“Where down there?”
“I don’t know. He keeps different boys all the time but he always sticks them in one of those fleabag flophouses. There’s a hundred ways outta those rattraps ... if you know about them.”
“I know about them—I was staying in one when I got popped for the last bit.”
“Yeah, but he knows all of them, Wes, every fucking one.”
“Stay in the house tonight—I’m gonna go in there and look. Get me some upstate plates for the Caddy.”
41/
Wesley returned to working under the sink and Pet left him alone to go prepare the car. At 10:30 p.m., Wesley wheeled the Caddy up Water Street and turned left onto Pike. He traveled crosstown until he got across Broadway, connected with the West Side Highway and rolled uptown. He exited at 23rd Street and followed Twelfth Avenue north to 42nd. He left the Caddy with the attendant at the Sheraton Motor Inn; he already had a reservation and was shown right up to his room.
Wesley changed into wine-red knit slacks and a flaming Hawaiian-print shirt worn loose outside the pants. He added a pair of genuine alligator loafers and an ID bracelet on a thick sterling chain. The initials were “CT.” He left the Airweight in the Caddy and the flick knife in his suitcase.
At 11:15, he started his walk. He strolled past Dyer, trying to get a fix on the territory. Neon smashed at him with every step: LIVE BURLESQUE *** CHANNEL 69 *** MERMAID *** 42ND STREET CINEMA *** TOM KAT THEATRE. The street was alive the way a can of worms is alive: greasy and twisty-turning, but not going anywhere and comfortable only in the dark. As he crossed Tenth Avenue, Wesley noticed that the West Side Airlines Terminal was closed. A closer look told him that it was closed for good. Wesley looked up at the fifth floor—it would give a commanding view of the ugly scene. He thought about Korea for a flash-second.
Wesley crossed Ninth Avenue and headed down toward Eighth. He noticed five phone booths on the south side of the street and the Roxy Hotel on the north side. It was the Roxy where he got busted years ago, and he had to fight down the urge to see if the same clerk was still on duty for The Man. Some other time.
As he crossed Eighth, Wesley reflected that the Parole Board was just a couple of blocks away, right near the Port Authority. They never closed. He could have just walked in there and asked a question like any other citizen, but that thought never occurred to him.
He could tell a cop at a glance and he assumed that reaction was reversible. He noted the big Child’s Restaurant on Eighth and 42nd, but didn’t stop in. He counted thirteen movie houses between Eighth and Seventh. Thousands of people were on the street. Wesley wasn’t even picking up second glances from the traffic flow.
“When I’m on the street, how do I make sure the hustlers don’t make me?” Wesley had asked Lester years ago. The answer was simple: “Just stare a lot—squares always be staring at us, you know?”
Crossing Broadway, Wesley almost walked right into the Prince, who was coming out of Rexall’s. The Prince wasn’t alone. His huge hand was resting possessively on the back of his companion’s neck—a short, powerfully built black guy with a monster Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear.
Wesley followed them down Broadway. The Prince was continually being stopped on the street, and his progress was slow. Wesley watched closely, but all the Prince did was occasionally lay money on people who apparently asked for some ... nothing else. The Prince stopped a fat woman, and Wesley halted about a half block behind them. They held a quick, whispered conversation, making no attempt to hide the fact that their communication wasn’t meant for bystanders, the Prince still holding the back of the black man’s neck. The woman nodded vigorously as though she understood, and then continued up the block in Wesley’s direction.
As she approached, she focused her eyes directly on Wesley and picked up speed. He could have avoided her rush but made no attempt to ... she slammed right into him, knocking him back against a mailbox. The fat woman gasped and grabbed huge handfuls of Wesley’s Hawaiian shirt to steady herself. As she attempted to rise, she pulled the shirt almost to his neck and then slammed her hands against his chest and quickly ran them along his body, across his groin, and down almost to his knees. Wesley struggled to get free, felt his pants lift over his socks, saving her that trouble. He cursed vehemently, and she backed off with some mumbled drunken apologies.
It was a lovely, professional frisk. She’d be able to tell the Prince he wasn’t heeled.
Wesley dusted himself off and hurried up the block. He passed by the Prince and threw him a frankly curious glance, like any tourist would. The Prince continued down the block. Using a store window for a mirror, Wesley saw the giant step into a phone booth—he didn’t see the Prince deposit any money, so he assumed it was the fat woman calling in to report.
