Chasers

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  She moved her hand away, turned, and walked quietly out of his office. Andy Victorino sat and watched her go, listening to the slow hiss of the door as it closed behind her. He then pushed his chair back, picked up a thick case folder, and took a slow walk to the morgue room.

  19

  Boomer sat at a corner table in the back of Nunzio’s Restaurant, across from Dead-Eye, two open folders spread across the starched white cloth. Both men were sharing a large bottle of flat mineral water and gazing down at the information laid out before them. The owner of the restaurant, Nunzio Goldman, walked their way, a bottle of red wine in one hand, three glasses in the other. “You should always have a glass of good wine when you’re planning a job,” he said. “No matter what kind of work it is we’re talking about. Even a suicide mission.”

  “The last job we just got a glass,” Dead-Eye said, moving aside a handful of papers in order to make room for Nunzio and the wine. “This time, we’re getting the whole bottle. That can’t be a good sign.”

  “So long as it’s a good wine,” Boomer said, nodding at Nunzio and watching as his old friend sat and poured out three glasses and passed two across the table.

  “I would drink to your health,” Nunzio said, raising his glass, “but I learned long ago what a waste of time that is when it comes to you two. So how about we just drink to mine?”

  “How about we just drink?” Dead-Eye said, clinking glasses with Nunzio and smiling at the older man. “I hate to get into any situation where there are conditions put to it.” Nunzio sipped his wine and glanced down at the pages that were nestled on the table. He looked at Boomer and Dead-Eye and shook his head. “I never took you two for the going-on-a-vacation type,” he said. “And even if I was wrong on that score, I would figure it to be someplace in Europe and not down South America way.”

  “You’d have a hard time finding a more beautiful spot in this world than the triborder region,” Boomer said, pointing to a black dot on a small folded map by his elbow. “It’s where Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina meet and greet. Rain-forest country.”

  “At a sweet little wet spot called Ciudad del Este,” Dead-Eye said, setting his glass off to the side. “And for my money it’s the most dangerous city in the world sitting in the very middle of the most corrupt region known to cop or crook. The rain is just added in for a little dash of color.”

  “And this is where you both pick to grab some sun and fun?” Nunzio asked. “What? All the gulags were booked?”

  “Every new drug crew to dance into this city has either had its start there or does a large chunk of business out of its port,” Boomer said. “It’s what Marseilles used to be in the 1970s, and Palermo in the years before that. If the cocaine business had a heart, it would beat in Ciudad del Este.”

  “It’s where crime begins and where it goes on holiday,” Dead-Eye said. “You name it, this city has it. From a tax dodge to a terrorist hookup, you’ll find it on their shore. You can’t buy anything or anyone that’s not contraband, elected, or appointed. Shit, me and Boomer were out looking to be pirates, this is where we’d dock our boat.”

  “These new guys seem cut from different cloth than the ones that did business out of France and Italy,” Nunzio said. “At least that’s what I get from reading the papers.”

  “Hoods are all cut the same, Nunzio,” Dead-Eye said, his hands resting flat on the tabletop. “Africa to Amsterdam, they’re all one. They earn their money off somebody else’s hard sweat and they snap out a life easy as blowing out a candle—some for pleasure, some for profit, most for both.”

  “Are you passing these nuggets along just to educate?” Nunzio asked with a hard look. “Or has your madness latched itself on to a new method?”

  “You know what else they all have in common?” Boomer asked, leaning forward in his chair. “The mob guy, the Crip and the Blood, the Russian, the SA dealer, the shooter sets up shop in a French art gallery? The one thread they all share?”

  “You got my attention,” Nunzio said.

  “They believe there’s nobody going up against them with a badge that’s as crazy and as desperate and as deadly as they are,” Boomer said. “That’s why they all think that if they’re going to go down it will be at the hands and guns of another crew set up just like them. They never think they’ll take the fall because of a cop or even a team of same. In their minds, there are no cops out there to be feared.”

  “But you guys are different?” Nunzio asked, looking from Boomer to Dead-Eye. “Is that your bullet point?”

