“And if we can’t?” Ash asked.
“Then we get tossed out with the wash,” Dead-Eye said. He began to walk away from the hangar, the plumes of brown smoke behind him thinning out and covering the length of the tarmac. “But he’s always been a cautious man, careful not to rush to a judgment on business matters. Right now, he’s still not sure who’s playing him: is it us or is it the G-Men? Until he’s sure, he’ll need to hold his hand.”
“Or even better for us if he gets the bug in his ear that the G-Men are fronting us the dough to run our operation,” Boomer said. “Then that’s an even bigger headache thrown his way.”
“We can’t beat either crew full-out, take them down head-on,” Dead-Eye said. “So we need help from their side. They work and play in a world without trust, and we have to use that to our advantage best we can.”
“Who’s fronting us the money for our operation?” Ash asked. “I saw enough carpenters and electricians in that burnt-out pizzeria the other day, I thought we were going condo. They can’t all be ex-cops out on a favor run.”
“More like a half dozen ex-cons tacking the hours on to some developer’s tab,” Boomer said, reaching the driver’s side of his car, which was parked behind the hangar. “Angel and the G-Men go down, let’s say. Somebody has to step into that void, fill the demand hole. Now, that’s one somebody who would look to help a group of somebodies like us.”
“That’s crossing a line, if nothing else,” Ash said, holding open a rear door. “You have to admit to that, at least.”
Boomer looked at Dead-Eye for a few moments and then turned to Ash. “We’ve never looked at any line,” he said. “We only saw who was standing on the other side of it and we went after them, both on the job and off. Far as I can see, there’s no other way to get it done.”
“There anything you won’t do?” Ash said. “To get what you want done?”
Boomer looked away from Ash and gazed at the smoke and flames down the tarmac at his back and shook his head. “Nothing that comes to mind,” he said. Then he got behind the wheel, kicked over the engine, and drove down the smoldering tarmac toward the rear exit.
18
Andy Victorino was walking down a side street in lower Manhattan when he saw the dark blue sedan turn the corner and come to a quick stop next to a fire hydrant. Buttercup was by his side, seemingly indifferent to her surroundings, her eyes glazed and droopy. Andy slowed his walk, watching the four men jump from the sedan and head his way, moving at a clip that was much too fast to fit such a quiet morning. They were well dressed and determined, weighed down by guns and the hungry look of up-and-comers eager to make that rush move on the crime ladder. Andy eased Buttercup closer to the curb, standing between a parked car and a dented meat truck, open back doors exposing rows of hanging hindquarters. The street was lined with storefronts and wholesale outlets, one of those downtown streets with a cobbled roadway that seemed locked and sealed from an era when pushcarts and peddlers sold their goods to an array of newly arrived immigrants. The soot-stained tenements directly above the stores had either been converted into office space for the shops beneath them or remained as rent-controlled housing for tenants who had lived there since birth.
The four men broke off into pairs. The two leading the charge toward Andy hit the curb and crossed over to the sidewalk on his right. The other two came down the center of the street, dodging the occasional passing truck or car, hands jammed inside the open flaps of their jackets.
“Ready when you are,” Andy said, looking down at the drowsy Buttercup and giving her a gentle tap on the head. “And if you get a flashback, remember, I’m the one that’s on your side.”
Buttercup moved away from Andy and walked down the center of the street with a slow and confident strut, like an old gunslinger ready for the next drawdown, heading directly for the two men in her path. Andy turned and jumped up into the meat truck and braced himself against the side of a 250-pound hindquarter, fresh drops of blood soiling the sawdust floor at his feet. He eased two .44s from the back of his tight blue jeans and checked his watch.
It was twenty minutes past six on a chilly Thursday morning in late April, and Andy Victorino, a forensic specialist with a deadly disease working its wretched madness through his young body, had not yet had his first cup of coffee.
The two men on the sidewalk were the first to pull their weapons and aim them up at the truck. They waited until they were within ten feet of the meat truck, gave a quick glance to the curious faces looking back out at them from inside the safety of the stores, and aimed their guns in Andy’s direction.