Wesley turned up 46th Street and got a cab downtown on Fifth. He told the driver to take him to the Village, not knowing how far the Prince’s network went. Wesley entered the hotel on Bleecker between Sullivan and West Broadway where he was already registered.
42/
At 3:15 a.m., he telephoned Pet and the cab took him back to the Sheraton. He checked out the next morning, paying his bill in cash.
Pet was waiting in the garage for him. Neither of them liked to return in the daytime and avoided it whenever possible.
“You see him?” the old man asked.
“Yeah. How does he make a living? If he’s dealing, he must have every cop in the precinct greased—you can’t miss the freak.”
“He does the same work you do.”
“You know anything about a black guy, his boyfriend?”
“No. But I know he always marks his boyfriends with one of his diamonds. They get to wear the diamond so long as they’re in with him. When they show on the street without the diamond, it means he’s done with them and they’re nothing but a fucking piece of meat after that. He’s got a new one every couple months or so.”
“Could the kid live down there a couple a weeks and watch the black guy?”
“I don’t think so, Wes. That’s a real freak show and the kid might panic and whack one of them when they hit on him.”
“He might at that—one of them moved on me last night.”
“What happened?”
“This was on my way back to the Sheraton. I was waiting for the light to change, and this freak comes up and asks me if the CT on the ID bracelet stands for ‘cock-teaser,’ right?”
“Jesus! I told you you shouldn’ta worn that....”
“Hey, look, Pet, he just wanted to hit on me, period. No matter what fucking initials I’d of had, he would’ve said something.”
“You have to hurt him?”
“On the street? I told him I’d meet him in the last row of the Tom Kat at midnight.”
“The Tom Kat?”
“Some sleazo joint I saw on the way down.”
The old man laughed, “I can’t see the kid doing that—he’d have opened up that freak for sure.”
“You got to forget your image if you want to move out there. What happens if you lay up for a couple a weeks without doing anything? Will they think you lost your guts?”
“Nah, they’ll think I’m getting ready to go on in.”
“Would the Prince want to make it personal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would he have to hit you himself ... or could any of his freaks do it?”
“He’d want to hit me himself. It’d mean a lot if he did. You take a man out, you take his rep for yours.”
“What’s he use?”
“Mostly his hands—he’s one of those karate experts. He never carries, but one of his freaks is always around, and they all shoot or stab. But he works small. They say he can kill you with anything: a rolled-up newspaper, a dog chain, you know what I mean.”
“So he’d have to be close. And you don’t.”
“You could never pop him from one of the buildings. He’d know you was inside before you even got set up. Did he see your face?�
��
“So what? He didn’t know who I was.”
“He will the next time,” Pet said solemnly. “You can forget about getting close, too.”
“All right. Stay here for a few days—I’m going out to look at him good this time.”
43/
Wesley spent six days in Times Square, catching only occasional glimpses of the Prince. But he did locate the black man with the diamond earring, and the black man had a pattern. Too much of a pattern—whatever else he was, Wesley knew he wasn’t a professional. Every night, just before 11:00, he went to Sadie’s Sexational Spa (“THE BEST IN THE WESTside”) on Eighth between 44th and 45th. He stayed about a half hour each time.
He went in different directions after that—never the same way. Wesley followed him three times, and each time he met the Prince, always on the street or at the entrance to one of the bars.
Wesley returned to the garage a little after midnight on Wednesday. Pet came out of the shadows and walked over to the car:
“Can we do it?” the old man wanted to know.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna be sticky. You’re going to have to go in there with the car. Go in fast, and get out before he can move. We need him to know you’re on the case, like you’re going to drive-by him and the cruise is setting it up.”
“Why you want him like that?”
“Misdirection. Like with the backfiring car you told me about.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“The rest is mine. You just wait with the car. No, bump that— how many cars can you plant in different spots around the cesspool?”
“If I started now, I could probably get about six, ‘specially if the kid helps.”
“Okay, we’ll use under the West Side Highway Bridge by the river. On 40th, and 33rd, and 23rd. And 42nd & Fifth, and anyplace else you think is good. Get the list where you got them stashed, and get ready to go out in the cab by 8:30 tomorrow night. I’m going to sleep.”
“Wesley...”
“What?”
“We give the kid a key, then he could take care of the dog if—”
“The dog would kill him.”
44/
The yellow cab rolled up Eighth Avenue, Pet driving, Wesley the passenger. He wore a khaki fatigue jacket and heavy twill khaki pants tucked into soft-soled field boots. Under the jacket, he wore a black Banlon pullover with long raglan sleeves.
