“You would be pleasantly surprised to know what a cure our proposed transaction can be for my tired old body,” Theresa said in a firm voice, her eyes on the rosary beads resting on her fingers. “And, at the very least, I anticipate feeling two decades younger the closer we get to finalizing all the details.”
“There isn’t much left to do,” Angel said. “You will transfer the money to the accounts stipulated in the last meeting between our attorneys—five million total, American dollars, low denominations, no bills newer than four years. And I, in turn, will transfer over to you one hundred kilos of cocaine and have them distributed as per your agreed-upon specifications.”
“And I have your guarantee that the street value of the cocaine will be in the neighborhood of fifteen to twenty million,” Theresa said, slowly turning her gaze from her hands and up to Angel. “And, I assure you, you will be held to that guarantee. Not one dollar less.”
“Ease up on the threats, old woman,” Angel said, standing and gazing down at Theresa. “I’m not in the mood. How much you earn from the drugs you buy from me is totally dependent on the skill levels of the crews you have in place. If they can slice it and dance on it enough times and sell large quantities in silk markets at high tide, then you will hit your target goal. If they can’t, you won’t. Either way, it’s not something that will ever pop up on my radar. I will be long gone from your rearview once the total numbers are in.”
“There was a time I would have had you beheaded for speaking to me in such a tone,” Theresa said.
“And there was a time I would have heard your confession and sent you home with a blessing,” Angel said. “But both our universe and our places in it have changed. So my offer stands firm. Five million in cash in return for one hundred kilos of my finest. Take it or toss it—your choice, so long as you make it this very second with the knowledge that once rejected it will never be brought back to your table. At least not at the same bargain price.”
Theresa folded her dark rosary beads and dropped them into the pocket of her widow’s dress. She slowly lifted herself off her knees and turned to face Angel. “The cash will be in place before end of business tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll alert my runners to be on guard for a large and valuable shipment. And if this all moves as smooth as it no doubt should, I look forward to seeing you in church on a fairly regular basis.”
Angel nodded and smiled. “With pleasure,” he said. “I would even hear your confession if you liked.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Theresa said, turning to walk down the aisle, her thick shoes echoing off the marble floor. “But, as you yourself so clearly stated, our two universes have shifted. I will come to you only for the purpose of conducting business. I will find a priest if I feel a need to confess any sins I might have committed.”
“Do you confess them all?” Angel asked. “Or simply the convenient ones?”
Theresa stopped and turned. “I confess the ones I feel most require the Lord’s forgiveness,” she said in a voice laced with anger. “As well as the ones for which I feel the greatest remorse.”
“Does that include the recent death of your husband?” Angel asked. He took several steps closer to Theresa, hands by his sides, at ease inside this place.
“My Alberto died of a rare blood disorder,” Theresa said, her right hand clutching the curled edge of a brown pew. “The only remorse I feel is in no longer having him at my side.”
“If that is indeed the case and he died as you say, you have my sympathy,” Angel said with a sarcastic smirk. “I should learn not to give much weight to the street gossip that has become so much a part of our business.”
“That would be wise,” Theresa said with a stern nod of her head. “It would prevent you from saying anything foolish and may even save your life.”
“Or prevent me from taking one,” Angel said.
Theresa stared at the ex-priest and nodded. “I have lived a long life in a trade not known to embrace experience,” she said. “And that is neither idle gossip nor talk. Nor is it luck. It is simple fact.”
“There’s always a reason buried behind such a fact,” Angel said. “What is yours?”
“I make sure the first bullet fired is always from the end of my gun,” Theresa said.
3
Boomer moved down the alley, lowered his body, and released the ball, watching it roll down the lane and crash against the pins with force, sending all ten sprawling. He walked back to the table and sat next to Natalie, watching as she penciled in his strike.
“One fifty-seven for you and thirty-three for me,” she said, leaning back against the tattered leather bench. “But we have three frames to go, so there’s still hope.”
