“The dog would kill him.”
44/
The yellow cab rolled up Eighth Avenue, Pet driving, Wesley the passenger. He wore a khaki fatigue jacket and heavy twill khaki pants tucked into soft-soled field boots. Under the jacket, he wore a black Banlon pullover with long raglan sleeves.
In the side pocket of the pants he carried two identical knives; the blades extended back through the handles and were anchored by a tiny metal bead. Wesley carried the Beretta zipped into the inside pocket of the field jacket. One outside pocket held a screw-on silencer. Another held two full clips of hollowpoints. Swinging from the thin webbing belt was a pair of baseball-sized fragmentation grenades. The front pocket of the pants held a Colt Cobra with a two-inch barrel. Wesley also carried a small plastic bottle of talcum powder, four pairs of rubber surgeon’s gloves, and a black silk handkerchief. Clipped to the back of the webbing belt was a pair of regulation police handcuffs. Also on board was a thousand dollars in bills, from singles to centuries, a soft pack of Marlboros, a disposable butane lighter, and a miniature propane torch.
Sewn into Wesley’s left sleeve were registrations for the six cars, as well as a valid FS-1 for each—but only one set of keys, which would start any of the vehicles in the garage. He also carried a driver’s license, Social Security card, draft card, a DD 214 form from the Army, a membership card in Local 1199 of the Hospital Workers Union, and a clinic card showing that his next appointment was for Monday at the VA Hospital on 24th and First Avenue. Wesley had once spent twenty-four hours a day for three weeks dressed the same way—he could move without giving the slightest hint of all the extra weight.
The cab stopped on 44th and Wesley got out. It was 10:15.
Wesley entered Sadie’s. A red light glowed against the far wall. Beneath it a fat man with a menacing face sat behind a scarred wooden desk. The fat man’s face lit up with what was supposed to be both a smile of welcome and a warning.
“Can I help you, buddy?”
“I want a massage.”
“Twenty-five bucks in front. You pay me for the massage—you got twenty minutes. Anything extra, more time, whatever, you settle with the girl, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now take a look in this here book and tell me which a the girls you want.”
He showed Wesley the kind of album proud mothers keep of weddings. There were about forty pages, with two devoted to each girl. Wesley watched as the man thumbed through it. They all looked alike. Wesley’s finger stabbed at random.
“How about that one?”
“Sorry, buddy, this is Margo’s night off. But if you like blondes, how about this?” He displayed a well-worn 8x10 glossy with obvious pride. The merchandise was lying down on a couch, nude and looking straight into the camera’s eye. She looked about sixteen.
“Yeah, okay. Is she ready now?”
“Sure, just hold on a minute. Joanne!” he bellowed. A girl who vaguely resembled the picture in the album came into the front area to escort Wesley back to a booth. He couldn’t see her face at first, but as they walked back together, he saw she moved like she was thirty-five and tired. She ushered Wesley into what looked like a large closet: plasterboard walls, an army cot with folded sheets, a pillow without a case, a tiny lamp with a pink low-watt bulb, a cracked porcelain bowl half-full of tepid water. The girl pulled her shift over her head. She was wearing what looked like the bottom half of a bikini and several pounds of flesh-colored powder.
“Why don’t you just lie down on the bed there and tell me what you’d like, honey?”
Wesley’s watch said 10:28.
“Come here.”
“Sure, honey, but you know that’ll cost you extra, right?”
“Right.” Wesley motioned for the girl to sit beside him on the cot; he took out two hundred-dollar bills and folded them flat across her knee.
The girl nervously licked her lips and gave him a half-smile. “Honey, I know this is Times Square and all ... and I can show you a real nice time ... but for that kind of money maybe you want one of the other girls here, I don’t—”
“You can get this, and another two hundred, just for being quiet and helping me a little bit.”
“What do you mean? Listen, I don’t go—”
“Just take the money and keep quiet, okay? I need some answers and some help. I can pay you for it ... or I can cut your fucking throat.”
The razor-edged knife was nestled against the girl’s carotid artery before Wesley finished the sentence. He watched her eyes to make sure she wouldn’t panic or scream, finally satisfied himself that she wouldn’t.
“No noise, okay?” he said quietly. “Just no noise and some answers and I’m gone.”
She said nothing.
“Every night, just before eleven, a short, husky black guy comes in here. He’s got a big Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear and—”
“I know who he is, that sicko.”
“Yeah. Okay, who’s he go with?”
“Anyone, man. For what he does, he can’t be choosy. You know what he wants to—”
“I don’t care what he wants. I want him. I want to talk to him, you understand? Alone. Just for five minutes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You got two choices. I could cut you real quiet and just wait for him back here in this room ... or you could go out front and bring him back here with you.”
“I’ll bring him back. He’d like to go with me. He asked me before. I could—”
“Just relax. Look at this: you know what this is?”
