by Derek Haas
“Don’t shoot us, goddammit! We’re unarmed! We’re coming out! There are four of us!”
And the door swings open wide, as four hacking, wheezing guys make their way out on to the porch, black smoke trailing them. The cops’ training kicks in right on cue and all of them bolt for the men. Each grabs a bodyguard and shoves him off the porch and on to the grass out in front as the house really starts to go up, a fireball.
The guys hack up smoke and the cops scream at them to stay the fuck down, to get their hands behind their backs and they pull out their plastic ties to secure the men’s hands. It’s now or never. I nod at Risina and we bolt for the near cruiser, the one with the engine still idling. Risina ducks for the passenger door, while I hop across the back trunk and swing around to the driver’s side.
One of the cops, a young kid with a mop of red hair, must’ve caught our movement out of the corner of his eye. He swings around, his eyes as wide as plates, and fumbles for his gun.
In a flash, I aim, fire once, and knock him down, and I’m behind the wheel, hitting reverse, gunning the cop sedan out of there, roaring backwards, down the drive and out into the road.
“I thought you said not to shoot a cop!” Risina screams at me from the passenger seat.
“That applied to you, not me.”
“Oh man,” she starts to say, her hand up on her forehead, so I put a palm on her knee, firm.
“I didn’t kill him. I just hit him in the thigh so he wouldn’t pop a shot off at us as we fled. He’s going to be fine.”
She gives me a sideways look to see if I’m fucking with her, but I’m not and I can see relief wash over her like an ocean wave.
We ditch the cruiser three blocks from a shopping center, but not before we wipe it down. The parking lot is full of cars, and I head to the furthest row, where the employees park and won’t be out until closing time. I pick a small Honda—the make stolen most often—break in, and crack the ignition. Ten minutes later and we roll out of Ridgefield, headed south on Highway 33.
In the passenger seat, I believe I see Risina smile, but I’m already thinking of ditching this car and finding another one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Risina and I are in New York, holed up in the St. Regis Hotel on East 55th Street. I have more money than I know what to do with and it might be safer to break my routine and stay somewhere with a little more polish than the usual unkempt inns I frequent when on assignment. Over the years, I collected staggering fees for completing my work. Since the money held no allure for me, I rarely spent any of it; instead, I socked it away in accounts all over the world. My fence kept credit cards up to date for me, and I have safety deposit boxes in over a dozen major cities containing the right plastic and right identities. Holding two of them in my wallet right now reminds me how important it is to find a new fence when this is over if Archie doesn’t come out of it alive.
I like New York and its dense population. It’s an easy city to get lost in; it’s often advantageous to be a needle in a stack of needles.
I need to work out my thoughts. Usually, I’ll just talk to myself, but it’s nice to have someone to bounce ideas off of. “I think Spilatro put the wheels in motion by kidnapping Archie and then watched them turn. He marked Smoke the whole way, and everything played out how he hoped. I get summoned out of hiding, delivered to his door. He doesn’t want to negotiate though, doesn’t want to talk, just wants to kill me. Hence the collapsed scaffolding. But that didn’t work.”
“Then why didn’t he pop you with a bullet when we walked through Kirschenbaum’s front door? When he could’ve surprised us?”
“You think I’d’ve let him? I don’t get surprised, Risina. I was prepared for a bodyguard to pull a gun. I just wasn’t prepared for that bodyguard to be Spilatro.”
She considers that for a moment, then, “But why? Why does he want to kill you? You’ve never encountered him before. He hasn’t been linked to any of your past jobs, has he?”
“I don’t know yet. If I had a good fence like Archie, or even a half-decent one like Smoke, at my disposal, he could be gathering information on Spilatro right now to help me figure out the connection between him and me. But I don’t.”
She runs her hands through her hair, a habit that gives away when she’s stumped. She opens her mouth but I interrupt, “There is one thing we have to do now . . .”
“What?”
“In response to a kidnapping, the family usually follows a playbook. They get a ransom note and focus on what the kidnapper wants. They look at the ask and the risks and make a decision whether or not to give the kidnapper his demands, hoping for some sort of break after the exchange, after their loved one is returned safely. But they’re looking at it backwards.
“If Archie is still alive—and that’s a big ‘if’ as far as I’m concerned—then giving me up isn’t going to get us anywhere. He’ll kill me, then kill Archie. There’s only one way to take down a kidnapper . . . you have to find something or someone he loves and take it from him. Flip the game on his head.”
Her eyes track and her head nods as she sees it. “We kidnap something of his right back.”
“That’s right. Then see if he wants to talk to us about making an exchange. Not Archibald Grant for me. Those are his terms, his playbook. We take something or someone Spilatro holds precious and make the exchange about that. We have the leverage. Not him.”
“We stay on offense like you said before.”
“Exactly. But listen to me, Risina, this is going to get worse, much worse. It’s going to get brutal, it’s going to get ugly, and we’re probably going to have to spill some blood in order to get Archie back. If Archie’s already dead, we’re going to destroy whomever or whatever Spilatro holds close to him, and then we’re going to have to kill him.”
