by Linda Barnes
“I’ll be there,” Lemon said. He added as an afterthought, “Love ’ya.”
I cradled the receiver carefully. Now it was up to Lemon and Roz to make the other calls, the cabbies to make speedy deliveries, the cops to act.
T.C. does not like to travel except when he likes to travel. I hadn’t had him in the Toyota since the last time he threw up on the dashboard.
Mooney had insisted.
I grabbed the cat and wrestled a leash attachment onto his collar. He glared at me with wide-eyed disbelief, and exercised his claws. I kept a grip on him, and pretty soon he calmed down.
I took my gun out of my shoulder bag. I thought about leaving it home. I thought about Wispy Beard. I thought about the two thugs who’d roughed up Margaret. I jammed it into the waistband of my jeans, at the small of my back. It was uncomfortable.
Just as well. When a gun starts feeling comfortable, I’ll know it’s time to quit.
Chapter 32
I know my way around the old Greyhound Terminal in Park Square. It used to be a highlight of my beat, a dimly lit trough stinking of urine and rancid grease, a magnet for pimps. There they’d lurk, night after night, meeting those buses from Peoria, greeting those lost, young, hungry-eyed runaways. The Greyhound pimps were something else—bizarre, perverted Welcome Wagon hosts with a set line of patter, a memorized, routine rap: “Hey, girl, you lookin’ good. You look like you could use a meal. You got a place to stay? You want a little reefer? A little coke?”
Park Square got urban-renewed with a vengeance. They tore down practically every building in sight, but left the Greyhound Terminal, a monument to sleaze. I don’t understand why, since they promptly built a shiny new bus depot near South Station. The Trailways Terminal.
I zipped up Storrow Drive to the Southeast Expressway, my eyes peeled for traffic cops, although getting nailed for speeding is no real threat in Boston. I hit seventy. That’s when my Toyota starts to shimmy. I slowed to sixty-eight. Two dark cars followed me, so I politely used my blinkers to signal lane changes and turns. My shadows moved with me, no signals. I took the High Street exit, a left on Congress, a right on Atlantic Ave. I hung an illegal U into the Trailways parking lot, and sandwiched the Toyota between an old VW bus and a tiny Escort. I glanced at my watch. Gloria’s call should have gone out two minutes ago. From here on in, the timing depended on Flaherty.
T.C. and I stared at each other in the dark. After yowling along with the radio for a few ear-shattering moments, he’d settled into one of his silent, accusing modes. Hell, I agreed with him. I should have left him home. I cracked my window open an inch. He could stay in the car and sulk.
There was a cab stand smack in front of the futuristic glass-and-steel structure. Flaherty wouldn’t even have to hunt for a parking space. Green & White number 442 was nowhere in sight. Yet.
I was relieved not to see any other G&W cabs nearby. I’d had trouble keeping the Old Geezers under wraps the past few days, especially Boyle and Fergus. They wanted Flaherty for breakfast. They tossed around words like “tar” and “feathers.” Hanging was too good for the bastard.
The bastard. Sam’s nephew. His only sister’s only son.
I swallowed, gulped salty air, and stomped on the rubber mat that opened the sliding door. I focused straight ahead, so I wouldn’t seem to notice the men behind me. I could feel their eyes on the back of my neck.
The station was like an airplane hangar, with steel overhead beams, soaring escalators, and narrow catwalks over an enormous central lobby. I buttoned my jacket against the air-conditioned chill. The air smelled wrong—canned and recycled to a metallic breeze. All that glass, and not a single window that opened.
I shook my head as I looked around. Spiffy new building, same pimps, same winos, same runaways. On one bench an exhausted young woman in a denim jumper held a baby on her lap, and scolded a toddler to stay close. I didn’t recognize anyone right off, but I wasn’t trying to recognize anyone. I just wanted to know who was where, check the pieces on the board. A quick scan of the waiting room showed only pawns—pawns, and the well-dressed, elaborately casual men I wasn’t supposed to notice.
I checked the schedule board posted over the Trailways counter, did the same at Peter Pan, then at Continental. Buses had come in from New York on two of the three bus lines within the hour. I didn’t have to know which bus interested Flaherty. He would show me. I hoped.
