by David Levien
The building was poorly secured, and earlier in the day, he’d found a way inside. As far as he could tell, there were no security cameras on the doors, nor was there a video feed on the front door buzzer that might have been run through a backup recording system. The ground floor of the building had a long front-to-back hallway with a steel door in the rear that had been wedged open, probably to allow for a cross breeze, and the only thing stopping entry was a locked wire mesh gate. Dwyer had gripped the cheap knob and given it a good yank, and it had popped right open.
He’d gone upstairs to the second floor and looked at the door to 2G but couldn’t figure a way through without blasting it off its hinges, and that wasn’t going to be conducive to a conversation once he was inside. So he’d retired to the rented car to give it a think. After a few hours, once darkness had descended, Dwyer had finally picked up his mobile and dialed.
“Sí?” Banco answered, as if he’d been woken.
“I’m here. Outside,” Dwyer said. “Let’s talk.”
“The door will be open,” Banco said after a long pause, and rang off.
Dwyer didn’t bother with getting buzzed in but instead popped the cheap gate once again, this time with a handkerchief in his hand, which he also used to turn the knob to Banco’s door.
He entered the small, sparsely furnished apartment and saw Banco, sick and pale, propped in a bed with soiled coverings, backed up against the wall in a corner away from the windows; and one whiff told him Banco was suffering gunshot sepsis. The cheap curtains allowed enough streetlight in for Dwyer to see there was an assault rifle pointed at him. Banco’s gaze seemed firm and his grip steady enough that it discouraged Dwyer from rushing him and grabbing the barrel and ripping the gun away.
“Qué pasa, ’migo?” Dwyer said.
“You found me,” Banco said, shifting a bit, in apparent great pain.
“Sure.”
“How are Benito and Boli?” Banco asked.
Dwyer understood he meant the men from La Pasión.
“Fine,” he said.
“They told you where I was?” Banco asked. Dwyer didn’t respond, just shrugged. “Because they didn’t know …”
“The number was enough. I paid them for it,” Dwyer said.
“I called them back a few times, couldn’t reach them,” Banco said.
“Probably out partyin’,” Dwyer tossed. He moved closer and noticed piles of gauze bandages and white cotton undershirts and rags stained red and yellow with blood and pus on the floor at the foot of the bed.
“Let me see what you got?” Dwyer said, taking another step closer. Banco tipped the barrel of the gun up toward Dwyer’s chest, stopping him, but flipped back the bedsheets and lifted away a wet, bloody bandage, revealing a hit in the meat of his flank just above his hip bone.
“Goddamn in and out. But still …” Banco said.
Dwyer went near the wall of the small kitchenette and flicked the light switch. A fluorescent kicked on in three stages and threw enough light for him to see the black entry point the width of a pencil. Banco leaned forward and Dwyer saw where it had come out, that hole the diameter of a two pence piece. Red splotches and streaks surrounded the wound, which oozed a thick and foul green.
“That’s close enough,” Banco said, leveling the assault rifle at Dwyer more directly. He recognized it now. It was an H&K 33, of German make, the rifle of the Salvadoran army, and Banco’s old service weapon.
“What in fuck’s name happened, Banco?” Dwyer asked.
Banco shrugged. “I got the call. I went to the location. Just like the plan. I set it up—the elevator, the lights, the car—and I waited. I opened up on ’em and was walking him down to finish. But the fucking car was armored … and he had this guy with him—”
“You knew he’d have a man with him,” Dwyer said, doing his best to tamp down his anger.
“Well, this motherfucker wasn’t the one I expected. And he was good. Or lucky,” Banco said with disgust, gesturing at his wound.
“What type of guy?”
“Big. And tall. Dark hair, dark suit, mustache,” Banco said and it made Dwyer wonder for a moment before he refocused.
“What about your backup shooter?” Dwyer asked.
Banco just shook his head.
