Blood in the Water

by Michael Prescott

  Frank parked on the street and approached the lobby, his body bent almost double against stinging sheets of rain. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, and Sandy had yet to make landfall. The way things were going, the whole fucking state would be a wasteland by dawn.

  The doorman saw him coming and flashed a look of comical surprise. Frank knew the guy; Harry was his name. Played the horses, gave good tips on the thoroughbreds at Monmouth Park.

  “Mr. Lazzaro.” Harry always called him that. It was a sign of respect. “What the hell you doin’ out in this slop?”

  “World don’t stop turning just because of a little rain,” Frank said with a shrug. “Alec in?”

  “I don’t think so. Didn’t see his car in the garage when I came on duty.”

  “Weird. Where the Christ would he be on a night like this?” Frank assumed a cheery air. “Think he’s shacking up with some nice young thing?”

  “If he is, he ain’t brought her around when I’m on duty.”

  “Maybe he’s keeping her away from you. Afraid you’ll make a move on her.”

  “Yeah, that’s gotta be it.”

  Frank asked how the kid was doing, whether there were any problems—cops coming by, suspicious characters, that kind of shit.

  “Nothing like that,” Harry said. “There was this one thing, but it was no big deal.”

  “What?”

  “I guess Alec likes to party hard. Who can blame him? You’re only young once, am I right? But his downstairs neighbors started beefing about it.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “That’s all I know about.”

  Frank nodded, dismissing the information. He wasn’t interested in a hassle over a loud stereo. Some uptight yuppie didn’t do the hit.

  He and Harry shot the breeze for a few minutes, talking women and horses, the one subject leading naturally into the other, assisted by a little joke Frank told about a roll in the hay. Then Frank asked if he could get into Alec’s condo, just to drop off the package in his hand. It was a bulging manila envelope, and in reality it contained nothing but today’s newspaper; he’d picked up both the envelope and the paper at a 7-Eleven on his way over.

  “I can take it,” Harry said, “give it to him next time I see him.”

  Frank had anticipated this response. Since his name wasn’t on the deed anymore, technically he wasn’t allowed access to the unit when Alec wasn’t there.

  “Sure, we could play it that way,” he said. “I’m just looking out for you, Harry. See, it might be better if you didn’t have it on you. Get what I mean?”

  Harry got it, all right. He regarded the package with unconcealed alarm. “Oh, okay, then. Sure, Mr. Lazzaro. You can go right up.”

  Frank rode the elevator to the eleventh floor and let himself into unit 1108 with a spare key that he’d never surrendered. The lights in the apartment dimmed now and then, but for the moment the power stayed on.

  He surveyed the living room. Food containers lay everywhere, their contents starting to go bad. The walls were crowded with goofy paintings of melting clocks and people who wore their skeletons outside their skin. Modern art. Frank hated that shit.

  He pulled on a pair of gloves and got down to business. He knew something about how to toss a place. He took his time, hunting through a disorganized file cabinet and sorting through the trash, sniffing out hiding places, reviewing the contents of the medicine cabinet, checking the phone log. He saved the computer until last, because he hated computers. Wished the damn things had never been invented. A pocket calculator was good enough for him. Google? Yahoo? It was like he was living in a goddamn nursery school.

  Even so, he could find his way around a Windows system, though he’d never mastered that faggoty Apple shit. Fortunately his nephew owned a nice no-bullshit Hewlett-Packard and hadn’t even bothered with a password. Frank inspected the files one by one. It took him more than two hours before he got to the kid’s Twitter feed.

  Twitter. Another stupid-ass kindergarten name. What the fuck was this world coming to?

  But stupid or not, Twitter held the answers.

  Alec had two accounts, one under his real name and another under the screen name SnatchSkilzXXX. Using this alias, he’d—what was the word?—tweeted some guy named Joey. Judging from Joey’s camera-phone self-portraits, he was a skinny Asian kid, tatted up with gang symbols. Frank recognized the look. He was one of the Long Fong Boyz.

  “Alec,” he muttered with a slow shake of his head, “you dumb fuck.”

  His nephew, a.k.a. SnatchSkilzXXX, had sent Joey tantalizing shots of the female anatomy, claiming them as his own. He presented himself as a slutty tweener bimbo who’d seen Joey at the party and wanted to see him again, up close and very personal. A banquet of sensual delights was promised, with JPEGs of stiff nipples and a wet pussy as additional enticement.

  Joey, who was just as stupid and horny as any other teenager, took the bait. After some back-and-forth teasing, in which Joey bragged about the dimensions and penetrating ability of his manhood, and SnatchSkilzXXX advertised her girlish charms in lascivious detail, they got around to arranging a rendezvous. The gang maintained an apartment at Crossgate Gardens. It might have been a safe house where they could lie low when the heat was on, or maybe a stash pad where merchandise was stored. Joey would meet his lady love there. A night of pornographic ecstasies would ensue.

  Okay, they didn’t phrase it exactly like that. The language was a trifle less refined. But that was the fucking gist.

  Frank knew what had happened at the rendezvous. A few days ago, a kid named Joey Huang, a foot soldier for the Long Fong Boyz, had been shot dead in Crossgate Gardens.

