the afternoon sun on her skin.
Beano left the Fresno Airport and headed back to the parking lot. He got into the Winnebago and looked at Roger, who was curled up on the sofa in his white bandages, looking like a molting caterpillar. He stared at Beano with wise eyes.
“I never felt like this before,” Beano told the little dog, who wagged his tail in expectation of something more.
“Don’t give me that look,” Beano said. “I can barely take care of us. How will I be able to take care of her? Would she even want me to take care of her?”
And then he got behind the wheel and, while his mind worked on that problem, he put the motor home in gear and began the three-hour drive to San Francisco.
TWEMTY-SEVEN
KNOCKING THE MARK
SHE MOVED INTO THE HANCOCK BUILDING, WHICH WAS on the Strand in Atlantic City. The Rinas had built it with Organized Crime proceeds four years back. It was known in the D.A.’s office as the Pasta Palace because every crooked union official and trucking boss had his office there. The building was one-stop shopping for syndicate bag men. A huge bronze statue of John Hancock was on display in the lobby. Victoria took the elevator up to the twenty-third floor.
She expected to be stopped by Security, but she sailed right past watchful cameras, down the hall, and into the executive offices of Rina Enterprises. In another startling lapse of security, there was nobody in the reception area. The check-in desk was empty and Victoria waited with her manila folder under her arm, not sure what to do next. Then a mail boy buzzed the electric lock and came out through the inner office door. Victoria rushed and caught the door before it closed. It was almost noon, and she wondered if Joe Rina was still in the office, or perhaps had left for an early lunch. She moved down the hallway, where several secretaries were typing. They never looked up at her as she moved to the end of the hall, where she could see a magnificent pair of antique doors which, she assumed, fronted Joe Rina’s office. She opened the doors without knocking and walked in.
The room was magnificent. It had picture windows that overlooked the Boardwalk on the south, and the Atlantic Ocean on the east. She could see the famous Atlantic City Pier jutting into the raging surf two blocks away. She quickly surveyed the office. The mandatory grip-and-grin photographs dominated the west wall: shots of Joe Rina with sports celebrities and movie stars; two Presidents were up there, grinning stupidly in the presence of a known Mafia Boss while Joe had his handsome face turned toward the camera, his electric smile lighting every shot. The art in the office was priceless, some of it under glass. A few pre-Columbian Aztec treasures dating back to the thirteenth century were on the antique sideboard next to a golfing trophy. She moved over and looked at the trophy. The plaque said BEST BALL FOURSOME, GREENBOROUGH COUNTRY CLUB, 1996. Victoria moved to the desk and laid her best photo there, front and center. Then she moved over and sat in the high-backed wing chair and waited.
Twenty minutes later he hurried into the office, rolling down his sleeves. He seemed late for something and was moving fast, carrying his suitcoat. He moved to his desk, saw the picture, and picked it up.
“That was taken by an FBI Electronic Surveillance Team yesterday in Fresno, California,” she said.
He spun and saw her partially hidden, sitting in the huge wing chair. She got up and faced him.
“What are you doing here?” he said, his voice surprisingly soft, considering the intrusion her presence in his office represented.
“I came here to see if I could wreck something.” She moved to the table with the Aztec treasures and picked one up.
Joe moved protectively toward the tiny statue but stopped short of trying to grab it.
“Don’t worry. What I want to wreck has more value than this.” And she put it carefully back down on the table.
“I asked you how you got in here.”
“‘The place was empty. I just walked in. You need to get a few more Indians up on the rocks.”
“I’ll give that some thought.”
He was still holding the picture. It was the one where Beano seemed to be smiling at Tommy with his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. They were beside the limo at the Mud Flat Marina. “What’s this supposed t’be about?” Joe said,