The man in the sweat suit snapped open a black switchblade and watched as his partner slid Eddie’s photo over its sharp point. He smiled at Dead-Eye, flashing the photo and the knife. There was a large X drawn in felt tip crossing over his son’s face.
“This might hurt a little,” he said.
He stuck the knife and the photo into Dead-Eye’s right arm.
Dead-Eye’s knees buckled and his arms shook. The knife wound awoke every sharp pierce his body had ever felt, from bullet to blade. His lungs screamed for mercy and he swallowed back a mouthful of bile. He gave in to the pain, wanting nothing so much as to fall to the ground and rest his head on the dirt track. Wanting so much for it to stop.
But Dead-Eye didn’t fall. He looked out through a blurred vision knowing he now had the one thing he needed to get even. He had the faces of the two men etched across his eyes.
“You go back to your friends,” the man in the jacket said. “Tell ’em about our little meeting. Find out how serious they are about dying.”
“And it ain’t just them that goes down,” the other man said. “It’s everybody attached. Sons, daughters, wives, husbands, even your fuckin’ pets.”
The man in the sweat suit pulled the knife blade out of Dead-Eye’s arm and held it out for him to look at. “Take the picture,” he said, smiling. “Keep it for his scrapbook or his coffin. I’ll leave it to you to decide.”
He watched the men cross over a steep ridge, walking in slow strides, their backs to the sun, guns holstered at their sides. Dead-Eye waited until they disappeared from sight, then he bent down and picked up his son’s photo. He held it in both hands, blood from the stab wound running down his arm, across his fingers, and dripping onto the picture. He leaned the weight of his back against the fence, his face up, his eyes closed, reveling now in the sharp pain he felt. He stayed there for close to an hour, listening as clusters of other runners came charging past, puffing their way through a morning drill. He was sweating, willing the pain to come on stronger, knowing he would need the strength of that pain to fuel his anger further and carry him through to the end of his task.
With his arm still leaking blood, Dead-Eye wiped the flow of sweat from his face and checked the timer on his stopwatch. He then shifted his feet and picked up where he had left off. Dead-Eye continued down the reservoir path and finished his run, holding his son’s photo crumpled in his right hand.
The pain his only comfort.
• • •
GERONIMO AND REV. Jim stood against the railing and watched the field of eight horses canter by. The sixth race at Belmont Park was about to start. With racing programs folded open in their hands and small pencils hooked over their ears, they were trying to decide which horse to wager on.
“Number three just took a shit,” Rev. Jim said, scanning the program for the horse’s name. “That’s always a good sign.”
“You can’t go by that,” Geronimo said. “They’re horses. All they do is shit.”
“Catapult,” Rev. Jim said, circling the name on the program. “Even his name sounds fast. And he’s down at six to one. I’d say he’s good for a win, place, and show. You want in, or what?”
“You have to have a sense for the horse,” Geronimo said, staring out at the rest of the field. “You need to know how far he’ll go for the win. If his heart has the courage it needs.”
“We’re not askin’ for him to fly, Geronimo. This ain’t a spiritual thing workin’ here. We just want him to go a mile around a fast track, win by a nose, and pay for our lunch.”
“He won’t win unless he wants to win,” Geronimo said. “No matter what we want.”
Rev. Jim rested the program against his thigh and looked over at Geronimo. “Just between you and me,” he said, “are you really serious about this Indian shit you talk or are you just fuckin’ with everybody’s head?”
“I would be dead without that Indian shit,” Geronimo said. “It’s all I had to hold on to all those months in the hospital. There was no hope. There was only dread. If anyone knows that feeling better than me, it’s you.”
“I couldn’t talk for months after the fire,” Rev. Jim told him. “If I could have talked, I would have asked for somebody to put a bullet in my head. There’s a lotta ways a guy could go out and buy it. Having your skin burn away ain’t the best of ’em.”
“I wanted to leave,” Geronimo said. “Take my pension and head for the Southwest, bury myself in the culture.”
“Why didn’t you?” Rev. Jim asked.