In the side pocket of the pants he carried two identical knives; the blades extended back through the handles and were anchored by a tiny metal bead. Wesley carried the Beretta zipped into the inside pocket of the field jacket. One outside pocket held a screw-on silencer. Another held two full clips of hollowpoints. Swinging from the thin webbing belt was a pair of baseball-sized fragmentation grenades. The front pocket of the pants held a Colt Cobra with a two-inch barrel. Wesley also carried a small plastic bottle of talcum powder, four pairs of rubber surgeon’s gloves, and a black silk handkerchief. Clipped to the back of the webbing belt was a pair of regulation police handcuffs. Also on board was a thousand dollars in bills, from singles to centuries, a soft pack of Marlboros, a disposable butane lighter, and a miniature propane torch.
Sewn into Wesley’s left sleeve were registrations for the six cars, as well as a valid FS-1 for each—but only one set of keys, which would start any of the vehicles in the garage. He also carried a driver’s license, Social Security card, draft card, a DD 214 form from the Army, a membership card in Local 1199 of the Hospital Workers Union, and a clinic card showing that his next appointment was for Monday at the VA Hospital on 24th and First Avenue. Wesley had once spent twenty-four hours a day for three weeks dressed the same way—he could move without giving the slightest hint of all the extra weight.
The cab stopped on 44th and Wesley got out. It was 10:15.
Wesley entered Sadie’s. A red light glowed against the far wall. Beneath it a fat man with a menacing face sat behind a scarred wooden desk. The fat man’s face lit up with what was supposed to be both a smile of welcome and a warning.
“Can I help you, buddy?”
“I want a massage.”
“Twenty-five bucks in front. You pay me for the massage—you got twenty minutes. Anything extra, more time, whatever, you settle with the girl, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now take a look in this here book and tell me which a the girls you want.”
He showed Wesley the kind of album proud mothers keep of weddings. There were about forty pages, with two devoted to each girl. Wesley watched as the man thumbed through it. They all looked alike. Wesley’s finger stabbed at random.
“How about that one?”
“Sorry, buddy, this is Margo’s night off. But if you like blondes, how about this?” He displayed a well-worn 8x10 glossy with obvious pride. The merchandise was lying down on a couch, nude and looking straight into the camera’s eye. She looked about sixteen.
“Yeah, okay. Is she ready now?”
“Sure, just hold on a minute. Joanne!” he bellowed. A girl who vaguely resembled the picture in the album came into the front area to escort Wesley back to a booth. He couldn’t see her face at first, but as they walked back together, he saw she moved like she was thirty-five and tired. She ushered Wesley into what looked like a large closet: plasterboard walls, an army cot with folded sheets, a pillow without a case, a tiny lamp with a pink low-watt bulb, a cracked porcelain bowl half-full of tepid water. The girl pulled her shift over her head. She was wearing what looked like the bottom half of a bikini and several pounds of flesh-colored powder.
“Why don’t you just lie down on the bed there and tell me what you’d like, honey?”
Wesley’s watch said 10:28.
“Come here.”
“Sure, honey, but you know that’ll cost you extra, right?”
“Right.” Wesley motioned for the girl to sit beside him on the cot; he took out two hundred-dollar bills and folded them flat across her knee.
The girl nervously licked her lips and gave him a half-smile. “Honey, I know this is Times Square and all ... and I can show you a real nice time ... but for that kind of money maybe you want one of the other girls here, I don’t—”
“You can get this, and another two hundred, just for being quiet and helping me a little bit.”
“What do you mean? Listen, I don’t go—”
“Just take the money and keep quiet, okay? I need some answers and some help. I can pay you for it ... or I can cut your fucking throat.”
The razor-edged knife was nestled against the girl’s carotid artery before Wesley finished the sentence. He watched her eyes to make sure she wouldn’t panic or scream, finally satisfied himself that she wouldn’t.
“No noise, okay?” he said quietly. “Just no noise and some answers and I’m gone.”
She said nothing.
“Every night, just before eleven, a short, husky black guy comes in here. He’s got a big Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear and—”
“I know who he is, that sicko.”
“Yeah. Okay, who’s he go with?”
“Anyone, man. For what he does, he can’t be choosy. You know what he wants to—”
“I don’t care what he wants. I want him. I want to talk to him, you understand? Alone. Just for five minutes.”
A Bomb Built in Hell Page 9