He held the Beretta in one hand, the knife still at her throat with the other.
“I know what it is.”
“Do the other girls get angry if you take a customer?”
“Nobody would get mad if I took him. They only take him in here at all because he’s got a real strong friend in the Square.”
“I know all about his friend—that’s who I work for. I’m here to take the diamond outta that nigger’s ear, you understand?”
“Why didn’t you just say so, man? I know the score. You don’t need the knife, I’ll—”
“You wait in the doorway,” Wesley cut her off, pointing. “Right there. When he comes in, you bring him back here with you. You say anything to the fat man, you scream, you do anything, I’ll put a bullet in your spine before you finish.”
“Okay, okay, stop talking like that. Give me another twenty-five.”
“For what?”
“So’s I can go out and tell Harry that you’re paying for another session—that way he won’t bother you. Then I’ll tell him you’re getting cleaned up so he won’t wonder about you being back here, okay?”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
Wesley’s alternative plan was to shoot both the girl and the manager and be waiting at the desk when the black man came in. If she did anything bogus, he’d have the decision made for him. He screwed in the silencer, making sure the girl saw it, gave her another twenty-five dollars, and watched from the doorway as she walked to the desk.
“Here’s another payment, Harry. Client wants another session.”
“Good. Make this one shorter, understand?”
“Sure, Harry, but I want to work him for a tip, too.”
“Bitch, you work for me, not the fucking customers, understand?”
“Okay, Harry—I’ll get him out soon.”
The manager went back to his newspaper. Wesley thought he must have fantastic eyes to read in that dim light. Joanne returned to the room, walking past Wesley, who was still in the doorway.
“I did it.”
“I heard. Is he going to freak if the black guy comes back here with you without me leaving yet?”
“Man, I thought you knew what that guy’s scene was. Harry wouldn’t expect you to come out.”
“Okay. Just be quiet and wait now.”
45/
They sat in silence as the door opened. It wasn’t the black guy. The new customer seemed
to know who he wanted and sat down to wait. In a couple of minutes, a tall, thin girl came out of one of the other rooms and he followed her back. It was 10:48.
The door opened again. It was the black man, wearing a red velour jumpsuit and red shoes with four-inch platform heels. Joanne slipped past Wesley and switched her hips into the front room. The black man looked up as she entered. Joanne smiled and motioned with her hand.
“Changed your mind?” the black man asked.
“A girl can, can’t she?”
The black man followed her back toward the room. Wesley was just walking out of the same doorway. As they moved past him, Wesley wheeled and rammed the silencer viciously into the black man’s kidney. The black man pitched forward into the tiny room, the girl just ahead of him. They went down in a sprawl of bodies. Neither made any effort to get up. The black man was transfixed by the extended barrel of Wesley’s gun.
“No noise,” Wesley told him.
“What is this?”
“It’s a quiz show—you give me the right answers and you win a big prize.”
“Don’t be stupid, man. You know who I am?”
“Yeah.”
Wesley pulled the handcuffs from the webbing belt and walked toward the black man, who extended his wrists as though he’d been through this routine a thousand times. Wesley slammed one cuff over the black man’s right wrist and snapped the other over the girl’s left before she could react.
“Hey!” she yelped.
“Shut up. It won’t be for long—I don’t want either of you to move. Now we’ve got about ten minutes for you to tell me what I need to know,” he said to the black man.
“And what’s that?” the black man said, calm and in control.
“You going to meet the Prince when you leave here. Where?”
“Man, you’re not serious!”
Wesley leveled the piece at the girl’s forehead and squeezed the trigger. There was a soft-ugly splat! and her body was wrenched backward, almost pulling the black man with her. The top of her head was gone—fluid ran over the opening in her skull. The black man frantically shifted his weight to keep dry.
“I’m very serious,” Wesley said softly. “The next one’s yours.”
“Man, don’t do anything like that, listen....”
Wesley cocked the piece again, held it in both hands pointed at the black man’s upturned face. His facial muscles tightened....
“Under the Times Clock! On 43rd. Between Seventh and Eighth! Don’t!”
“What time?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
“Who gets there first?”
“He does, man. He always—”
The bullet hit the black man at the bridge of his nose. His death was as soundless as the shot. Wesley shifted the piece to his left hand and squatted by the bodies. He carefully slit each throat and wiped the blade on the velour jumpsuit. He shook talcum powder onto his hands and pulled on a pair of the surgeon’s gloves. Then, still holding the gun, he wiped every surface in the room with the black handkerchief—it took only about forty-five seconds. He knelt by the door to listen; there was still no sound from the front room.
Wesley slipped down the corridor. As he entered the front room he saw the clock over the desk said 11:20; his own watch said that was a couple of minutes fast. The fat man at the desk looked up as Wesley approached.
