“Don’t kid yourself,” Carlos said, staring at the two leaders of the G-Men through thin drops of light rain. “He was for real, Dracula would be crowned a king in our trade. That’s one dealer that can never die and never be killed. Sucker can be open for business anyplace, anytime, forever.”
“I wish he was for true,” Hector said, his hands shoved deep inside the pockets of a tan leather coat. “Then it would be him instead of me standing out here talking shit and letting his balls freeze down to fuckin’ raisins.”
“Where is this rodeo clown?” Freddie asked, his eyes doing a quick dart dance around the barren field. “Should have been here ten minutes ago, and that’s taking in him getting lost on the way.”
“He’ll show his ass, you can count on it,” Carlos said. “If you’re not from around here, this place isn’t so easy to spot. And this weather we got don’t toss out any helping hands, either. Shit, I am from around here and I still miss my mark most of the time.”
“I wasn’t late and I wasn’t lost.”
The man’s voice came at them like a bullet in the night. They each turned in the direction of the voice.
“I was just taking a listen.”
“You can listen all you want,” Freddie said, the middle fingers of his right hand stroking the dark barrel of a handgun wedged in the center of his spine. “Take notes, if that brings a ring to your bell. Only do it over here where our eyes can meet.”
The man appeared from their left, shrouded from the waist down in layers of swirling mist, thin clouds of cigar smoke obscuring his face. He was wearing dark blue slacks and a matching three-button jacket over a white shirt starched crisp enough to slice skin, the entire outfit designer-stitched. His body was workout lean, topped by a thick and unruly mane of dark hair and a pair of eyes whose glare was harsh enough to chill a warm morning.
“We could have met in a five-star restaurant,” the man said in a voice stripped of any accent or hint of his background. “Enjoyed a nice meal and finished off several bottles of expensive red wine. And then some champagne once we sealed our deal.”
“Sounds to me like you’re way too busy to read any newspapers or watch the TV news,” Carlos said, his manner relaxed but his body wound tight. “Otherwise, you’d be wise and know eating in one of those high-end restaurants can make you dead in less time it takes to order a scotch and a splash. Take it from the one who knows.”
“Dead is dead,” the man said, the words spoken slowly. “Faceup in the wet grass or flat down across a backroom table, it’s the same page from the same book. In our line of business, it always boils down to one curled finger doing a slow tap on a small hard trigger.”
“And if it’s your finger wrapped around that trigger, Robles, we need to know whose head it’s going to be aimed at,” Hector said. “That’s the only reason we called you to this little picnic in the park.”
Robles nodded. “My finger has always belonged to the hand that puts the most money in my back pocket. That could be yours or it can belong to that cash-heavy poisoned padre cutting into your lines—all the same load of wash to me.”
“We bankrolled your first big play,” Freddie said, making no effort to disguise his anger. “We put you in motion. Without the G-Men, you’d be washing cars on Bruckner Boulevard or, worse, doing a full roll of dimes up at Attica. And now here you come, all slick and sprayed, ready to piss on my shoes for the fresh breath in town.”
“It’s not about loyalty, it’s about making the most by doing the least and trusting no one,” Robles said, eyes locked on Freddie. “Those were your own words I’m throwing back your way. Told me I’d be a fool if I didn’t take what you said and shove it deep to my heart. Now here you are, standing out in the rain like you’re James Bond with a green card and telling me what? To forget all that you said back when I was a fresh piece of fruit? Am I hearing you right?”
“No, you got it right, player,” Hector said. “And there’s nobody here asking you to do a flip on that class project. But I am going to ask you to remember what I laid on you that very same day. You still got it tacked to the back of your brain, or did that shit get brushed off with a fresh coat of memory paint?”
“Hard to forget that,” Robles said with a slow nod. “You were using a loaded gun as a blackboard pointer.”
“And even knowing I will plant you six feet down, fancy suit and all, and shit on your grave, knowing all that you still walk up to my face and talk to me about playing for another team?” Hector said, his words closer to shouts now.
“I’m not eager to do a flip, and I don’t have a 411 out on the street looking for stray cash to be sent my way,” Robles said. “But I put my truth out in the open for you to touch. If an offer to move against you comes in, then I have to give it the weight it deserves. That’s the plain and the cold of it. And I know that any one of you would step the same way. I’m for sale, and so are you. It all comes down to the question of price.”
“And yours is what?” Carlos asked.
“Depends on the who and the when,” Robles said. “Once I get that out of you, then you get a number out of me.”
Hector and Freddie exchanged a quick but noticeable glance. Then both gave a nod of their head to Carlos. “A million five,” Carlos said without any hesitation. “We do it as per the same breakdown as usual. You get a chunk down, a second chunk when the target’s potted, and a final third when you make it out clean. That work for you?”
“That half does,” Robles said. “I’ll let you know the rest when I know the rest.”
“The ex-priest,” Carlos said. “Angel Cortez.”
“How soon?” Robles asked.
“He’s moving in fast,” Hector said. “Be good if you could do the same.”
“And there’s no think time on this one,” Freddie said, taking two steps forward, the first small plane of the night crossing just off to his right, half drowning his words. “We will know before you leave us tonight which way your balloon floats. With us or with the ex-priest.”
