Blood in the Water

by Michael Prescott

  She backed out of the driveway, maneuvered around the fallen trees, and headed down the street.

  As Des had predicted, the roads were a mess. Several times she had to alter her course to bypass a flooded street or avoid downed trees and utility lines. The local ponds had overspilled their banks, flooding streets and homes. Even the drier roadways were checkered with clumps of seaweed and hills of sand. Most residents of Brighton Cove had evacuated; they would be returning to waterlogged carpets, shattered windows, and collapsed chimneys.

  Finally she reached Garfield Avenue, the main route to the highway. Just past the railroad station, the lightbars of scattered squad cars rotated like disco balls.

  Shit.

  The cops had set up a checkpoint. They must have blocked off all other access points, and now they were protecting the one available means of entry or exit. For any other resident it wouldn’t have been a problem, but Maguire’s troops had been told to ride her hard, and she could expect a once-over at the roadblock. If they wanted to look in her purse, they might find the unregistered .32.

  She pulled to a stop, thinking she ought to hide the gun under the driver’s seat, and then Sammy came to life, singing a Beatles tune.

  It was another of her preprogrammed special alerts. The song was “Help!,” and it meant that the silent alarm in her duplex had just gone off.

  “Fuck,” she said, steering the Jeep into a U-turn. Somebody was breaking into her place.

  If she was lucky, it was just some looter. But lately it seemed she was all out of luck. The way things were going, it was probably the Long Fong Boyz, or maybe somebody else with murder in mind.

  The cops wouldn’t be responding. Her alarm wasn’t linked to a monitoring service. She’d never wanted to give the authorities an excuse to go sniffing around her place. Which meant, as usual, she was on her own.

  Well, she’d never been one to run from a fight. She only hoped she could get there before the bad guys amscrayed.

  She stomped on the gas pedal and plowed through deep puddles, sending up hissing sprays of rainwater. Twice she had to swerve around detached tree limbs blocking the street; once, she veered onto the sidewalk. What the hell, there were no pedestrians.

  She only wished she hadn’t had so much wine with dinner. At times like this, it helped to have a clear head.

  Her duplex was a mile away. She reached it in two minutes, slowing only as she turned onto her street. By then she’d turned off Sammy to make the Beatles shut up.

  No unfamiliar vehicles were parked by her place. No strangers were inside. But her front door hung open, proof that someone had been inside.

  And maybe was still there. She didn’t think so, though. Had it been an ambush, the door would have been shut. There was no point in advertising a breakin if you were trying to take the homeowner by surprise.

  She parked curbside, aware that she was putting herself in an ideal position to be shot by anyone lying in wait. Once out of the Jeep, she would be exposed to fire, with no cover or concealment until she was inside the house. And even then, she might be walking into a trap. On the plus side, it was this kind of situation that kept life interesting.

  Gripping the gun in her purse with one hand, she stepped onto the street. If someone was drawing a bead on her, she could only hope they weren’t a very good shot. If they missed with their first attempt, she could throw herself flat and try to return fire.

  Slowly, ignoring the stinging rain, she moved around the Jeep, reluctant to part with it until she had to. The vehicle might be her last chance of refuge if gunfire broke out.

  But no one was shooting at her, and the open door continued to beckon. She made a run for it.

  The distance to the door was short, less than fifty feet, but it took her forever to get there. She seemed to be moving in slow motion, like an astronaut on a spacewalk. The rain fell in surreal silence. All she heard was the distant slap of her shoes on the walkway and the answering beat of her heart in her ears.

  Then the door came up, and reality shifted back to normal speed. She pivoted inside, dropping into a half crouch, the gun out of her purse and swinging in a half circle as she panned the room.

  She crept forward, leaving the door open at her back in case she needed to beat a retreat. Her flashlight would have been helpful, but she kept it off, not wanting to make herself a target.

  Little had been disturbed. Her laptop sat on the dining table where she’d left it when the power went out. Some drawers and closets had been opened, but the job was sloppy, haphazard, rushed. Most likely the intruders had seen the alarm keypad by the door. Realizing they had no choice but to trigger the alarm, they’d gone in fast. Not finding her, they hadn’t stuck around.