“Just about to call you, buddy.”
Wesley fired. The first slug caught the fat man in the chest; his head dropped to the desk. The second bullet entered the top of his head. Wesley was about to walk out the door when he remembered the Marine and put another bullet into the fat man’s left ear socket. Even in the thin-walled parlor, the shots were virtually soundless. Wesley exchanged clips, then carefully pocketed the spent casings.
46/
Wesley turned right on 43rd. He noticed the clock in the package store said 11:23; his Rolex tallied with this, and he slowed a bit. The still-assembled piece was now tucked into his belt. By sharply drawing a breath, he could pull it free without trouble.
He lay back in the shadows until he saw 11:29 on his watch, then mentally counted to fifteen and started to walk up the right-hand side of the block toward the Times Building. The big digital clock read 11:31, and he saw the Prince standing underneath, legs spread and arms extended. His left hand gripped his right wrist and Wesley could see the diamond-flash.
One hundred feet. The Prince was focused on him now, but the Wesley he had seen was a tourist geek in a Hawaiian shirt. Wesley padded softly forward on the dark street—the silenced piece wasn’t accurate over more than forty feet.
Fifty feet. Suddenly, the Prince spun and was running up the street almost before Wesley even saw the movement. Wesley sprinted after him. The silenced pistol cut into his groin, but he didn’t slow—if the Prince got to contact one of his freaks, the whole thing would be over.
The Prince wasn’t used to running—by the corner of 43rd and Eighth, Wesley was only about ten yards behind. His target glanced west for a split-second, then, seeming to understand that he was running out of cesspool in that direction, he turned north on Eighth and dashed across 44th toward the Playbill Bar. Wesley hit the bar seconds behind the Prince, spotted him trying for the phone booth to the left of the door, brought the gun up just as the Prince saw him and dove for the Eighth Avenue door.
Wesley backed out of the 44th Street door and hit Eighth just in time to see the Prince flying up Eighth, this time on the west side of the street. The street was clogged with people and the Prince was better at moving through human traffic, but he couldn’t disappear and Wesley was too close for him to stop and get help.
The Prince dashed into the custard stand on 49th and Eighth and immediately exited out the side door. He tore up the side street toward the river. Wesley was close enough now but running too fast to get a clear shot. The Prince looked back quickly without breaking stride and jumped the fence that enclosed the parking lot between 49th and 50th. He was halfway across the lot, heading toward Polyclinic Hospital, when Wesley stopped, braced himself, and fired—but the Prince was bobbing and weaving and the shot missed. Wesley clawed his way over the fence and set himself for another shot, but the Prince seemed to sense this and veered sharply left just before the hospital entrance, steaming up 50th toward Ninth with Wesley again close behind.
The Prince turned right again at Ninth, just slightly ahead of Wesley, who could now run faster with his gun out. Between 50th and 51st was a construction site, partially excavated. The expensively painted sign read something about YOUR TAX DOLLARS. The Prince was over the fence and into the site in a heartbeat. He looked back and couldn’t see Wesley. For the first time since he’d been spooked, the Prince felt a quick jolt of fear to go with the adrenalin.
Wesley had seen the Prince’s move and had rushed up 50th, instead of going up Ninth. He was into the site before the Prince.
The streetlights didn’t penetrate the excavation—it was the same kind of soft-dull darkness Wesley remembered from Korea. He lay prone in the weeds, listening. It was a simple equation: the Prince had to be close to kill, and Wesley didn’t have the luxury of shooting from a distance.
Wesley could hear the street noises above him, but they were normal—no one knew they were down there.
He heard the kind of tearing sound grass makes when it’s pushed against the way it normally grows. He forced himself not to relax. He could lie there for hours without moving, and the Prince couldn’t come up on him without getting blown away. But he didn’t have a long time. If the Prince got out of the site, he’d have a hundred freaks surrounding the place.
Wesley focused, blocking out everything but the sounds of movement. As soon as he picked them up, he fired twice in that direction. The silenced bullets were only slightly amplified by the depression in the ground—Wesley heard them whine close to the earth. The movement had been about fifty yards away from him when he fired. It all depended on how close the Prince was now.
The n
ext movement was closer. Wesley fired three times, as fast as he could pull the trigger. The site was a bowl of quiet inside the street noises. Wesley started to move around as if in a panic, making it clear where he was. He heard another movement about twenty yards away. The Prince was probably moving the grass with a stick. He looked hard for the diamond-flash but it was black out there—he guessed the target had made the sacrifice.
Wesley pulled the trigger rapidly. The whine faded to a dry, audible click! as the firing pin hit air. “Fuck!” Wesley said in a voice just past a whisper and full of panic. He viciously threw the gun at a spot about ten feet away and sprang to his feet, the now-unarmed assassin lost without his weapon.
A Bomb Built in Hell Page 9