  “Yes,” Boomer said. “We are different, and we’ve always been. That and a handful of luck are the only reasons guys like me and Dead-Eye are still on our feet.”

  “Be a good idea to toss the word barely to that thinking,” Nunzio said. “Look, I’ll give you that you were balls-to-the-wall cops, and if I was a hood on the run you’d be the last sons of bitches I’d want after my ass. But that was about a dozen bullet holes ago. You made all the right moves the last time out and you just managed to eke it to the finish line. How much closer do you want to cut it?”

  Dead-Eye drained the wine out of his glass and rested it back on the table. He looked at Nunzio and smiled. “My son always wonders why it is I miss being a cop but would cringe at the idea of him strapping on a gun and shield. He thinks it’s because I’m afraid he might get hurt, or even worse. Or that maybe I don’t believe he would be up to it, be able to go near the same levels I once touched. I let him think either one is on the money, because he’s still a little too young to know the real truth.”

  “Which is what?” Nunzio asked, leaning with his back against his chair, eyes focused only on Dead-Eye.

  “That he’s too much of a good kid to be a great cop,” Dead-Eye said. “He looks for the goodness when all I see is pure evil waiting to pounce and make its play against a boy like my son. There’s always going to be more criminals out on those streets than we deserve to have for the simple reason that there aren’t as many guys like me and Boomer waiting for them on the other side. Taking them out is what we’re about. No matter how many bullet holes we got in us or how much it hurts to walk up a flight of stairs, guys like me and Boomer have no say in how we play. We have made it our business to mess with theirs, till death.”

  “Well, if it’s death you want, you’re about to mix it up with the ones most eager to give it to you,” Nunzio said. “Other than maybe the Russians, there’s no one crew nastier right now than the SAs. And they won’t care if you’re in a wheelchair or breathing from an oxygen tube. You make a move on them and they will bury you. They don’t think of it as just business. To them, it’s a way of life.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to help us?” Boomer asked. “Or are you just going to sit by and watch two of your best customers go down the drain?”

  “Customers I got more than my share,” Nunzio said, pushing back his chair and standing, looking from Boomer to Dead-Eye. “But friends I don’t have too many of, and I like to keep the ones I have. Whatever you need, if I can get it done it will get done. Once you get all the pieces to your plan in place, I’ll try and fill in as many holes as I can.”

  “We’re about a week away, even less,” Boomer said. “The plan’s there—we just need to put together the team to make it work.”

  “How hard you figure that’s going to be?” Nunzio asked. “Finding a few more demented bastards like yourselves just itching to fight till they drop?”

  “Desperate’s always easy to find,” Boomer said. “But they have to be good, too. And that part’s never a walk.”

  “We’ll get them,” Dead-Eye said. “I have no doubt.”

  “In that case, I’ll go in and check on the specials,” Nunzio said. “A good meal is in order. Nobody should stare down death on an empty stomach.”

  Boomer and Dead-Eye watched as Nunzio made his way past the bar and through the double doors leading into the kitchen. “You think he’s right?” Dead-Eye asked.

  “About what?
” Boomer said.

  “The part about this being a suicide mission,” Dead-Eye said. “That’s the one that caught my ear.”

  “Have we ever been out on one that wasn’t?” Boomer asked.

  “We always did make it a habit to kick down the do-not-enter doors,” Dead-Eye said with a smile. “Never wanted any part of nice and easy.”

  “And we’re too old to ask for a fresh deck of cards now,” Boomer said. “Besides, it’s not death we’re afraid of; it’s living at half speed that gives us the night sweats. Truth is, I don’t know if we can do this, Dead-Eye. These crews are primed and running on full tanks. They’re more than not the best we’ve ever gone up against. It could be over for us in one round. Shit, it can end before we even get a chance to climb through the ring ropes.”

  “But?” Dead-Eye said.

  “I just know this is something we have to do,” Boomer said. “Because not doing it will kill us faster than any one of their bullets.”