I hadn’t glanced at my watch more than, say, forty times, when he strode through the sliding glass doors twenty-two minutes later. He’d brought two goons along. My heart almost dropped out the bottom of my sneakers when I saw they weren’t carrying anything.
They didn’t notice me. I was wearing baggy faded jeans, a blah T-shirt, a shapeless jacket. I’d tucked every strand of red hair out of sight under a beige scarf. I wore glasses so lightly tinted they were useless in the sun. None of the pimps or the winos or the ticket-counter people had given me a second glance. I was flattered by their lack of regard. I felt close to invisible.
Engrossed in a flyer selling Trailways’ cross-country tours, I pretended not to notice Flaherty and his colleagues. They walked by, eyeing the winos and the pimps and the late-night, weary travelers. I dropped a quarter into a slot and bought a news-box copy of the Globe. Then I followed them, hanging back, keeping out of sight. They made their way down a staircase. I took the escalator, which was broken or stopped for the night. My sneakers were silent on the metal treads.
Lockers lined one wall. Some were large enough to stow a steamer trunk, others too small for my shoulder bag. Redtagged keys flagged the unused lockers. Maybe Eugene had stolen—I’m sure he would have said “reclaimed”—the loot in T.C.’s cat box from one of these lockers, once he’d figured the scam. Any fool could jimmy a bus station locker.
I made tracks for a nearby ladies’ room, because the two guards were doing their stuff, watching all the traffic while Flaherty worked the lock. I held the door open an inch, and saw Flaherty remove a briefcase, leaving the key in the lock. A good trick, never using the same locker twice. Flaherty was almost smart.
He’d just underestimated Eugene Devens. And his sister.
Flaherty and the goons filed back upstairs, crossing the vast lobby. I trailed them in fits and starts. I was aware of men following me.
I love a parade.
Damn. I hoped the deal wouldn’t go down in the men’s room. I hadn’t thought of that. Christ, you can’t think of everything.
The terminal was laid out like a spider. The lobby was the body. Long, angled walkway legs led to the loading docks. Flaherty and his companions marched down one of the corridors. A red sign overhead said Continental. Gates 3-7. They were alert now, poised for trouble. You could see it in the set of their shoulders.
They walked for what seemed forever, Flaherty front and center, the others half a step behind, darting glances right and left.
Three figures, almost a mirror image of Flaherty and company, came out of the shadows to meet them. One carried a gym bag. The other two flanked him. One was a woman, not much more than a teenager. They’d need a woman’s voice for “Maudie.” And traveling with a female was less suspicious. You could always cuddle up and pretend to be newlyweds anticipating the honeymoon. This gal didn’t look cuddly. She wasn’t tall, not more than five five, but she was broad through the shoulders. A scar cut her forehead, and she didn’t comb any of her lank hair forward to hide it.
The walkway was deserted. The Continental bus had arrived at eleven forty-five. “Maudie” must have waited until the passengers dispersed before calling G&W.
Now I waited—hardly breathing, a beige nobody hunched against a cinderblock wall—while the swap took place. I wanted my targets relaxed. I wanted it clear that everything was business as usual. I watched shoulders, arms, hands. Four of the six held themselves like they were carrying.
I felt my own .38 pressing against the small of my back. A bead of sweat trickled down my neck.
The briefcas
e was swapped for the gym bag.
Time.
I breathed.
I stepped away from the wall. Not too far out, because I didn’t intend to place myself in any firing line. I spoke as loudly as I could, directly to Jackie Flaherty. I hoped “Mr. Andrews” of Cedar Wash Condominiums could tell which man I’d targeted, but it really didn’t make much difference.
“Tommy,” I yelled. My voice sounded hollow, rusty. I’d stored up too much tension in my throat, and my vocal cords almost refused to cooperate. I willed enthusiasm and strength into them. “Tommy, darling, it’s so good to see you again.”
Maybe one of the guys was actually named Tommy, because Flaherty’s right-hand bodyguard turned toward me with a questioning look on his face. The others shrugged. The girl glanced behind her, to see if this dame’s Tommy was racing up the hall.
“Drop the suitcases.” The voice belonged to “Mr. Andrews” of Cedar Wash, but it was amplified and distorted. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, swelling out of the floorboards, bouncing off the walls. “Get your hands up. You are under arrest.”