She swallows, but nods, then nods a second time as though to reinforce her acceptance. “Remember that he brought us into this, he struck us first, and whatever we have to do is because of him. We didn’t ask for this but we’re damn sure going to end it. Messages are written in blood in this business.”
“A tiger is a tiger.”
“That’s right. And he should have left me, should have left us, sleeping in the jungle.”
I go back to that final file, the fourth hit, that had Spilatro working a tandem with the woman named Carla, the same woman Archie then used later for his personal contract. When professional killers work a tandem sweep, when they’re working together to accomplish a single hit, it usually indicates a certain closeness. The killers either came up together, or partnered for convenience purposes, or split the fees because they each had a specialty or strength that was necessary for the most effective hit. Rarely are they complete strangers. A degree of trust has to exist in order to execute an effective tandem.
Since all I have on Spilatro is his face, I’m going to need whatever information off of Carla I can get. I struck out with Kirschenbaum, so she’s going to have to do.
She won’t be on the lookout for me unless they’re still tight, which I doubt based on those last three files, the hits Spilatro worked alone, plus the one she worked solo. They went their separate ways, and maybe the reason behind it will help me build a strategy for taking on the son-of-a-bitch who came after me.
Finding Carla is going to require calling in a favor. Looking at the clock, I’m going to have to wake up a fence in Belgium.
A shell game of pre-paid phones and intermediaries and appointment times and coded messages finally lands me a secure connection with Doriot, a Brussels-based fence I’ve crossed paths with a couple of times in Europe. Once when I went to his office so he could evaluate me, and a second time when I reached him in a prison in Lantin, where he thought he was safely hidden.
“Hello, Columbus. I heard you were dead, so this is a surprise.” His thick French accent sounds even rougher over the phone line.
“Still breathing.”
“Yes, I can hear that now.”
“And you�
��re out of jail.”
“I couldn’t afford to stay in.”
“And how’s Brueggemann?”
“Unemployed, I’m afraid.”
Brueggemann was a German heavy who helped me find Doriot in that Lantin jail, against his will. I think I exposed his weakness as an employee.
“So you would not be calling me for any reason I can understand unless you need something from me, yes? So how may I help you?”
Belgians tend to get right to the point, a national trait I admire.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“I see. What is that something?”
“I need you to locate a New York female hitter who goes by Carla. I need you to hire her for a dummy job. Tell her she has to meet the fence and give her a fake address on Warren Street in Tribeca. I’ll pick her up from there.”
“You going to put her down?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Who’s her contracting fence?”
“I’m guessing Kirschenbaum, but he’s dead so you’ll have to figure out how to contact her.”
“I see.”
This is the part where he realizes he has me over a barrel and will ask for something. Either money or a favor or to pull a job for him for free. But Doriot is full of surprises.
“Okay, Columbus, how can I contact you?”
I give him the number on a prepaid phone and tell him to text me there with a secure number and then I’ll call him back from a different line.
“Very well. I’ll try to dial you in the next day or two.”
I decide to flush the quail if he’s not going to attempt it. “And what do you want in exchange?”
“Not a thing. I have a new outlook on life. I am trying to be accommodating to my friends and rely on providence to reward me with good fortune.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You are a cynic then. I understand. But my actions will turn you into a believer.”
“Okay . . . well, I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yes, soon.”
We hang up. If he’s going to work out his personal issues on my behalf, I’m happy to accommodate.
Carla is in her late thirties, and looks the opposite of most female plugs I’ve encountered over the years. Professionals are always trying to get close to their marks in order to make the kill in private and get the hell away after business is done; as such, most of the women I’ve seen in this line of work are gorgeous. They work their way inside on the mark through suggestions of sex and pounce when the target is at his most vulnerable. By the time the mark figures out he’s been conned, his bodyguards are outside the door, his pants are around his ankles, and his day is about to be ruined. Many a target has been popped at night, but not discovered until the next morning, naked, in bed, blood-dry.
Carla isn’t talking too many men into the bedroom. She’s dressed like she’s used to towing around a couple of kids: knock-off designer jeans and an unflattering print shirt bearing a vague pattern of stripes. She’s dowdy, about thirty pounds overweight, and has a face that wouldn’t launch any ships out of Troy.
I smile when I spot her. She wouldn’t stand out in any room, on any block, in any crowd, on any stage. She doesn’t just blend into the background, she is the background. I almost didn’t pick her out, even though she’s the only woman walking down Warren Street at this time of morning. Her expression is neutral, as bland as her wardrobe and as unassuming as her gait. I like her already.
I approach Carla from behind so she’ll have to turn. I want to see how she moves, see if I can spot where she keeps her weapons.
“Carla?”
She turns slowly, deliberately. Her eyes fix on my chest, unchallenging. Her voice is wheezy, like a trumpet with a faulty valve. Nothing about her is inviting.
“You Walker?”
“That’s right. Let’s move where we can talk.”
“You got an office around here?”
