The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  He went upstairs and nosed around for a bathroom. The one he found was clad in pink marble and had rows of cosmetics on the counter beside the sink. He stripped and took a shower, and when he finished he toweled down and rubbed his skin with perfumed body lotion.

  After tying his blood-soaked clothing into a ball, he looked in closets until he came upon some men’s shirts and pants he assumed were Eddie’s. He put on one of the shirts and a pair of pants and was amused at how badly they fit. Carrying the sodden bundle of clothes and the bag of cash and his knife, he left the house.

  61.

  Barker’s phone rang. He answered: “Barker.”

  “Hello, Jeb.”

  Hearing Dana’s voice was a thrill. And a huge relief. He’d been almost desperate to make contact with her. And now here she was.

  “I’m very glad you called,” he said. “I’ve tried to reach you on your cell phone, but apparently you’d turned it off.”

  Her tone was barely above a whisper. “Yes, but I’m on it now.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not well. I didn’t want to call you after I saw those awful photos.”

  “I don’t blame you. But I can explain, if you’ll give me a chance. I was set up by Hopkins when I went over there to read the agreement Zarkov had sent him on investing in a movie. I know I was stupid to let myself get into such a situation, but that’s what happened.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. Whether I can trust you or not is another story. But at the moment I feel I have to.”

  “You still at Delaney’s place in Greenwich?”

  “Yes, and I need to get out of here.”

  “I know you do. In fact, I may have found out what’s been going on. With Delaney, that is.”

  “I have too. At least I think I have. Are you in New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Does Delaney know you’re suspicious?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “You feel you’re in danger?”

  “I might be. But except for you, I can’t think of anyone who’d believe me.”

  “Can you leave the house?”

  “I could try, but Delaney might stop me. He has a security man who’s been watching me like a hawk. Every time I step outside, he’s there.”

  “Then act as if everything is normal. Just go on as usual.”

  “But I—”

  “Look, I realize you’re under a lot of pressure. But it’s important that you don’t let on you suspect anything. I’ll get you out of there just as soon as I can. Okay?”

  “Please hurry. I’m scared.” She hung up.

  When his plane landed at JFK, Mongo claimed his bag and left the terminal. A row of taxis was at the curb, and he got into the one at the head of the line.

  The driver was a rough-looking character with a do-rag tied around his head. “Where to?” he said.

  Mongo leaned forward and opened the drawer in the bulletproof window that separated the passenger compartment from the driver’s seat. He put a hundred-dollar bill into the drawer.

  The driver turned and looked at the bill. “What’s that for?”

  “I want you to take me where I can buy some heat.”

  The guy continued to eye the hundred. “You a cop?”

  “Fuck no. I need a good piece, and if you help me find one, there’s another hundred in it for you on top of your fare.”

  The cabbie snatched up the money. He activated the meter and pulled away, driving fast and deftly slipping the vehicle in and out of the lanes of traffic.

  Mongo didn’t know the freeways, or parkways as they called them in New York, but he could see the Manhattan skyline ahead in the distance. A lot had happened since the last time he was here.

  Fifteen minutes later the taxi crossed the Triborough Bridge. But instead of turning south toward the center of the city, the driver drove west on 125th Street. After covering several blocks he swung north and wound his way through a maze of side streets.

  To Mongo, the neighborhood looked a lot like South Central in LA. The sidewalks and the pavement were just as crowded and just as dirty, and among the junky cars there were a few that were shiny and dripping chrome and putting out thundering bass beats from oversized speakers. People were sitting on doorsteps, and kids were everywhere.

  The driver pulled into an alley between two ramshackle buildings and drew to a stop. “Wait here,” he said, and got out of the taxi.

  Three minutes later he was back. He climbed in behind the wheel and said, “Be cool. A brother be comin’ by with what you lookin’ for.”