The six swiveled in various directions, confused by the nondirectional, godlike quality of the voice. Two made halfhearted moves toward less than immediately accessible firearms, then froze when they saw what they were up against. They were sloppy. They’d played this game too often without a hitch. In sharp contrast, the FBI men were anything but lax. There must have been eight of them, with artillery in plain sight.
There was a moment of silent standoff. I tried to join the wall, pushed myself flat against it. I was impressed. I mean, for a downtown drug bust, you’d be lucky to get two halfway interested cops these days. They’ve lost their enthusiasm, and in some ways I can see their point. It wears you down, arresting the same creeps over and over.
The FBI looked sharp. I mean, they had us surrounded. They must have flashed those badges and gotten instant access. Impressed as I was, I hoped no nervous junior G-man would pull the trigger by mistake.
None of the drug dealers drew a weapon. Twelve hands eased themselves over six sullen heads. Mine had shot up the minute the FBI requested it. I was pleased. It seemed nobody wanted to bleed on the shiny linoleum.
I breathed again.
See, I thought the bad part was over.
Chapter 33
It wasn’t Mooney’s fault.
There were too many cops and too many crooks.
I first caught sight of him on a catwalk overhead, and I wondered how long he’d been in position, whether he’d appreciated the FBI’s neatness, or whether he was still too pissed at them to let admiration temper his anger. He rocked back and forth on his heels, ready to pounce. He waited patiently while the FBI disarmed and handcuffed the six. I’d been right. Four carried pieces. The FBI leader—“Andrews,” or “George Robinson,” or my old school chum, “Roger Smith”—ordered me to step aside and stay put, and warned me that I’d be charged as an accessory. Nobody searched me or the scar-faced woman, probably because they hadn’t brought a female officer, and didn’t want to risk a lawsuit. That was legit, but nobody cuffed us either, which was totally dumb. What do they think, men are the only jerks with guns?
I didn’t see how Mooney got down from his perch. All I know is that he was downstairs and approaching fast, with a sea of blue uniforms around him. They halted ten feet away, and he stepped forward, grinning broadly. He’d brought more than blues. He’d enlisted a Deputy Superintendent, probably to handle the press. He’d shanghaied a bruiser I remembered from the Narcotics Division.
He said, “Thank you. ‘Mr. Robinson,’ isn’t it? Or is it ‘Andrews’?” He flashed his tin and continued, “Boston Police. Possibly you’ve heard of us. We’ll take over now.” He nodded to the narcotics officer. “Hey, Joe, you wanna read these jerks their rights?”
“Andrews” hardly looked at him. “Lose yourself,” he said. “These people are in federal custody. I have a warrant for the arrest of Thomas C. Carlyle. We’ve just cracked the New Survivalist League wide open.”
The flash of relief on Flaherty’s face was instantaneous. “But I’m not—we’re not. Look, somebody’s made a big mistake here.”
“Yeah,” Mooney agreed, “and you’re it.” He turned back to “Andrews.” “And you can use that warrant for toilet paper, because none of these bastards is any Thomas C. Carlyle. You’ve just assisted on a local drug bust. We appreciate it. We thank you for all your help. We know how big you are on cooperating with your local police force, but now you can waltz on out the door. I’ve got warrants, too, with the right names.”
“Look here, mister—”
“Don’t ‘mister’ me. Lieutenant Mooney. Of the Boston Police, an outfit you’re supposed to cooperate with. Remember?” Mooney spotted me standing against the wall. “Carlotta?”
I whipped off the turban and glasses, and he looked relieved. I guess he thought I’d shaved my head. “Hey, Carlotta, you bring T.C. along like I asked?”
“Andrews” ’s jaw dropped.
“I left him in the car. He’s in no mood to be bothered.”
Gloria and Roz were right. “Andrews” was definitely cute, especially when he was angry. Mooney said, “You’ll find the real Thomas C. Carlyle in a red Toyota in the parking lot. The same car you followed over here. Don’t worry. He’s unarmed.”
“But not declawed,” I offered.
“He is a cat,” Mooney said. “You went after a cat. Send one of your men out to read him his rights, somebody who doesn’t mind getting scratched.”