“Pull on that trigger and you’ll drop like a bad stock,” Dead-Eye said to them, locking the men in their place.
He was right above them, standing on a rusty fire escape, his feet spread and wedged against the thin red bars for support. From inside the truck, Andy whirled and turned to face the other two men. They were now frozen in place in the middle of the empty street, with Buttercup herding them as if they were lost sheep, her teeth exposed, a heavy and low growl coming from deep inside her throat. “Try not to look scared,” Andy shouted at them. “It turns her on, and then there’s no stopping her from ripping out the bones in your legs.”
At the other end of the street, Boomer walked out of a pork store and stepped in behind the two men. “There’s a diner just around the corner on Little West Twelfth,” he said to them. “We can all of us head over there, pocket our weapons, and sit and talk it out. Or we can play Cowboys and Indians out here in the morning light. It’s too early for me to make any decisions, so I’ll leave it to you and your friends. And while you’re tossing it around, add this in. There are two high-powered rifles with two very itchy fingers locked onto their triggers, aimed at each of your heads.”
“They sent four of us this time,” the oldest of the group said. He was a middle-aged man with a connect-the-dots face. “You waste us and next time they’ll send forty and wipe the streets with your fucking blood.”
“That may well be true,” Boomer said. “But what do you give a shit? You won’t be alive to hear the story.”
“What you got to say inside a diner can’t be said out here on the street?” he asked. “You hard up for eating company?”
“Hookers talk business on the street,” Boomer said. “Not me. And besides, Buttercup hasn’t had her first meal of the day yet. She doesn’t see a chow bowl real soon, she’s going to have to revert to Plan B. Which is to say you.”
The pockmarked man looked down at Buttercup, who stood inches away, blocking his path, thick white foam edging down the corners of her mouth. He turned to the man next to him and nodded. “There’s no need for all of us to go in,” he said. “How about we leave it to just you and me? Have everybody else take a chill pill and kick it back while we talk. Work for you?”
“It does only if you’re the one in the group carries the most weight with the Gonzalez boys,” Boomer said. “Otherwise, I’ll take a Pasadena on the meeting.”
“I’m the one you want,” he said.
“That leaves just one last thing for me to know, then,” Boomer said.
“What?”
“Eggs or pancakes?” Boomer asked.
Rev. Jim had made his way down from the tenement rooftop and stood next to Dead-Eye on the fire escape, each with a full-chamber weapon in hand, the early-morning sun drenching the now busy street two stories below them. “I have a funny feeling that you and me need to have ourselves a little chitchat,” Rev. Jim said. “And it does appear that we have a few minutes of kill time coming to us.”
Dead-Eye turned his back to the street and holstered his weapon. “That does seem to be the case,” he said. “But this might only be part one of the conversation. Once we’re done, you might have to move it on to the next badge in the line.”
“You got a name in mind?” Rev. Jim asked. “Or will just any old badge make the magic happen?”
“Sean Valentine,” Dead-Eye said, staring hard across the
fire escape at Rev. Jim. “He’s a captain now, working out of the Plaza. Back in the day, two of you worked undercover decoy and saw some narc action to boot, were in steady tandem for about eight months, give or take.”
“I remember, though I’ve spent a lot of useless time trying to wash the taste out,” Rev. Jim said. “He was knee-deep in dirty deeds when we worked together. Doubt he has any reason to change course now that he’s down in headquarters. There any special request you want me to pass his way?”
“He’s on our tail, working for Angel through some highbrow middleman,” Dead-Eye said. “And the only link between us and him is you.”
“You think I feed him about the team?” Rev. Jim asked. “Is that what all your Dick Tracy bullshit is about?”
“It’s a starting point,” Dead-Eye said. “You seem out of sorts, especially this early in the game. That Q&A crap you cranked up at the dinner table the other night with Quincy was just one of the red flags.”
“Those questions needed to be asked,” Rev. Jim said. “There was a time you would have been the one asking them. But since you didn’t grab a bat and make a move toward home plate, it was left to me to do it.”
