Ash looked over Dead-Eye’s shoulder at a black four-door Benz that had slowed to a halt in the right-hand lane, red hazard lights flashing, the engine running on idle. “Speaking of shit,” she said, “it looks like our little band of brothers has finally arrived.”
Dead-Eye turned just as Robles stepped out of the back seat, followed by one man from the passenger side and a second from behind the wheel. The driver popped the trunk and pulled out three red cones and lined them up behind the Benz, alerting the oncoming traffic to switch lanes. Robles stepped onto the walkway and moved slowly toward Dead-Eye and Ash. He was wearing a pin-striped suit, with shoes shiny enough to help guide a man’s shave. He had an expensive brown topcoat slung over his shoulders and a small cigar in the corner of his mouth. He stopped in front of Dead-Eye and leered over at Ash. “I don’t know if you’re recruiting better,” he said to Dead-Eye, “but at least you’re recruiting better-looking.”
“Nice outfit,” Dead-Eye said. “Wait until Julio Iglesias finds out one of his suits is missing.”
“Save the smart-ass for the cop bar,” Robles said. “You got something you need to say, let me hear it.”
“I lost a couple of friends this week,” Dead-Eye said. “One of them was a cop, so he knew there might be a chance he’d step on a land mine. But the other one wasn’t; he was a civilian and had no play in this fight we’re in.”
“You waiting for me to cry?” Robles asked.
“Just listen, dealer,” Dead-Eye said, his words harsh and his body coiled and ready for any action that might come his way. “You’re still fresh in this town, still used to doing business like you did back on the home front. Kill anybody you get the itch for, never worry about any consequences. But this is NYC, and in this city there are always going to be consequences.”
“A badge here,” said Robles, “means the same to me as a badge anywhere else. I either buy it, rent it, or toss it aside. And if there’s a woman behind it and I get the urge, I might even fuck it.”
“I think that was meant for me,” Ash said. “He’s such a romantic little prick. And I do mean little.”
“You see, that’s my point,” Dead-Eye said. “It’s not just badges you have to worry about. Everybody you touch has somebody out there they can reach. And one of those somebodies is going to be looking to fuck you up.”
“Like who?” Robles asked.
“Like Nunzio Goldman.”
“I heard about him,” Robles said, a smile crossing his bleached teeth. “He ended up on the well-done side of the menu. He must be one of them friends you been running off the mouth about.”
“More like family,” Dead-Eye said. “But not just to me. He was tight with a lot of cops, that part is true. A few of us got to know him well and came to love his ass. But he was even tighter with some that worked the other side of the street. Your side, you might say. With them he shared a history, and he shared blood. Now, I don’t know if any of this applies to the SA crowd you dance with. But to Italians and Jews—and Nunzio was a blend and a shake of both—a shared bloodline is as serious as fucking cancer. And that’s what I’m here to tell you. Killing him the way you did and walking away may work fine in your little bodega. But out here you will have to face up to the consequences.”
“Which are what?” Robles asked, tossing his cigar over the side of the bridge. “Other than having to listen to your line of shit?”
“I’m a fraction of your concern,” Dead-Eye said. “I reached out for your ticket, eager to take you down, but somebody already had their hand out, with a bigger claim to even Nunzio’s score than either me or Boomer could muster.”
“I read you now,” Robles said. “You set up a meet, feed me the name of Nunzio’s hook, and I let you and your friends skip out from under my weight. Okay, then. Tell me who he is and where he is, and while I got him next in line for the barbecue pit I’ll think about whether or not to go light on you and your cop buddies.”
“His name is Tony Rigs,” Dead-Eye said. “He’s Nunzio’s half brother. And I don’t mean a fucking midget, either. Same mother, different father. And looking for him should be a snap, even for your dried-up raisin of a brain.”
“Why’s that, cop?” Robles asked.
“He’s right behind you,” Dead-Eye said.