“And if I take a pass?” Robles asked. “What then? You let me walk back through the wet grass to my car, no hard feelings, all of us still asshole buddies? Then you just sit back and wait for the bullets to come out of my gun somewhere down the line?”
“Only way to get educated on that is for you to blow off our offer,” Hector said with a shrug.
Robles took a step back and raised his face up to the night, cool moisture coating his skin, eyes closed, breathing in the fuel-heavy air. “Two weeks,” he said in a low voice. “I need some time to figure his moves and locales. He’s new to the town, which makes him new to me. Ten days to learn what I need about the man and four to bring him down. You want it done clear of mistakes, that’s the best I can do.”
“We can live with that, so long as the deed gets done,” Freddie said. “You need to get your eyeballs real close to this padre. He may be new to the city, but he’s not in diapers when it comes to moving the goods and tossing a blanket over his trail. He’s got a hard-core crew that will lay it down and play it full tilt for their paycheck. Maybe they think if they die protecting his ass they’ll get theirs to heaven. No matter. You get in tight and get off the kill shot. That happens, we get what it is we need and you walk free with a couple of suitcases filled with pocket change.”
“Is he the only target?” Robles asked. “I don’t mind working two jobs side by side. Helps me keep my focus.”
“Check the want ads, you looking for more work,” Carlos said. “We just tossed out the only one we have to offer.”
“You know where it is I bank and how,” Robles said. “Soon as that first deposit is there, you can start running down the time on your game clock.”
“The cash will be there on time, no worries,” Hector said. “The bullet to the priest’s head better be, too.”
“I never miss a money kill,” Robles said with a wide smile.
“Well, then, that’s at least one fuckin’ thing we all have in common,
” Freddie said. He glared at Robles for several silent seconds and then held the look as the shooter did a turn and walked off into the mist. They waited until Robles was clear of sight and hearing, their expensive loafers soaked through from the wet grass. Hector pulled out a thin cigar, clicked a lighter, and put the flame to the end. “There’s one fucker I wouldn’t piss on he was on fire,” he said, his teeth clenched around the cigar. “He’ll flip us faster than a Big Mac burger.”
“My hunch tells me he walked in already on the padre’s pad,” Freddie said. “Was sent to the meet to see how much money weight we were willing to toss out on the priest. If the vote belongs to me alone, I follow the arrogant fuck right out the gate and make him a piece of the runway.”
“You’ll take a bite from his apple, no fear there, my brother,” Hector said. “But for the here and now let’s see how he plays the fresh hand we just spread his way. One five in cash can turn a lot of hungry heads, and if Robles is about anything at all that’s real it’s the money.”
“He does the priest, then he has no other call but to come work for us,” Carlos said. “That how you figure he’ll map it out?”
“There’s two roads he can drive down,” Hector said. “That’s one of them.”
“The other?” Freddie asked.
“He back pockets our up-front money and stays by the padre’s side,” Carlos said, his glance catching Hector’s approving nod. “Takes us for the short ride and partners up solid with Angel’s team. It’s a bone roll that the priest will end up the winner in any action goes down between us.”
“And if he goes that way, then what?” Freddie asked. “What are you going to call from our huddle?”
“Robles is no different than any other gun we squared up against,” Hector said. “From day one, they all been cut the same way, and we haven’t backed down to one yet. I don’t see why this particular fool is going to turn out different.”
“He gets tossed like a fresh salad,” Carlos said. “Just like the rest.”
“If that’s the case, then I pray he cubes out and doesn’t dirt-nap the priest,” Freddie said. “Be a happy day for all when I turn that tough-talking fool into a fuckin’ memory.”
6
Stephanie Torres had her corner shot lined and ready, upper body leaning against the edge of the wood, right hand holding the thick end of her stick, the fingers of her left hand coiled around the thin base. She gave the stick a hard nudge and watched as the white cue ball slammed the six into a right-corner pocket. “You sure you want to do this for money?” she asked Boomer. “I don’t mind playing just for play. Hate to have you walk away empty on account of me.”
“It’s still your shot,” Boomer said, smiling.
Stephanie stared back at Boomer and nodded, thick strands of hair covering the sides of her face, a partially opened curtain. “Nine ball, side pocket,” she said. She was dressed in tight black jeans, dark blue denim shirt, and a thin black leather jacket—the standard uniform of the off-duty. Stephanie was one year off the job and six months out of a physical-rehab program, retired now on a three-quarter salary, tax-free disability pension that would last for the rest of her life. The scars from that final fire would last as long as the twice-a-month checks. The skin on the front and right side of her chest was red and scarred, patches as rough and sharp as mountain terrain. The vision in her left eye was damaged, and a section of one of her lungs had been removed. Her throat was always dry and scratchy, and a thin scar ran down the side of her right cheek and ended at the base of her jaw. The fingers of her left hand felt perpetually cold and numb.
