There is no better view to be had of midtown Manhattan, from any of the roads circling the island, than the view from the pinnacle of the Kosciuszko Bridge connecting Brooklyn and Queens. As Johnny Katanos, ten minutes from home, began the climb to the top of the bridge he, like everyone else crossing the narrow band of utterly polluted water called Newtown Creek, turned his head to the skyscrapers of Manhattan. A gray haze lay over the mass of stone and steel across the river and the buildings, with the sun dropping behind them, seemed to float in the dusty air, a colossus dreaming of itself.
Johnny registered the impression automatically, his mind drifting from the haze to the heat to the perfect weather for their coming project. In a few hours, the American Red Army’s work in New York would be finished and potential traitors, except for Muzzafer, eliminated. Though he, too, was unaware of Stanley Moodrow’s hot breath, he had had enough seasoning in ordinary criminal pursuits to know how dangerous it is to remain too long in one place. Sooner or later…
Perhaps they should head north, he mused. With summer coming on, Minneapolis would be entirely appropriate. Or Portland or Seattle. Muzzafer, on the other hand, would probably choose a climate closer to that of his homeland, like Houston or, God forbid, the city they call the Big Easy, New Orleans. Well, he could always apply a little heat of his own to that situation.
Laughing as he cut across several lanes of traffic and darting onto the Long Island Expressway, his attention flicked to an evaluation of their remaining ordnance. Rearming would be extremely dangerous. Too dangerous. Before that could happen, Muzzafer would suffer the fate of the three women and he, Katanos, would remove himself to another country. But that was for the future. There was still enough for months of new projects.
For instance, there were a dozen small, infinitely concealable UZIs, should Muzzafer suddenly develop the balls for closeup work, and a decent amount of C-4 plastic, too, especially if they exploited their environment as efficiently as they had at Herald Square. But it was the claymores that most interested the Greek. American manufactured antipersonnel mines designed to spray jagged metal in an expanding crescent, would, for instance, if set beneath the seats at a baseball stadium, keep manufacturers of prosthetic devices humming for the next two years.
Lost in daydreams, he took the first exit, Maurice Avenue, and ran alongside the highway for several blocks before pulling to the curb and entering a small Italian delicatessen. The fat man behind the counter smiled in recognition.
“Lemme guess,” he said. “Prosciutto, salami and provolone with lettuce, pickled peppers and mustard. On a seeded hero.”
Johnny smiled his most winning smile, but even though he’d picked a store well away from the main shopping centers, he didn’t like the idea of being a regular. If they should ever put his face on television, this guy would pin him in a minute. “Take a pound of German potato salad with that. And a Coke.”
By the time he left, he was once again halfway to being alert. What he saw across the street brought him fully awake. Two cops had a black man up against the rear door of a police cruiser. He was in “the position,” spread-eagled with his hands on the roof of the car, and he was complaining loudly. Katanos knew, of course, that it had nothing to do with him, but when the bigger of the two cops snapped the cuffs shut, Johnny felt the pressure on his own wrists. He’d been in that situation a dozen times, knew the humiliation of it and could not help being affected. Still, despite the rage, he took his time starting the van, pausing to adjust the side mirror before pulling away.
He drove the few blocks to his home as alert as he had been on the expressway coming out of Staten Island. His eyes darted back and forth, searching the faces, the doorways, the windows. Turning onto 59th Road, he looked for people first, noting the empty sidewalks, then scanned the vehicles parked at the curb until he came upon Leonora Higgins in her brown traffic department uniform. Was she writing a ticket? Unheard of on an obscure residential block like 59th Road. There was too much business on Grand Avenue to make searching the backstreets worthwhile. But there were no blacks living in this neighborhood, either.
Johnny’s eyes flicked from vehicle to vehicle, looking for anything big enough to hide a camera or serve as a command post. He found nothing, but still drove by Leonora without moving his head, making the turn at the far end of the block, two hundred yards from the brown Plymouth, before parking the van. Though he was acutely aware of the heat of the sun pouring through the windshield, he forced himself to sit still for ten minutes, counting the seconds on his watch, preparing himself. The urge to flee, to get out while he still could, was very strong. Later, perhaps after dinner, he could call the house to make sure everything was all right.