One of the FBI team moved off at a curt nod from his superior. I was glad I’d left my car doors locked. I didn’t think the FBI would break into my car, but I had Mooney send along a uniform to make sure.
“Andrews” stepped closer to Mooney. So did I. I didn’t want to miss anything.
“You mean you knew about this whole—this whole charade?” he said quietly. There was so much anger in his voice that he had to speak softly to keep it from cracking.
“Charade?” Mooney said loudly, loving every minute. “You mean like a phony contest?”
I didn’t like the way Flaherty was staring at me. His face was white and pinched, his small, mean features drawn together. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, but his eyes measured distances, and his arms strained against the cuffs. His eyes looked like holes cut in a cardboard mask. The others seemed more relaxed. One guy was bobbing his head, and I wondered if he was high.
Heated words were exchanged about which agency was going to take charge of the evidence. The Deputy Superintendent stood to one side and let Mooney do the talking, but you could see he was delighted. The press was mentioned. It seemed a local columnist was right outside, a guy who loved to skewer public agencies. A few of the FBI men lowered their guns and murmured among themselves.
I sneaked another glance at Flaherty. He had Sam’s build, Sam’s shoulders. I wanted him in a cop car, out of here, behind bars.
“Look,” Mooney’s voice drowned out “Andrews.” “Forget it. You did the bust, but we’ve got the paper. We’ve got a tie-in to a likely homicide.”
The FBI commando who’d been dispatched to my car returned. He said, “It’s a goddamned cat all right.”
“Arrest it, why don’t you?” Mooney said. “You’ve got a warrant for that cat.”
Common sense tells you the bad guys give up when they’re disarmed and outnumbered and cuffed. Common sense has nothing to do with it.
Flaherty started it. He broke away, twisting and turning and hollering, and the whole group flew apart. Shouts rang out, but no fire. There were too damn many cops—uniforms, brass, suited FBI. Nobody wants to risk shooting another cop. Nobody wants to shoot a cuffed suspect either, not even the FBI, and worse, the prisoners were heading for the lobby, for the shelter of the pimps, travelers, and runaways.
I started after Flaherty. It was a gut reaction. I stopped. I thought about Sam. I chased another guy instead, the goon who’d grabbed the gym bag. None o
f that stuff was going to make it to Paolina’s housing project.
He could run, I’ll give him that. But in that bright open lobby, there was no place to hide. He leaped over counters, but he couldn’t use his hands to break a fall. He dropped the gym bag. We danced around a bench. I could have ended it with my gun, but the woman with the two children was clutching them both on her lap, praying at top volume, and ignoring all my pleas to hit the floor. I could hear other people screaming, shouting.
I brought the bastard down with a flying volleyball lunge that stung my knees. His head smacked a bench with a satisfactory thud. I jumped to my feet, out of his reach. He lay there, winded. I checked to make sure he was breathing, then I pulled my gun, and let him know that prone was the preferred position.
The woman with the two kids was well into her seventeenth Hail Mary. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were closed tight.
Flaherty was directly in front of me. An empty handcuff loop dangled like a huge earring from his left wrist. Maybe some FBI jerk hadn’t cuffed him properly. Maybe he’d socked a cop, gotten the key, given it to the woman. Maybe she’d unlocked his cuffs. I don’t know. It didn’t matter. His jacket pocket was torn. His forehead was smeared with grime or blood or both. He had a gun pointed at my head.
I raised my arms until I had a gun pointed at his.
He said, “You’re my ticket out.”
I don’t know how long we stared each other down. My hands were damp. My finger felt like it was glued to the trigger. Eleven pounds of pressure to pull that trigger. The universe condensed to that necessary tug. I studied Jackie Flaherty’s face. I didn’t think he’d fire. I think he wanted me to kill him.
I almost did. I almost squeezed the trigger. I would have squeezed it. I would have. Sam or no Sam. This had nothing to do with Sam. This was him or me, and that’s one thing I learned when I was a cop. If it’s him or me—it’s me, every time.
“Down, Carlotta!” I know Mooney’s voice like I know my own, and I dove for the floor like it was an Olympic pool. One elbow hit hard. A pinwheel of light blinded me, and then I was deafened by the crack of revolver fire. There were two quick shots, then silence. I wondered if I’d been hit.