Virgil said, “I’m going deep and cold. These are new tanks and perfect. You think your guy could bump that to thirty-three hundred?”
“I could ask him,” she said.
* * *
They bought the necessary valves for the two tanks, one left- and one right-handed, the manifold that joined them, harnesses and miscellaneous attachment rings for the plate, a wrench kit that would handle all the various nuts that held things together. They added an “octopus,” which included a breathing mouthpiece and hoses to inflate and deflate the wing, a very expensive Perdix dive computer with an effective electronic compass and two Bluetooth transmitters that would read the tank pressures, a seven-millimeter wet suit, full-length dive skins for warmer water, two short, tight Speedo swimsuits, goggles, fins, snorkel, three flashlights, a titanium line cutter, and, because Virgil once needed them and didn’t have them, a pair of wire cutters.
Lange had been looking at dive knives, but Virgil told him he really wouldn’t have a use for one. Lange was disappointed, so Virgil got the largest, most expensive titanium knife he could find. “In case you run into a barracuda,” Lange said.
“In case I walk by a pawn shop,” Virgil said.
The store could deliver a top-of-the-line Genesis DPV in two days for $8,000.
* * *
Regio said that was “fine,” and at the end, he went out to the truck, came back with a briefcase, and gave the saleswoman $13,000 in hundred-dollar bills and $460 in twenties. She looked at the money with something like hunger, and then at Regio, Lange, and Virgil with something like doubt, but said nothing. She took the bills, said, “Give me a few minutes,” went into a back room and came back in a few minutes with a smile on her face. “We’re good,” she said. She gave Regio $6.50 in change. “Where are you guys diving?”
“We’re actually exporting this stuff to a rich guy who’s got this private island over in the Bahamas,” Virgil said. “You ought to see his boat. It’s basically a ship.”
“So it’s not for you?”
“I wish,” Virgil said. “He told me to get the best. We’re the same size, so I can buy it for him, but I’m going to be wearing junk when I give him his lessons.”
They agreed to pick up the two tanks, banded together, filled and certified, when they got the Genesis.
Out in the car, Lange said to Virgil, “Good story about the rich guy in the Bahamas. You’re kind of a natural con man.”
“I try. Listen . . . what you said back in the apartment, about your folks coming from the old country. Are you guys in the Mafia?” Virgil asked.
Regio laughed, and then asked, “What makes you think that?”
“What you said. And you both look sort of Italian, and your name is Regio, which sounds sort of Italian . . .”
Lange: “So what?”
“I dunno,” Virgil said. “I was wondering, if you’re Italian, why don’t you have Italian names? Marc and Matt don’t sound like, you know . . .”
Regio turned to look at Virgil: “My great-grandfather got to New York a hundred and twenty years ago. Nobody’s been back to Italy since then. So what the fuck do you think they’d name me—Pinocchio?”
“Just wondering,” Virgil said. “No offense.”
* * *
Lange and Regio helped carry the dive gear up to the apartment, where they were met by a stoned Rae who was watching a jewelry sale on QVC.
“Fuckin’ place doesn’t look like it’d have cable,” Regio said.
“It doesn’t,” Rae said. “This is over-the-air.”
Regio blinked. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
* * *
They agreed that Regio and Lange wouldn’t have to go along when Virgil picked up the DPV and the tanks. “Three days from now, we want to see you on Key Largo at a place called Sunrise Dive,” Lange said. “We’ll be riffin’ on your Bahamas rich-man story. We’re going to put you with a dive instructor to evaluate your . . . abilities. We’ll tell her that story about you being hired by the rich guy to teach him how to be a pro diver.”
“A test,” Virgil said.
“Damn straight,” Regio said. “Don’t even think about hocking that gear and running back to Iowa. We got guys in Iowa.”
Rae handed Virgil a joint and he took a long pull at it, wrenched his face into a model of stoned sincerity, and let some smoke roll out of his lungs. “You said a million bucks. I’d kill your mother for a million bucks. Both your mothers.”
Rae said, “Shit, we’d kill Willy’s mother for a million bucks, the racist old bitch.”
Lange said, “We’ll see you in Key Largo. We’ll call you tomorrow with the time.”
“If you’ve got this other diver, the one who’s gonna test me, then why me?” Virgil asked.
“She’s not with us. She’s somebody we checked on, a dive instructor. Jack talked to her to see if she could do this kind of evaluation. She could. But watch your mouth when you’re around her.”
“Three days,” Rae said. And: “Listen . . . you guys wanna get high?”
Regio put up a hand: “I’m a Scotch guy. I don’t even like the smell of that shit. Smells like wet burning leaves back in Jersey.”
* * *
When Regio and Lange had gone, Virgil called Lucas: “We got the real deal, man. These are the dope guys. I don’t know if they were involved in killing the Coast Guardsmen, but they could have been. Put them in the right clothes and they fit the descriptions.”
“Good work. When you were in the scuba place we put a locator on their Lexus. We’d be following them right now, except they drove up the block, did a U-turn, and are sitting on the street watching your door.”
“Don’t let them see you. This’ll be tricky enough without them smelling something wrong.”
“We’re cool.”
“I know that you are. I’m worried about me.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
For the next two days, Virgil and Rae walked and drove around Hollywood and Fort Lauderdale, and went shopping at a downscale mall where Rae bought high-heeled sandals and Virgil got a T-shirt that showed a picture of a guitar with a caption that said, old musicians never die, they just decompose.
Late on the second day, Virgil picked up the Genesis DPV and the freshly filled tanks at Scuba City, and spent the evening rigging the backplate and wing so he’d be ready to dive. The day after that, with Rae driving the old Subaru, they headed south through the concrete canyons of Miami to the Florida Keys.