But, of course, that would mean scrubbing the project. It would mean long, virtually impossible explanations to the others. Besides, what government agency would use a black woman in a brown uniform to carry out surveillance in a lily-white neighborhood like Ridgewood? He left the van and walked directly across the intersection of 59th Road and 60th Lane, just catching a glimpse of Leonora Higgins sitting in the same spot. He walked to the next street and cut behind the houses to the narrow alleyway that Moodrow had used to get to Jane Mathews. At the corner of his building, he put his hand into a small birdhouse which Jane had insisted on putting up when they’d first taken their apartments. There was no bird inside, though, and he was not looking for one as he felt his fingers close around the loaded .38-caliber revolver he’d hidden there months ago, despite Muzzafer’s orders.
Quickly, he freed the weapon from the oily rag protecting it. He felt more comfortable with the familiar weight in his hand, more at ease though no less alert. The door to the back of the house was open, a breach of security so flagrant it could not be accidental. As he stepped inside, he heard a voice, Muzzafer’s, coming from the kitchen, then another, a stranger’s answering from the living room.
“Are you telling me you found us by yourself? That’s impossible.”
“Actually, I got recommended to you by a Spanish kid named Paco. He says to say hello to Theresa. And Johnny, of course. When he gets here.”
“And when he gets here, you’re going to kill us?” No matter how many times it was said, Theresa could not seem to take it in. Political prisoners in America were not executed. It might happen in South America. Or even in Israel, in extreme cases. But not in America.
“Fair is fair, right?”
“Not this time.” Johnny, satisfied that Moodrow was alone, stepped into the room, the revolver held straight out in front of him. “This time fair ain’t fair.” Under ordinary circumstances, he would have killed an intruder without another word, but he was anxious to find out if there were other pursuers, if the woman in the brown Plymouth was somehow related to the strange giant sitting by the window, so he held up and instantly regretted it. The “strange giant” somehow managed to grab his own .38, which lay next to the telephone by his knees, and bring it up before Johnny could pull the trigger.
The two weapons went off at the same moment, the roar of the explosion crashing through the room. Moodrow fell back against the window and the gun slipped from his hand, falling to the floor. Johnny, unhurt though stunned by the sound, stood erect, looking for the blood on Moodrow’s sweatshirt. The bullet had gone in dead center. If it hadn’t, the cop would have pivoted in one direction or the other, but not only wasn’t there any blood, the man was getting to his feet.
“If you move another fucking inch, I’m gonna blow your eyeballs through the back of your head.”
Moodrow finally stopped, though hatred continued to flow from his eyes. As if he expected to make his enemies pay for the mistake of keeping him alive.
“You wearing a vest?” Johnny said calmly, gesturing towards Moodrow’s chest. “Let’s see.” He pulled the trigger and, again, the .38 echoed in the confines of the small room, slamming Moodrow back into the chair. “Son of a bitch, it is a vest.” He raised the gun to cover Moodrow’s head. “Why don’t we take
it off.” While Moodrow struggled with the sweatshirt and the vest, Johnny turned his attention to Muzzafer. “How the fuck you let this asshole get you into this position? What’d you do, just walk through the goddamn door? You didn’t see the other one out there?”
“What other one? He says he’s working alone, a New York City cop out for revenge. Now please, cut the tape off.”
“Revenge?” Johnny grinned at Moodrow. “What’d we do, take out your mother? No, not your mommy? Your wife or your girlfriend?” Moodrow’s arm jerked uncontrollably and Katanos laughed. “We turn your old lady’s cunt into charcoal? We fry the bitch? Well, guess what? I don’t give a fuck. It’s too trivial to talk about.” He began to move across the room toward Moodrow. “Sit down in the chair. That’s right. That’s a good boy. Now I’m gonna take a peek between those blinds. Wanna see if there’s this traffic department Plymouth still parked across the street. You wouldn’t know anything about that, right?” He smiled as he came toward the window. “Don’t move now. ’Cause I’m gonna be right next to you and we’ll bump if you move. Of course, it might be the best chance you’re gonna get.”
He began to move toward the blinds, he eyes locked on Moodrow’s, a half-smile on his face. He moved evenly, calmly, in total control of the situation.
