He had to get this hole in his shoulder plugged. Couldn’t pop into the nearest emergency room, gunshot wounds a magnet for cops. Not that there was an ER out here in the middle of the bay anyway. 

So back to Nina Galleon’s bungalow on stilts.  

He stood on shore with the puppy, where he’d stood with Juna before, checking the place out. Didn’t have to worry about being seen – everybody was on the other side of town, watching the Petoria fire. Flames glowing against the black sky over there – the whole place probably blazing by now, including the office with the fragmentation bomb, him hoping it wouldn’t blow and hurt somebody. Should’ve taken it with him, dump it in the water or use it for something else later. 

He knew Lynch had taken off in his Donzi, could see he hadn’t driven it here, wasn’t tied up under the deck. So now all he had to do was get inside the house. 

No climbing the roof with his shoulder like this. And it was high-tide, so no wading out to the floating dock (could just make out the Jet Ski tied up where he’d left it). 

He went out onto the plank walkway, puppy at his heels, stopped at the front door and looked around. Where would somebody hide a key? Managed to climb up and stand on the rail, steadying himself against the house. Reached up with his good hand and started poking around the shingles, feeling for a loose one when the door flew open. 

“What are you doing up there?” 

The puppy started barking, Weecho almost fell, caught himself with a yelp of pain. 

Juna came out and looked up at him, looked at the dog. 

“You gotta be kidding,” she said. “Why’d you have to come here?” 

Before he could say anything, his knees went rubbery. Vision tunneling, things starting to spin, about to black out from the wound. Juna grabbed his leg and pulled him back just when he was about to take a header. Second time tonight. 

“What the hell’s wrong?” she said, catching him as he collapsed. 

Then she saw the blood. 

“Jesus, get inside.”  

                                                #          #          # 

Juna had the touch of a saddle stitcher, or at least that’s how it felt. She’d found a sewing kit in Nina Galleon’s dresser, was drawing a needle through the torn skin on Weecho’s shoulder, closing the gunshot hole. This after she’d cleaned it out with peroxide, and then poured in most of a bottle of iodine, perking Weecho right up. 

“This should be looked at,” she said, “pass-through or not.” 

They were in the bungalow’s tight little living room, Juna perched on a corner of the coffee table, working by candlelight and the light from the fish tank. Weecho, shirt off, was slumped on the edge of the sofa. The puppy was next to him, watching it all. 

“You’re doing fine,” Weecho said, jerked when she took another stitch. 

The bullet had gone all the way through the fleshy part of his shoulder. 

“Have a drink,” Juna said. 

He reached for the bottle of tequila she’d found in the kitchen, poured himself half a glass. Tossed back most of it, felt his throat burn, eyes water, coughed most of it back up.     

“Hold still,” Juna said. 

He took a couple of breaths, raspy.    

“So why are you here?” he said. 

She’d already told him she’d found the door unlocked, Weecho remembering then that he probably hadn’t locked it when he’d left after coming off the Jet Ski. 

“To get myself organized,” Juna said. 

She tilted her head toward the trash bag with the bricks of hundred-dollar bills spilling out. “I wasn’t going to get on a trian with that in the middle of the night.” 

“You knew the money was in the safe all along.” 

Wasn’t a question, didn’t get an answer. 

Next to the trash bag was a duffle bag, ready for the money to be packed into. Probably Juna had found it in Nina’s closet. 

“Hand me the Bacitracin,” she said. 

“You’re really going to leave?” 

“Of course I am. I have to get as far away from Lynch as I can.” 

“What about us?” 

“Weecho, I saw the picture of her when I came up to the loft.” 

The headshot he was cropping of Dara. 

“So don’t try to shit me,” Juna said. 

“You’re crazy.” 

“Yeah, right.” She started rubbing Bacitracin ointment onto the stitched-up wound. 

“Ow!” 

“You’ll have the mattress to yourself now. She’s not going to want to move in.” 

