by Jon F. Merz
Jimmy pursed his lips. “She’s been drugged by those assholes. She needs a place to lay low and recover a few days.”
“God knows where she came from.”
“Pappas ain’t exactly gonna be giving up that information.”
“No.”
“Nor any of his goons.”
“Nope.”
Jimmy sighed. “I’m old, Lawson. I got no place I can stash her.”
“She needs to go to the hospital,” I said. “When Billy’s boys get here, tell them to get you both an ambulance.”
Jimmy smiled. “The cops are gonna be all over this.”
“Just tell ‘em the truth.”
“They’ll think Billy set it up.”
I shrugged. “He has been known to be a bit of a scumbag himself.”
“Yeah, but not this shit. This ain’t him. His boys will take care of cleaning the joint.”
“What are you saying?”
Jimmy nodded at the corpses. “They’re history. Vanished. Billy don’t want cops around here.”
“And the fact you’ve got a slug in your belly?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I’m clumsy as fuck these days. Shot myself.” The grin on his face vanished as a stab of pain lanced through him, but he recovered with a quick exhale.
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I sighed. “You sure?”
He nodded. “You’d better get going. If you’re able. I’ll have the boys take the girl to a woman’s shelter and leave her off at the door.”
“They’re not gonna try to get a cheap piece of ass off her, are they?”
Jimmy frowned. “Nah, They’ll do the right thing. Gangsters got a code of honor too, ya know.”
“You say so.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Don’t we all what?”
“Have a code of honor. Gangsters, thieves…spies.” He looked at me. “Fixers.”
I said nothing but just stared at him. “It would probably be in both of our best interests if we never said that word again, my friend.”
Jimmy Bats nodded. “I know it.”
I grinned and shook his hand. “Merry Christmas you crazy old fuck.”
“Merry Christmas, Lawson.”
I stood and walked toward the front door.
“Lawson.”
I turned and looked back. “Yeah?”
“That was a helluva drink you made for me.”
I smiled. “A little heavy handed?”
Jimmy Bats shrugged. “Sometimes you need a heavy hand, my friend.”
I nodded and then walked out into the Christmas night, looked up into the snow, and walked off back into the shadows of my life.
The Snitch Who Stole Christmas
December 1999
In the four years I’d known hard-charging, chain-smoking Brookline cop Dave Larazo, he’d never asked for a favor.
I, on the other hand, had asked for many of them. Larazo, in the course of his daily work, usually had his thumb on the pulse of any bad stuff going on around town. And since Brookline fell under my jurisdiction and whispered sweet nothings into Boston’s ear in terms of proximity, I liked having sources in law enforcement and elsewhere that could keep me supplied with valuable intelligence when I needed it.
I’d met Larazo a few years earlier when I helped him break up a robbery at a hole-in-the-wall bodega that straddled South Huntington Avenue like a clumsy virgin. Larazo was the first cop to respond and I was the dose of bad medicine the two thugs ran into while I was shopping for tonic water late one night. Things didn’t end well for the robbers; I was already pissed the store didn’t stock fresh limes.
But Larazo and I got along famously. He had an even bigger craving for Chinese food at Chef Chang’s than I did. He knew the entire family that ran the joint and we used to hit the place for lunch frequently. On New Year’s when the restaurant was stuffed to the gills, Larazo and I would hold court at a small table in the back room where we’d feast on the Peking Duck, Szechuan beef, and gallons of hot-and-sour soup. With New Year’s only a few weeks away, I was already thinking about asking Tony, the guy who ran Chef Chang’s if they’d consider letting me haul a cot into the back so I could sleep off the massive food coma I fully intended on putting myself into. That and a good helping of Bombay Sapphire and tonics would ensure my New Year’s was pretty damned spectacular.
Things had been quiet work-wise. I’d recently put away a few stragglers who’d been on the run for years, somehow managing to duck the long arm of the Council. And then they’d made the mistake of coming to Boston. Never a good idea. But otherwise, it was quiet. I was still trying to get all my Christmas shopping done and figure out if the ladies in my life would appreciate expensive lingerie. In the end, I decided to go ahead and buy it; after all, I would certainly appreciate seeing them in it.