  Given how cursory the search had been, she wasn’t surprised to find the floor trap undisturbed. She lifted the loose floorboard and took inventory. Four unregistered guns. Two silencers. Extra ammo—magazines and loose rounds. Two telescopic sights. One long gun, specially modified and broken down. One tripod. One night vision scope. Two flashbang grenades. Three sets of fake ID. A bunch of cheap flip phones she’d picked up to use as burners. Assorted bugs and related gear.

  Given the high probability that her new friends would make a repeat appearance in the near future, she decided the best course of action was to arm herself to the teeth. She found a tote bag in the closet and dumped all the guns inside, along with the night scope and most of the ammo and, what the hell, the flashbangs too. She didn’t know what she might need, but she intended to be ready.

  With her bag of goodies in tow, she left the duplex, rearming the system and locking the door.

  It was a safe bet the Long Fong Boyz had paid her a visit. But they hadn’t done any real harm. Maybe they weren’t as hard-core as advertised. Anyway, if her ticket stub ploy worked, she might be able to throw them off her trail.

  She returned to the Jeep, settling behind the wheel. It would be a good idea to hide the tote bag under the blanket in the rear compartment, in case the cops at the checkpoint gave her a hard time. She added the .32 to the bag, turned in her seat to push the bag under the blanket in back, and found herself facing the muzzle of a gun.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Parker,” a male voice said from the shadows. “Be cooperative.”

  It didn’t look like she had much choice.

  CHAPTER 15

  At first, Tommy Chang didn’t scream. Even as his forefinger was stripped down to red bone, he kept silent, jaws clenched, eyes squeezed shut. His feet beat a manic drumroll. The Buddha on his belly scowled more fiercely than ever. His self-control was impressive to witness.

  Rocca and Belletiere did their best not to look. They were made men and tough bastards, but even they couldn’t stand to watch too much of this show. Frank never blinked, never turned away. He could take it. Like Virgil, he was harder, crueler than his peers. That was why he was number one. He ruled over his personal rat pack, his teeth ands claws the sharpest, his glittering, alert eyes never missing a thing.

  After several minutes, Frank made a cutting gesture, and Belletiere reversed the chain, reeling Virgil back into the cage. The rat’s whiskers and claws were dyed a deep carmine. The top joints of two of Tommy’s fingers had been chewed clean off. Naked bone showed through a patchwork of lacerated skin. Blood pooled on the armrest and pattered in a red rain on the floor.

  Frank gave the kid a few minutes to recover. While waiting, he stepped into the office and phoned home. Victoria answered.

  “You put the kids down?” Frank asked.

  “Finally.” She sounded tired. Lately she always sounded tired.

  Frank had thought having kids would help his marriage, bring back some of the old spark, but it hadn’t worked out that way. His wife had little to say to him these days. She seemed scared all the time. And fuck it all, she’d dared to mention divorce. She had to know it was impossible. Frank Lazzaro did not surrender the things that were his, and his wife was one of those things.

  “
Well, get some rest yourself,” he said, playing nice.

  “Are you coming home soon, Frank?”

  “Not for a while.”

  “What could you possibly have to do so late on a night like this?”

  He bristled. “Like that’s any of your fucking business? Like you get to tell me how I spend my time?”

  He heard her nervous intake of breath. “I’m sorry, Frank. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “I’ll be there when I feel like it. You start giving me orders, maybe it’s time for another attitude adjustment.” The last such adjustment, inflicted after she’d uttered the d-word, had sent Victoria to the ER.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. Her voice dragged lower with hopeless weariness. “Really … I’m sorry.”

  “You need to stop riding me.”

  “I’m sorry, Frank.”

  “I got a lot of shit to deal with, and I don’t need any fucking bullshit from you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You just keep your mouth shut and look after those babies. It’s all you’re fucking good for.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying you’re sorry. It’s fucking annoying.”

  She was silent. He gripped the phone and thought about smashing things.

