Free Two Jakes by Lawrence de Maria

confirming
hiss.
    “Thanks,
Cochise. I was just about to do that. What do you make of the old man’s story?”
    “I
don’t know what to think. I like the guy, and he’s obviously hurting. But it
all seems so improbable. There’s probably a rational explanation to all his
suspicions. What do you think? Other than quoting dead French novelists?”
    “My
gut tells me Shields is on to something. So does yours. That’s why you took it
on.”
    “He’s
paying me $20,000 and promised me as much as I need.”
    “Irrelevant,
to you, I’m sorry to say. Most guys wouldn’t take five times that to get on the
Randolph Shields shit list. You didn’t get a good look at the guy in the
church?”
    “Blonde
hair, light skin and quicker than a lap dance in one of your Jersey Shore
dives.”
    Scarne
was getting distracted by the continuing gas hiss.
    “Turnover,
my boy. It’s all about turnover.” Mack started scraping the grill. “Kind of
funny coming right after meeting Shields. I’m not crazy about coincidences.
What the hell were you doing in St. Christopher’s anyway? Oh, yeah. That’s
where you and Kate… A trip down memory lane, huh. Nostalgia is dangerous, Jake.
Guys who look back never see who kills them. Course, you getting aced in a church
is as likely as my ex-wives dying in a kitchen.”
    “He
didn’t seem to want to do me any harm.”
    “Just
the same, I’d be careful. Want to borrow Bobo a couple of days?”
    Scarne
shook his head and poured himself some bourbon from the Maker’s Mark bottle
kept expressly for his visits. Mack’s usual pitcher of martinis sat on the rail
near the grill. Scarne had made an early ferry, hoping to catch Patricia Mack
in the kitchen so he could snare some fried meatballs before they went into the
sauce. For some unknown reason Dudley’s Irish mother excelled at Italian
cooking. Dinner would start at 2 P.M. and last into the evening.
    “Well,
watch your ass. If it’s connected to the Miami thing, that means you’re already
in somebody’s sights.”
    “You
just watch that damn grill,” Scarne said. “It’s filling with gas. We’re going
to wind up in low orbit.”
    Mack
pushed the starter. The grill whooshed to life explosively, sending him
staggering backwards across the deck.
    “Son
of a bitch!”
    The
kitchen window off the deck opened.
    “What
in the name of God was that?”
    “Nothing,
Ma,” Mack said, laughing. “Grill’s ready. Send out the steaks.”
    I’ll
get them,” Scarne said as the window slammed shut. “Try not to immolate
yourself.”
    “You
try to leave the rest of us some fuckin’ meatballs.”
    After
returning with a huge platter of steaks, Scarne watched Mack lovingly prepare
the rib-eyes with a variety of his “special” sauces and rubs before consigning
them to the fire. Dudley Mack was a carnivore of the first order. When home, he
usually could be found searing some kind of meat. Year round. One Super Bowl
Sunday, wearing a snow parka, he grilled in near-zero temperatures in a
blizzard. Even the family dogs, fierce-looking creatures straight out of a Jack
London novel, refused to venture out of the house, scraps or no scraps. Scarne
now reminded him of the incident.
    “No
sense owning stupid dogs,” Dudley said.
    The
hounds of the Super Bowl had long since departed into legend but two fierce
creatures that resembled wolves were now watching their master’s every move. He
flipped the steaks. When they were done, he cut off some big chunks and put
them in a bowl that he set on the railing. The dogs, which had started to
stand, eased back down. The rest of the steaks went on a fresh platter.
    “Feed
the boys their meat after it cools. I have to give these to Mom. She finishes
them in the oven. It’s her secret thing.”
    Scarne
leaned back on the railing and filched a cigarette from Mack’s pack. The dogs
followed the big platter, but once the sliding door closed returned to their
new best friend.
    “You
guys are easy,” he