The Steel Kiss

  "Then I'll take 'em," Nick said.

  "You won't be regretting it, son-o. Bring him a salad too. He needs a salad. Same dressing." A grin as he turned to Nick. "They make their own here. You could call it Two Thousand Island, it's so effing good."

  Nick smiled back coolly and ordered the same thing for Freddy. "Two beers."

  "And me, top her off, Lucy," Von said, tapping the beer, even though the woman's name tag read Carmella. Unsmiling, she turned and left.

  Nick said, "Thanks for doing this."

  "My boss owes Freddy. You notice?" Von's voice dropped. "He looks like a frog?"

  "Never did, no."

  "He does. Well, glad to help. Only I don't know how helpful it's gonna be."

  "You know Flannigan's?"

  "Did some work at the place last month. You handy?"

  "Some. I can do electrical. Plumbing."

  "Plumbing?" A laugh. "I frame like a motherfucker. I was framing there, Flannigan's. Old man Flannigan gave me a bonus. Pretty sweet. Said it was the best framing he'd ever seen. Anyway, I started to hang there. I got to know some people, the bartenders, the staff." Von didn't bother to lower his voice now. "They're all right. They're us, you know. Not from some other countries, like you see in a lot of places." A nod toward Lucy/Carmella.

  An urge to wash his hands came over Nick.

  "I got to know people there, I was saying. People like to talk to me. I got the gift of gab. Got that from my father. So, I asked around, put two and two together. About what Freddy was asking. And put together this list, might be the guy you're looking for. A bunch of guys named J. Nothing about a Nanci. But they all got bitches they're married to or're fucking. Ha, or both. Here." He dug into his pocket to retrieve a slip of paper, pulling his jacket aside.

  Oh, Jesus Lord. Nick actually gasped.

  Von was carrying.

  Nick saw the wood grip of something small. Probably a little .38.

  Man, this was bad. Freddy'd said there was no way he'd have a gun on him.

  Maybe Von'd forgotten. Or lied.

  Nick took the grimy sheet of limp paper.

  "You okay, son-o?"

  Nick couldn't say anything. He looked around. Nobody else had seen the piece.

  "Yeah. Haven't eaten all day. I'm starving."

  "Ah, well, here we go." The salads arrived, both drenched in dressing. No appetite whatsoever.

  Von peered at Nick and said in a loud voice, real loud: "What's a four-letter word that ends in K and means intercourse?"

  Carmella had heard; Nick knew the joke was for her benefit.

  Nick said, "I don't know."

  "How 'bout you, Lucy?" Von asked the waitress, who blushed. He roared, "Ha! The answer's 'talk'! Get it?"

  She nodded and gave a polite laugh.

  Nick started to chow down fast. Breathless.

  "Easy, son-o. You'll choke to death.... You see that? She didn't get it. She didn't know 'intercourse' also means 'talk.' That's what I'm talking about, with them."

  Lord, I'm sitting across from a man with a gun. No, an idiot with a gun.

  Nothing to do but hope for the best.

  Nick ate a few disgusting forkfuls as he scanned the names Von had brought him. Jackie, Jon, Jonny. There were ten altogether.

  "Not much of a shortlist," Von said, chewing. A bit of dressing launched itself tableward.

  "No, man. It's good. Appreciate it." Names and some addresses, some businesses. Nothing jumped out. He would have to do more homework but he'd pretty much figured he'd have to.

  Von continued, "According to my boys--and girls--these dudes hang at Flannigan's some. Or used to. They're all kinda quiet about what they do. You get what I'm saying. Quiet. Get it?"

  "Great. Sure."

  More salad, wolfed down.

  Von said, "You are one hungry son of a bitch." That eerie giggle.

  "Yeah, like I said." Chewing, swallowing, trying not to puke. And a goddamn hamburger on its way.

  Nick eased the list into his jeans pocket.

  And that was when he saw the figure outside.

  A guy, in a suit, one that didn't fit so well. Gray. Blue shirt, button-down collar and a tie. Crew cut. He was walking past the restaurant, looking in, a neutral expression on his face. He stopped, squinted and leaned forward, peering through the window.

  No... oh, no... Please.

  Nick stared down at his salad.

  Another plea.

  Another prayer.