  True to his word, a second guy soon appeared and approached the cab. He wore a bright blue mohair cap and was pulling a suitcase on rollers. Opening the rear door, he got in and propped the case on his lap.

  He smiled widely at Mongo. “How you doin’?”

  “Fine. Whatcha got?”

  Blue Mohair unzipped the top of the case and swung it back. Then he threw up his hands, like a chef presenting a perfectly prepared soufflé. “Here you go, man! Take yo’ pick!”

  Nestled inside the case was an array of handguns: a Glock 9 mm, a .40-caliber SIG Sauer, a Ruger .357 Blackhawk, a .45-caliber Taurus, and a stubby submachine gun with a folded-back metal stock.

  Mongo pointed at the submachine gun. “What’s this one?”

  “That’s a Scorpion, man. You can use it like a machine pistol, fire it with one hand. Or you can fold out the stock, and what you got then is more like a automatic rifle. Either way it’s a mean little motherfucker. Puts out eight hunnert fifty shots a minute. Pop pop pop!”

  “What caliber?”

  “Seven sixty-five.”

  “Not much power.”

  “That don’ matter, ’cause I got hollow points for it. One make a hole you could stick your fist through. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  Mongo picked up the weapon. It was surprisingly light and felt comfortable in his hands. “How much?”

  “Let you have it for a special price. Two grand.”

  “How many rounds does it hold?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Let me see those hollow points.”

  “Sure thing.” Blue Mohair unzipped a second compartment in the case. He pulled out a box of ammunition and handed it to Mongo. “You buy the gun,” he said, “I’ll throw in the bullets. No extra charge.”

  Mongo opened the box. He released the weapon’s magazine and began fitting cartridges into it. “I’ll take it,” he said.

  “Like I told you, two grand.”

  “Yeah, I heard you.” Mongo went on loading the magazine. When he finished he snapped it back into place. Then he pulled a thick wad from his pants pocket and counted out two thousand dollars. It barely made a dent in the wad.

  Blue Mohair’s eyes bugged. “Man, you takin’ a chance, runnin’ around with all that bread on you. Somebody could strip yo’ ass bare.”

  Mongo handed over the money and put the rest back into his pants. He raised the Scorpion and racked the first cartridge into the chamber. “No, they couldn’t,” he said. “Not while I’ve got a machine gun. Pop pop pop. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  The guy looked at Mongo, and then at the muzzle of the Scorpion, which was pointed at him. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Take your case and get out of the cab.”

  The guy did as ordered.

  “Have a nice evening,” Mongo said.

  The driver had been watching the transaction in silence. Mongo shut the door and said to him, “Now let’s go downtown.”

  62.

  As the taxi jounced along FDR Drive, Mongo asked the driver if he knew where the nearest Hertz office was. On East Fortieth, he was told. Take me there, Mongo said.

  When the cab stopped in front of the place, he paid
the fare plus the additional fifty. He put the Scorpion and the box of cartridges into his bag and left the taxi. Then he went into the Hertz office.

  Using a credit card and a driver’s license that identified him as Paul McGill of Clear Lake, Iowa, he rented a Chevy Impala. The young woman at the desk gave him a map of the city, and at his request she traced out the route to Barker’s address in SoHo.

  The first leg took him a couple of miles down Second Avenue to Houston Street. Following the highlighted line on the map, he hung a right onto Houston and drove west to Greene. Then a left on Greene and there was the address. He drove past it and kept going until he found a parking place for the Impala. He got out and walked back.

  It was dark by now, and streetlights were on. Pedestrian traffic was heavy, people hurrying in one direction or another and paying no attention to him as he stood on the sidewalk and sized up the building.

  The structure was obviously old and didn’t look like most apartment houses he’d seen. It was six stories high and had fire escapes hanging off the front. Although there were many windows, the entrance was simply a large double door. When a couple went inside, he got a glimpse of a shoebox lobby with two elevators.