  2

  “What do you want, Steve?” “To enter my house justified.”

  —FROM SAM PECKINPAH’S RIDE THE HIGH COUNTRY

  1

  Rev. Jim bounced the ball with his right hand, body coiled, eyes focused on those of the young man with the bulky arms by his side, both soaked with an early-morning sweat. He pushed the ball to his left and burst past the young man, head down, dashing toward the basket less than twenty feet away. Rev. Jim stopped short, knees bent, and got a good arc on the ball. The chain rattled and the rock fell to the concrete.

  “That’s game, Ty,” Rev. Jim said, turning to the young man behind him sitting on the ground, arms folded around bended knees. “Unless you have a few points I forgot to add to your score.”

  “No, you took it, you keep it,” Ty said with a slow shake. “And I’ll live with it. But you know next time we play I will own your ass.”

  “How did you come up with a two-and-two that led you to that?” Rev. Jim asked, reaching down for the ball. “Given that you have never beaten me and we’ve been going at it for three years now.”

  “I got all your moves down now,” Ty said. “And you’re way too old to dig up any fresh ones, that’s for one. And I’m due for a win—it’s all just a matter of me catching some of the luck that’s been floating your way.”

  “Sounds like you got it all worked out,” Rev. Jim said, tossing Ty the ball and walking toward him, his eyes now on the two men standing under the shadows of the net. “So much so that it might all work for the best if I don’t even bother to show for next week’s game.”

  “Forfeit falls under a win for me,” Ty said, smiling as he stood up. “But I’ll make that your call. Don’t want a guilt ticket floating my way down the road if that happens.”

  “I got a week to decide,” Rev. Jim said, turning away from Ty and walking toward the two men. “But toss this in. If you nail that chemistry test coming up, I might lean toward spotting you a few points.”

  “How much of a spot we talking?” Ty asked.

  “That depends,” Rev. Jim said, “on how high of a grade you can take down.”

  “You shittin’ me?” Ty asked. “I’ll dunk down a straight and solid A if I can get some free points tossed that way.”

  “That’s the plan,” Rev. Jim said.

  Rev. Jim waited until Ty walked out of the basketball court, taking a quick glance at the bumper-to-bumper traffic locking both sides of the FDR Drive. He then turned and faced the two men, both leaning against the steel basketball pole. “I never figured either one of you to turn into park lurkers,” he said, giving each a warm smile. “At least not for a few more years, anyway.”

  “Beats hustling lowballers out of pocket change,” Dead-Eye said. “That’s scraping hard ground, little friend.”

  “You move pretty well out there,” Boomer said. “If I had known, I’d have set up an Apaches basketball team years ago. Try to cash in on that corner jump shot.”

  “And what special skill would you and Dead-Eye bring to the table for our team?” Rev. Jim said with a wink.

  “You know me, Rev.,” Dead-Eye said. “I’m a shooter. I’ll have that end covered like a bearskin blanket.”

  “I can whistle,” Boomer said. “I guess that should be more than enough to make me the coach.”

  “We’ll never pull it off,” Rev. Jim said after a moment of thought. “We’d be picked off as ringers in no time flat. I hope you came with a Plan B along with your dollar and a dream.”

  “We did,” Boomer said. “Only this one has more bullets than baskets. And it’s not even close to being a five-on-five.”

  “And the chances of us coming out of it with a win are less than zero,” Dead-Eye said. “But in the event you die the city of New York will spring for the funeral and the flag.”

  “I knew there would be a perk hidden in there somewhere,” Rev. Jim said. “Your plans always come with the best perks.”

  “The temperature on this one, Jim, is a few clicks higher than our last job,” Boomer said. “I’m not going to pour sugar on it. You come in with us, I don’t know if you’ll come out. I don’t know if any of us will.”

  “You really suck at recruiting,” Rev. Jim said. “You need to work on that win-one-for-the-Boomer talk. Ease up on the negative vibes, my friend.”