By the time I got home, snow had begun falling and sticking to my windshield. Rumor was Boston was going to get a coating of the white stuff, which always put me in a good mood. I turned the lights on my Christmas tree on and slipped a Jimmy Heath CD into the stereo. The night’s agenda seemed reasonable: dinner, a roaring fire, jazz, and a drink or two. And until my phone rang, that was the plan. A damned good one, I thought. I still had a few days on my own before Tanya and Mary flew in for our Christmas celebration. Quiet time was quality time as far as I was concerned.
The phone didn’t figure into that equation. I grabbed it on the third ring. Larazo’s voice came down the line.
“Lawson.”
“Yep.”
“Larazo. You doing anything?”
“Got a thick steak in the broiler along with some potatoes and red peppers.”
“That Jimmy Heath I hear in the background?”
Larazo was a jazz fan, too. “Might be.”
He laughed. “Listen, pal, I need a favor.”
“Can do. How soon do you need me there?”
He paused. “It’s not tonight.”
“Okay, when?”
“Christmas Eve.”
I frowned. “You’re joking.” My Christmas Eve was pretty much set in stone. With Tanya and Mary inbound and no hint of an inhibition between them, I’d already envisioned certain delightful carnal machinations that would no doubt make physical activity on December 26th fairly impossible.
“‘Fraid not. You got plans?”
“I did.”
Larazo paused again. “I need your help, pal.”
I sighed. He wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t serious. “Yeah, I know. What’s the gig?”
“I’m up the street. Can I swing by?”
“Why didn’t you just ring the bell?”
Larazo laughed. “The last time I dropped by unannounced, you were naked and nearly shot me.”
“You startled my…friend.”
“Is that what she was?”
“Sounds nicer that way.”
“I’ll bet. See you in two.”
“It’s a babysitting job.”
I sipped the Bombay Sapphire and tonic. “Not to sound like a snob, but that’s a bit beneath me.”
Larazo sipped the Coors. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, when they handed it to me.”
“Who is he?”
“Some clown named LeClaire. Used to work for the Cheval family. You know them?”
“No.”
“Haitian organized crime out of Roxbury. Heavy drug traffickers, number-runners, prostitution. That sort of thing. They’ve been the leading suppliers of heroin and pot in the area for years. Half of their people are strung out and preaching voodoo most of the time.”
I frowned. “Why the hell aren’t the Feds handling him then?”
“You tell me. Those are your people.”
Larazo had always assumed that I was a Fed. I’d never confirmed or denied it. Letting an assumption hang out there is sometimes more potent. I shrugged. “Not really my people. I work in a different area.”
“Only joking,” said Larazo. “I’m part of
a joint federal/local task force.”
“You?”
Larazo leveled a finger at me. “Don’t joke. It’s got a bunch of different folks on it - Bureau, Marshals, local cops.” He took a long pull on the Coors and then set it back down. “But, I can’t trust that this isn’t going to turn into a serious shit-fest and I don’t much like the thought of dying on Christmas.”
“How many on the protection team?”
“Four. Myself, a G-man, and two Marshals.”
“Sounds solid. How come you need me?”
Larazo shrugged. “I’m covering all my bases. Just in case.” He sighed. “Let’s just say my work ethic isn’t exactly winning me a lot of friends.”
I smiled. Larazo’s work ethic was simple: do your job and do it as best you can. It was pretty similar to mine. As a result Larazo and I had about the same number of friends at work: zero. But that was the thing about humans and vampires: they both tended to be lazy. I’d seen it enough times in my own race. People don’t like creating waves. Me? If there’s something that needs doing, then it gets done.
“Tell me about LeClaire.”
Larazo set the can down. “Any more of those in the fridge?”
I nodded. “I only keep them for you, pal. Help yourself.” I’d already made sure to move my blood supply to the downstairs refrigerator, so there was no chance Larazo would stumble across it.
