we here to collect.”
The businessman in Kondo then explained to me, “He can pay me in product. Got him some nice sticky buds, that’s fine. Or he pay me, oh . . . ten thousand cash. See? I be reasonable. Kill a man, cops be on all our asses, understand what I’m sayin’?” Raised his voice, then, to inform Tomlinson, “Not gonna lie to you, though! Embarrass me ’front my ’sociates, you piece of shit! That serious, so you pay—else I cut my ’nitial on yo face, that okay wid me, too. A pretty letter K, but small, mon, like a tattoo—let folks know Kondo not to be fucked wid! But, hey, then afterward, you know, we friends again. Smoke herb. Tell stories ’bout this thing between us at parties, make the rich girls laugh!”
The indignant citizen, me, sounding nervous, told the Haitian, “Geezus, okay, look anywhere you want—there’s no need for violence!” but I was thinking, Do it . . . please come aboard and I will try not to break your neck. Then looked at Diemer and dropped the act, saying to him, “You can’t be this goddamn stupid.”
The Brazilian held his pistol at shoulder level, pointed at the sky, watching it play out. Clipped to his wire-rimmed glasses were tinted lenses, the flip-down variety I’d seen only in antique shops—the son of a locksmith, fastidious in his equipage. He answered by speaking to the Haitian, but in a guarded way that made me wonder if he was conveying a private message.
“I’ll check the storage area, get back up here. You’re paying me to do a job.”
Kondo looked up at Diemer. “The hell you doin’, givin’ me orders on my own damn ride, mon? You tell me you see the scarecrow board this rubber piece shit! Now we here, where the hell’s my boy?”
Diemer’s gaze swept past me—yes, a message attached—while also telling his client, “Didn’t it all happen just like I said? Kondo, lighten up. Listen to me. The guy, Tomlinson, he’s gotta be here, man—if he doesn’t come out, I’ll open that storage door and show you. But no killing—hey, campesino! It’s just biz, not worth fifteen to twenty fighting off new boyfriends.”
Kondo snapped, “Fuck dat, Pancho!” leveling the automatic at the storage console, then yelled another warning to Tomlinson, one green tennis shoe on the gunnel, ready to leap across to the Zodiac, but then changed his mind, this two-hundred-pound witch doctor, five feet tall, by blaming the Brazilian, “Shit, mon, tol’ you keep us close, now we drift back too far. I ain’t Batman! Get ta’ work up there!”
Diemer, glancing another message to me, said, “Sorry,” and flipped his antique shades down, getting ready for something, his eyes bronze-shielded behind wire-rimmed glasses while he placed his weapon near the helm.
The Haitian, impatient with Diemer, hollered commands: “Turn the damn wheel, Pancho! No . . . no! You in neutral, bro!” which gave me time to palm the little 9mm Kahr, my eyes tuned to the Brazilian who was adjusting his surgical gloves—a man who enjoyed sport, preparing to take the wheel of an Italian sports car. That was the impression. But not his intentions, and I thought, Jesus Christ, what’s his next move?
What Diemer did was click the throttles into slow forward, calling over his shoulder, “Move your ass to the stern, man, stay low. Kondo—the dude’s dangerous, I mean it! Wait ’till we’re alongside, then you can board.”
Kondo, talking to me like old friends, but walking backward as he’d been ordered, said, “Fuckin’ Mexicans, mon, Brazil? Same thing. Spanish-speakin’ folks, shit, they doan know nothin’ ’bout no oceangoin’ vessels.” The man shrugged, made a humorous salute with the Uzi, his expression asking me, a fellow waterman, What you gonna do? Then shared the insult with the Germanic Brazilian, a wide white smile on his face, until he saw that Diemer had turned his back to the controls and was aiming a pistol at him.
The smile wilted. “Cut the shit, mon! We partners!”
Body squared, Diemer cradled the Sig Sauer Mosquito in two gloved hands, its sound suppressor appearing too long to miss at only twelve feet. His bronze glasses, sparking with sunlight, made a laser connection with the Haitian’s chest.
I had the Kahr 9 up now, shielded by the seat’s headrest, ready to take them both out, if necessary. Diemer first, because of his elevated position, but then decided, no, Kondo first, when Diemer asked the little man, “Where’s the money, Sylvester?”
The jet-set assassin