Born Bad

by Andrew Vachss

  In another five minutes, Humberto was strapped to a straight chair in the basement of the house. The men waited another half–hour, each watchful and alert against the possibility they had been followed.

  Finally, Cross stood up from his post. He slipped a stocking mask over his face, signaled Rhino to do the same. "All clear," he said quietly. "Let's get to it."

  This should do it," Rhino said, squeezing the plunger of a hypodermic. He compressed Humberto's arm with one huge hand, tapped a likely looking vein, and drove the needle home with unerring precision.

  Cross waited as the adrenaline took hold, watched as Humberto gradually regained consciousness. Cross signaled Rhino to stay where he was–looming over Humberto's back, but not visible.

  "Wha…What is this?" Humberto mumbled, his eyes struggling for focus.

  "It's a job, pal," Cross said. "You do what you're told, that's all it stays. You don't…," he let his voice trail off.

  "You're not…" Humberto said, his vision gradually clearing.

  "What we are is professionals," Cross said. "Just like you. We got paid to do a job."

  "What job?"

  "Muñoz paid us. For your arm."

  Humberto went deathly white under his swarthy skin. "I don't know what–"

  "Yeah, you do," Cross interrupted. "You got something Muñoz wants. A microchip. Someplace in your arm. Muñoz, he paid us to bring him that arm."

  "Wait! Wait a minute! Look, I can–"

  "Don't say anything. Listen to our offer. Then you say Yes, or you say No. That's all. You got it?"

  Humberto nodded, his hooded eyes steady on Cross.

  "We're gonna get that microchip. We know it's somewhere under that tattoo. We can take it gentle," Cross said, "or we can take it hard. Your choice."

  "I have no choice," Humberto said, his voice calming as strength flowed back into him.

  "Muñoz, he has one of my men, understand? He wants to trade him for that chip," Cross said. "But if we take your whole arm like he wants, he gets you dead, too. He didn't pay us for that."

  "I could pay you…" Humberto said softly.

  "That's right. You could pay us to leave you alive. But then, what would you have? Your bodyguard's gone. So is your driver. With the chip in his hands, Muñoz would vamp on you heavy. Take you longer, but you'd be just as dead."

  "What do you suggest?" Humberto asked, more confidence in his voice.

  "I suggest you pay us. Pay us to take out Muñoz. The chip, that's what gets us in the door, see? And once we get in there, we total Muñoz, all right? Costs you a flat million. Cash."

  "I can get–"

  "No," Cross said. "Just forget the games. You're not making any phone calls. Not writing any notes, either. Here's the way I figure it–you got some money stashed. Serious money. And you don't trust nobody with it, okay? I'm betting you got it nice and accessible. No safe deposit boxes, no passwords…nothing like that. You tell us where it is. Tell us right now. One of my crew goes there, picks it up. It's in more than one place, that's okay. My man comes back here. With the cash. And then we do the job for you."

  "How do I know you won't just take the money and kill me anyway?"

  "If I was gonna do that, what would I need this mask for? This is business, that's all. You didn't fuck with us. It wasn't you who snatched my man. Muñoz has to go–I'm just making sure we get paid, all right?"

  "And if I say no?" Humberto asked.

  "Then we kill Muñoz anyway. But instead of the chip to get us in the door, we bring him your arm."

  A long minute passed. Humberto took a deep breath. "It's right under her butt," he said, flexing his right biceps, sending the tattooed dancer into a bump–and–grind. "Have you got a drink for a man first?"

  Humberto sat in a comfortable easy chair, feet up on an ottoman. He was bare–chested, a bandage around his right biceps. To his right, a water glass half full of dark liquid sat on an end table. A long cigar smoldered in an ashtray. Humberto's handsome face was relaxed, at peace.

  "Listen to me, amigo," he said to Cross. "The key to Muñoz is his pride. Muñoz is… muy macho, understands Years ago, he fought a duel. With machetes. It was a matter of honor. He is very, very good with knives…any weapon with an edge. And with his hands, too–very quick, very strong."

  "And you tell me this because…?" Cross invited.

  "Because I trust you, hombre. And I want to prove it to you."

  "You think that does it? Telling me about this guy's ego?"