He was back in twenty seconds. “LeClaire used to beat up whores and pimps over by Chinatown. Somehow he worked his way up to collections from numbers runners who don’t kick their fair share upstairs.”
“Not exactly a huge promotion.”
“And it doesn’t have the side benefits.”
“Only if you like your benefits with filled with rampant diseases.”
“No thanks,” said Larazo. “Anyway, once he got a look at some of the amounts the boss was collecting, LeClaire got greedy. Not much at first, but he started skimming what he collected from the deadbeats and pocketed it. At first, the boss wasn’t wise to it, but you know how those guys are.”
“Obsessive.”
“Yup. And once he figured out he was still being shorted, the obvious answer was LeClaire.”
“That when he flipped?”
“Flipped?” Larazo grinned. “Hell, the guy may as well have wrapped himself up and put a bow on top of his head. He walked into FBI headquarters downtown and turned himself in.”
“And you think the Haitians want LeClaire dead so he can’t testify against them?”
“He appears in front of a grand jury next week. The number of indictments they’re expected to hand down could very well dismantle the entire Haitian organized crime network here in New England.”
“Some Christmas present.”
Larazo grinned. “Not if you’re looking at the business end of multiple life sentences. Some of these guys figure in murders stretching back decades.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Only four on the protection detail?”
“Yup.”
“Seems to me they’ll be quite committed at killing LeClaire before he can open his mouth.”
Larazo toasted me with his can of Coors. “You get a point for stating the obvious. But our pleas for additional security fell on deaf ears. According to the Bureau, four is plenty to safeguard LeClaire. They don’t think the Haitians are going to move against him on Christmas. Something about it being a holy day or some such bullshit.”
“That’s not good.”
Larazo drank deep and belched. “Nope. It’s not good at all.”
Larazo had a prime spot for me on the team: don’t tell anyone I was there.
“The way I figure it, if they know about you, they’ll send more guys. But if they’re only expecting four, then they’ll plan accordingly.”
“You’re going to be looking at an overwhelming attacking force regardless. They’ll send at least a dozen guys after LeClaire.”
“True. But we’ll hold the defensive position. Tougher on them than us.”
I sighed. “Tell me you guys will at least have some heavier firepower than just pistols.”
“Couple of AR15s. I’m bringing my MP5 for when it gets intimate.”
“Grenades?”
Larazo eyed me. “Not exactly what we routinely stock in the armory, pal. Although I wouldn’t say no if you happened to show up with a few.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” We were sitting in his car on a quiet street in West Roxbury, one of the middle income neighborhoods that bracketed Boston. The single family Colonial Larazo had pointed out was in desperate need of a paint job and a few shingles. But it didn’t stick out as an obvious safe house. And it was better than a hotel in terms of defensibility. “What about the neighbors? We don’t want any kids getting caught in the crossfire.”
Larazo shook his head. “No problems there. The Feds own the homes on either side and rent them out. But they’re both empty now. The next home on the left side is an elderly couple visiting friends in Reno. And the next home down has a newborn. One vacant home on the right and then woods. All in all, it’s pretty secure.”
Across the street was an empty lot filled with piles of old lumber and cement blocks. “What’s the deal there?”
“Owned by the city. Hasn’t been developed yet.”
“Lots of hiding places.”
Larazo nodded. “Which is where I’d like you to be. You can provide overwatch and take out the bastards as they come in. Hopefully, we can put them into a nice convenient crossfire before they get too close.”
“Oh, that sounds delightful: me in the cold all night long. What happens come Christmas Day, by the way?”
“LeClaire’s being flown to New York. We hand him off to a new team. At that point, I don’t much give a shit what happens to the scumbag. But while he’s in my care…” His voice trailed off and I knew what he was thinking. Neither of us liked being forced to protect bad people, but sometimes it came with the territory. And if it did, then we handled it like any other assignment and did our best. Damn that work ethic thing.
“So, what’s the score with the Haitians, anyway? I never realized they were such a threat.”