“A glimmer at least,” Boomer said. “I’m guessing bowling doesn’t rank high on the sports agenda back in Russia.”
“If it’s not violent or fast, we’re not interested,” Natalie said.
“Cops seem to love it,” Boomer said. “When I was on the job, I played in the NYPD league. The only time I missed any of my team’s games was when I was too banged up to get out of a hospital bed.”
“Another reason, I suppose, for me not to enjoy the sport,” Natalie said. “I try not to spend too much time in the company of cops.”
“I’m glad you made an exception in my case,” Boomer said.
“You’re not a cop anymore, remember?” she said.
“Barely,” Boomer said.
Natalie looked around at the long alley, all lights out and lanes shuttered except for theirs. “How did you manage to get in here in the middle of the night?” she asked. “Or is that something I would be better off not knowing?”
Boomer smiled. “It’s all in who you know,” he said. “My brother owns the place, lets me come in and play whenever I want. I usually like it better when I have it to myself.”
“And how did I manage to earn an invitation to your party?” Natalie asked.
“I wanted to make sure I played against someone I knew I could beat,” Boomer said with a half smile. “And I also needed to key you in on something.”
“I assume it has nothing to do with bowling,” she said.
Natalie stood and walked around the one lit lane before turning back to face Boomer. Her dark hair was hanging down loose around her shoulders, teasing the white collar of a designer shirt, its flaps pulled over a pair of tight-fitting jeans. Orange-colored bowling shoes wrapped up the outfit. It was hard for Boomer not to be distracted by her sheer beauty, and he knew that she was aware of her effect.
“I’m going to make a move against the SAs,” he told her. “Go at them heavy as I can for as long as I can.”
“I know,” Natalie said.
“So much for a poker face,” Boomer said.
“It’s one of the traits cops share with criminals,” Natalie said. “At least those who operate at our levels. You can always see the need for revenge in their eyes. They are incapable of masking it.”
“We’re not going to touch any of your operations,” Boomer said. “And if by chance we do, just know it was not intentional. Our beef is not with the Russians.”
“At least not this time,” Natalie said with a shrug. “In our business, there’s always a down-the-road waiting for us both.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Boomer said. “I don’t have that many more fights in me.”
“I know how strong the crews you’re going to face are,” she said. “How will you match against them?”
“Not well,” Boomer said. “But we’ll bring down more than our share.”
“You could do much more than that if you had help,” Natalie said. “It’s no secret that I’m not a fan of the SAs, and they feel the same about me. We would both be working toward the same goal, only for different reasons.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Boomer said. She was standing close to him, her hips brushing against the scoring table. “But I’m not ready to make that move just yet.”
“Then there isn’t much else
I can do for you,” Natalie said. “But the offer will stand, yours for the asking.”
“There is something you can do,” Boomer said, a smile on his face, his eyes locked in on hers.
“What?” she asked.
“Give me one more game,” Boomer said. “I’ll even spot you thirty pins.”
“Only if we play for something,” she said. “I’m always better if I know there’s a chance to come away with a prize.”
“Fair enough,” Boomer said. “Winner’s call, and anything goes.”
“You have yourself a deal, Detective,” Natalie said.
4
Boomer and Dead-Eye leaned against the mesh cage of the police K-9 compound unit. Rev. Jim stood across from them, sipping from a container of black coffee. “Neither one of you two ever struck me as the Lassie-come-home type,” he said.
“We’re not,” Boomer said.
“And Lassie was no cop,” Dead-Eye said. “Just a collie with a lot of free time. Rin Tin Tin, now that fucker was a cop.”
“Still, both were dogs,” Rev. Jim said. “And we’re looking for partners, not pets. At least that’s what I read on the last memo I got.”
“You allergic to dogs?” Dead-Eye asked. “Or just afraid of them?”
“Both,” Rev. Jim said.