  "No," Humberto said, his dark eyes steady on the stocking mask. "This is what does it–I know who you are."

  "You sure?"

  'Yes. You are the man they call Cross, yes? You hide your face, but you forgot to cover your hands," Humberto said, flicking his glance at the back of Cross's right hand where a bull's–eye tattoo stood out in bold relief. "I hired you once before. To do Herrera. We have never met, face–to–face, but I know your markings."

  Cross made a sound of disgust, reached up and pulled off the stocking mask. "Tell me what you know," he said.

  "You were the one who attacked Herrera. Years ago. I was not there, but I have heard about it many times. Herrera always claimed that you took product…but we always believed you took his stash of jewels instead. I know he converted his product to money–gold, diamonds–always in hard currency."

  "What else?"

  Humberto's shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. "There was a fight. Many died. And you escaped. That is all I know. That and the tattoo on your hand. Herrera always said he would pay you back. I heard two more things–he hired you to do something…and he had an accident."

  "Why tell me all this?" Cross asked.

  "Because I paid for him to have that accident. We never met face–to–face, but it was you I paid. You did your work well. Herrera is gone. Soon, Muñoz will be, too. You cannot run a drug network yourself. You do not have the contacts down south. You and me, I think we're going to be partners."

  "Sounds good to me," Cross responded.

  It's done," Cross said into the mouthpiece of the cellular phone.

  "I know, amigo." Muñoz replied. "I watch the news on television."

  "Let's finish it," Cross said.

  "You know the King Hotels On Wabash, near–"

  "I know it."

  "My man will be standing in front, on the sidewalk, at midnight. You take him wherever you want. Once you are satisfied that we have not followed you, send the chip."

  "How are you gonna know where to send the bird?"

  "My man will have the bird with him. In a cage."

  "And my money."

  "Yes. And your 'money."

  This ain't nothing," Ace said, facing the assembled crew. "I got a half–dozen people in that hotel. It's nothing but a crack house. Low–class dive. I be inside hours before they show, cover you from the top floor."

  "Righteous," Cross said. "Buddha and Rhino, you guys make the pick–up, all right? Me and Fal, we'll transport Humberto. Everybody get to work wiping things down–we can't have another fire so soon."

  From inside the front door of the King Hotel, all the watchful desk clerk could see was the back of a tall man in a long black coat. The tall man looked as if he was waiting for a bus, smoking a cigarette. Only two discordant notes sounded: at the man's feet was a large cage draped in black with a ring handle at the top. And a bright red dot of light holding steady right between the man's shoulder blades. The red dot tracked the man, moving as he moved.

  The shark car pulled to the curb. The back door opened. Some words were exchanged. And the tall man climbed into the car, pulling the cage behind him. The car took off.

  A few minutes later, the desk clerk saw a slim, fine–featured black man coming down the stairs, an all–black rifle with a complicated–looking scope in his hand. The desk clerk looked away, not meeting the man's eyes. When he looked up, the man was gone, almost as if he had never been there. The desk clerk didn't react. But it wasn't the two hundred dollars in hi
s pocket that earned his silence–the desk clerk knew what the red dot on the tall man's back meant, and he didn't want one on his own. Ever.

  The shark car worked its way through the badlands, heading for Red 71 as unerringly as the homing pigeon it carried in its backseat. The phone on the seat next to Buddha chirped. The pudgy man picked it up, flicking a switch with his thumb. "Go," he said. "All clear here." Fal's voice.

  "Coming in," Buddha replied. "ETA ten minus."

  "Roger that. You clear behind?"

  "Affirmative."

  Buddha clicked off the phone, his eyes flicking back and forth between the road and the rear view mirror. He pulled the shark car through a fresh gap in the chain–link fence, parking just behind the back door to Red 71. He slapped the back door three times with the fiat of his hand. It opened immediately. Cross stepped to one side, covering the area with an Uzi. Buddha entered first. Then the man they had picked up. Rhino was last inside, blocking the doorway with his bulk.

  In the basement, Rhino hand–searched the courier, his touch delicate and sensitive. When he nodded an OK, Cross stepped forward and ran an electronic wand over the courier's body. "Relax," he said to the man. "Have a seat."

  The man seated himself in an overstuffed chair, reaching into his pocket to light a cigarette.