  “We’ll work this out later,” he said finally. “Count on it.”

  He ended the call, satisfied that he’d given her something to think about.

  First the crack about divorce, and now she was questioning his business. Jesus. When every damn day he was busting his hump to provide for his fucking family. Did she think it was easy, moving the products he specialized in? On this end, he had to supervise the street crews who were out every night boosting luxury cars for export to the port of Aqaba in Jordan. The cars needed dealer invoices and transporter plates and die-cut VINS, and any built-in tracking system, like LoJack, had to be disabled. And there were rules. Leather seats weren’t ideal; a lot of Arabs didn’t like leather. Sedans were better than coups; a fair number of the vehicles ended up as taxis or cop cars. Light colors were better than dark; the merciless desert sun was hard on a car with a dark color scheme.

  At Aqaba, his freighters would take on new cargo for the return trip—granite blocks hollowed out with a diamond-tipped drill and packed with Moroccan hashish, rope carpets cleverly interwoven with heroin from a lab in Istanbul. Plenty of legitimate merchandise, too. All of it was destined for a pier in Newark, where Frank maintained three Customs agents on a private payroll. Their only job was to look the other way.

  He’d built all that from the ground up, starting with the rat fights in the projects. And still she didn’t respect him. That was the problem.

  But she would. Oh, yes. He would see to that.

  He returned to the kid duct-taped to the chair.

  “Feel like talking, Tommy?”

  “Blow me.”

  Frank batted him across the face with the back of his hand. His wedding ring left a long bleeding gash in the bastard’s cheek.

  “Do not disrespect me. I am life and death to you. You got that? You will bow down to me.”

  “Suck my cock, guinea.”

  Frank raised his hand for another blow, then remembered that he had a better option.

  “Your call,” he said with menacing calmness.

  With a nod, he let his boys know that it was time for round two.

  This time Tommy did scream. His head whipped back and forth, and crazed cries erupted from his throat. But when Virgil was withdrawn, the kid remained defiant. Though his middle finger had now come off entirely, severed at the third knuckle, he wouldn’t beg or give in. On the contrary, he rattled off an inventive string of ethnic slurs, many involving grease.

  In round three he lost his ring finger. After that, his voice started to crack like a twelve-year-old’s, but he went on trying to mock.

  “You can’t hurt me, you fuckin’ wops, fuckin’ greaseball apes. You can’t make me talk.”

  Frank kinda liked him. The little slant had guts. Frank wasn’t prejudiced—well, no more than anybody. He respected the Asians, especially the Vietnamese and the Chinese. Tough, wiry little bastards. They were ruthless, showed no mercy, took no prisoners. Nowadays his own organization had grown semi-legitimate, and he had to watch his step, maintain a degree of respectability, but these young chinks were reckless and crazy and they didn’t give a shit. They expected to die before they made it to twenty-five, and they only wanted to make as much mayhem as possible while they could. Santa Muerte would have approved, and so would the black beast.

  But nobody could hold out indefinitely against this kind of pain. When Rocca and Belletiere moved to the cage to face the other armrest, where Virgil was poised to go to work on Tommy’s right hand, the kid began to cry.

  “Okay, don’t do it no more, I’ll talk to you, I’ll fuckin’ talk …”

  People said torture wasn’t effective, because the victim wouldn’t tell the truth. This was bullshit. Break a man’s spirit and he would tell you everything. He would be too beaten down to lie. You just had to know when the breaking point had been reached. It was an intuitive thing. Frank could sense it. Smell it, almost. He knew when a guy was shamming, and when he was sincerely broken.

  Tommy Chang was broken. No fucking doubt.

  “Sorry about your art,” Frank said after ushering his subordinates out of earshot. All the skull tats were gone, along with most of Tommy’s left hand.

  Tommy said nothing, only shivered.

  “What do they call you, kid? What’s your nick?”

  “Fish Face.”

  “Heh. It suits you. Okay, Fish Face, let’s talk.” Frank bent close. “I want to know about Alec Dante.”

  “Who?”