“I like to walk and talk.”
“You got muscle?”
“Just me.”
“You must be new to this.”
“I . . . how long I’ve been doing this is none of your business.”
She doesn’t respond, just follows beside me as I head up the street toward the river. I think she’s bought my newbie act, though I’m not certain.
I talk just above a whisper, “You work tandem with a hitter named Spilatro?”
“Why’s it matter?”
“I might need a two-fer and my client wants a team who’ve worked well together in the past.”
“Fsssh.” The trumpet hits another false note as she blows out a disappointed breath. “I don’t team anymore.”
“You guys have a falling-out?”
“Why’s it matter?” she asks a second time.
“Just making conversation.”
“Now I know you haven’t been doing this long.”
She stops in the street and this time lifts her eyes all the way to my face. “You got a job? Give me a file and let me know when you want the account closed. Otherwise I’m going to walk in that direction, you’re going to walk in that direction, and if we see each other again, we won’t be shaking hands.”
During this, her face doesn’t pinch or blacken. She just says it plainly, like we’re discussing the Tribeca weather.
“All right, don’t tighten up. I was just trying to get a feel for your style . . .”
“What you see is what you get,” she says.
“Fair enough. Let’s stop right here.”
She obeys and folds her arms, impatient. I change tactics, hardening.
“We’re going to have a conversation about Spilatro and you’re going to tell me everything you know about him, or you’ll be dead at my feet before you can take a step away. Your choice.”
This ambush catches her flush, off-guard. She blinks and swallows, not sure how control could have flipped so quickly.
Then her right eye flutters as a red laser shines into it, and we watch together as a small pinprick of red light slowly moves down her face until it stops square in the middle of her chest. Risina is high up on a rooftop working our own loose version of a tandem. Carla doesn’t need to know that the red laser comes from an office pointer rather than a gunsight.
I hold my hand up. “If I raise a finger, you drop. Nod if you understand.”
It takes her a moment to focus on me, and when she does, it is through defeated eyes. She nods. Her gaze flits back to the red dot on her chest.
“Who are you?”
“What’s it matter?” I say, using her words. “What do you know about Spilatro?”
“He . . .”
“Speak up.”
“He brought me into this business.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I . . . uh . . .” She shakes her head slowly, like she can’t believe what she’s about to say. “I was married to him.”
That’s unexpected.
“Start from the beginning.”
It doesn’t take long for the words to gush out of her like water from an overturned hydrant. I have the feeling Carla has been waiting a long time to tell her story, to get things off her chest. Most likely, she hasn’t had anyone to talk to about what she does for a living. She just needs someone to whom she can confess her sins, both personal and professional, and I’m the first man to ask for it. That’s unexpected, too.
For the first six years of their marriage, Carla Fogelman Spilatro had no idea her husband, Douglas, was a professional hit man. She thought he worked sales for a software company that specialized in creating computer programs for brokerages. He talked about programs for tracking stocks, programs for tracking sales, programs for tracking investments, and it all seemed, well, boring. She tuned him out. She didn’t care. She worked too, as a speech pathologist for a hospital, assisting stroke patients who could no longer get their mouths around their words. It was stressful and grueling and demanding, and she came home each day exhausted, too tired t
o listen to her husband talk about quotas and sales leads.
Their marriage was comfortable if not comforting, and she was happy to have the television to herself when her husband went away on frequent business trips. They had no kids, confessing early in their courtship neither cared for children, and she never heard her biological clock tick the way so many other women did. Between her husband’s commissions and her speech salary, they established themselves in the upper middle class and had a nice two-story home, the customary accoutrement of couples earning their income.
Her husband had one quirk. Miniatures. He had a basement full of miniatures—airplanes, trains, cars. In fact, he built elaborate cityscapes, with model skyscrapers and model traffic congestion and model construction equipment and sometimes little model pedestrians walking the model streets. She didn’t mind him down in the basement, building his tiny worlds; she figured having him home when he was in town was better than having him out at bars or running around the way some husbands did. Besides, she could watch her shows while he was building and painting down there. She never had to fight him for the remote control.
A text changed her life. A simple text from her friend Michelle.
I DIDN’T KNOW DOUGLAS WAS IN CLEVELAND.
HE’S NOT.
OH. SWORE I SAW HIM. HOW R U?
She didn’t respond, and when the TV suddenly sprang to life, she realized she’d been sitting there for the full thirty minutes it took TiVo to override the pause. She looked at her hand and realized she had chewed her thumbnail to the quick.
Doug wasn’t in Cleveland. He was on a business trip, yes, but he said he was going to New York to see his client. What was the name he had said? Damn, why didn’t she listen to him? Smith Barney? Something like that.
She was being silly. Why was her imagination running wild? Why did she watch stupid trash like Desperate Housewives and Young and the Restless, where every husband was philandering around like it was Roman times? People in real life didn’t act like that, right?
She should just call him on his cell and see where he was. He’d probably said Cleveland anyway. Maybe she had mixed it up. Cleveland and New York?