  "What do they call you?" Cross asked.

  "I am Ramón."

  "Okay, Ramón. ¿Donde está el dinero?"

  Ramón's lips twisted into a thin smile, not showing his teeth. "In the cage, hombre. In the bottom of the cage. If you will permit me…"

  Cross nodded, and the man got to his feet. He walked over to the cage and gently flicked the black cover off. Inside was a big–chested pigeon. "This is el bailador del cielo," Ramón said, stroking the pigeon's chest. He reached inside and removed the pigeon, cradling it softly. "Pick up the floor," he said to Cross. Cross studied the cage for a long minute, then he removed the newspaper from the cage floor to reveal a fiat metal plate with a ring in the center. He pulled the ring and the floor came off. Underneath there was money. Greenbacks shrink–wrapped in plastic.

  "What the hell does Muñoz think I'm gonna do with thousand–dollar bills?" he asked Ramón "All this has to be washed–I can't just spend it."

  "Smaller bills would not fit, hombre," Ramón replied. "I am sure you have… resources."

  Cross nodded, his fingers stroking the scar on his cheekbone. "Okay, how do you want to do this?"

  "First, I check the chip. With this…" Ramón said, taking a mate of the chip from his shirt pocket. "You could not duplicate the chip so quickly. If it plugs into this one, we will know you have done your part of the bargain."

  "Do it," Cross said, taking the chip from his jacket.

  Ramón carefully aligned the two chips. They came together with an audible snapping sound. "¿Bueno!" Ramón said. "This is the one."

  "And now…?" Cross asked.

  "Now you put the chip right here," Ramón said, tapping the tiny cylinder on the bird's right foot, just above the talon. "Then he flies home. Straight home. You will see…if you look…that you cannot fit a transmitter in the pouch. And if you attach one anywhere else, el bailador will not fly. You understand?"

  "Yeah," Cross said, still stroking the scar. After a few moments, he left the room.

  We're ready to go," Cross said into the cellular phone.

  "When will you–"

  "I gotta talk to him first."

  "Talk to who?"

  "My man. The one you got."

  "I told you–"

  "I don't give a fuck what you told me," Cross said quietly. "We're in the end game now. You want to talk to your man, I can do that. You want to play, you gotta do the same."

  "Call back in one hour," Muñoz said. "And have Ramón with you.

  It's me," Cross said into the phone. "You want to speak to your man?"

  "Put him on."

  "Yes, I am here, jefe," Ramón said. "Everything is as it should be." Ramón said "Yes" twice, rapidly, then he handed the phone to Cross.

  "Okay?" Cross said into the mouthpiece.

  "Momentito," Muñoz said.

  Another minute passed, then Cross heard the unmistakable voice of Princess. "I'm good," the bodybuilder said. "These pussies got me trussed up like a fucking turkey, but they haven't done nothing."

  "They feeding you?" Cross asked.

  "Hell, I'm probably down to two–thirty with all this crap. They don't even have my vitamin supplements. And–"

  "Okay, Princess, just calm down, all right? They'll be cutting you loose soon."

  "Are you satisfied?" Muñoz's voice cut in. "Are you ready to release our bird?"

  "Tomorrow," Cross said. "Tomorrow at first light."

  "Why not now, hombre? Our bird can fly at night."

  "I need a few hours to make sure you guys are playing it straight. First light. When Princess shows up, we'll let your man go."

  "Adios," Muñoz said, hanging up.

  He's okay?" Rhino asked, anxiety making his voice even squeakier than usual.

  "He said 'vitamins,' " Cross replied. "You know what that means…he's all right, but he doesn't see a way out of there. If he said 'minerals,' he'd have an exit spotted. I don't think they messed with him."

  "You think they'd actually let him go?" Buddha asked.

  "I was them, I wouldn't," Cross said.

  The next morning, dawn slowly breaking through a blue–black night sky. Ramón stood on the roof of Red 71, the pigeon in his hands.

  "Do it," Buddha told him.

  "¡Volar!" Ramón called, tossing the pigeon into the air. The bird took off, climbed, then banked, wings working smoothly.