  “My nephew. Devil’s Hook. Don’t play dumb, fish-fuck. You got a lot more parts you can lose.”

  Tommy shook his head miserably. “Ain’t shinin’ you, man. I dunno any Dante or any Devil’s Hook.”

  “We can butt that cage up against the chair seat, let old Virgil have a go at your junk.”

  “Swear to God, I don’t know what you’re fuckin’ talking about.”

  “I guess you don’t know any Joey Huang either.”

  “Joey?” The kid’s eyes lifted in relief. “Sure, I knew Joey. Is that what this is about? The PI?”

  Frank cocked his head to the left. He was a little deaf in his right ear, a consequence of a firearm that had gone off a bit too close, and he wanted to be sure he heard every word. “What PI?”

  “The hitter. The bitch.”

  “What the fuck you talking about?”

  “She did the hit on Joey. We got witnesses.”

  “Who did? Give me a name.”

  “Parker. Bonnie Parker. She’s a PI in one of them little beach towns. Brighton Cove, it’s called.”

  Bonnie Parker. The name meant squat to Frank. And he knew she hadn’t aced Joey. His nephew had done that job. But the Long Fong Boyz seemed to think otherwise.

  “The wits saw her pull the trigger?” Frank asked dubiously.

  “No, man. But they saw her at Crossgate at the right time. And she’s a pro. She calls herself a PI, but on the side she takes on contracts.”

  It sounded crazy. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Swear to fuckin’ God, man. She’s got a rep. Couple of our guys heard of her. Patrick says she’s a stone killer.”

  He meant Patrick Chiu, the generalissimo of this private army. Frank hadn’t met him, but from what he’d heard, Chiu was smart and plugged in. If he bought the story about the PI, there must be something to it.

  So there was a small-town PI moonlighting as a hitter. A fucking lady hitter at that.

  She hadn’t killed Joey, but it looked like she’d been in the building when Alec was there. No way it was a coincidence. And if she hadn’t been after Joey Huang, she must have been tailing Alec.

  It was the only answer. It explained why Tommy Chang didn’t know shit about what had gone down in D
evil’s Hook. The Long Fong Boyz hadn’t had anything to do with it. This PI, Parker—she was the one who’d put two .38 slugs in Alec’s chest.

  If the PI had done the job, then it wasn’t likely to be any kind of gang hit. Somebody with a personal beef had hired her.

  “So if you know who hit Joey,” he said to Tommy, “what are your people doing about it?”

  The kid managed a sickly smile. “We gonna put her deep under the soil. Parker doesn’t know it, but she’s one dead bitch.”

  Frank nodded. She was dead, all right. But he didn’t want Patrick Chiu’s merry band of dragon-fuckers taking her out. He intended to reserve that pleasure for himself.

  “Okay, Tommy. I’m gonna let you go now.”

  A moan shuddered through the kid, the complaint of a beaten animal. “No, man, you’re gonna kill me. I fuckin’ know you are.”

  “Chill out. All I wanted was information. I was never gonna kill you.”

  “Seriously, man? Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Frank said, and from inside his jacket he pulled out a big black HK .45, the kind of gun known to aficionados as a manstopper, and he shot Tommy Chang in the face.

  CHAPTER 16

  In the time it took her to hitch in a breath, Bonnie understood. One of the people who’d invaded her home had hidden in the Jeep’s backseat. That person was now pointing a gun at her face.

  “Turn around, Parker,” he said, “and drive.” His voice was uninflected and strangely calm. It was the voice of someone accustomed to obedience. A leader, not a follower. An educated voice.

  She turned to face forward. The gun’s muzzle kissed the nape of her neck.

  “You’re Chiu,” she said, “right?”

  “Just drive, please.”

  She noticed he didn’t deny it. “Where?”

  “Not very far.”

  “What direction?”

  “East.”

  The beach. That wasn’t good. Nobody went to the beach during a hurricane.

  She put the Jeep into gear and pulled a U-turn, heading east. Behind her, headlights flared. Another vehicle was following. A Cadillac Escalade, black.