by Mel Odom
“Whatever,” Wilson said. ”I’m a cop, you’re a crook. In the eighties and nineties, you moved the local family action into legit businesses to avoid the clash with the Jamaicans, blacks, and Colombians. Then when the U. S. and world economies went belly-up twenty years later and your legitimate enterprises bit the dust, you started moving your people back into the streets. You’re back to struggling to making your living the same way you did when you started in the loansharking and prostitution rackets, and protection. The only difference between then and now is that now you have somebody else break a guy’s legs when he’s late on his vig instead of doing it yourself.”
Triumbari leaned back in his chair, his face a cold mask of hate.
Rawley broke open a roll from the basket in front of him and starred buttering it.
“My client doesn’t have to listen to any of this. None of these allegations has ever been-” Ericson said, getting up from his chair.
“Sit down,” Triumbari ordered.
Ericson sat.
“You view your world in a very black-and-white fashion,” Triumbari observed.
Wilson shrugged it off. “It keeps things a lot simpler.”
“Even so. Some things are meant to be intricate. Such as your friend’s ability to arrange a meeting between us in the first place.”
“No. You want DiVarco out of the way, and so do I. You don’t want to go head-to-head with him yet, and I need to find legal means to take him off the streets.”
“And the people behind him,” Triumbari said.
“And the people behind him.”
“Yet you don’t want to bend your rules about consorting with what you see as the enemy.”
“Not any more than I already have,” Wilson agreed. “Right now, between you and DiVarco, I see dealing with you as the lesser of two evils.”
“At another time that might not be so.”
Wilson didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
“And anything we do now won’t affect your decisions at a later date regarding me?”
“No. I can’t afford to let it.”
“You’re a very unimaginative man, Agent Wilson.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a guy not easily swayed by the convictions of others.”
Triumbari seemed to consider that as he sipped his wine. “Your two previous attempts at managing a handhold on DiVarco have failed.”
Wilson didn’t say anything. He’d already heard reports from January and Mac, and the teams were still ironing out the wrinkles with the Boston PD in both areas. However, he was surprised that Triumbari already knew about them.
“So that leaves you with me.”
“It leaves me starting with you,” Wilson amended.
“You have other pressures on you as well. I’ve been told that your arrangement with the House subcommittee now under Congressman Cashion isn’t expected to be long-lived.”
“You’re well-informed.”
“That’s why you came to me. My problems with Sebastian DiVarco could wait for months. It appears to me, though, that you only have a matter of days in which to prove your investigations fruitful before you are forced to dismiss your interest.”
“Maybe only hours,” Wilson said. “I have to keep that in mind while I’m talking to you.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got five minutes to make your pitch, then I’m out of here.”
“Craig.” Triumbari snapped his fingers.
The attorney reached into the briefcase at his side and handed over a manila file folder.
Wilson took it, opened it, and began scanning the information it contained.
“There are eight businesses on those pages,” Triumbari said. “All of them belong to DiVarco, and all of them are very lucrative. If you take them out, you’ll guarantee retaliation on DiVarco’s part and draw him more out into the open. The man is emotional. He’ll make mistakes. All you have to do is capitalize on them.”
Wilson was already counting on that. “I’ll need witnesses to back up the warrants I’m going to be asking for.”
“You’ll get them. Whenever you need them, simply call Craig. He’ll arrange it. There are already several professional witnesses standing by willing to admit they worked for DiVarco or his people in return for protection from legal harassment.”
“I can fix it.”
“See that you do. I’ve given my word to these people.”
Wilson folded the papers and stuffed them inside his jacket. “One other thing. What can you give me on Isaacs?”
“Boston’s illustrious police commissioner? Nothing.”
“He’s clean?”
“No. Somebody owns him, but I don’t know who.”
“DiVarco?”
“I doubt it.”
“Isaacs has not been very supportive of our involvement here.”
“Look beyond DiVarco. I’ve heard that there are other people involved in his schemes.”
“Besides the Koreans?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“That remains a mystery. But I’ll keep my eyes and ears open as well. If anything turns up, I’ll let you know.”
“Where do the Koreans fit in?”
“They’re shoring up DiVarco’s territorial bids.”
“Why?”
“That’s another piece of the puzzle, Agent Wilson. An interesting mosaic should take form in the next few days. I’ll be fascinated to see what it looks like.”
“Nobody does anything for free,” Wilson said.
“I know. Figuring out the Koreans’ butcher’s bill would probably prove very instructional as well. I find myself at a loss to guess what DiVarco could have possibly offered them for their actions on his behalf. One other thing I feel I must tell you.”
Wilson listened closely.
“Even after Jo-Jo Manetti acted as go-between for this meeting and for this arrangement, there were reservations between myself and the men I represent. There was much thought that we needed to take care of Sebastian DiVarco ourselves. The man raised himself out of the gutter, for which he is to be commended, but he failed to leave gutter thinking behind him. He has allied himself with foreigners against the families, stood with filth against his own blood, and killed his friends. DiVarco is an abomination, and must be dealt with. But if we tried to do it ourselves, blood would cover these streets and we would weaken our own organization. We elected to side with you in this because you represent the possibility of getting this over with quickly. The federal government can expel the Korean vermin from our streets and use military units to enforce that decision.”