“You didn’t use a backup shooter?” Dwyer was shocked. A three-man team was minimum industry standard. “Are you fucking retarded or something, man? At least the bloody driver should have been a backup …” Dwyer tailed off when he caught the look in Banco’s black eyes.
“Fucking ’ell, you went in solo?” Dwyer asked, equal parts incredulity and disgust. “Why?”
“I needed the money, man,” Banco said simply.
“You were paid fifty K, with another fifty coming at the finish.”
“There’s no work. I couldn’t afford a split. It’s been two years since I’ve had any job worth shit. I needed all of it.”
“And look at you fucking now,” Dwyer said, his fury leaking out. “I thought you were a bloody professional.”
Short money, the root of all botch-ups, he seethed to himself.
“Help me get well, and we’ll go finish this thing together,” Banco said.
“I don’t know about the second part there, Braveheart.” Dwyer shook his head. “The target’s all buttoned up now …”
A look of fear came over Banco as he realized what his failure meant. The two men stared at each other. Dwyer had been on ops down in Salvador with Banco. They’d been on bivouac together, a thirty-day stint, in shit jungle doing nasty things. That kind of time created a bond. He’d directed Banco’s fire, and Banco took orders and responded under pressure. That, and because he was familiar with the city, were why Dwyer thought to use him.
But now … but now …
“Just so you know, Waddy,” he said, “I have some things in place if anything happens to me. Information you don’t want getting out.”
Dwyer stared at Banco. He didn’t particularly believe him. The guy had been no-bullshit, ex-army when he’d met him a dozen years ago. But he couldn’t be sure one way or the other whether Banco had put some insurance in place, so he played along.
“If anything happens to you? You’ve got one foot in the boat and it’s ready to cross the river, man …” Dwyer said.
“You’ve got to help me,” Banco said. The fear he’d been doing a good job keeping out of his voice made itself heard for the first time.
Dwyer acted like it affected him. “What do you think you need?”
“Sterile dressings. An IV drip of lactated Ringer’s solution. Or at least saline. Plasma expander if you can get it. And antibiotics—cephalosporin or even penicillin. Dilaudid or Percocet for the pain.”
“Fucking ’ell, anything else?”
“Find me a doctor who’ll fix me without talking.”
“That could take a while, being it’s the first time I’ve been in this shite burg.”
“I’ll be here waiting.”
Dwyer wasn’t going to be able to get a thing for Banco at this hour, short of robbing a bloody hospital. He fetched Banco a cup of water from the kitchen—he thought it was a nice touch—and took a last glance back and left, closing the door behind him.
37
At ten minutes to six in the morning, the air still night crisp, Behr trotted down the street in warm-up mode, toward Saddle Hill. He was thinking about why he had drank so much last night and why Kolodnik had found himself in the casino-building business and why he seemed to have moved back out as quickly as he’d gotten in. That’s when he saw Decker, dressed in shorts and a red T-shirt that read “USMC—American Spartans,” in the middle of the street, doing squat thrusts.
Behr came to a stop. “Surprised to see you here,” he shouted, since Decker’s headphones were on.
“You said oh-six hundred,” Decker said, pulling out an earbud.
“What’s today’s selection?” Behr asked.
“Alt rock playlist. Okkervil River, Blac
k Keys, the Dead Weather. You know, the Jack White spin-off.”
“Terrific,” Behr said. It was too early to inquire further as to who and what any of the bands were.
“So what do we got?” Decker asked.
“Ten up, ten down. Full speed.”
Decker glanced at the upward slope of Saddle Hill, humping away over a rise, a quarter mile into the distance.
“Big hill. I thought this town was flat.”
“Mostly is,” Behr said.