Robles did a fast whirl, coat flying off his shoulders, and saw Tony Rigs standing with his back resting on an iron beam, hands inside the pockets of black slacks, a mellow look to his face. Robles glanced over toward the Benz and saw his shooters hovering close to the car, hands open flat and at their sides, surrounded by six men wearing overalls and construction hats, a blue truck with a cherry light flashing on top blocking the sedan’s path.
“Tony’s crew is doing some repair work on the bridge,” Ash said. “Now how lucky would you say that is? Him being here the same time as you?”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Robles said, spreading out his arms, the swagger still in his voice and manner. “Not here, broad daylight, with all these cars driving past. You can’t take that kind of risk. You may not care about dying, but for cops like you two, ending up in jail is a whole other chapter.”
“You see,” Tony Rigs said, stepping up next to them. “Told you he couldn’t be as stupid as you painted. So you might not want to be here for this, no need to get yourselves jammed up. You were good friends to Nunzio, all of you. He cared for you as much as you cared for him, cried like a baby when any of you went down. And now you’ve done right by him, and I’ll see to it that it gets finished.”
“You better do what he tells you,” Robles said. “He’s got it in him to deal with someone like me, but you don’t and you never will. No matter how many colorful names you think up and pin on yourself. A street fighter like me goes down, it can only come from the hard hand of another hood. Never from the hand of a cop. Especially not a nigger or a muchacha.”
“Let it wash off you, Dead-Eye,” Tony Rigs said. “This isn’t your time or your place. It’s mine.”
“You’ll take them all?” Ash asked, nodding toward the three shooters by the sedan.
“Trust me, I’ll have a very lush garden this summer,” Tony Rigs said. “It won’t lack for nutrients.”
“You’ll always be left to wonder about how it would have ended between you and me,” Robles said, his focus on Dead-Eye. “Those are the kinds of questions that can eat at a cop, make him want to reach out for a bottle or a gun. Very often both.”
“Not really,” Dead-Eye said. “You can kid yourself if you want, but gun to gun, you could never take me. Not only do I know that, but you do, too. And you’re going to die knowing it.”
Dead-Eye gave a nod to Tony Rigs and reached a hand out for Ash. He stared at Robles for a few moments and then turned and moved down the walkway toward the pay tolls and his parked car. He was about ten feet away when he pushed Ash to the ground and whirled back to face Robles.
The dealer had caught Tony Rigs with a sucker punch to the side of the face, sending him off balance, then turned, pulled a .44 from his waistband, and aimed it straight at Dead-Eye.
He never got off a round.
Dead-Eye walked back toward Robles, two .38 Specials in his hands, firing a series of rounds from each as he moved forward, every bullet finding a mark. Robles dropped his gun and fell to his knees, blood pouring out of his open wounds. Dead-Eye then fired a final shot, square into his forehead.
“Wonder no more, dealer,” Dead-Eye said. He holstered his guns, walked over to Ash, and helped her to her feet. Together the two Apaches walked with their heads down, in silence, off the Whitestone Bridge.
11
Hector Gonzalez came out the back door of the Spanish Harlem funeral home and walked down a short flight of steps, two heavily armed G-Men fast on his tail. He stepped into the dark hallway of the tenement next door, navigating his way to a ground-floor apartment just off the foyer. “You sure it’s him?” he asked one of the men at his back.
“Hands-down certai
n,” the man said, struggling to keep to the strides. “He matches the photos we got and the background checks that were done. Anything you can name points a finger his fine way.”
“And you sure he came in alone?” Hector asked.
“I had the street scanned four times since he walked in,” the man said. “He’s as alone as a kid on his first day at a new school, nobody out there ready to give him cover.”
“He give you any hint as to what he wanted?” Hector asked, his hand reaching for the handle to the wood door of apartment 1-B.
“It was a lot stronger than a hint,” the man said. “He told us straight and true why it was he came here.”
Hector held the door half open, one foot in the apartment, the other still in the hall. “And that was what?”
“To kill you,” the man said.
