"Did you hear something?" Piaggi asked tiredly.
"What's that?" Tucker looked up from his task. More than twelve hours now, doing the scut-work that he'd thought to be behind him forever. Not even halfway done, despite the two "soldiers" that were down from Philadelphia. Tony didn't like it either.
"Like something fatting." Tony said, shaking his head and getting back to it. The only good thing that could be said about this was that it would earn him respect when he related the tale to his associates up and down the coast. A serious man, Anthony Piaggi. When everything went to shit. he'd done the work himself. He makes his deliveries and meets his obligations. You can depend on Tony. It was a rep worth earning, even if this was the price. It was a resolute thought that persisted for perhaps thirty seconds.
Tony slit open another bag, noting the evil. chemical smell on it. not quite recognizing it for what it was. The fine white powder went into the bowl. Next he dumped in the milk sugar. He mixed the two elements with spoons, stirring it slowly. He was sure there must be a machine for this operation, but it was probably too large, like what they used at commercial bakeries. Mainly his mind was protesting that this was work for little people, hirelings. Still, he had to make that delivery, and there was no one else to help out.
"What'd you say?" Henry asked tiredly.
"Forget it." Piaggi concentrated on his task. Where the hell were Albert and Frank? They were supposed to be here a couple hours ago. Thought they were special because they whacked people, like that stuff really mattered.
"Hey, Lieutenant." The sergeant who ran the central evidence storage room was a former traffic officer whose three-wheel bike had run afoul of a careless driver. That had cost him one leg and relegated him to administrative duty, which suited the sergeant, who had his desk and his donuts and his paper in addition to clerkish duties that absorbed maybe three hours of real work per eight-hour shift. It was called retirement-in-place.
"How's the family, Harry?"
"Fine, thanks. What can I do for you?"
"I need to check the numbers on the drugs I brought in last week," Charon told him. "I think there might be a mixup on the tags. Anyway"--he shrugged--"I have to check it out."
"Okay, just give me a minute and I'll--"
"Read your paper. Harry. I know where to go," Charon told him with a pat on the shoulder. Official policy was that nobody wandered around in this room without an official escort, but Charon was a lieutenant, and Harry was short one leg, and his prosthesis was giving him trouble, as it usually did.
"That was a nice shoot, Mark," the sergeant told his back. What the hell, he thought, Mark whacked the guy who'd been carrying the stuff.
Charon looked and listened for any other person who might be here, but there was none. They'd pay him big-time for this. Talk about moving their operation, eh? Leave him out in the cold, back to chasing pushers... well, not entirely a bad thing. He had a lot of money banked away, enough to keep his former wife happy and educate the three kids he'd given her, plus a little for him. He'd probably even get a promotion soon because of the work he'd done, taking down several drug distributors... there.
The ten kilos he had taken from Eddie Morello's car were in a labeled cardboard box, sitting on the third shelf, right where they were supposed to be. He took the box down and looked to be sure. Each of the ten one-kilo bags had to be opened, tested, and resealed. The lab technician who'd done it had just initialed the tags, and his initials were easy to fake. Charon reached into his shirt and pants, pulling out plastic bags of Four-X sugar, which was of the same color and consistency as the heroin. Only his office would ever touch this evidence, and he could control that. In a month he'd send a memo recommending destruction of the evidence, since the case on it was closed. His captain would approve. He'd dump it down the drain with several other people watching, and the plastic bags would be burned, and nobody would ever know. It certainly seemed simple enough. Within three minutes he was walking away from the evidence racks.
"Numbers check out?"
"Yeah, Harry, thanks." Charon said, waving on the way out.
"Somebody get the fuckin' phone," Piaggi growled. Who the hell would be calling here, anyway? It was one of the Philly guys who walked over, taking the time to light a cigarette.
"Yeah?" The man turned. "Henry, it's for you."
"What the hell'?" Tucker walked over.
"Hi, Henry," Kelly said. He'd wired a field phone into the building's telephone line, cutting it off from the outside world. He sat there, next to the canvas-covered instrument, having rung the other end just by turning the crank. It seemed rather primitive, but it was something familiar and comfortable to him, and it worked.
"Who's this?"
"The name's Kelly, John Kelly," he told him.
"So who's John Kelly?"
"Four of you killed Pam. You're the only one left, Henry." the voice said. "I got the rest. Now it's your turn." Tucker turned and looked around the room as though he expected to find the voice there. Was this some kind of sick joke that they were playing on him?
"How--how'd you get this number? Where are you?"
"Close enough, Henry." Kelly told him. "You nice and comfy in there with your friends?"
"Look, I don't know who you are--"
"I told you who I am. You're in there with Tony Piaggi. I saw you at his restaurant the other night. How was your dinner, by the way? Mine was just great," the voice taunted.
Tucker stood straight up, his hand tight on the phone. "So what the fuck are you gonna do, boy?"
"I ain't gonna kiss you on both cheeks, boy. I got Rick, and I got Billy, and I got Burt, and now I'm going to get you. Do me a favor, put Mr. Piaggi on the line," the voice suggested.
"Tony, you better come here," Tucker said.