Stephanie Torres was not only a disabled cop but a deformed one, the ones the Police Department was always the most concerned about as they prepared for an uninvited retirement. She was considered a high risk, and the department had to do whatever it could to make her less so. “It’s only the end of your police career, it’s not the end of the road,” a therapist assigned to her case by the department said to her during their session. “Your wounds prevent you from being an active arson investigator, nothing more than that.”
Stephanie stared back at the therapist, a well-meaning and thoughtful man in his late forties with a choppy manner and a seen-it-all attitude. “Is this just a job to you?” she asked him in a low, barely audible voice. “You know, meeting with cops like me, giving us little pep talks, stamping our papers, and helping us out the front door? Is it only a job, something to fill in your time between nine and five and help you pay your cable bill? Because if it is, then you are one very lucky son of a bitch. And when the day comes for you to pack your desk and walk out that door yourself, you won’t really give a flying fuck about any of it and forget you were ever even here your first hour away from the building.”
“You’ll find a fresh outlet for yourself,” the therapist said, ignoring her outburst. “It may take some time, but the opportunity will one day be there for you. You may not believe it right now, but it’s very true. And while it won’t be easy for you to wade through the initial bouts of depression you’ll need to combat and overcome, the notion that there is a way out of your darkness will give you the strength to push on.”
“That and the bottle of blue pills you no doubt are going to prescribe ought to do the trick,” Stephanie said. “You have no idea how much better I feel just knowing that. While we’re going at it, let me ask you this. Are you going to mark me down in that little book of yours as a bullet-taker? You know, an emotionally disturbed person with a high-risk potential?”
“Should I?” the therapist asked.
“Only if it helps you keep your job,” Stephanie said, before grabbing her purse, pushing back her chair, and walking out.
Stephanie stood straight up, smiling, as she watched her ball glide slowly into a side pocket. “This is going way too easy,” she said. “I figure you’re walking me right into the center square of a setup.”
“And, remember, we don’t take checks, credit cards, or notes,” Dead-Eye said, stepping up behind her and handing her a cold bottle of beer. “We deal in cash only, and the older the bills the wider our smiles.”
Stephanie took a long swig from the bottle and nodded. “And nothing bigger than a ten,” she said. “I bet you’d take your winnings in coins if you could.”
“I got a box of leather pouches in the car, if that’s how you’re looking to pay off,” Dead-Eye said with a slow smile and a fast wink. “I can cram twenty-five, maybe thirty dollars easy in each one. All I need is the chance and the change.”
“You can lose bus money shooting a few games of pool with your friends,” Boomer said, his back against a wood-paneled wall, hands in the front warmers of a hooded sweatshirt. “What made you track us down and pick us for marks?”
Stephanie rested her pool cue against the table and put the bottle of beer next to it. “Next month, on the eighteenth, will be a year since I walked out of the burn unit and took my first steps into civilian life,” she said. “And I probably have liked it as much as you two. I guess I needed to be around somebody who understood how I feel and how I cope without the burden of having to talk about it. Anybody fills out that MO to the letter it’s you and Dead-Eye.”
“That the start and the finish to it?” Boomer asked. “Or did you come looking for more?”
“How about a for instance?” Stephanie said.
“There’s no secret to what me, Boom, and a few others pulled together a while back,” Dead-Eye said, beer bottle hanging loose between the fingers of his left hand. “Shit, I’d like very much to believe it’s a piece of legend by now.”
“It’s talked about—let me leave it at that,” Stephanie said.
“No doubt,” Dead-Eye said. “And none more so than by cops facing up to your present situation. Drop-kicked out of a job they love by wounds they do their best to hide. Most are content to know that a bunch of wounded cops like themselves managed to get it up one more time and went out and did the deed, in their hearts believing they could never commi
t to such an action or be desperate enough to want to make the attempt. Then, there may be one or two out there that need more than that warm thought to get them through a rough patch. Who are looking to go at it for real, with us leading them up the hill.”
“And you think I’m one of the ones who fit that bill?” Stephanie asked, looking from Boomer to Dead-Eye.
“You spell it for me another way,” Boomer said, stepping away from the wall and walking toward Stephanie. “Convince me you went to all the trouble to arrange to meet us just to find out how good we were at pool.”
“I already know how good you are at pool—didn’t need to drag my ass over two bridges to find that out,” Stephanie said with a downcast shrug and a determined look. “I also knew how great you were as cops, heard the stories just like anyone else that’s pinned on a tin last few years. No secret to any of that, either.”
“What don’t you know?” Dead-Eye asked.
“Whether or not you do have something new that you’re planning to move on,” she said. “There are more than enough rumors out there that point to a yes, but I never put much weight on bar talk. And if any or all of it is even close to the truth, how much of a chance does someone like me have to get into your game?”
Boomer nodded. “We read your casebook,” he said to her after several long, silent seconds. “You were at the top tier—that’s clear as a sunrise. Most of those jobs you cracked had cold files written all over the folders, but you worked the evidence and let it lead you to the solve. Now, there are plenty of high-end places for you to take that talent of yours, the kind of companies that will cut you checks with lots of zeros and let you call in your own shots. But you already know that, if you’re smart as we figure. To me, that means there’s little need for you to come in on a tumble that can end with a flag around your coffin.”
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