“The people I have there see me as this brave cop,” Geronimo said. “To them I am invincible. A warrior who can’t be felled. I couldn’t go back to them in the shape I was in.”
“That why you joined up with Boomer?” Rev. Jim asked. “To go out on your own terms?”
“We choose our way of life,” Geronimo said. “I want to be able to choose the way I die. I don’t mind going down against a device, but not the way it happened to me. Not with a grenade tossed into an open crowd. I always pictured being alone with a bomb and letting my destiny decide.”
“You might get your wish,” Rev. Jim said. “From the looks of it, there ain’t gonna be a shortage of fireworks.”
“I’ll be ready,” Geronimo said.
Rev. Jim pulled out a crushed pack of Marlboros, shook one loose, and put it to his lips. He searched his pockets for matches and came up empty. “You wouldn’t have a light?” he asked.
Geronimo unzipped his flak jacket and reached for a lighter in the front pocket of a checkered hunting shirt. Rev. Jim looked over at the inside flaps of the jacket, each slot packed with sticks of dynamite. “You care to explain that?” he asked in astonishment.
“Ever since I became an Apache,” Geronimo said, smiling, “they’re my American Express card. I never leave home without ’em.”
“You know why you’re part of this team?” Rev. Jim asked, turning his attention back to the track. “You’re just as crazy as the rest of us. That’s why you must have been a great cop. You gotta be crazy to be a great cop.”
“Are we crazy enough to beat back Lucia Carney?” Geronimo asked.
“She’s probably thinking we are,” Rev. Jim said. “She’s got to figure by now we’re not in this for the money. And there ain’t anybody around gonna pin any medals on us if we do bring her to a crash. So what’s our end? She don’t know. And that should give us a little bit of a lead.”
“If she only knew the real reason,” Geronimo said. “That we’re just walking dead men looking for one last battle. To bring peace to our souls.”
“There you go with that Indian shit again,” Rev. Jim said.
Geronimo smiled, looking at the pack of horses race past him toward the finish line. “That Indian shit just saved you a few bucks.”
“How you figure?” Rev. Jim asked, craning his neck to see how the horses finished.
“You’re looking in the wrong direction,” Geronimo said. “There’s Catapult over there, bringing up the rear. Like I said, he just didn’t have the spirit of a warrior.”
“Havin’ a shitty jockey on his back didn’t help any either,” Rev. Jim said.
They walked away from the rail and eased their way up toward the bleachers. They sat next to one another, spending the rest of the afternoon under the sun of a fast track, winning and losing money, laughing and eating the kind of food neither was supposed to consume. Enjoying a brief day of calm.
• • •
BOOMER STARED AT the crushed photo of Eddie. The blood on it was caked and the felt-tip mark smeared. The rest of the Apaches sat around the circular table, Nunzio pacing behind them.
“He’s your kid, Dead-Eye.” Boomer’s voice was soft with concern. “These are crazy fucks we’re moving on, and killing kids doesn’t seem to upset them all that much. So I’ll let you call the play.”
“Eddie and Grace are taken care of,” Dead-Eye said in a calm, even tone. “Now let’s worry about us. Lucia sent me a message. Sent us all one, r
eally. I think we should send one back.”
Boomer looked around the table, studying each Apache in turn. That felt-tip X scrawled across little Eddie’s photo might as well have been drawn on every one of them. It was a call-out, a street move, a push by a criminal to force a cop to take a step back. Most cops would fade away. A few would stand their ground. But the ones Boomer chose as Apaches knew only one way. To move forward and attack.
“One hour, then,” Boomer said, standing and moving away from the table. “Tenth Street and Avenue A. Nunzio’ll lay out the plan. I’ll see you there.”
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Columbo asked.
“To pick up a wrecking ball,” Boomer said, closing the front door of the restaurant behind him.
• • •
BOOMER AND MRS. Columbo sat in the front seat of a yellow multigear Caterpillar rig. A half-ton wrecking ball hung from an iron hook, swaying lazily in front of them. Both wore white hard hats and heavy construction gloves as the machine slowly inched its way through late morning traffic. Boomer had eased the dozer out of a Lower East Side construction site whose foreman owed Nunzio a few hard favors, grinding gears as he moved the rig past crumbling tenements.