"What is it, Henry?" Piaggi tripped on his chair getting up. So damned tired from all this. Those bastards in Philly better have the cash all ready. Henry handed him the phone.
"Who's this?"
"Those two guys on the boat, the ones you gave to Henry? I got 'em. I got the other two this morning, too."
"What the fuck is this?"
"You figure it out." The line went dead. Piaggi looked over at his partner, and since he couldn't get an answer from the phone, he'd get one from Tucker.
"Henry, what the hell is this?"
Okay, let's see what that stirred up. Kelly allowed himself a sip of water and a Snickers. He was on the third story of the building. Some sort of warehouse, he thought, massively constructed of reinforced concrete, a good place to be when The Bomb went off. The tactical problem was an interesting one. He couldn't just burst inside. Even if he'd had a machine gun--he didn't--four against one was long odds, especially when you didn't know what was inside the door, especially when stealth was something you couldn't count on as an ally, and so he'd try another approach. He'd never done anything like this before, but from his perch he could cover every door of the building. The windows in the back were bricked up. The only ways out were under his sight, and at just over a hundred yards, he hoped that they'd try it. Kelly shouldered the rifle, but kept his head up, sweeping left and right in an even, patient way.
"It's him," Henry said quietly so the others couldn't hear.
"Who?"
"The guy who did all those pushers, the guy who got Billy and the rest, the guy who did the ship. It's him."
"Well, who the fuck is him. Henry?"
"I don't know, goddamn it!" The voice was higher now. and the other two heads looked up. Tucker got more control of himself. "He says he wants us to come out."
"Oh, that's just great--what are we up against? Wait a minute." Piaggi lifted the phone but got no dial tone. "What the hell?"
Kelly heard the buzz and lifted his handset. "Yeah, what is it?"
"Who the fuck are you?"
"It's Tony, right? Why did you have to kill Doris, Tony'? She wasn't any danger to you. Now r have to do you, too."
"I didn't--"
"You know what I mean, but thanks for bringing those two down here. I wanted to tie that loose end up, but I didn't expect to have the chance. They're in the morgue by now, I suppose."
"Trying to scare me?" the man demanded over the scratchy phone line.
"No, just trying to kill you," Kelly told him.
"Fuck!" Piaggi slammed the phone down.
"He says he saw us at the restaurant, man. He says he was right there." It was clear to the other two that something was amiss. They were looking up now, mainly curious, but wary as they saw their two superiors in an agitated state. What the hell was this all about?
"How could he know--oh." Piaggi said, his voice trailing off to a quieter tone. "Yeah, they knew me, didn't they... ? Jesus."
There was only one window with clear glass. The others had glass bricks, the four-inch-square blocks favored for letting light in without being easily broken by vandals. They also prevented anyone from seeing out. The one window with clear glass had a crank, allowing the panes to open upward at an angle. This office had probably been set up by some asshole of a manager who didn't want his secretaries looking out the windows. Well, the bastard had gotten his wish. Piaggi cranked the window open--tried to, the three moving panes had only gone forty degrees before the mechanism froze.
Kelly saw it move and wondered if he should announce his presence in a more direct way. Better not to, he thought, better to be patient. Waiting grows hard on those who don't know what's happening.
The remarkable thing was that it was ten o'clock in the morning now, a clean, sunny late-summer day. There was truck traffic on O'Donnell Street, only half a block away, and some private autos as well, driving past, going about their business. Perhaps their drivers saw the tall abandoned building Kelly was in, wondering, as he was, what it had been constructed for; seeing the four automobiles parked at the former trucking building, wondering if that business was starting up again; but if they did, it wasn't worth anything more than a passing thought for people who had work to do. The drama was being played in plain sight, and only the players knew.
"1 don't see shit," Piaggi said, squatting down to look out the windows. "There's nobody around."
This is the guy who did the pushers, Tucker was telling himself as he stood away from the window. Five or six of 'em. Killed Rick with a fuckin' knife ...
Tony had picked the building. It was to be an ostensible part of a small interstate trucking concern whose owners were connected and very careful players. Just perfect, he'd thought, so close to major highways, quiet part of town, little police activity, just an anonymous building doing anonymous work. Perfect, Henry had thought on seeing it.
Oh, yeah, just perfect ...
"Let me look." It wasn't time to back off. Henry Tucker didn't think of himself as a coward. He'd fought and killed, himself, and not just women. He'd spent years establishing himself, and the first part of the process hadn't been without bloodshed. Besides, he couldn't appear to be weak now, not in front of Tony and two "soldiers." "Nothin'," he agreed.
"Let's try something." Piaggi walked to the phone and lifted it. There wasn't a dial tone, just a buzz....
Kelly looked at the field phone, listening to the noise it made. He'd let it be for the moment. let them do the waiting now. Though the tactical situation was of his design, still his options were limited. Talk, don't talk. Shoot, don't shoot. Move, don't move. With only three basic choices to be made, he had to select his actions carefully to achieve the desired effect. This battle was not a physical one. Like most battles, it was a thing of the mind.