They started out, and things quickly turned from a hard morning run to a full-bore pride competition—the kind Behr knew from his football days and supposed were common in the military, too. Behr led the way and set the pace; but by the fifth trip up, he found he couldn’t stay with Decker, fit and fast as the young prick was. Behr put his head down and pushed and felt the alcohol from the night before sweating out of him. By the eighth go-round, he’d started to make up considerable ground and wondered if Decker might fade. On the tenth trip down the hill, Behr lengthened his stride and got within twenty feet of Decker, in time to see him turn his head and spew vomit. Behr figured he had him, but instead saw there was no fade in the guy. Decker didn’t break stride. If anything, he accelerated and reached the bottom a good ten yards ahead of Behr.
They both grabbed their shorts and sucked air, and then Decker started laughing.
“Guess I shouldn’t have had those nightcaps when I got home,” he said.
“Didn’t slow you down any,” Behr said.
“Pounding ground till you puke’s a way of life in the corps. Especially with a freight train running up my back,” Decker gave Behr a whack on the shoulder. “Thanks, I’ve been going marshmallow since I got out.”
Behr had Decker as a boots-on-the-ground, triggers-up type, but if this was soft, he wondered just how hard-ass the guy must’ve been when he was in. They walked the short distance to Decker’s car, a steel-gray Camaro with meaty-looking black tires that were Armor All-ed to a high sheen.
“So, time to go pretend you’re working?” Decker asked.
“Something like that.”
“Gina heard from Susan that you took some rounds not too long ago,” Decker said, as he opened the car door.
“Been trying to figure out who flung ’em,” Behr said, “but I seem to be the only one around who cares.” Whether or not Decker understood what this meant wasn’t clear, but a version of that dark, distant gaze visited his eyes for a moment.
“Anything I can do to help, let me know,” Decker finally said, then got in his car, which he started with a rumble.
He had begun to drive away, when Behr leaped behind the Camaro, pounding on the trunk. Decker stopped and poked his head out the open window.
“As a matter of fact …” Behr began.
38
Kid McMurphy was right: Sunshine Jane did have a Web presence and Behr didn’t need her real name. Behr was at his desk, making a brief appearance in the office, which had a very half-assed attitude going at the moment since later in the day there was a company outing—a spring party out at Potempa’s place. Making the most of the lax atmosphere he’d done a Google search for “Sunny, massage, Indianapolis,” and she was the first hit. Hers was an elaborate Web site that featured tasteful photos of her—a fit, healthily suntanned, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman in her early twenties—shot in a semiprofessional massage-room setting. Her hair was pulled back into a prim ponytail, and she wore plastic-framed glasses and a white coat that gave her a slightly medical air. Her guidelines stated that she offered Swedish, deep tissue, and acupressure massage, that outcall was preferred, and rates were to be handled by e-mail. The small print on the site listed it as registered to Sister Golden Hands LLC.
Once Behr had printed a picture and felt he’d be able to spot her, he continued his digging and found her profiles on various social networking sites, where the photos got less professional and more telling—shots of her out at various bars with her girlfriends, who seemed like a pack of good fun or a hell of a lot of trouble, depending on how you looked at it. She was also shot in the clutches of an array of strapping young men, her hair down in a wild mane of ringlets. It was clear she liked the nightlife.
Why not? She’s twenty-four years old … Behr figured. There were also several shots of her standing proudly next to an alpine-white BMW 650i convertible—one even showed the license plate SUN-EEE. This sent him to the muni tax database, where he saw business income listed for Sister Golden Hands LLC as a mere $28,000 for the past tax year. This told him something and he made a note of it.
Finished with her for the moment, he went ahead and completed three more background checks on his sorely neglected Payroll Place case. He was less than focused, and really just killing time before heading down to the Palms at Bella Vita, which wouldn’t be open until lunchtime. The Palms was an outdoor bar right at the marina on Geist Reservoir in Fishers that offered a real island party feel for the postcollegiate set, including a deck area, an outdoor swimming pool, and even featured a sand volleyball pit. But the thing was, he’d actually gotten a ping on one of his background checks.
