show the rest of the time. No one crosses him much. Things kind of settled down once he sorted out who was in charge.”
They were walking back. “Why did they decide you had to start making more money?”
“You know, they said it was getting more expensive to take care of Leto’s wife and kid. And Vampire got bumped, and Whiskers and his boys started running herd on us instead of tending their land, so we had to pitch in for their share.”
“That’s queer.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m pretty sure the wives are shut up in some run-down asylum and the kids are in an orphanage, though a bunch of them are running around the streets tossing bombs all over the place.” Frings saw the big man’s eyes narrow. He’d said too much.
“The Letos don’t have a house like regular fucking people?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re more or less locked up.”
Samuelson stopped walking. “That’s not the way it started. That’s not what they tell us. What the fuck happens to all that money?”
Frings shrugged.
Samuelson’s eyes went blank. “You know, there are some hombres out here. Some of these ginks, they should have put them in prison. That’s where these fucking lunatics belong. Like when I found out Whiskers was part of the project. I couldn’t fucking believe it. He’s a goddamn psychopath. That guy should have been given the fucking chair or sent up for good. But he’s out here, like Johnny fucking Appleseed, and now he’s running the fucking place. But I tell you what, he’s not getting rich.
“He’s not going to be too happy to hear about this. Not at all.”
They weren’t far from the house when Samuelson came to an abrupt stop in the trail. Frings, lost in thought, continued on a couple of steps before realizing that Samuelson was no longer with him, bringing him back to the here and now. He turned first to Samuelson, then followed Samuelson’s gaze up ahead where the trail jogged to the left between two venerable oaks and then over a brook, across which Samuelson had laid two weathered railroad planks as a bridge. Three men were crossing that bridge. They were soaked in their wool coats and dungarees and carried shotguns that they held easily, with familiarity. Frings didn’t recognize the other two, but the one in the lead was Whiskers McAdam.
There was no point in running. He took a quick look over at Samuelson, who was showing Whiskers his palms. No weapons. Ignoring Samuelson, Whiskers, with his head cocked to the right and an expression of mild regret on his face, took in Frings.
“Who’s the gink?” Whiskers asked Samuelson without taking his eyes off Frings.
“Francis Frings.”
Whiskers’ eyebrows climbed. “No shit?” Whiskers took a step closer to Frings, making a show of looking him over, Frings smelling the foul alcohol coming off Whiskers like heat from embers. This close, Frings could see the strength in the man’s shoulders, the size of his hands, the instinctive fighter’s stance. His face, squeezed between the famous sideburns, was near handsome—a long, flattish nose, wide mouth, and neat teeth. But the hollow, greedy eyes rendered all the rest of it moot. He could inspire nothing but disgust and fear.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Whiskers said, his face now inches from Frings’s. Frings leaned away reflexively and Whiskers smirked. “I’ve been waiting years for you to come.”
Frings began, “I’m not sure—”
“Of course you’re not fucking sure,” Whiskers yelled. Samuelson moved over to stand with the other two men. Whiskers took a couple of steps away from Frings, maybe getting his thoughts together, then turned. “We’ve been out here years, Brother Frings. Years. Not once did one of you come poking round. Where d’you think we were? You think they killed us, dumped us in the river?”
Frings wasn’t sure if Whiskers wanted an answer to this, but there was a pause and Frings felt compelled to say something. “Everyone thought you were in prison. All of you.” He nodded toward Samuelson and the other two.
Whiskers spit off to the side. “The fuck you doing here now?” He had his chin raised slightly, accentuating the height difference between the two men.
Frings’s mind raced, trying to suss out the right answer. Whiskers glared at him, then grew impatient. “Well?” he roared, back in Frings’s face.
“Bernal sent me.”
Whiskers stared at him. Frings found the courage to meet his eyes.
“Bernal? Bernal sent you to do what?”
“Talk to Otto.”
Whiskers paused, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. He turned and walked toward Otto, who had gone