It was getting warm. The last hot days before the leaves started turning. Already eighty degrees, maybe going past ninety, one last time. He wiped perspiration from his face, watching the building, listening to the buzz. letting them sweat from something other than the heat of the day.
"Shit," Piaggi snarled, slamming the phone down. "You two!"
"Yeah?" It was the taller one, Bobby.
"Take a walk around the building--"
"No!" Henry said, thinking. "What if he's right outside? You can't see shit out that window. He could be standing right next to the door. You want to risk that?"
"What do you mean?" Piaggi asked.
Tucker was pacing now, breathing a little faster than usual, commanding himself to think. How would I do it? "I mean, the bastard cuts the phone line, makes his call, spooks us, and then he just waits for us right outside, like."
"What do you know about this guy?"
"I know he killed five pushers, and four of my people--"
"And four of mine if he ain't lyin'--"
"So we gotta outthink him, okay? How would you handle it?"
Piaggi thought that one over. He'd never killed. It had just never worked out that way. He was more the brains side of the business. He had roughed people up in his time, however, had delivered some fearful beatings, and that was close enough, wasn't it? How would I do this? Henry's idea made sense. You just stay out of sight, like around a corner, in an alley, in the shadows, and then you let them look the other way. The nearest door, the one they'd used, swung to the left, and you could tell that from the outside from where the hinges were. It also had the virtue of being closest to the cars, and since that was their only means of escape, that's the one he'd expect them to use.
Yeah.
Piaggi looked over to his partner. Henry was looking up. The acoustical panels had been removed from the drop ceiling. Right there, in the flat roof, was an access door. It was locked shut with a simple manual latch to keep burglars out. It would open easily, maybe even quietly, to the flat tar-and-gravel roof, and a guy could get up there, and walk to the edge, and look down, and whack whoever was waiting there next to the front door.
Yeah.
"Bobby, Fred, come here," Piaggi ordered. He filled them in on the tactical situation. By this time they'd guessed that something was gravely wrong, but it wasn't cops--that was the worst thing that could go wrong, they thought, and the assurance that it wasn't cops actually relieved both of them. Both had handguns. Both were smart, and Fred had killed once, taking care of a small family problem in riverside Philadelphia. The two of them slid a desk under the access door. Fred was eager to show that he was a serious guy, and so gain favor with Tony, who also looked like a serious guy. He stood on the desk. It wasn't quite enough. They put a chair atop the desk, which allowed him to open the door and look out on the roof.
Aha! Kelly saw the man standing there--actually only his head and chest were visible. The rifle came up, and the crosshairs found the face. He almost took the shot. What stopped him was the way the man had his hands on the door coaming, the way he was looking around, scanning the flat roof before he moved farther. He wanted to get up there. Well, I guess I'll let him, Kelly thought as a tractor-trailer rumbled past, fifty yards away. The man lifted himself up on the roof. Through his telescopic sight, Kelly could see a revolver in his hand. The man stood erect, looking all the way around, and then moved very slowly towards the front of the building. It wasn't bad tactics, really. Always a good thing to do your reconnaissance first... oh. that's what they're thinking, he thought. Too bad.
Fred had removed his shoes. The small pea-size gravel hurt his feet, and so did the heat radiating from the sticky black tar under the stones, but he had to be quiet--and besides, he was a tough customer, as someone had once learned on the bank of the Delaware River. His hands flexed familiarly on the grip of his short-barreled Smith. If the bastard was there, he'd shoot straight down. Tony and Henry would pull the body in, and they'd pour water to wash the blood away, and get back to business, because this was an important delivery. Halfway there. Fred was very concentrated now. He approached the parapeted edge with his feet in the lead, his body leaning back until his stockinged toes got all the way to the low wall of bricks that extended above the roofline. Then, quickly, he leaned forward, gun aimed downwards at--nothing. Fred looked up and down the front of the building.
"Shit!" He turned, and called, "Th
ere's nobody here!"
"What?" Bobby's head came up in the opening to look, but Fred was now checking the cars out for someone crouching there.
Kelly told himself that patience was almost always rewarded. That thought had enabled him to fight off the buck fever that always came when you had a target in your sights. As soon as his peripheral vision caught movement at the opening, he brought the gun left. A face, white, twenties, dark eyes, looking at the other one, a pistol in his right hand. Just a target now. Take him first. Kelly centered the crosshairs in the bridge of the nose and squeezed gently.
Smack. Fred's head turned when he heard a sound that was both wet and hard, but when he did, there was nothing there. He'd heard nothing else but that wet, sharp sound, but now there was also a clatter, as though Bobby's chair had slipped off the desk and he'd fallen to the floor. Nothing else, but for no apparent reason the skin at the back of his neck turned to ice. He backed away from the edge of the roof, looking all around at the flat, rectangular horizon just as fast as his head could turn. Nothing.
The gun was new, and the bolt still a little stiff as he drove the second round home. Kelly brought it back to the right. Two for the price of one. The head was turning rapidly now. He could see the fear there. He knew there was danger but not where or what kind. Then the man started moving back to the opening. He couldn't allow that. Kelly applied about six inches of lead and squeezed again. Pingggggg.
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