He let that go. “There’s other issues now.” Reached for his shirt. 

“That’s what you’re good at, Weech – issues.” 

He dug in the shirt pocket and took out the DVD they’d found in the safe, the one Lynch was yelling he wanted back. 

“Put this in,” he said. “We should see what it is, he wanted it so much.” 

There was a flat screen TV and DVD player on the bookcase across from the couch.  Juna didn’t move at first, just looked at him. Finally, curiosity got the better. She got up and turned on the TV, slid the DVD into the player.  

The screen fuzzed, then a shadowy room came into focus. Weecho leaned in closer, could see it was a smoke-filled room he’d seen before. Had been in. 

The opium harem on Yoon’s yacht. 

The girls were all there, same scanty see-through outfits, lounging around with their pipes. 

They were making themselves extra alluring for their distinguished guest of honor. 

Senator Patrick Hugh Gatchel. 

Juna looked at Weecho. “Is that who I think it is?” 

At least it got her off the Dara thing. 

“Maybe he’s going for the smoker vote.”   

They watched the performance, not saying a word, Weecho wondering if he’d been caught by the same hidden camera when he was there. Or maybe it wasn’t turned on all the time, just for special occasions.    

When Gatchel paired off with the girl who had the bird tattooed on her ankle, Weecho almost said what a coincidence that was, caught himself in time. Another girl helped tattoo girl take off the rest of Gatchel’s clothes, and the three of them went at it.   

Weecho pointed. “That DVD is what Lynch and Yoon were talking about on that tape we got of them, that they turned Gatchel their way with. They set him up in the harem that night he stayed on the boat. Like how could anybody be more in their pocket?” 

“And now the pocket’s changed.” 

Which actually had started to occur to Weecho. DEA had the picture of him holding that bag of dope. Now he had Gatchel’s picture, a U.S. Senator, holding a whole lot more. 

The catch was that when the fire people sifted through the Petoria ashes and didn’t find any bodies, Lynch would know that Weecho was still around and would come after him and the DVD. A situation of who would get to who first. 

Gatchel and the girls finished their performance. Weecho went over and popped out the disc. “Somebody’s going to be coming for this.” 

“So hide it.” 

“Where?” 

His first thought was stash it there at the bungalow. But then he might not have a chance to get back in if Lynch showed up again. 

“What’s wrong with taking it to Alexey?” Juna said. 

Weecho didn’t like that idea either. “I’m not sure where his head is now. Something’s happening with Bigsby, the old guy who was here with Gatchel. But I don’t know what.” 

“Have you Googled him? Bigsby?” 

The obvious, of course – and of course he hadn’t. 

Weecho couldn’t go home to the loft, not if the cops or DEA or Lynch had it staked. Basically he couldn’t go anywhere – they all knew his face, had his description. 

Weecho looked at one of the bottles on the coffee table. “Hand me that peroxide.” 

                                                #          #          # 

Not many Cuban mulattoes have blond hair. Juna trimmed out the parts of Weecho’s that had gotten burned in the fire. When he saw himself in the bathroom mirror after they did the bleaching, he thought he looked like some kind of yellow cactus. 

Juna found a shirt and jeans jacket of Nina’s that Weecho could wear. Chances were that his would have drawn attention with bullet holes on both sides and blood.  

“Where are you going from here?” he asked. 

“I’ll know when I get to the bus terminal.” 

She didn’t want to fly with that duffle bag of money. They’d nail her at the first security check. Buses were more laid back about who they let on, and they didn’t care much what anybody carried. You could change direction at any stop and pay cash without a hassle. 

Juna bent down to pet the puppy. “What can we leave for him to eat? I gave him the last of the treats.” 

“I’ll call ASPCA in the morning,” Weecho said, “and tell them he’s here. We can leave the door unlocked. Tell them to look for Precious and the others.” Precious had chased after her litter when they ran from the store. 