“Maybe so,” Dead-Eye said. “Or maybe that’s the kind of talk you reserve for a one-on-one, much like you and me are doing now. There was no need to call him out about it in front of the team.”
“What he has affects the whole team,” Rev. Jim said. “Not just me.”
“So does you having a history with a prime-time dirt badge,” Dead-Eye said. “I get some clear answers, then I can move forward with a clear head.”
“And if you don’t like what you hear?” Rev. Jim asked.
“I hope I don’t have to reach out that far,” Dead-Eye said. “You’re an important member of this team, and I want to keep it that way. But there’s too many high-calibers aimed at our heads as it is. We don’t need one at our backs, too.”
“I’m not dirty, Dead-Eye, and I never was,” Rev. Jim said. “And fuck you for thinking it. I worked in the same unit with Valentine, that part is true, but I stayed as clear away from his end of the water as he did from mine. I knew he took, and he knew I didn’t. That’s the plain and the simple of it all.”
“Did he know about you being hooked up with us the first time around?” Dead-Eye asked.
“He did if he read a newspaper or listened to the cop talk in the locker rooms,” Rev. Jim said. “We didn’t exactly succeed at keeping it on the low and down.”
“Which means he would figure you to be in the next card game as well,” Dead-Eye said. “And that makes you the hand he reaches out for when he feels a need.”
“Well, he hasn’t felt it yet or I would have been the first to hear,” Rev. Jim said. “Either way, it won’t do him much good, since him and me have nothing to share.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Rev.,” Dead-Eye said with a smile. “Off-the-charts wrong.”
“I just told you I’m not dirty, and that’s the last I want to hear of this shit,” Rev. Jim said, his anger reaching full-volume pitch. “You want me off this team, just say the fucking words and I’m gone like a ghost. I’m not here for an ego boost, but I’m not here to take a kick to the nuts, either. Especially from you.”
“I know you’re clean, that wasn’t my concern,” Dead-Eye said. “I just needed to make sure you were up for another go-around on the hard turf. Our little head-to-head here gave me the answer to that.”
“Good to know,” Rev. Jim said. “Now I can die with a smile on my face. You got anything else to throw at me or you through playing judge and jury for the day?”
“Just one more question—I mean, while we’re talking up here and all,” Dead-Eye said. “I mean, shit, Boomer never leaves a diner unless he’s had three cups of coffee and he’s old-lady slow drinking it.”
“Let me hear it, then,” Rev. Jim said. “But I warn you, if it goes to a place that makes me twitch, you and me are going to go at it right here and right now on this piece-of-shit fire escape.”
“Fair enough,” Dead-Eye said, stepping in closer to Rev. Jim. “Here it is, then. What if Valentine did reach out, and what if you acted as if you were interested? Not a quick yes, mind you. That might cause him to raise his antennas a bit. But a slow and easy dance that would lead him to think you’re open to the idea. You game for a little something along those lines?”
“If it has a sound purpose,” Rev. Jim said, “it’s not something I would toss a wad of spit on.”
“He’s sure to be driving up our asses, sooner than later,” Dead-Eye said. “We could slow him up a bit if we had a pair of hands on his steering wheel. Make him think he went and made himself a trustable friend from among our group. Give him a couple of head fakes on what we got working against the dealers.”
“That will only work once, twice maybe if I go in with the luck of a lotto winner,” Rev. Jim said. “If the goods don’t match the sales pitch, Valentine will bark louder than crazy old Buttercup.”
“You’ll give him some of the wine, just not a full glass,” Dead-Eye said. “Play it like I brought it to you here. Plans are made by only me and Boomer; rest of the group is kept out of the decision loop. You’re working under a cloud, batteries are low on your trust meter. Shit along those lines. He’s been there himself ever since he slapped on a tin, so you’ll be walking with a fellow traveler.”
“Might be good to get something back from him we could use,” Rev. Jim said. “If we’re going in this deep, let’s take it as far as it’ll go.”