A young woman, Olga Miroslav, who worked in accounting with a perfectly good credit score and no bankruptcies, had taken out a restraining order on a once live-in boyfriend named Salvatore Rueben. He had counter-filed a restraining order against her as well, but both had filed to have the orders dropped after a few days. Simple case of break up and make up? Maybe, Behr thought. But it was enough for him to make a note to run this guy Reuben. Instead of actually doing it, though, he glanced around to see that Potempa and the case managers were tucked away in their offices, and hit the door.
The suit and tie was about the worst possible combo for someone trying to feel comfortable at the Palms. Surf shorts and bikinis were the uniform of the day, a smorgasbord of firm young flesh on parade. And the day was evolving into a cloudless and unseasonably warm one. Full-sized plastic palm trees painted in primary colors ringed the pool, full of splashing drinkers, and on the volleyball court a competitive two-on-two game was under way. Speedboats and WaveRunners trolled in and out of slips, making the most of the start of boating season. The party was on like an MTV spring break special.
Behr rolled up on the bar, ordered an ice tea, and felt the eyes of the staff and the nearby patrons on him. They probably had him as a narc or an Alcohol and Tobacco Bureau goon, but the awkward impression of authority was what he was trying to project, so he kept the jacket on. After twenty minutes and a lap around the place, he saw her, stunning as advertised, with the flowing ringlets of dark hair, smoky eyes, and full red lips that broke in a lazy sensual smile when he introduced himself.
“Hey, Sunny? Frank Behr.” She took his extended hand, and he felt the bones of hers, defined and fragile beneath a glove of warm, tanned skin. She wore a white bikini top that barely contained her, a sarong-type thing knotted below her flat, pierced belly button, and Ugg boots on her feet. Regardless of her skill level with the bodywork, he imagined her company was in high demand.
She was standing with a burly dude, about twenty-five years old with a buzzed dome, dressed in digi-camo shorts, Timberlands, and a pair of Gargoyle Intimidators.
“Hey,” she said. “Do I know you? You a client?”
“No. I want to ask you a few questions though.”
“About what, bro?” the burly dude said, doing his best Terminator impression, sans accent. Behr ignored him.
“Oh, I’m partying though,” Sunny said, the smile just flickering slightly.
“I want to talk about Lenny Barnes,” Behr said, and felt a ripple of regret as he made that smile fall away for good.
“Dude, I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, crossing her arms, “and I definitely don’t want to talk to you about him.”
“If you’re a cop, flash a badge. If you’re not, it’s time to catch the fuck-off express—” the burly dude said. Behr raised a palm in front of his dark shield glasses and spoke only to Sunny.
/> “Ken Jergens.”
“Who?”
“Guy I know, works over at five seventy-five North Pennsylvania. You ever see that return address on correspondence?” Behr said. For a moment she was intrigued, and Behr went on. “I’ll give you a hint: it’s a government building. The kind that’d be interested in twenty-eight thou declared and a ninety-thousand-dollar car.”
Dawning knowledge spread across her face. “It’s the IRS.”
“That’s it. And this guy, Jergens, he’s like a Gila monster—you gotta break his teeth out to get him off you once he clamps down.”
“Screw you,” she said. The smoky look departed her eyes and was replaced by a stony stare. Behr had been going on an instinct that she was in a largely cash business and there might be some jeopardy, and he saw he’d hit a soft target.
“I’m not the one who’s gonna get screwed …”
“Sunny, you want me to—” the burly dude began.
“No,” she cut him off and turned to Behr with a direct stare. “Let me just give you a treatment instead. A series of treatments even. I’m pretty unbelievable. Trust me, you’ll feel great—”
“Sunny,” the burly dude bleated.
“I don’t want a rubdown,” Behr said. Then turned to the guy. “Just go buy her another drink. It’ll all be over soon,” Behr said. Behr’s jacket was unbuttoned, and he didn’t mind if the handle of his Glock might have been visible to the guy. Sunny ground her teeth for a moment and then relaxed.