  After a moment he realized what he was looking at. This old hulk had once been a warehouse. Or maybe a factory. And then it must have been converted into apartments that were called lofts.

  Mongo remembered seeing a movie on TV where a guy lived in one. He was an artist, a slob who smeared paint on large canvases and slopped it all over himself as well. In the movie, he was portrayed as a genius.

  Supposedly, lofts were now fashionable. There were a number of similar buildings in the neighborhood, and Mongo supposed they’d all been converted. Given a choice, he’d take his cottage in Malibu anytime. To him a place like this had all the appeal of an oversized shithouse.

  As he considered what his next move should be, he noticed a battered green Mustang coupe that was occupying a space marked no parking. He stepped over to it and saw a police plate on the dash.

  Stroke of luck, he thought. The junker had to be Barker’s ride, and the fact that it was parked here meant the cop was home. Okay, so sooner or later he’d come out of the building, and when he did, Mongo would blast his ass.

  No foolishness this time, either. No long-distance shot with a sniper’s rifle, no blowing up the fucker’s car. Instead, Mongo would keep an eye on the entrance, and when Barker emerged he’d spray him with the Scorpion at close range. Up yours, peckerhead. Pop pop pop.

  He returned to the Impala and got a zippered jacket out of his bag. As he put it on, it occurred to him that he was hungry as hell. The food on the airplane had been revolting, so he’d just had a couple of scotches and some peanuts. Drinking the whiskey had helped him sleep for much of the trip.

  But that hadn’t allayed his hunger. On his drive down here he’d passed a grocery store that was only two blocks away. He’d duck over there and get himself something to eat. Bring it back here and settle down in the Impala to wait. He locked the car and moved out, walking briskly.

  The store was run by gooks. It was small and rickety, but the vegetables and fruit all looked fresh. It also offered deli service, and he had the slant-eyed mama at the counter make him up a ham and cheese on rye. He added a can of Bud, paid the tab, and headed back.

  As he approached the Impala, he glanced over at Barker’s building. And was startled to see the cop come out the front entrance and go to his Mustang.

  Goddamn it! Mongo had left the Scorpion in the car. By the time he got it out it might be too late. How could he have been so fucking stupid?

  He threw the paper bag containing the sandwich and the beer into the gutter and sprinted to the Chevy. He unlocked it, jumped in, and started the engine, just in time to see the taillights of the Mustang disappear around the corner.

  Go!

  He gunned the car, peeling rubber and missing some fool on a bike by a hair. Apparently Barker had turned right onto Houston Street, so Mongo swung onto it as well and accelerated. But he couldn’t catch the Mustang.

  He drove hard, whipping in and out of traffic, ignoring the blast of horns as other drivers let him know they were pissed at being cut off. He had no idea where he was going, was only aware that he was headed in an easterly direction.

  It wasn’t until he’d covered four or five blocks and run a red light that he caught up to the cop’s car. He hung back just far enough to keep an eye on it but didn’t get close enough to spook him.

  Now what? Would Barker stop someplace where it would be possible to get a clear shot at him? Or had Mongo blown his chance, at least for tonight?

  One thing was for sure: the fucking cop truly led a charmed life. Mongo had trailed him up into the Hollywood Hills and that had ended in a spectacular failure. Now here he was trailing him in New York and he still hadn’t snuffed the son of a bitch.

  Which was a dumb way to look at the situation, he told himself. Stick with him and watch for an opportunity. If you don’t get one tonight, there’s always another time. Just don’t blow it by being too impatient.

  Following the Mustang wasn’t easy. Mongo could see the green car several cars ahead, but holding his position forced him to take chances. When the cop went through an intersection Mongo cut off a truck to stay with him, and right after that he had to run another red light.

  On top of those problems, it seemed to him that drivers here were even nuttier than the ones in LA, if that was possible. They weren’t only aggressive, they couldn’t drive worth a shit. And while they played doodlebug with their cars and trucks, they leaned on their horns and shouted curses.