“We can’t wire you up, he’ll go in looking for that,” Dead-Eye said. “But if he lets you decide on the meeting sites, then maybe we can set it up that way. I know a guy can drop a wire not even Clark Kent could see if he were staring right at it.”
“It’ll be harder if we end up with our meetings held outside,” Rev. Jim said. “Which is more than likely where he’ll want them. I’ll try and make sure if that’s the case we get together at night. Try and give your guy as much room to work as I can.”
“Us nailing Valentine is the second limb on the tree,” Dead-Eye said. “The top branch is making sure he doesn’t nail us.”
“You seem pretty confident he’ll make a reach-out for me,” Rev. Jim said. “That more of your gut, or do you have some intel to back up the words?”
“A skunk can take a three-hour shower,” Dead-Eye said. “But when he towels off he’s still a skunk. Connect the dots is all I did. He’s on Angel’s payroll, and he’s a cop. We’re out to fuck up Angel and we used to be cops. And the two of you shared a workspace. He’ll come looking to take you out on a date soon enough.”
“My history with dates is not exactly stellar,” Rev. Jim said. “The only time I ever get fucked is when I pick up a tab in a restaurant I can’t afford.”
“I got a strong feeling your luck’s about to change for the better,” Dead-Eye said. “It goes the way it should and a break or two falls your way, then you for sure will fuck Sean Valentine, dinner or no. Just don’t expect him to send you a dozen roses in the morning.”
“That’s okay,” Rev. Jim said. “I hate flowers.”
“And I hate Sean Valentine,” Dead-Eye said.
“You’re not going to finish your pie?” Boomer asked the pockmarked man. “They bake it fresh here every day. It’s not that trucked-in shit you get in diners.”
“Fuck the pie and spill your piece,” the pockmarked man said. “I didn’t come here to eat. I came to listen.”
Boomer took a long sip of coffee and nodded. “There’s no reason for the G-Men to come gunning for us,” he said. “That’s something you should put on a plate and run under your bosses’ noses before we go back out on that street and draw down on each other.”
“And let you keep fuckin’ with as many cash and coke deals you feel like bustin’ up?” he said. “We got off our immigrant boat at night, but not last night, understand?”
“Yeah,” Boomer said. “But here’s what doesn’t com
e across my radar. The deals that have been busted don’t touch your crew. They belong to Angel, and the last time I looked his picture up the G-Men had a bull’s-eye painted on it.”
“It’s pain management, my friend,” the pockmarked man said. “The G-Men have been top guns through two different mayors in this town. One way of doing that is to always be aware of the situation. So, yes, whoever burnt those recent deals put a deep dent in Angel’s wallet, not in ours. But that ex-padre is going to be looking for a get-even bite, and it is toward us that he will eventually turn.”
“But why do it now?” Boomer asked. “So long as we’re in the movie, all his attention is going to be wide-screen on us. I can’t sit here right now and tell you we’ll win this fight by a knockout, but for sure we’ll put that bastard on his knees. Which, by the by, will make him a very easy takedown for the two brothers who pay your salary.”
“Are you telling me that you have no plans to hit G-Men business?” he asked. “That you got eyes only for Angel?”
“Angel is our primary,” Boomer said. “If we hit any of your works, it’s by accident and not design. We got our share of street eyes and ears out there, but not enough to pick up who’s on both ends of a deal. You toss us a heads-up now and then, I’ll make it a point to stay clear.”
“And what’s the game plan after you squeeze out Angel?” he asked. “Say, as a for instance, you and the other Crips get a bite of lucky and beat back his holy ass. That’s high-seven turf you’ll be stepping into—shit that will make you richer than the Beverly Hillbillies. There ain’t a lot of people taking in air, on either side of the table, be willing and able to walk from a top-of-the-ladder score big as that.”
“That’s not my style and never has been,” Boomer said. “If I wanted to cop some real money, I would have done it a long time ago—and in a way that wouldn’t have put a floodlight on my ass. I don’t want Angel’s money or his domain, and I could give a rat’s dick which crew, yours or some other Wild Bunch, ends up with it.”