Hector stood in a small, sparsely decorated living room, a two-seater couch at his back, his reflection playing off an old nineteen-inch Zenith black-and-white on a shaky nightstand. “I have to be truthful,” he said. “You got some pair of balls to come in here and ask to see me. A lot more than I would ever give you credit for, even though it don’t mean shit so far as where you and me stand.”
“You lost your brother and I lost a friend,” Quincy said. “That, so far as I can tell, is the only common ground between the two of us.”
“So what happens now?” Hector asked. “You want to exchange sympathy cards? I know the intentions you came in with, but you have to know you’re standing on my ground. There’s no way I ever let you walk out of here. So make your move, player, and make it fast. Because as bad as you want me dead, that’s how hungry I am to carve you up for making my brother die.”
“You’re full of shit,” Quincy said. “You didn’t care about your brother when he was alive. I don’t really see why you would give any care to him now that you need to put him back together with tweezers.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, cop?” Hector said. “I loved my brother. We started this outfit alone, me and him, and built it up, just the two of us. Who the fuck are you to come in here and sell a line of shit like that?”
“Is that why you sold him out and set him up?” Quincy asked. “There wasn’t any need for Freddie to risk being at that drop. You have enough manpower to handle an exchange, especially a mid-tier one. Plus, you had a tip-off that me and Rev. Jim were going to find a way to hit that conference room.”
“Where the fuck do you hear shit like that?” Hector asked, flustered. “Your street info is way off target, not that it’s any of your fuckin’ business. Freddie went to the deal drop because he wanted to make sure this one went down without any hitches. It’s no more complicated than that.”
“He asked you to go with him, though, didn’t he?” Quincy said. “But you begged off, told him you had another meeting to be at—one that was crucial for the two of you and for the G-Men. He bought it, both the lie and then what went down at the site, never once even thinking that his brother was the one sent him in there to die.”
“I’m going to fuckin’ put you down right here,” Hector said, reaching into his waistband and pulling out a .44 semi with a full load. “Make you beg off every one of those words, until you piss blood and die.”
“I’m not the only one who thinks it’s true,” Quincy said. “Word is out, spreading like a California brushfire. The G-Men are working for a traitor, a rat, a man who gives up his own flesh to keep playing his game. You might kill me. Shit, somebody is going to sooner or later—may as well be a banger like you. But how long you think they’ll let you keep taking deep breaths knowing what they’re thinking?”
Hector looked around the room and then turned to gaze out into the hall. “If you’re looking for your men, none of them are here,” Quincy said. “They’re either in the home next door praying over your brother’s body or they’re gone—off to work for a new boss, someone they think they can trust more than you.”
“Who the fuck has been talking to you?” Hector asked.
“Same person you were talking to,” Quincy said. “The only difference is I know enough not to trust the Russian. But I don’t have greed in my eyes, just revenge.”
“I don’t need any men around me to take out a fag cop,” Hector said. “That I can do on my own, and with great pleasure.”
“Let’s forget the guns, then,” Quincy said. “You’re supposed to be the best in the drug trade with a blade. Prove it.”
Hector whipped off his leather jacket and pulled a switchblade from the rear pocket of his jeans. He snapped it open and crouched down, his left hand held out for body balance.
Quincy let the knife slide gently down from his shirtsleeve to his palm. It was a stiletto with a hand-carved white handle, a gift from an old forensics mentor.
The two men circled each other in the center of the tight quarters, shaded light flashing their shadows across a bare wall. Hector swung first, a controlled jab that barely missed Quincy’s chest, forcing him to back away slightly, so that he bumped into a small table lamp and a pot filled with artificial flowers. “You going to dance the night away?” Hector asked. “Or did you come here to fight?”
Quincy snapped open the black belt wrapped around his jeans and pulled it out of its loops. He held the belt, buckle wrapped around his left knuckles, in his left hand, letting it hang low, ready to snap when the need arose. “Where did you pick up that pussy shit?” Hector asked. “From watching Zorro movies?”
“Zorro didn’t wear a belt, moron,” Quincy said.