  At one point some cowboy came flying out of a side street, and Mongo slammed into his left front. The Impala skidded from the impact, but he was able to keep going. In his rearview he could see the driver get out of his car to check the damage. The guy was shaking both fists, and the sight made Mongo laugh.

  After covering some distance the Mustang turned onto FDR Drive. Mongo recognized it because he’d been on it in the taxi, although now he was going in the opposite direction. To his right he could see lights reflecting from the waters of the East River. The traffic moved quickly but in a steady flow, and that made it easier to follow the cop.

  He still didn’t know where Barker was headed, but wherever it was he was eager to get there. They passed the UN building, another familiar landmark, and then drove by a large bridge that a traffic sign identified as the Queensboro, all the while maintaining a high rate of speed.

  As they approached the Triborough, Mongo wondered whether the cop was planning to go to the airport. Maybe fly back to LA? Wouldn’t that be a bitch.

  But Barker sailed on by the entrance, and finally crossed the river on a smaller bridge that took him and Mongo to the Major Deegan Expressway. They went past Yankee Stadium and eventually turned off onto yet another multilane road, and by then Mongo had stopped guessing. He’d simply keep on tailing the cop until they came to a stop, wherever that might be.

  At least the drive gave him time to review his plan. After he’d taken care of Barker, he’d retrace his route to the Triborough and from there drive to LaGuardia Airport, which was much closer to the city than JFK. The map he’d been given by the clerk at Hertz showed the way.

  When he reached the airport he’d leave the Chevy in long-term parking and drop the Scorpion into a trash can. A worker would be sure to find it while emptying the can, and the gun would soon be sold all over again.

  Mongo had checked the airlines before leaving LA. He’d learned that several of them scheduled flights from New York to George Town in the Caymans. So getting a seat on one would be easy. The trip would involve one stop, in Charlotte, and then on to the islands. The only drawback was that total time would be a little over fourteen hours.

  But so what? Once in George Town he’d get a room in a luxury hotel and have himself a
huge dinner and a hooker. Then he’d chill out. When the bank received his fee from Strunk, he’d have all his money wired to the bank in Costa Rica, where he’d opened another account.

  After that was done, he’d fly there himself. The forged passport he’d use to get into the Caymans said he was Marcus Hollaby. He’d ditch it when he reached Costa Rica, where he’d become Darius Rudd, with credentials to prove it. Tracing him, he was sure, would be impossible.

  From what he’d learned in Q, all you had to do was pay a little grease to the Costa Rican officials in San José and you could live in style with nobody giving you any shit. He’d rent a house, and staff it with three or four cute mujeres to handle his every need.

  That was exciting to look forward to, sort of like crossing the goal line. To get there you had to play it just as he had. You had to work hard, take pride in doing your job well, make a shitpot full of money. Then you could retire and keep yourself in booze and broads ever after. It was the American dream, wasn’t it?

  But first he had some business to take care of. According to the road signs he was now entering Connecticut, a state he’d never been in before. It had begun to rain, and the diminished visibility made it harder to stay with the cop.

  They drove a short distance on I-95, and then Barker turned off at Exit 3. That took them into the town of Greenwich. Barker seemed oblivious to the Malibu with the crumpled right front fender that had shadowed him all the way from New York.

  Mongo had to be more careful now. Not only to keep the Mustang in sight, but also not to violate traffic laws. Small-town fuzz could be a pain in the ass, and the last thing he needed was to be stopped by one of them.

  Barker turned left at a stoplight, and shortly after that left again, and as Mongo followed he saw a street sign that said they were on Field Point Road. Why Barker had come to this one-horse burg was a mystery, but he must have had his reasons.

  Now the cop was making another left turn, and Mongo eased closer. As he did, he saw that the road Barker was turning into had a booth with a security guard in it. Barker slowed down, spoke to the guy in the booth, and was waved on.