The gate behind them was unlatched by a short, stocky bald man in a police sergeant’s uniform. “I’m guessing you’re the guys Fast Freddie was running off the mouth about,” the man said, offering a stubby hand to Boomer and a nod and a smile to Dead-Eye and Rev. Jim. “I had heard some about what you did a few years back, and I have to give the tip of the cap to you for even trying a ballsy move like that. Now, I don’t know what you’re lining up to do next, but whatever it is and wherever it is Buttercup is the one you most want on your side of the door.”
“What’s a Buttercup?” Rev. Jim asked.
“She’s a full-bred Neapolitan bullmastiff,” the bald man said, flaunting his pride. “Weighs in at a solid hundred and twenty-five pounds—mostly muscle, fat only where it’s needed. I’ve been working the K-9 teams going on eight years now. I’ve seen my share of good ones and a handful of near-greats. But no one comes near Buttercup. She’s Hall of Fame great.”
“Skully?” Boomer said, gazing at the name tag pinned across the front of the man’s button-down. “You any relation to Ralph Skully from the two-eight?”
“He was my dad,” the bald man said. “Died on the job nine years ago this month. Was taken down in a drug bust that hit a sour note in the East Bronx.”
“I know,” Boomer said. “Me and Dead-Eye were backups on the job. We rode in the unmarked with him, trying to get him over to Mercy Hospital. I’m sorry we didn’t make it in time. If I had to bet, I’d say he was as good a father as he was a cop.”
“If it matters to you,” Dead-Eye said, “the dealer that shot him got his own funeral about a week later. Only his didn’t come with a flag and an honor guard.”
“It does matter,” Skully said.
“What kind of dog are we getting?” Boomer asked. “What I’m asking is, she up to what we need her to do?”
“I won’t lie to you,” Skully said. “This last job, the one that retired her, cost her big time. She’s got one lung, which slows her down quite a bit—especially given her weight and size. And her right rear leg acts up at times, locks when she’s in full run. That happens, she turns still as a statue.”
“Can she still smell out the dope?” Dead-Eye asked.
“She hasn’t had to for a while,” Skully said. “But that’s an instinct she’ll never lose, and there’s a potential problem there, too.”
“How so?” Boomer asked.
“In her time, no dog took on more drug work than Buttercup,” Skully said. “That level of work goes hand in hand with a certain level of risk. She’s sniffed more than her fair share of high-end powder and that can, in turn, make her behavior erratic. She could have an occasional flashback and maybe snap a bit. Me? I don’t think it’s that big a risk, but I can’t let you leave here without knowing the full truth. I don’t need to draw you a full-color map. You get the picture.”
“Kodak clear,” Rev. Jim said. “Old Buttercup’s a walking, growling time bomb. One that needs to be fed more than a foreign weight lifter, walked whenever the need arises, and have her shit picked up twice a day.”
“She also gets a nice paycheck and has all her vet bills covered by the city,” Skully said with a back-at-you tone.
“That how it works with K-9s?” Dead-Eye asked.
“In some cases, not all,” Skully said. “It’s done at the discretion of the commish and the heavy medals down at One Police Plaza. If it’s determined that a dog has gone above and beyond, then they use pull funds from the set-aside money and dole out a monthly stipend in accordance with the rank she’s assigned. Given the number of cases and the high-wire danger Buttercup had a hand in, I’d say she did pretty well for herself.”
“How well?” Boomer asked.
“They retired her as gold shield with her own tin and number,” Skully said, chest slightly puffed out, as if he were talking about one of his own kids earning an Ivy League diploma. “She collects a three-quarter disability pension that comes out to about twelve thousand a year. Enough to feed her prime-cut organic dog food and bottled spring water.”
“Who gets the money?” Dead-Eye asked.
“Whoever takes care of her,” Skully said. “Right now, it’s me. If you decide to bring her into your squad, I can sign her over to you or leave it as is and send you the checks as they come in. Your call on that end.”