“They’ve quietly been gaining strength. Back in the late-80s there was a power vacuum when the Chinese tongs got rolled up. The Italians had suffered heavy losses a few years earlier. The Vietnamese tried to take over but had to settle for places like Lowell. The Haitians - especially Cheval - had the pipeline, though, and they stayed under the radar long enough to put down roots. By the time we heard about them, they were already well-established. They’re vicious sonsabitches. Last crime scene I saw that had their handiwork on it the guy had a variation of a Colombian necktie as well as chicken blood and voodoo shit all over the walls. Still have flashbacks for crissakes.”
“You don’t believe in that voodoo stuff, do you?”
Larazo was quiet for a moment as he stared out of the windshield. After a few seconds he shrugged. “Probably not. But you never know. My family used to have a place down in Hilton Head. Just off the lower coast of South Carolina.”
“I know it.”
“That’s voodoo country down there, too. I remember one time we visited a cemetery. Gorgeous warm day in June. But under the canopy of trees, the Spanish moss dangled like fingers reaching down for us. It was dark and we found a chicken that had been sacrificed. It’s blood was still fresh and spilled all over the tombstones. Strange chalk sigils, the whole works. Freaked me the hell out. Felt like a thousand angry souls were watching us.”
Listening to Larazo talk, the cold of December seemed far away in that moment.
But then Larazo smirked. “Probably all bullshit.”
“Most of the time it is,” I said.
Larazo eyed me. “Most of the time.”
Consequently, Christmas Eve found me wrapped up in a lot of layers while a brisk December breeze snaked its way through the rubbish, concrete blocks, and old newspapers until it found me and pricked at my fe
w bits of exposed skin. The sun had slunk west leaving a trail of deep red and orange spilling into the dark blue of evening. Soon, it would be black as pitch. There was a new moon tonight and the stars would be of little use to most people.
Fortunately, my kind happens to see better in the dark than humans. So I felt pretty sure I’d be fine.
I could have opted for a sniper rifle, but the truth was, I was only about a hundred yards from the house, if that. That put any potential targets well within the effective range of the Heckler & Koch G3A4 I’d chosen for tonight’s op. With its collapsible butt stock, I could go from battlefield conditions to reasonable close quarters action if need be. I had twenty rounds of 7.62 ammo and three extra mags stuffed down the front of my bulky coat. Riding low on my right thigh, I had my SIG Sauer P226 in 9mm as my secondary weapon and if the G3 jammed, I’d let it go on the sling and draw the pistol.
Instead of actual grenades, I’d brought along several flash-bangs that would create a thunder clap and brilliantly bright magnesium flashes. The stunning effect of the flash-bang was hard to defend against and rather than blowing up half the neighborhood, I figured the flash-bangs were a better option. By the time the bad guys got through being disoriented, I’d already have a bead on them and could shoot if I needed to.
I’d seen movement in the house already. I didn’t think Larazo was there yet; it wasn’t six o’clock which is when they were bringing LeClaire to the house. But another team member must have been inside readying things. The shades were down, but lights inside cast shadows against the curtains.
Right at six, a four-door dark old Buick rumbled up, executed a three-point turn and then slid to a stop in front of the house. It looked like a piece of shit, but judging by how it handled the pothole in front of the house, it was armored and had heavy duty shocks on it. The driver kept the car in drive while the shotgun passenger exited and surveyed the scene. He had one hand back slightly around the submachine gun on a sling under his coat. He took a good ten seconds to check the area and then pounded on the roof twice.
The back passenger doors opened at the same time and I saw Larazo get out and face the empty lot I was lying in. He couldn’t see me, of course, but his eyes roved over the area anyway. As he did so, the passenger door on the sidewalk side let another team member out followed by a a tall, thin Haitian man. That had to be LeClaire. I didn’t have time to catalog his features, though, because as soon as his feet touched the sidewalk, the team was already moving him inside the house. They mounted the steps and as they came up, the front door opened and they were in. As soon as they did, the car shut off and the driver made his way into the house as well. He paused at the top of the steps, took another glance around and then slid inside.