  It wasn't answered.

  The door to the restaurant opened and closed and he felt, as much as heard, the big man make his way to the booth. Coming straight for them.

  Shit.

  Didn't matter if Nick glanced at the newcomer or not; he was making a beeline for the two men. He decided it was probably better to glance his way--it'd look less guilty. He did this now and studied the face, keeping his own as emotionless as possible. He couldn't summon the name. Not that it mattered. He knew what the guy did for a living.

  "Well, if it ain't my old buddy, Nick Carelli."

  He nodded.

  Von looked him over.

  "The hell you up to, Nick? They let your ass outa the system, did they? What happened? You stopped giving guards blow jobs with those pretty little lips of yours."

  Von swallowed his immense chew of salad and said, "Fuck off, asshole. We're--"

  The gold NYPD shield stopped about a foot from Von's face. "Do what?"

  Von, who would face a mandatory year in prison for the gun, even if he had no priors, shut up and looked back to his salad. "Sorry, man, I didn't know. You're just busting his chops. Whataya mean, let him outa the system?"

  Von would know, of course. He just wanted to inflate his innocence preserver.

  But Detective Vince Kall--Nick got the name--turned away from Von to his prey of choice. "So you didn't answer me. What're you doing here, Nicky Boy?"

  "Come on, Vince. Give me a break--"

  "Or I could give you a third chance to answer the question."

  "Having dinner with a friend."

  "Your PO know about it?"

  Nick shrugged. "If he asks I'll tell him whatever he wants to know. I always do. It's just dinner. Why're you busting my ass?"

  "You reconnecting with your friends?"

  "Look, I'm not hassling anybody. I did my time. I'm legit now."

  "No, bad cops're never legit. Once bad, always bad. Like a whore. She may give up the business but she'll always be somebody who got dicks up her ass for money. Am I right?"

  "I just want to get a job, something going, get on with my life."

  "How's the guy you beat the crap out of, Nick, you got busted for? I heard he had brain damage or something."

  "Come on, please." Nick wasn't going to give Kall the I'm-innocent speech. A shield like this'd never believe it and it'd only rile him up more.

  Kall turned to Von, who was concentrating--way too much--on his salad.

  "And who is your little friend here? What's your name?"

  Von swallowed, looking guilty as sin. "Jimmy Shale."

  "Whatta you do for a living, Jimmy?"

  "Can you ask me that?"

  "I can ask you what you beat off to at night. I can ask you where your boyfriend likes you to kiss him. I can ask--"

  "General contracting and construction."

  "For who?"

  "A bunch of companies."

  "Most guys I ask, they give me a straight answer. They say Helmsley or Franklyn Development. You say a bunch of people."

  "Well, Officer--"

  "Detective."

  Von was leaning back and staring up coldly now, attitude flowing from his eyes. "Well, Officer Detective, the fact is I work for a lot of people. Because I'm good at my job and a lot of people want me. And I'm not real happy, the way you're talking to me."

  "Really? And your happiness counts why, Jimmy?"

  Nick'd been thinking the worst that could happen was that the cop would find Von's gun, bust him and then w
ord would get back to Nick's PO that they'd been together and there'd be a hearing and Nick might very well get his ass kicked back inside for the violation. But there was one step past worse: Von would decide Kall had pushed him too far and would pistol whip him or even empty five blunt .38 slugs into the asshole detective's body. No, four into his body and one into his face, just in case he was wearing a vest.

  Nick tried, "Look, Vince, let's just take this down a notch, okay? I'm--"

  "Shut up, Carelli." Leaning toward Von. "You, asshole. Lemme see some ID."

  "ID. ID. Sure." Von, that weird grin on his face, wiped his fat lips with his napkin and placed it back in his lap. Then he started to reach for his pocket. "I'll show you some fucking ID."

  Yes, he was going for his gun. Kall was dead.

  And so was Nick.

  He assessed angles. From the depth of the booth he couldn't leap forward and wrestle the gun from Von's hand. If he shouted to Kall that Von was armed, he'd be admitting he knew.

  Von started to rise, hand near the piece.

  But just then a staticky voice crackled from Kall's belt.