Hector leaped off his feet and jumped out at Quincy, catching him at chest level, both men spiraling against a far wall, knocking down the television and sending it smashing to the linoleum floor. Hector’s blade slashed across Quincy’s right arm, cutting through jacket and shirt and deep into skin, drawing a heavy flow of blood. A second vicious backs-swing swiped across Quincy’s neck, the sharp cut sending a long spurt of blood over the faded wallpaper and onto Hector’s shirt and face.
Quincy’s knees buckled and his eyes were moist with tears, the small room around him doing a rinse-and-spin dizzy swirl. Hector’s hulking body had closed in and was pounding out a mad series of powerful closed fists across Quincy’s waist and chest, weakening him even further. He lowered his head and braced himself against a greasy wall, grappling to catch his breath and ignore the massive flow of blood.
“It’s coming, cop,” Hector said, huffing. “And I’ll do you a big solid. I’ll make it happen real quick for you. Save you a handful of pain.”
Quincy glanced up at the ceiling and took in a breath. He gathered what was left of his strength and swung the belt up and around Hector’s neck, using it as a noose and gripping it tighter as he lifted the stronger man to eye level. He turned away from the wall and shoved Hector against it. The tight belt turned his face crimson red. Quincy then gripped the stiletto’s white handle and jammed it deep under the drug dealer’s chin. He pushed it in, slashing aside fat, skin, and bone, going through the inside of the mouth and jamming the blade as far up as it would go. He stopped only when the handle wouldn’t allow him to go any farther.
Quincy took a step back. He looked at Hector and got only a dead man’s stare in return.
The onetime head of the G-Men stood up, his feet wedged against the side of the small couch, his head backed to the wall, his mouth open dentist-visit wide, the thin blade inside, a well of blood pouring out.
Quincy turned out of the room, clutching the walls and the furniture for support and leaving streaks of blood in his wake. He turned right as soon as he hit the foyer, slammed through the entry door, and made his way to the street outside. He leaned against a parked white Ford Tempo and rested his head on the hood, his eyes closed, his body prepared to give up the ghost.
A police car, red lights blaring, streaked to a stop alongside the Tempo. “Hang on, buddy,” the young cop on the passenger side said, jumping out of the black-and-white. “I put in a call for an ambulance soon as I saw you come s
tumbling out of the building. It should be here any second.”
“I’m on the job,” Quincy said to him.
“We know, sir,” the officer said. “Call came into the house about five minutes ago.”
“Who?” Quincy asked.
“I didn’t get a name, sir,” the officer said. “All I know is it was a woman that phoned and gave the heads-up.”
Quincy nodded and then let out a low chuckle.
“What’s funny, sir?” the officer asked.
“You’re too young to know,” Quincy said to the young officer. “But you’ll pick it up in time.”
“Know what, sir?” the officer asked.
“That you should never be around when you’re really needed,” Quincy said.
12
Boomer checked his rearview mirror and looked across at Buttercup, sitting up in the front seat. “I suppose it would be a waste of time to ask you to buckle up,” he said. Buttercup opened her mouth wide and yawned, then curled her girth into a semicircle and rested her head on her paws and closed her eyes.
Boomer swung his car onto the Seventy-ninth Street entrance to the West Side Highway and eased into the far-left lane. The black shaded-window four-door sedan behind him pulled the same maneuver, its front bumper right up against the rear taillights of the rusty unmarked Chevy. Boomer kicked his engine into high gear, zooming past the Ninety-sixth Street entrance, his speedometer hitting the mid-eighties, the front end shaking, the hood doing a rapid-fire tremble. The northbound traffic around the two cars was midafternoon light, with a heavy spring rain landing hard on the damaged roadway, making the numerous potholes more treacherous to navigate. Boomer kicked his wipers into high gear and gave his side mirror a long look, trying to make out the faces inside the vehicle riding hard on his tail. “Let’s take them up to the Bronx,” he said to the sleeping Buttercup. “See how they handle those streets. But don’t let it worry you none. I think I got it under control.”