“Are you sure about this?” Mrs. Columbo asked, feeling out of place sitting so high above the traffic.
“You mean letting you ride shotgun? It’s a risk, but worth a roll.”
“Not that, dorko,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I was thinking more about your little idea of demolishing a building in downtown Manhattan in broad daylight.”
“It’s as good as any other idea I’ve had,” Boomer said.
“That sure helps ease my mind,” Mrs. Columbo muttered.
“Besides, it gives you and me a few minutes to talk.” Boomer cranked the shaft back into neutral, looking up past three cars at a red light.
“About what?”
“Your husband.”
“He’s off limits, Boom.”
“He made a wrong move going to Lavetti,” Boomer said. “But he did it for the right reasons. He was worried about you, so he reached out for somebody he thought would help.”
“He could have talked to me.” Mrs. Columbo turned away to watch a small boy bounce a Spauldeen against a red brick wall.
“Well, you ain’t all that easy to talk to sometimes,” Boomer said. “Like most cops.”
“I can talk to you,” Mrs. Columbo said, still looking at the boy and the ball, her voice distant and quiet.
“I’m a cop and your friend,” Boomer said. “That gives me a leg up on a husband.”
“You’re saying I should go back with him?”
“You’ve got a life with him, Mary. And a son.”
“It’s not much of a life,” Mrs. Columbo said. “And I’ll always have my son.”
“Just think about it,” Boomer said. The light turned green and he moved the rig forward. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“It could have been me and you, you know.” Mrs. Columbo still wasn’t looking at him. “It wouldn’t have taken much. To tell you the truth, I’m kind of surprised it never was.”
“I am too.” Boomer glanced over at her. “But you know, sometimes the could-have-been leaves you with a better feeling. We would have had ourselves a few good months, maybe even a couple of years. But we wouldn’t have made it past that.”
“Thank you, Ann Landers,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“You and me, we know each other more than fifteen years now and we can still talk to each other like this. But if we were married, we probably wouldn’t even be looking at each other. And both of us packin’ guns. I’m telling you, it could’ve gotten ugly.”
“Real fast,” Mrs. Columbo said with a laugh.
“Plus, you’re a better shot,” Boomer said.
“Most wives are,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Cop or not.”
“That’s why I’m still single.” Boomer signaled to make a left turn.
“So, you gonna tell me about her?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “Or do I have to get all my info secondhand?”
Boomer nearly rammed the ball end of the dozer against the back of a Dodge Dart. “Remind me to pistol-whip Nunzio next time I see him.”
“He couldn’t help himself,” she said. “I squeezed it out of him. I was a homicide detective, remember?”
“I went out on a date,” Boomer said. “Not a hit.”
“And …”
“And I had a great time. And I’m gonna see her again. And that’s all I’m gonna say for now.”
“Why?” Mrs. Columbo said. “You turning shy on me all of a sudden?”
“No,” Boomer said. “I’m anything but shy.”
“Then why won’t you tell me about her?” Mrs. Columbo asked, grabbing on to Boomer’s right arm.
“Because we’re here,” Boomer said.
• • •
GERONIMO RAN UP to the driver’s side and jumped onto the side panel runner.
“Rev. Jim and Pins in place?” Boomer asked.
“They’re on each end of the avenue, rerouting traffic,” Geronimo said. “And they’re not all that happy about it.”
“Why?” Mrs. Columbo said. “They’ve got the easiest job. Next to mine.”
“They’re back in uniform.” Boomer laughed. “I got two sets of blues from a friend down at the Chinatown precinct.” As Mrs. Columbo covered her mouth with her right hand, joining Boomer and Geronimo in the laugh, Boomer asked, “Building empty?”
“I went with Dead-Eye and checked through every floor,” Geronimo told him. “Nothing in there except for a couple of attack dogs that we cleared out and enough cocaine to make every junkie in the city smile for a week.”