“Nobody move. Drop the gun.”
Leonora’s scream, designed to freeze everyone and everything, was high-pitched and shrill, a temptation more than a threat, and Johnny, smelling her inexperience, turned instinctively to confront it. Then his hand, the one holding the revolver, disappeared in the hand of the “strange giant.”
“You should have killed me,” Moodrow said, his voice calmer than he expected. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.” He pulled the Greek’s hand straight down into the floor, forcing a shot into the floorboards, then slammed it back into the window, rubbing it back and forth across the broken pane until the gun fell to the floor.
At that moment, Katanos knew it was over, that if he should overcome this monstrously strong cop (and he could not even free his hand), there was still a woman with a gun standing ten feet away. For a moment, he nearly abandoned himself to the despair of self-recrimination. He’d spotted the bitch sitting in front of the house. He could have driven away. Only his greed for the coming project had brought him inside the house. His own stupidity.
Then his mind stopped short and his body took over. If he was going to die anyway, he might as well go in style. He struck out with his free hand, driving sharp reverse punches into Moodrow’s ribs and groin. Punches that had no effect. As soon as his hands dropped, Moodrow struck downward, a short clubbing blow that crunched into the Greek’s chest. That would have knocked him to the ground, if the cop wasn’t holding his right hand, preventing him from falling.
“I thought you were a tough guy,” Moodrow said. “All those people I questioned? Paco and Frankie Baumann and a dozen other street freaks—they all said you were the baddest thing on two feet. How come you hit like a jailhouse punk?”
Johnny raised his left leg to kick and Moodrow yanked him to the right, pulling him off balance. He struck out at Moodrow’s face, tearing with his fingernails and the cop raised a massive shoulder, absorbing the blow.
“Careful, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” Moodrow’s fist shot out, slamming into the smaller man’s face. “I guess you weren’t centered. Isn’t that what they do in karate? They get centered?”
“How about your old lady?” Johnny’s voice came raggedly. He could hurt the cop. He knew he could hurt him. Despite the groin protector and the enormous bulk, Moodrow would hurt. “She got a center? Besides the center of a coffin? Or did she survive? Maybe laying in a hospital bed waiting for an operation that’ll make her face look like something besides peanut brittle.”
He felt Moodrow’s right hand curl about his throat. Then he was lifted bodily and his head slammed against the wall. Once, twice. With all his strength, expecting death, which is what he would have given had the positions been reversed, he gathered his strength and tried to spit in the cop’s face. But there was nothing left, no strength, no resolve.
“That’s enough, Sergeant. Stop. Now.”
For the first time, Moodrow considered his rescuer. In his desire to get his hands on Johnny Katanos, he hadn’t given a thought to the apparition in the brown uniform and it took a second for him to recognize Leonora Higgins as the well-groomed FBI agent.
“How the fuck did you get here?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he handcuffed an unresisting Johnny Katanos and tossed him into a chair next to Muzzafer.
“Instincts,” Leonora said. “Just like you told me.”
“Instincts don’t mean psychic. Tell me how you found me.”
“I’ve been following you for two weeks.”
The news shocked Moodrow, shook his confidence. He would not have believed it possible and the revelation opened the door to further mistakes. Nevertheless, after a moment’s thought, he began to giggle. “For weeks? Who’d of believed it.”
“A brown face in a brown uniform in a brown car? Nobody looks twice, Sergeant.” Leonora shrugged. “Not unless they’re afraid of a ticket.”
Moodrow nodded. “You got that right, Agent…”
“Higgins.”
“Right, Agent Higgins. But isn’t it funny that you’re pointing your gun at me? I ‘m the good guy, remember?” He swept his arm across the kitchen table. “And this is the American Red Army. Reading from left to right, we got Theresa and Muzzafer and Jane and what’s left of Big John Katanos. There’s one more named Effie in a closet on Admiral Avenue.”
Looking at him, Leonora’s understanding of the situation became as clear and sharp as the edges of New York skyscrapers on freezing, winter nights. If she put the gun aside, even for a second, he would take it from her and kill them. He would not hurt her, because he had no desire to escape whatever punishment society deemed appropriate, but he would surely kill these people. She glanced over at Johnny Katanos, battered and bloody, at Jane, naked and vulnerable, at Muzzafer and Theresa. She found the idea of being their savior utterly repulsive.