  Alec had set up Joey and taken him out. It had been neatly done, and on one level Frank admired it. But mainly he thought it was a stupid move. The Long Fong Boyz had made some forays into Frank’s territory, moving in on their heroin trade, but it was nothing that couldn’t be handled under the normal protocols. There was no need to take it to the level of a hit—not this soon.

  Immediately after the killing, Alec had started pestering Frank with voicemails. The kid never had accepted Frank’s decision to hold him at a distance from the business. Having decided to prove himself by going freelance, he’d been itching to brag about it in person, then sit back and wait for Frank to clap him on the back and welcome him into the organization.

  You showed initiative, kid, Alec must have counted on hearing him say. That’s exactly what we’re looking for. Looks like I’ve been underestimating you all these years.

  Christ.

  Well, his nephew never had shown good sense. He was reckless—no impulse control. He took risks. So did Frank, sometimes. Like what he’d done to Proud American earlier today. But to get away with mayhem like that, you had to be lucky. You needed more-than-human skills and more-than-human protection. Alec had neither. The stupid kid never stood a chance.

  To get ahead in this business, you had to take it slow. You had to prove you were reliable; you had to follow orders. You didn’t make progress by freelancing, committing acts of reckless bullshit that would only complicate matters for middle management. Frank knew all about that. He’d come up the hard way, practicing patience, waiting for his chance.

  Having made a little money in his teenage years and earning his nickname in the process, he’d established himself as a loan shark. Around that time he discovered he had a taste and a talent for violence. His clients were seldom late with their payments, and never more than once.

  At first he loaned money mainly to other kids, but eventually he found a more lucrative client base consisting of small business owners who’d gotten in over their heads. Some were unable to make payroll; others had accumulated gambling debts. He was always happy to loan to those people; if they couldn’t pay him back, he would simply become a silent partner in the business. By age twenty, he was part owner of a tow truck company, an auto detailing shop, a couple of junkyards, and an appliance store. Pretty good for a kid from th
e projects with an eighth-grade education and a drunken bum for a dad.

  But he wanted more. So when a connected guy in the organization came calling, he was only too happy to listen. Though Frank was a minor player, he had come to the attention of the big boys. They believed he could be useful. They might want him to undertake the occasional odd job. “Think you can do that, Frankie?” the man asked.

  He was still Frankie back then. No one called him Frankie anymore.

  “I can do it,” he said.

  For a small cut of the action, he began picking up mysterious brown bags. Some of the bags contained money, some contained drugs, some contained other things. Frank never much cared what he was carrying. He didn’t even care that much about his cut. He only cared about proving himself to his employers. A man who showed himself to be dependable was a man who could go places.

  And then one day the same connected guy came to him again, this time with a more significant proposal. A troublemaker needed to be put out of the way.

  “Think you can do it, Frankie?”

  He had done it. He’d done whatever they asked. And now he was the underboss of the most hard-core, high-producing crew in Jersey City, in line to be a capo someday.

  Alec knew about that, and wanted his piece of it. Hell, probably he wanted all of it. But the poor dumb kid just didn’t know what was required. He wanted to take shortcuts. And one of his shortcuts had gotten him killed.

  Somehow the Asians had found out who was behind the hit. They’d come after Alec and shot him twice in the chest. Frank was a little surprised they’d made it that easy on him. But maybe they’d been in a hurry.

  Okay, mystery solved. But the story wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

  Frank might disapprove of what his nephew had done. He might not even blame the Long Fong Boyz for responding in kind. In their position, he would have done the same.

  None of that mattered. A member of his family had been killed. The insult must be answered. Blood would have blood. It was the simple, inescapable logic of the animal, the predator’s code.

  Frank picked up the phone and got the party started.

  CHAPTER 12

  Des’s house came equipped with a gas fireplace, which kept the living room warm even as night came on and the temperature dropped outside. Bonnie sat with him on the couch by the fire, the two of them eating steak off plastic plates, while candles flickered on the coffee table.

  “Gotta say,” she observed between mouthfuls, “this is the first candlelight dinner I’ve had in a long time.”

  He smiled. “Not too keen on girly stuff, are you? Candles, flowers, fancy lingerie …”

  “I’ll have you know, just this morning I was in a store that sells nothing but teddies.”

  “Victoria’s Secret?”

  “Paddington Station.”

  “The teddy bear place?” Des digested this information. “Is it wrong that I still find it sexy?”

  “Whatever turns you on,” she said lightly.

  There was a pause in the conversation as they both drew back from where it was headed.

  After a moment he asked, “What were you doing in there?”

  “Working a case. Nothing interesting. No Jersey City bangers with long fongs were involved.”

  Des chewed his steak. “You seriously expect them to make a move?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  “Then go after them first. Take them out before they can get to you.”

  She tilted her head. “Wow, Des. Bloodthirsty much?”

  “It’s merely a hard, practical application of realpolitik.”

  “I love it when you talk French.”

  “That was German.”

  “Close enough.” She finished her meal and laid the plate aside. “I can’t go after them because I don’t know where to find them. Plus, I’d be outgunned like crazy. And speaking of crazy, these Asian gangs aren’t known for being models of restraint. They dial it up to eleven.”