“Why no guards?” Mrs. Columbo wanted to know.
“She doesn’t need any,” Boomer explained. He turned the dozer so the wrecking ball faced the front of the building, the street now empty of all traffic. “Any dealer or junkie even thinking of making a move on her would be too scared to touch the place. Even with nobody there, that building is more secure than Fort Knox.”
“Until now,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“You bet your sweet little ass until now.” And with that, Boomer shifted the gears on the rig forward.
Geronimo grabbed on to a yellow pole alongside the large front wheel, signaling Dead-Eye away from the front entrance with his free hand. Dead-Eye smiled and nodded, walking closer to the dozer, waving Boomer forward.
“Aim for the center of the building,” Dead-Eye yelled, his hands cupped around his mouth. “That way you’re sure to knock something down.”
“Listen to him,” Boomer muttered, moving the rig at full throttle. “All of a sudden he’s Fred Flintstone.”
Boomer brought the rig to a halt as soon as it jumped the curb. He rammed the gears into park, then began to shift and pull the wrecking ball crank toward the boarded-up first-floor window.
“I guess it would be a waste of time asking if you’ve ever run a machine like this before,” Mrs. Columbo said, watching the ball sway from side to side.
“Total.” Smiling, Boomer eased the shaft forward and watched in awe as the ball crashed against the prewar facade of the building.
The first loud hit brought brick, wood, and dust particles tumbling to the ground. Geronimo and Dead-Eye stood on opposite ends of the building, gold shields hanging from leather straps around their necks, huge grins on their faces, holding back small clusters of passersby.
Boomer turned in his seat and looked over at Mrs. Columbo. “You wanna give it a shot?” he asked. “Unless you think you’re not strong enough.”
“Move it over, old man,” Mrs. Columbo said, standing in her seat, waiting for Boomer to slide down from the rig.
“Try not to kill anybody,” Boomer told her.
Mrs. Columbo cranked the gear forward, moving the wrecking ball away from Boomer and toward the left side of the building. “Clear the decks,” she shouted as the ball hit with a louder crash than the first blow, breaking through to the gut of
the tenement, dismantling its center foundation and bringing two floors down with an enormous thud.
“Here we are, demolishing a fucking building during lunch hour,” Boomer shouted over to Dead-Eye. “And what don’t we see anywhere? A cop.”
“It must be true, then,” Dead-Eye said. “They’re never around when you really need them.”
“Not even a brown shirt to write up a violation,” Boomer said, scanning up and down the avenue. “I mean, shit, we’ve gotta be breaking some traffic law here.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Dead-Eye shrugged. “We’ve never paid for a ticket in our lives.” After a pause he asked, “Who filled you in on the building?”
“It’s on the DEA scanner sheet,” Boomer said. “And it matched up with the information I got from our guy downtown.”
“Everybody knows the places, but nobody makes a move,” Dead-Eye said.
“That all changed today,” Boomer said.
They watched Mrs. Columbo maneuver the wrecking ball against the building for the last time. It teetered on the verge of a total collapse, then it all fell in one massive heap, caving inward. A cloud of dust flowed out to the street, and sounds of distant horns and sirens could be heard.
Dead-Eye walked through the debris, stepping over crushed rock, splintered wood, darkened packets of cocaine, and a nest of dead rats. He stood over a small mound of red bricks and put a hand inside his jacket pocket, coming out with the crumpled, marked-up photo of his son. He leaned over and placed the picture under a cracked edge of one of the red bricks, then stood up, turned, and walked toward his fellow Apaches.
“That’s just in case Lucia has any trouble figuring out who blew up her stash,” Dead-Eye said.
• • •
CAROLYN BARTLETT LET the hot water run over her body, still tired after an arduous day of coaxing information out of reluctant patients. She had taken on her daily run with relish and looked forward to her post-shower addictions—a low-cal dinner, reading through several chapters of a historical romance, Bach on the stereo and, sometime within the next hour, hearing Boomer’s voice coming over the phone by her bed.