“Leaving your people ready to wade in and pick up the pieces,” Wilson said.
Triumbari spread his hands.
“I can promise you right now,” Wilson said, “that when we take down DiVarco’s businesses, there won’t be anything left standing to build from.”
“Nature abhors a vacuum, Agent Wilson. Something can be worked out that will benefit us.”
Wilson knew that was probably true, but whatever it was, it had to be less deadly than the plans DiVarco was putting together. If not, he and the team would return and put down Triumbari as well. The thought was small consolation, but it was all he had.
Triumbari waved a uniformed waiter over. “Will you be joining us for lunch? The chef is quite excellent.”
“No.” Wilson pushed his chair back and stood.
“You’re missing truly excellent cuisine.”
Before Wilson could reply, one of the security guards shouted a warning and sprinted for the table.
Out on the street, an engine suddenly revved up. Wilson tracked the sound as he reached under his jacket, at the same time triggering the SeekNFire circuitry along his jawbone. The whining engine belonged to a beetle-shaped black Porsche that sped toward the restaurant.
The security guard launched himself into a flying leap that covered Triumbari and bore the old man to the ground under his body.
A passenger leaned out the
window of the Porsche, holding a short tube over his arm.
Wilson recognized it at once and went to ground near the low wall. “Rocket!” He heard the warhead shriek through the air, thought he heard the impact of it hitting the building, then his hearing was lost in the explosion a heartbeat later.
Glass and wood and burnished steel rained over the outside dining area. The canopy collapsed, already covered with a sheet of flames.
Choking on the thick smoke trapped under the burning canopy, Wilson struggled out from under a pile of debris and tracked the Porsche as it headed the wrong way down the one-way street. It had stopped for a moment as if to observe the effects of the rocket, then quickly got underway again. Wilson shoved the remaining wreckage away and got to his feet, only noticing then that his pistol was still in his hand.
Ten feet away, Rawley stood up, dusting his Stetson off on his jeans automatically. A cut seeped blood high up on his cheek.
A half-dozen gunners from the restaurant had fanned out and were taking shots at the retreating car.
“Get them!” Triumbari shouted as the bodyguard helped him up.
Wilson ran toward the low wall separating the dining area from the parking lot and used his free hand to vault it. He saw Rawley coming hot on his heels. Slapping the remote control unit wired into his motorcycle jacket, he watched the van’s rear doors electronically release and open. A ramp extended from the undercarriage and dropped into place before he reached the vehicle.
Standing outside the van, he reached inside and pulled out one of the Kawasaki Enduros. It came slowly, then gained momentum. He controlled it with effort, then swung a leg over. The key was in the ignition and the engine kicked over with the first touch of the electronic starter.
Rawley was pulling himself onto the other motorcycle.
“Going down Richmond that way heads out onto Atlantic Avenue,” Wilson yelled above the high-pitched whines of their engines. “After that they have a choice between north or south. I’m taking north.”
“Let me know how it turns out,” Rawley said as he adhered his T-jack to his jaw.
Wilson twisted the accelerator and felt the motorcycle’s rear tire start to spin out from under him, then it grabbed traction and shot him over the curb. He was airborne for a moment, riding it out and bringing the rear tire down first. He swerved to miss an oncoming car, then shifted gears with his boot toe. His 10mm rode in his jacket pocket.
The wind slammed against his face like an invisible wall as he pushed the bike up to seventy miles an hour. On the straightaway, the sports car’s top-end would have left him behind, but Boston traffic didn’t allow for such speeds. He stayed low behind the handlebars, eyes roving over the traffic.
He downshifted and cut across traffic at the corner of Richmond and Atlantic. Popping the clutch, he brought the front wheel up and powered over the curb in a wheelie. The front wheel came slamming back down as the rear wheel caught the curb. He controlled the wild swerving and roared down the sidewalk for a moment until he could regain the street headed north.
Weaving in and out of traffic, he spotted the Porsche as they were nearing the Lewis Wharf area. He blew onto the T-jack’s mike. “Rawley.”
“Go.”
“They’re here.”
“I’m on my way.”
Wilson zipped around two cars, stayed within the narrow margin between the two lines of traffic, and hovered thirty yards from the sports car’s rear bumper.
The guy in the passenger seat saw him first, reaching over to the driver and grabbing the man’s jacket with enough force to cause the Porsche to momentarily jerk out of control. The driver recovered, downshifted, and cut across traffic onto a side road leading into North Square.
Forced to use the front brake, Wilson made the turn less than two car lengths behind. He gunned the motorcycle as he came out of the turn, using the bike’s greater speed to close the distance.
The Porsche’s four-wheeled base gave them an advantage on cornering, and the driver knew it. He made two more turns, then pulled onto North Street.
Wilson called the directions out for Rawley. Hitting the straightaway again, the Porsche vibrated with the cobbled street under the tires. The passenger leaned out the window with an H&K MP5.
