Black Water Transit Read Online Free PDF Page A

needed to work the pension fund better. Change is good, Creek. Change is good.”
    “Leave my underwear out of this. You were drifting back there. Where’d you go?”
    Jack looked out to the parking lot.
    “Soc Trang.”
    “Oh, jeez. Here we go. Down Memory Lane in my Cobra gunship. What did you do in Vietnam, Grandpop? Well, my boy, we lit up a boxcar full of dinks and we danced the Watusi on a mountain of blackened skulls. Care for a dried gook’s ear, little fellow? They’re just like Pringles, only crunchier.”
    “You’re a sick bastard, Creek. Sometimes I miss the war.”
    “Mainly because you and me, we didn’t get all shot to shit.”
    “Maybe. But it was something to remember. It held your attention. I almost fell asleep in there. Most of the time, I feel like I’m on Thorazine. I was wide awake and inside every minute of that war. A man needs to feel his life.”
    “Some men, Jackson. Shallow little men, mutts with no inner resources. It takes your man of character to do sweet dick every day and still have a rich inner life. That’s why you have to work. Jeez, you’re a wop. What’s the phrase?
Il duce far niente
?”
    “You mean
qui dolce far niente
. How sweet to do nothing.”
    “What did I say?”
    “Basically you said, ‘The leader does dick.’ ”
    “Exactly my point!”
    “I’ll find something to do. Maybe I’ll breed horses.”
    “Personally? This I got to watch.”
    “I like horses.”
    “Way too much. I can see that from here. Why not golf?”
    “I’d rather stick hot needles in my eyes. Golf is a cult, like the Shriners, only the hats are sillier.”
    Creek’s attention was elsewhere, out in the parking lot.
    “Okay, now who’s this mook in a suit coming up on us here?”
    A mid-fifties-looking man had just gotten out of a dark-blue Mercedes 600 and was walking toward them, looking right at them, a big man shaped like a wheat barn, with wide sloping shoulders and a battered, rocky-looking face, his white hair shaved close to his skull. He was very well turned out in a lightweight navy suit, apale-blue shirt open at the neck. When he got closer he nodded and smiled.
    “Mr. Vermillion? Mr. Johnson?”
    “Yes?” said Jack. Creek said nothing.
    He reached them, nodded at Creek, and looked back at Jack.
    “My name is Pike, Mr. Vermillion. Earl Pike. Have you got a minute?”
    Jack assessed him. The guy looked … military, somehow. His skin was seamed and darkly tanned, as if he’d spent a lot of time in the Southwest. Age maybe fifty-five, maybe older. His carriage was very stiff. Jack could see him in full dress blues. Or maybe he just had a back problem. He could feel Creek peeling off.
    “Jackson, my lad, I’ll leave you with this gentleman. Mr. Pike, you have a good one.”
    Jack smiled at Creek, nodded. Creek stepped out into the parking lot just as his dark-green Corvette appeared. He overtipped the valet and climbed in, inclining his head to them both as he accelerated away. The Corvette throbbed and burbled and then they could hear the music playing, zydeco, Creek’s favorite.
    Earl Pike waited in silence until Creek reached the highway.
    “I hope this isn’t a bad time to talk a little business?”
    He was smiling and looking as friendly as he could manage, but it didn’t fit him. His eyes were off the power grid, a pair of dead sockets, and if he smiled much, it hadn’t left any marks on his face. There was a jagged burn scar above the man’s right eye. Jack figured he’d had a lot of surgery to cover it. He needed some more.
    Pike offered Jack a hand and gave him a grip like getting your fingers caught in a car door. As he shook it, Jack saw that Pike’s knuckles were bandaged. Pike looked down at his hand, smiled.
    “Flat tire. On the Taconic. Had to change it myself, and the wrench slipped. Ripped up my knuckles pretty good. Sorry.”
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Pike?”
    “You want to go in, get a drink?”
    “No, I’m in a rush, actually.