  “In what way?”

  “Quentin Tarantino on crack. That kind of way.”

  He put aside his plate also. “You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

  “I’m more … antsy. I don’t like waiting for someone else to make the first move.”

  “Well, in this weather, no one’s making any moves tonight.”

  A sharp patter of rain on the window punctuated the thought. According to the news updates on Des’s radio, Sandy was less than two hours from landfall. It was now expected to come ashore as a post-tropical cyclone, but the winds would still be hurricane strength, and the tidal surge would be massive.

  “You’re probably right,” she said. “I’m not sure they could even get here from Jersey City right now. And if they did, they wouldn’t know where to find me. Basically, everything’s oo-la-la.”

  “I love it when you talk French. More wine?”

  “Maybe a drop or two.”

  He poured. More than a drop. “So,” he asked, “what’s on the agenda for tonight?”

  “I don’t know. There’s not a whole a lot to do in the dark.”

  “I guess that depends on what kind of entertainment you’re looking for.”

  His eyes met hers. His gaze was bright in the candlelight, his implication unmistakable.

  So there it was. The issue. Brought up as explicitly as either of them had dared. She could pretend she hadn’t understood, but that would be the coward’s way.

  “What are you looking for, Des?” she asked.

  “I think you know. But I don’t know how you feel about it.”

  She took a quick, shallow breath. “I’m game, if you are. Only, we’ll have to take it slowly, you know, step by step.” She realized this was an unfortunate choice of words. “So to speak.”

  “Why?” he asked, smiling. “Is it your first time?”

  “You wish. But, well, it is my first time …”

  With a guy who was paralyzed from the waist down, she meant.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “How about you? Have you been, um, active since you got into that chair?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Well, well—Des, the ladies’ man. Even a cut cord doesn’t take him out of commission.”

  “You sound almost jealous.”

  “Me? Nah. I’m not the jealous type.” She thought about it. “Or maybe I am, a little. That’s weird, huh?”

  “It’s sweet.”

  “Not an adjective that gets applied to me very often. Just who were my rivals for your affection?”

  “Nobody you know.”

  “That’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to have to shoot ’em or anything.”

  “One of them was a pro.”

  “A bona fide lady of the evening?”

  He nodded. “It was my first time after the accident. I needed some reassurance that I was up to the task.”

  “How’d you perform?”

  “I didn’t embarrass myself too much. You realize I’m not exactly functional south of the border.”

  “Hey, at least you won’t get me knocked up.”

  “Glass half full.”

  “That’s me. Rose-colored shades.”

  “So … wanna go for it?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to ask. You’ll just have to walk me through it.” She winced. “Sorry. I keep making really poor choices.”

  “Not at all. Tonight you’re making the perfect choice.”

  - — -

  After that, they did stuff in the bedroom. He showed her how to stimulate his erogenous zones. He couldn’t have an erection, but every part of him above the belt line was hard as rock. At first, she was reluctant to climb on him for fear of inflicting some unspecified injury. But she got over her reservations in a hurry.

  The best part was the laughter. When something didn’t go as planned, they both found it hilariously absurd. She’d thought it would be impossible to get an orgasm from laughing too hard. She’d been wrong.

>   - — -

  “Good for you too?” she asked when it was over. She lay beside him in bed and resisted lighting a cig, if only to avoid the cliché.

  “Very good. Better than the pro I hired. Maybe you could consider this a whole new sideline.”

  “Just the kind of compliment every gal wants to hear.”

  “You mean you don’t find it flattering to be favorably compared to a prostitute?”

  “Oh hell, yes I do. I just don’t like to admit it. It might endanger my society debutante status. So tell me, did you have a for-real orgasm?”

  “Sure did. A full-body orgasm. It doesn’t matter if the usual equipment is on the fritz. There are workarounds. And you know, ninety percent of an orgasm is mental.”

  “Where’d you read that?”

  “Gimp Monthly.” She heard him chuckle. “No, I just made it up.”

  “You’re weird, Des.”

  “Says the female hitman who’s being stalked by the Asian mob.”

  “Gotta admit, that was one of your better comebacks.”

  He pulled himself higher on the pillows. “Go on. Light one. You know you want to.”

  She sighed. He was right. She really did want to.

  A match flared, and she started up a cigarette. Des, of course, didn’t smoke. Healthy eater, workout addict—if he had any vices, she’d missed them. Well, until now. Some of the things they’d done tonight had to qualify as vices in somebody’s book.

  She nursed the cigarette in silence, trying to blow smoke rings, a skill she’d never mastered. Branches flogged the side of the house. Rain flung itself fitfully against the windows.

  “So … think we’ll be doing this again?” he asked.

  “On a regular basis, I’m thinking. Why not?”

  “I just wondered if you might want someone who isn’t, you know, half a man.”

  “You’re all man, Des. Don’t kid yourself.”

  “I’m damaged, though.”

  “Everybody’s damaged. Everybody has issues. Look”—she heaved a breath—“I shot a guy today, for Chrissakes.”

  She wondered how he would take this news. To his credit, he didn’t even flinch.