  A few seconds later, a tiny bird took off from Cross's leather–gloved hand, its blue–gray wings a blur in the sky, a distinctive killy–killy–killy trilling from its beak. The bird climbed like an F–16, a blur in the vision of the watchers on the roof who were tracking the bird by its rust–colored tail feathers. Cross picked up his cellular phone.

  "Launched," is all he said.

  "Let's go," Cross said to Buddha. As Buddha turned to follow Cross downstairs, Rhino's huge hand curled around the back of Ramón's neck.

  I don't get it, boss," Buddha said. "I know we got a transmitter on that hawk of yours…but I've seen that bastard fly. There's no way the pigeon's gonna make it back home before it gets taken out."

  "East," Cross said into the cellular phone, watching a small round blue screen set into an electronic box he held between his legs. "Holding steady. You on it?"

  "Roger," came back Fal's voice.

  "It's not a hawk," Cross told Buddha absently. "It's a kestrel. A falcon, okay? I got a mated pair up there. The female's sitting on some eggs. The male brings food. I haven't fed them for days–eggs. The male brings food. I haven't fed them for days–wouldn't let them loose to get food for themselves, either. And I've got the male trained to hit pigeons–he fucking loves them."

  "Yeah, but…"

  "What?"

  "You got the bird all stoked up, right? So he's gonna knock that pigeon right out of the sky. How in hell are we gonna–?"

  "Kestrels only take prey on the ground," Cross said. "He'll wait until the pigeon touches down. Then its Kaddish for him."

  Urban scenery flew past the windows of the shark car as Cross continued to give directions to Buddha in person and to Fal over the phone.

  "What's his name?" Buddha asked.

  "Who?"

  "The bird, chief. The…kestrel or whatever you call it."

  "Name?" Cross asked, puzzled. "It's a bird."

  Buddha shrugged, tracking the big car expertly.

  He's heading for the fiats," Cross said into the phone. "No place else he could be going. You got visual?"

  "Locked on," Fal said. "He's sitting right above the pigeon. Just hovering. Ready to dive."

  "When he drops, that's it," Cross said. "Stay tight."

  I got him," Fal's voice barked. "It's a three–story, bar
on the first floor. Says Los Amigos on the door. Right on the waterfront, at the end of Pine Street."

  "You sure?" Cross asked.

  "Dead sure. The pigeon's dropping down, heading for home. And your bird, he's just waiting."

  "Cars in front?"

  "Just one. A white…Lincoln it looks like. I can see…yeah! There's a coop on the roof. Whole bunch of birds up there. It's gotta be–"

  "Move in," Cross said, breaking the connection.

  The shark car's nose shot into the air from the sudden acceleration as Buddha mashed the pedal. The target building came into view as they saw Fal's blue Montero heading toward the back. "Here he comes!" Rhino squeaked as the kestrel went into a power–dive. The pigeon may have seen the kestrel's shadow or it may have been alerted by its primitive sensors–it fluttered its wings rapidly, seeking the shelter of the coop. As the pigeon touched down, the kestrel struck, its tiny talons balled into fists, stunning the pigeon, which staggered away, wings flapping. Muñoz ran toward the pigeon, waving his arms to scare off the intruder, but the kestrel calmly mounted its prey, tearing at the flesh of the pigeon's chest. Muñoz slashed at the kestrel with a machete, but the kestrel danced away, its baleful unblinking eyes trained on the new enemy. Muñoz thrust his body between the pigeon and the kestrel, frantically clawing at the pigeon's courier pouch. A series of explosions sounded below–flash grenades thrown through the glass windows of the bar. Muñoz heard machine–gun fire. A thin smile crossed his lips. With one mighty swipe of the machete, he chopped off the lower portion of the pigeon, scrambling on his hands and knees to recover the courier pouch as the kestrel tore the other half of the pigeon apart–a pair of professional predators, each doing his work.

  Downstairs, Rhino swept the ground floor with a long blast from his Uzi, screaming "Princess!" at the top of his lungs. Two men charged down the stairs–they were immediately cut down by a blast from Ace's shotgun. Fal pointed at Buddha, who was working his way along the wall, his Glock out and ready. When Buddha nodded, Fal pointed at an open door. As soon as Buddha started to move, Fal started to climb up the stairs, chest fiat against the wall, gun arm extended as a probe.