  “We could use your help,” Boomer said, his voice gone suddenly soft. “But if I were standing in your place I’d take my ball and head as far away from the two of us as your legs can take you. Because coming in with us won’t lead anywhere good.”

  “Me and Boomer figured we’d lay it out for you and then give you some think time,” Dead-Eye said. “But there’s no other way to spell it. This one has a one-way feel.”

  “There’s no need to either lay it out or give me time to decide,” Rev. Jim said, looking from one ex-cop to the other. “I’ll get up to speed soon enough—that end has never been much of a problem for me. And as far as me giving a thumbs-up or -down to joining your team, I decided on that about the time I first spotted you standing under the basket.”

  “From what I hear, you carved a decent slice for yourself out here,” Boomer said. “Make some decent money, do work that matters, and help kids in your free time. That plus your pension should keep you ahead of your mortgage and grocery money.”

  “To be truthful, we gave a lot more thought whether we should reach out to you than you did on signing on,” Dead-Eye said. “Okay with you if I ask why?”

  “Boomer’s right,” Rev. Jim said. “I landed a decent job and have more than a fair share of pocket money. And every now and then I make a reach-out and turn a kid around and get him off the side roads and back onto the main highway.”

  “Don’t sound all that bad to these ears,” Dead-Eye said. “It’s not a buy-and-bust and a flurry of bullets blowing both ways, but it’s better than doing a nine-to-five in a branch bank wearing a blue uniform and a fake badge and praying that some loser with a mask and a shotgun slams his way through the front door and brings a little juice to your day.”

  “What are you looking for?” Boomer asked.

  “Same thing you two are,” Rev. Jim said. “I want a chance to matter again. I want to make a difference, and not just to one kid or a small handful. Don’t read me wrong. That’s all well and good, but there’s too much shit out there and it’s too easy to get, and that Father Flanagan routine can only take you so far. I’m drifting. We all are. And maybe what it is you got planned will scare ten years of shit out of me, minute I get wind of what it is. But, even if it does, it might help bring the drift to an end and give me a chance to feel alive. None of us like to say it, but God knows we all think about it. It would have been easier to be dead than to have survived the wounds we did. Once you’re dead, it’s over with, gone and buried. Walking out of the hospital, that’s the day the real shit begins.”

  The three stood under the warm morning sun, heads bowed in silence, the noise of the traffic swelling behind them. “Remind me again, Boom,” Dead-Eye
said. “Why did we think of asking Rev. Jim back on our team?”

  “We were looking for somebody to cheer us up,” Boomer said, looking up at Jim and giving him a slow nod.

  “There had to be more to it than that,” Dead-Eye said, squeezing out a smile. “As I recall, this sucker’s as funny as a funeral party.”

  “We were looking for a great cop, too,” Boomer said, turning and doing a slow walk out of the playground. “Remember?”

  2

  The small church was empty. The old woman in the black dress knelt in front of the main altar, blessed herself, and released a string of dark rosary beads from between a set of vein-riddled fingers. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, her thin, frail lips shaping the words of a whispered prayer. Around her, the slow and easy glow of the votive candles slid across the silent glares of saints and angels. She leaned her arms against the creaky wood railing separating the altar from the nave and began her slow journey down the beads of the rosary. Outside, the sun was in the early stages of its descent, bringing to an end an otherwise warm and peaceful spring day.

  Angel slid in silently beside the old woman, bowed his head, and then lifted his gaze up toward the main altar. “Do you hold all your meetings in a church?” he asked. “Or am I simply a special case?”

  “It’s where I feel most at home,” the old woman said. “I would think that would be true for you as well.”

  “There was a time, yes,” Angel said with a slow, appreciative nod. “But that was many years ago. I’m not the same man I was then.”

  “The man hasn’t changed,” the old woman said. “Only the choice of profession.”

  “Perhaps, Theresa,” Angel said. “It would be best for us to have such a discussion in a place with much better lighting. But for now it might be a sound idea to work toward the business at hand, which boils down to a simple transfer: my drugs, your money. Are you prepared to move forward?”