Wilson leaned to the left, swooned over on the driver’s side of the Porsche only a car length and a half behind, forcing the passenger more into the open. When the guy opened up, Wilson knew the man had to be sitting on the door frame, making an easy retreat out of the question.
A line of bullets stitched the cobblestones in front of the Kawasaki as Wilson tapped the brake and cut back to the right. The FBI agent reached under his jacket and brought out his 10mm. Being left-handed, he could manage the accelerator with his right hand and take advantage of the SeekNFire circuitry built into his palm. The programming seized the target and he squeezed off three shots in rapid succession.
All of the rounds took the gunner in the chest in spite of the bumpy road. The man dropped from the Porsche and went rolling across the street. A quick glimpse confirmed Wilson’s earlier impression that the man was Korean.
Without warning, the driver locked his brakes as a car came by in the oncoming lane.
Knowing he couldn’t hope to stop the motorcycle completely before colliding with the braking sports car, Wilson shoved his pistol into his jacket, downshifted, and hit both brakes to shut down the Kawasaki’s speed as much as possible, then waited to the last second. With impact only feet away, he released the brakes, gunned the engine, and popped the clutch. The front wheel reared up obediently, riding up onto the sloped back of the beetle-shaped sports car. His forward momentum and the driving rear tire with all-terrain knobby tread carried him on top of the Porsche, then he was over it, coming down into the street all wrong.
He managed to land on the rear tire instead of the front by throwing his weight backward. For a second he thought he had it, then knew from the way the bike was weaving that he didn’t. Choosing to cut his losses, he laid the bike over on its side and kicked free of it. He slid across the cobbled street, picking up dozens of bruises before he came to a stop. He got his bearings quickly. Paul Revere’s two-story wooden house was to one side in a line of residences that looked almost as old, and was mirrored by similar structures on the other side of the street.
Forcing himself to his feet, Wilson ignored the Delta Elite lost somewhere inside his motorcycle jacket and went for the H&K VP7 OZ in his boot. His hand closed around the pistol. There was a small electric discharge when the SeekNFire programming changed gears, then the 9mm was jumping in his hand as the Porsche streaked toward him.
Horns blared now as the constricted drivers realized someone had screwed up their timing with an accident.
Wilson put eleven bullets through the windshield before the sports car was on top of him. He dodged to the side, went down to one knee, followed the passing car with the barrel of his pistol, and surged in pursuit.
The Porsche missed the overturned motorcycle lying in the middle of the street and slammed into a tall wrought-iron fence. Partially crumpled from the impact, the fence had folded over the top of the car.
The driver was also Korean, and he was dead. It didn’t look as though any of the eleven shots had missed.
Rawley coasted to a stop beside Wilson and put a leg out to balance the Kawasaki. “You about finished here, amigo?”
“The other one?” Wilson asked as he went to check his bike.
“Dead.”
A cursory inspection of the Enduro 250 revealed no lasting damage, and it appeared roadworthy. A quick tune-up later would put things to rights.
A siren sounded only seconds before a blue-and-white-striped Boston police cruiser came squealing onto North Street. It came to a rocking stop only a few feet in front of the wrecked Porsche.
“Looks like the local talent has arrived,” Rawley said.
“Yeah,” Wilson said as he turned to face the two armed officers getting out of the car with shot
guns. “Late, as usual.”
“You got to give them points for consistency, though.”
“Right.”
15
Balancing three wedges of cold sausage pizza, a cup of coffee, and a yellow legal pad, Slade Wilson crossed the floor of his borrowed office in the Boston FBI field office and answered the telephone. “Yeah.”
“I see you had an exciting premiere today,” Earl Vache said. “If it hadn’t been for that jetliner crashing at Salt Lake City and killing over half the passengers, you’d have made the national news.”
Wilson dropped into the typist’s chair behind the desk and tried in vain to find a comfortable position. Bruises had already started to cover his body. Finding the remote control in the desk, he switched on the TV, changed channels to CNN, and left the sound off. Through the plate-glass window behind the television, he could see the rest of the team operating in the bullpen to finish their assigned tasks. As each pizza box was emptied, it was pushed aside and the next one opened. The Boston FBI division had volunteered legmen and secretaries, but Wilson had politely turned down the offer.
“The premiere’s not over yet,” Wilson said. “So far DiVarco’s only seen the teaser. The opening act starts at ten o’clock.”
“Triumbari paid off?”
“Like an inside straight.” Wilson managed a couple of bites of pizza and took a sip from the coffee beside the legal pad.
“How did Rawley do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“You really need to start playing him a little closer to the vest.”
“Later you can tell me ‘I told you so.”
“I will. I only hope you’re there to listen. Dodd and the bank vice-president were scrubs?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve got no real case against D Varco?”
“Not the kind you can take to a picky prosecuting attorney.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“Start hitting DiVarco’s businesses, starting with the ones that will cost him the most cash. ‘
“You’re crossing over into territory occupied by the Boston police department. It’s their responsibility to investigate gangland activity within their city. If you can’t prove that the strikes you’re contemplating are part of some greater whole, you’d be better off not doing them.”