The two of them could tell by looking at each other that neither of them liked that idea. Knew that a puppy couldn’t scrounge for itself the way a cat like Wanda could.  

“You have to make that call,” Juna said. “I’m serious.” 

“First thing tomorrow.” 

Juna pushed and squeezed the trash bag full of cash into the duffle bag. Weecho took the peroxide and iodine bottles out on the deck and tossed them into the channel. No sense leaving more of a trail than he had to. Balled up his blood-stained shirt and jacket to take with him and ditch somewhere along the way. Kept the Bacitracin.  

Juna came out of the bedroom and handed him a pair of oversize Armani shades. “These were on Nina’s dresser.” 

Weecho put them on and checked his new look in the mirror. Different, for sure. 

He still had the automatic pistol from the safe stuck in the back of his jeans. 

“You should have this,” he said, and started to pull the gun out. “You’re the one found it.”   

“Keep it,” Juna said. “You’ll need it more than I will.” 

They made one final check, blew out the candles, said their goodbyes to the puppy and closed the door on his cries. 

“Promise me you’ll make sure about him,” Juna said. 

“I will.” 

                                                #          #          # 

From the elevated A train platform they could see what was left of the Petoria fire – flames still licking up through the smoke, fire hose streams sweeping back and forth.  

Juna nudged Weecho, gave a nod past his patched-up shoulder. Slowly he turned around. The three Arab guys they saw at Petoria were down at the other end, dark eyes darting up and down the track, waiting for the train. Crotty must have gotten them through the gate with his MetroCard and given them some kind of directions. 

“Small world,” Weecho said. 

“Let’s get out of here.” 

They turned their backs to the threesome and went down the stairs. 

“Even if they knew who we were,” Weecho said, “all they want now is to clear out.” 

And he did have the gun. But probably they had at least one of their own.  

From across the street Weecho and Juna watched the train pulling in, saw the three men get aboard. 

“How long till the next one?” Juna asked. 

“We have some time.” 

They found a tree to sit under and leaned their backs against the duffle bag of cash. For a few minutes just stayed quiet. 

“Question,” Juna finally said. 

“What’s that?” 

“That scene with the girls we saw on the DVD…” 

The disc was still in Weecho’s pocket. 

“What about it?” he said. 

“How did you know it was on Yoon’s yacht?” 

Unless he’d been in the harem himself. Which he’d made sure not to tell her. 

She never missed a trick. 

                                                #          #          # 

New York’s Port Authority Bus Terminal is a monument to gloom. The diesel fumes and public address squawk helped take some of the edge off saying goodbye to somebody Weecho knew he’d never see again. 

They’d taken the A train to midtown, had breakfast at an all-night coffee shop, and now Juna was about to get on a Greyhound headed south (first stop Newark, then Baltimore, and on down the line). She was taking the duffle bag aboard with her, figuring she could squeeze it into the overhead rack, not letting it out of her sight. 

“You won’t forget to call about the dog,” she said, moving with the line.   

“I’ll remember,” Weecho said, shuffling along with her. “I wish you’d change your mind.” 

Probably the tenth time he’d said it. 

“I’ll know where to find you if I do,” Juna said. 

She’d gotten to him. They’d made heat. He really liked her. 

“There’s a stopover in Richmond,” Weecho said. “You can buy a gun there.” 

“That’s a very sweet thought.” 

A couple of more steps and they were at the boarding gate. Juna let the guy tear the stub off her ticket, turned back to Weecho. 

“Goodbye, and be good.” 

Weecho didn’t know what to do. 

Juna lifted the shades she’d given him, looked into his eyes, kissed him on the lips like she did the first time. Gave him a hug and touched the shoulder she’d stitched. 

“Take care of this,” she said, and turned for the bus. 

The guy loading baggage went to take her duffle, but Weecho could see her tell him hands off.   

Before she got on she gave him a little wave – then was gone up the steps with her bag full of hundreds of thousands of dollars.