  "All units. Ten thirty. Carjacking in progress. Four One Eight Fourth Avenue, Bay Ridge. Two black males, twenties, believed to be armed. Silver Toyota. Late model. No tags at this point."

  "Shit." The cop was looking out the window. The address was virtually across the street.

  He yanked the radio off his belt. "Detective Seven Eight Seven Five. At the scene of the ten thirty. Bay Ridge. Send backup. K."

  "Roger Seven Eight Seven Five. Two RMPs en route. ETA four minutes. K."

  Nick lost the rest of the transmission. The detective was headed outside, hand on his weapon. He pushed out the door, turned left and vanished from sight.

  Freddy, head down, entered before the door closed. He stormed up to them. "Come on, you guys. Get out. Now!" He tossed two twenties on the table. Von leapt from the booth, Nick behind him, and they followed Freddy through the kitchen and out the back door into a pungent, trash-filled alley.

  "This way."

  Nick said to Freddy, "You called it in? You did that?"

  "Had to do something. Didn't look good, whatever was going down. We gotta move, though. He'll find out it was fake in about five minutes."

  "They'll trace you," Von said.

  "A burner. Jesus, you think I was born yesterday?"

  They walked into a backyard and kept going west. Freddy said, "Look for a gypsy cab. Not metered, a gypsy. The hell happened?"

  "The shield recognized me," Nick said. "Gave me some lip. Would've been okay... Only, only our boy here's got a piece."

  "Yeah, so?" Von was defensive.

  Freddy turned on him, furious. "What? I told Art: No weapons. Period. My man here just got out."

  "Art didn't say nothing to me. I don't know. I was meeting some stranger in the Ridge. I'm not stupid."

  "Well, you're stupid enough to get mandatoried one year in Rikers, for the piece. How'd that sit with you?"

  "All right, all right."

  "He get your name?" Freddy asked Von.

  "No," Nick said. "But he'll come back, looking. And he does have your descrip, Von. And he knows me. Ditch the piece. And I mean now. In the water."

  "These things cost money."

  Freddy said, "No. I don't trust you. Give it to me. I'll do it myself."

  "Man..."

  "You want me to call Art?"

  "Shit." He handed over the gun, which Freddy took in a wad of tissue.

  "It's cold?" Freddy asked.

  "Yeah, yeah, can't be traced."

  Freddy asked, "You got the list, Nick?"

  "Yeah."

  Freddy said, "Thanks for that, Von. But now, separate ways."

  "I didn't get my meal."

  "Jesus."

  Von grimaced and started off along the dark sidewalk.

  "I'm going to the bay, get rid of this." Freddy tapped his pocket.

  "Thanks, man... You're the best."

  "The list look good?"

  "It's something. A good start. I'll just have to do a little more detective work."

  "Hell, you were a detective. Piece of cake."

  "Thanks, Freddy. Man, I owe you. Big." A faint smile.

  Freddy touched his forehead, a half salute, then headed west, to the shore, where he'd pitch the gun into the Narrows. A few minutes later Nick found a gypsy cab; they were more plentiful in the outer boroughs since medallion cabs were harder to find. He settled into the seat and inhaled deeply. Then his phone hummed and he panicked, thinking the detective from the restaurant was following up and wanted him to come downtown. But he looked at caller ID.

  Felt a thud in his gut all right. Though a different sort than the kind he'd just experienced.

  He answered.

  "Amelia. Hi."

  CHAPTER 36

  Rhyme and Archer sat in their chairs before the evidence boards. They were alone.

  The speculation, the guesswork, the suppositions had gone on for several hours--several extremely unproductive hours--before the team called it quits for the night. Pulaski and Cooper were gone. Sachs was in the hallway making a phone call. Her voice was low and he wondered whom she was speaking to. Her face looked grave. The shooting incident at the mall seemed resolved largely in her favor. What else could it be?

  She ended her call and walked back into the parlor, offering nothing about the conversation. She didn't remove her Glock--again she'd be staying in Brooklyn. Sachs pulled her jacket off a hook.

  "Better go."

  She glanced at Archer then back to Rhyme and seemed about to say something.

  Rhyme cocked an eyebrow. The equivalent of a taciturn man, which he was, saying, "Talk to me. What is it?"

  A moment of debate within Sachs. Then she balked, snagged her purse, slung it over her shoulder and nodded farewell. "I'll be back early."