“I can’t let you kill them,” she whispered. “I know what they’ve done, but I can’t let you.”
Moodrow started toward her, slowly, his eyes locked on hers. “What do you mean, ‘kill’? Did I say anything about killing.”
Leonora raised the automatic to cover the center of Moodrow’s chest. “Don’t be a fool,” she said. “Maybe you don’t care about the rest of your life, but I plan on living mine wholly outside of a prison cell. If that’s OK with you.”
“Sure.” Moodrow decided not to deny his intentions. “Why didn’t you say what was bothering you? Shit, we could fix this real easy. Just turn around, walk out of here, get in your car and drive away. Who’s gonna find out?” Moodrow, his eyes riveted to Leonora’s, saw her hesitate, reconsider. “You know what they’ve done? You’ve seen all the bodies. It ain’t the fucking movies. Real kids. Real mommies and daddies. Real blood.”
“So what? You’ve done your job and I’ve done mine. We’re not judges and juries.” She felt the clichés even as she spoke them, yet she continued. “All we do is make the arrest.”
“No!” Moodrow slammed his fist against the table. “What do you think is going to happen after you ‘arrest’ them? Do you have any idea? The first thing is they go into protective custody so no other prisoner can get to them. Then they get to spout their bullshit revolution all during their trial while every asshole dictatorship in the fucking U.N. makes speeches about what heroes they are. Then they go off to some federal joint where the authorities take great care for their safety because, sure as shit, three or four years down the line, some other scumbag’s gonna grab a bunch of American tourists and these assholes’ll be the price of freedom.” He paused for breath. “And five years from now, they’ll be killing again. Killing real babies and real mommies and real daddies and we can stop it, Higgins. We can stop it. Just go away f
or five minutes. Then come back and bust me. You’ll be the fucking FBI hero of the century. Bigger than the ones that knocked off Dillinger, and Bradley’s gonna look like such a fool he’ll probably join the CIA.” He began to move toward her again. “They’re monsters, Higgins. Look at them. There’s no remorse there. There’s nothing but death.”
They came to the same conclusion at the same time. Moodrow knew she would not give in, that she was stuck with the definition of “FBI agent” given to her when she took her training. There were judges and juries and cops and they never came together in the same person. Even Moodrow, who knew, as do all cops, that the pronouncements of the judges in their black robes only served to keep criminals out of jail, and who had never played by the rules himself, could read the conviction in her eyes. There was no sense in waiting. He shot his hand forward just as her finger tightened on the trigger, just as she realized that he had to do it. That neither had any options.
The bullet crashed into the upper left side of his chest (though she had meant to kill him), two inches from his shoulder, spinning him to the ground. He tried to get up, ignoring the gun still pointing directly at him, but he couldn’t move. She read the desire in his eyes, the tremendous effort to remain conscious. This was not the proper reward for accomplishing what several hundred men had failed to accomplish. She let her hand fall to her side as he began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
25
THOUGH SHE ROLLED THE issue back and forth in her mind for more than two weeks, it was the intensity of the first blooming azaleas in Prospect Park that pushed Leonora Higgins into one final trip to the Lower East Side. After five months of wet, gray winter, Prospect Park (two blocks from Leonora’s apartment and home to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens) was a refuge, an Eden to which she and thousands of other New Yorkers retreated as soon as the first crocus made its appearance in late March. By early May, with the temperature in the low seventies and every tree wreathed in a halo of luminous green buds, this pilgrimage had become a drug to her, a free narcotic to be ingested at every opportunity. In spite of the traffic sounds (from which there is no retreat), Leonora could feel the tension begin to leave her body whenever she crossed its threshold. By the time she’d walked into the depths of the park, stunned by gaudy beds of sturdy, unyielding tulips, she would be utterly lost in the enormous power of nature’s opening volley. It would not, she knew, last long. By late June, everything would slow down and the park would take on an air of patient waiting. Crowds would thin out. Children would come later, leave earlier and the young mothers, toddlers in tow, would desert the playgrounds in favor of the neighborhood pool.
A Twist of the Knife Page 30