“Let’s take a long, slow breath here,” Rev. Jim said, taken slightly aback by the direction of the conversation. “And I mean no disrespect at all to Buttercup. I’m sure she’s really a great dog and a penthouse narc. But a gold shield and a pension for a dog? And a three-quarter, tax-free one at that? Doesn’t that seem a little off to you guys?”
“Cop’s a cop,” Dead-Eye said. “Whether she walks on two legs or four. This dog put in her time and dropped her share of blood on the way out, same as us. Far as I can see, she has more than earned her keep, at least to my way of thinking it out.”
“How long she been off the job?” Boomer asked.
“Six months, give or take a day,” Skully said. “She spent three of those at the animal hospital downtown until she was strong enough to get around on her own. Once she jumped that hurdle, I brought her down here with me. I take her to work every day. Figure if she can’t be a K-9 out on the streets, being around them on a regular shift plays out to the next best way to go.”
“I can’t tell you what we have working,” Boomer said. “Works better if you do a Mister Clean on that part. But I can tell you it’s going to be a lot heavier weight than a bodega buy-and-bust. And you know enough about the action end of the business to figure the survival rate doesn’t make us insurance candidates. Not everybody’s going to make it back home, tucked and washed. You need to know at least that much before you trade her to our team.”
“Right now, way I see it she’ll finish whatever years she’s got left hanging around an office, watching other police dogs head out to do the work she was born and bred to do, and too many days of that shit will kill her faster than a drug dealer’s bullet. Now, I figure you’ll head out for deep waters and cast your line for some big fish. No point in going out to do any of this shit if you were looking to hit some end-of-the-line crew.”
“Now that I hear it said out loud, it doesn’t sound at all bad,” Dead-Eye said with a soft chuckle. “Disabled cops against disabled crooks. I could see us coming out of that head-to-head with a solid win.”
“And if you did, you wouldn’t have any need for a K-9 with Buttercup’s skills,” Skully said. “You guys are big-market players, searching out the heavy takedowns and the page-one busts. And those are the kind of jobs that don’t fall easy and always total out to high body counts. The kind of jobs Buttercup was born to fight in.
And if she’s going to die in the process, then she’ll go down the way she was meant to. Like a cop.”
“We are still talking about a dog here, am I right?” Rev. Jim asked, not bothering to hide his smile. “Or did I miss a detour on the road coming down?”
“From here on, I don’t want you to even think of Buttercup as a dog,” Boomer said with a look at Rev. Jim and a nod to both Dead-Eye and Skully.
“Let me take a stab at a guess,” Rev. Jim said. “She can go undercover, too, and make a conga line of coke addicts think she’s really a cat?”
“Buttercup is now officially an Apache,” Boomer said. “She is now one of us.”
“All right, then, Skully,” Dead-Eye said, slapping his hands together. “Let’s put a shake to it. I think it’s time we all went and met the bitch.”
Rev. Jim laughed. “That’s Detective Bitch to you!”
5
The airport runway was pitch dark, the rustling of the weeds and high grass the only noise breaking across an otherwise silent night. In the distance, a long, thin line of blue, yellow, and green landing lights were shrouded in evening mist, and the muted moans and groans of small-craft engines were muffled by thick gray clouds passing overhead.
“I fucking love nights like these,” Carlos McEntire said, cigarette smoke flowing out his mouth and nostrils. “You can do anything you want when the weather turns this way. Get your cock sucked, pump a dozen bullets into some loser’s back, close on a big deal and nobody can see shit. It’s like being invisible. I tell you true, you find me a city has weather like this day in, day out, twenty-four-seven, I’d set up shop there in a heart tick, no bullshit.”
“You feel all that strong, you would have been better off hooking up with that fucker Dracula than with us,” Freddie Gonzalez said, laughing as he elbow-nudged his brother, Hector, in the rib cage. “The way I’m listening, you got a lot more in common with that coffin-hugger than you do with either one of us.”