them running scared.
"So glad you could join us," I say. "I wish I could offer refreshments, but..."
"Cut the shit," the small one says. "What is it you want?"
"All business, huh? OK, if you want to play that way," I say. "I'm putting you on notice that you are not to lay another hand on Brewster Trimmingham."
The small guy looks at the other two. All three of them snicker.
"Oh really," says the small guy. "Why is that?"
"Because he no longer owes you any money."
"He doesn't?"
"No. I have assumed all of Mr. Trimmingham's debts." I point to the stack of papers on the desk. "The details are in there if you care to read them."
"You can wipe your ass with those papers," the small guy says.
"I prefer Charmin. Citrus scented, double ply."
"Listen, Jay Leno, just give us the money."
"No, no, no," I say. "It doesn't work like that. First, I need to know who 'us' is. You guys work for Papi Ferreira, right?"
The three of them exchange looks.
"It is none of your business who we work for," the small guy says. "You need to pay us the money and get out of Bermuda."
"And what if I were to tell you to go straight to hell?"
The small guy shrugs.
"Then you would get the same thing that Trimmingham got. Only worse."
"Go straight to hell," I say.
The two big ones move first, toward me. And as they do, Boggy leaps from the corner, clipping the small guy with a shoulder, taking him down.
I lean back in the chair, put my feet on the side of the desk, and push. The desk catches the two big guys at their knees, stopping them. I scramble out of the chair, set a shoulder against the desk-just like football practice, working against the blocking sled-driving the desk back until the two guys are pinned against the wall.
One of them, the driver, starts to squirm loose. I hit him a couple of times, then slam his face against the table. He stops squirming.
The small guy breaks free of Boggy. He reaches behind to his back, pulls a pistol, aims at me.
In an instant, Boggy grabs the chain on the ceiling fan, breaks it loose. He loops it over the small guy's head, around his neck, squeezes.
The small guy jerks back, fires wildly, the shot striking the ceiling. Paint and plaster shower the room.
Boggy squeezes harder. The small guy drops the pistol. Boggy grabs it.
And that's pretty much that.
We take their wallets and make them sit on the floor. I pat them down while Boggy keeps the pistol on them. There're no other weapons.
I sit on the side of the desk and check out their IDs. The short guy is Paul Andrade. The driver is Luiz Barros. The third one-Hector Moraes.
I find a notepad in a desk drawer, write down their names on it.
"Let's see, I've already got your phone number, so that should do it. It's been fun. Let's stay in touch, OK?"
"You have fucked up big-time," says the short one, Andrade.
"I'd say the jury's still out on that. But right now? You're leading in the fuck-up department." I toss them their wallets. "Now get out of here. And tell Papi we need to talk."
They get up. They go out the door.
Not even a good-bye.
40.
Trimmingham's office is trashed. So, nice guys that we are, Boggy and I spend the next several minutes straightening it up.
Who knows? Things have gone so well that maybe I'll redecorate the place and conduct more business here. Get some nautical charts for the walls. Install a wet bar. Febreze the hell out of the carpet.
We've just about got everything put back together again when there's a knock at the door.
A voice from the hall says, "Police."
I open the door. There's two of them, hands resting on their holsters.
"We got a call," says the cop who's standing closest to the door. "Someone reported hearing a gunshot."
Across the hall, the guy from the other office has his door cracked open and is peering out. The Neighborhood Watch Committee.