  "See you then."

  "'Night, Amelia," Archer said.

  "'Night."

  Sachs strode into the hallway and Rhyme heard the front door as it opened and closed.

  He turned back toward Archer. Had she fallen asleep? Her eyes were closed. Then they opened.

  She said, "Frustrating."

  Looking at the board. "Yes. Loose ends. Too many of them. This riddle's not that easy."

  "You figured it out? Ours?"

  "The letter 'e.'"

  "You didn't cheat? No, you wouldn't. You're a scientist. The process is the most important part of solving a problem. The answer's almost secondary."

  This was true.

  She added, "But I'm not speaking of the case. The frustration in general."

  The life of the disabled, she meant. And she was right. Everything takes longer, people treat you like pets or children, there's so much in life that's not accessible--in all senses, more than just second floors and restrooms: love, friendship, careers you otherwise would have been perfect for. The list goes on and on.

  He'd noted her struggling with the phone not long before, trying to call her brother for a ride back to his apartment. The unit was on speaker but not recognizing her commands. She'd given up and used the controller with her right hand, angrily entering the digits. Her Celtic bracelet jangling with each number. Her jaw had been trembling by the time she got through.

  "You fall into a rhythm," he said. "And you learn, you plan ahead, you take the route where you minimize frustrations. You don't need to make unnecessary challenges for yourself. Most stores are accessible but you learn which ones have narrow aisles and protruding endcaps and you avoid them. Things like that."

  "A lot to learn," she said. Then seemed uncomfortable with the topic. "Oh, Lincoln. You play chess."

  "I did. Haven't for a long time. How did you know?" He didn't own a physical chess set. When he played, he did so online.

  "You've got Vukovic's book."

  Art of Attack. He glanced at the bookshelf. The volume was at the far end, where the personal, not forensic, books were kept. He himself
couldn't read the spine from here. But he recalled that eyesight--and fingernails--were among her God-given strengths.

  She said, "When we were together, my ex and I played quite a bit. We did bullet chess. It's a form of speed chess. Each player has a total of two minutes to make a move."

  "Per move?"

  "No, the entire game, first move to last."

  Well, she was an aficionado of an esoteric form of chess as well as being a riddle-mistress. Not to mention well on her way to being a damn good criminalist. Rhyme could not have asked for a more interesting intern.

  "I never played that. I like some time to strategize." He missed the game. There was no one to play with. Thom had no time. Sachs had no patience.

  Archer continued. "We also played a limited-move variant. Our goal was to win in twenty-five moves or fewer. If we didn't, we both lost. Say, if you'd like to play sometime... I don't know anybody who's really into it."

  "Maybe. Sometime." He was looking at the evidence charts.

  "My brother won't be here for fifteen minutes or so."

  "I heard that."

  "So," Archer said, a coy lilt to her voice, "I can't hold two pieces behind my back for you to pick black or white. But I won't cheat: I'm thinking of a number one through ten. Even or odd?"

  Rhyme looked her over, not understanding at first. "Oh, I haven't played for years. Anyway I don't have a board."

  "Who needs a board? Can't you picture one?"

  "You play in your head?"

  "Of course."

  Well... He was silent for a moment.

  She persisted. "Even or odd?"

  "Odd."

  "It's seven. You win the virtual toss."

  Rhyme said, "I'll take white."

  "Good. I prefer defense... I like to learn as much about my opponent as I can. Before I trounce them."

  The gold Celtic bracelet clinked against the controller as her fingers maneuvered her chair close to his and faced him, about three feet away.

  He asked, "No time limit, you said."

  "No. But the game has to result in a mate or draw--in which case black wins--in twenty-five moves or fewer. Otherwise..."

  "We both lose."

  "We both lose. Now"--she closed her eyes--"I'm seeing the board. Are you?"

  Rhyme continued to gaze at her face for a moment, the freckles, the narrow brows, the faint smile.

  She opened her eyes. He looked away quickly and closed his, nestled his head back in the rest. The chessboard, fully loaded, was as clear as Central Park on a crisp spring afternoon, as today's had been. He thought for a moment. "E2 pawn to e4."

  Archer said, "Black pawn e7 to e5."

  Rhyme imagined: