He got out, opened the trunk, and retrieved the original case. No switcheroo. At least not this time. And who knew if there’d be a next time? Especially with this bitch. But he was pretty sure he could make it happen.
He opened the rear door and placed the case on the rear seat.
“Here we go, ma’am.”
He stripped off the tape, then pushed it toward her. She looked at him, confusion warring with suspicion across her features.
He pointed to the case. “Want me open it for you?”
She shook her head. “No-no. I can do.”
She still held the key. Her hands shook a little as she keyed the latches and popped them open. Quickly she lifted the lid and stared at the two stacks for a few heartbeats. Then she picked up one, then the other, and fanned through them.
All there, lady—all two hundred C-notes.
She looked up at him, naked relief in her eyes.
“What?” he said, looking offended. “You don’t trust me?”
“Well, I’m admit I was a-having second thoughts about this. I was a-having the feeling you thought you were dealing with a donnicciola.”
“Pardon?”
“A silly old woman. You know what they a-say about no fool like an old fool.”
As he got back behind the wheel, he figured the time had come for a little stroking.
“You’re no fool, Mrs. Filardo. Someone as brave and public-spirited as you is a long, long way from a fool.”
He put the car in gear and headed back to her place. Along the way he loosed some deep, sad sighs.
“Ay, what’s a-wrong?” she finally said.
“Nothing. Just that … well, nabbing this guy would have meant a promotion. And with a baby on the way, the raise would have come in handy.”
“Aw … a bambino.”
“Yeah, our first.”
As he pulled to a stop before her place, he turned and said, “Do you think…?” and then let it taper off. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Well, do you think you might be willing to try this again … with a bigger amount?”
She cocked her head. “How much a-bigger?”
He took a breath. “Fifty thousand.”
Her eyes widened until he thought they’d pop out of her head. “Fifty—!” She blurted something that ended with “—ricco sfondato?”
“Sorry?”
“How much a-money you think I have?”
“The department knows exactly how much you have.”
Well into six figures.
She relaxed a little. “Yes, I’m a-suppose they do.”
“You redeposit that twenty thousand there on Monday, and then next Saturday we do exactly the same procedure—but with fifty thousand. The big difference will be that I don’t think he’ll be able to resist a withdrawal of that size. He’ll make his move, and we’ll catch him in the act, and that will be that. He goes to jail, your money goes back into your account, and I get a promotion. The good folks win, the bad guy loses, and all’s right with the world. What do you say?”
“I’m a-have to think about it.”
“Of course you do. It’s a big decision. I’ll call you Monday. Just remember: tell no one about this. You’d be surprised how word gets around.”
After walking her to her door, he returned to the car and sat for a moment behind the wheel. Usually he could tell about a mark, but this old battle-ax … he didn’t know which way she’d go.
He crossed his fingers. He needed that cash.
* * *
Jack popped out the earpiece and stared after the Dodge as it drove away. Had to hand it to the guy: He was a major creep, but a creep with major cojones. He’d had the old lady’s money in his trunk but had passed on it, opting instead for a chance to more than double his take.
Jack remembered Julio saying how Zalesky had bragged about using a “fake-out.” Maybe this was part of his play: Take the lady’s money, get her fearful that she’s been taken for a fool, then give it back to her, every cent. All of a sudden the tables are turned one-eighty, suspicion morphs to relief and maybe even a little guilt, leaving the mark feeling bad about doubting the man. Next time he asks for her help, she’ll jump at the chance.
And what an actor. The promotion, the baby … a real tear-jerker scenario.
The fake-out was necessary for a big payday. Jack had ripped a goodly sum off Zalesky. For revenge, he’d made an offer on The Spot. But an offer was only hot air. Darren wanted to seal the deal, and to see that through, Zalesky was going to have to come up with a sizable down payment. And for that he needed a big payday.
So it wasn’t over yet. Jack was pretty sure Zalesky could talk the lady into another try. Which meant the two of them would have to replay this whole procedure next Saturday. Well, Jack would be here too.
And that was when he’d nail him.
2
“What’s this?” Jack said, peering at the contents of a glass-topped display case.
He’d been down here in Abe’s basement weapon shop before but hadn’t made his way into this back corner.
“I should sell only for self-protection? I sometimes sell to collectors too.”
“These look old.”
Abe shrugged. “Not so old.”
“Well, I didn’t mean older than you.”
“A comedian he’s become. I’m saying not Civil War old, but old. I collect early twentieth century.”
“Your collection?”
He nodded. “It’s always changing. I buy, I sell, I trade for things I like.”
Jack pointed through the glass at an odd pistol. “What’s this baby? Looks like a Luger on a starvation diet.”
“Such good eye you’ve got for a novice. That’s one of my favorites: a Bergmann ‘Mars’ from 1903. A recoil-operated semiauto designed by Louis Schmeisser. The first to use a 9mm round, invented by Bergmann. But it was nine by twenty-three, not the nine-by-nineteen parabellum the Luger used.”
Jack moved on to a boxy pistol with a long, tapered barrel. It had a red “9” carved into the rounded grip. A strip of rounds jutted from the breech.
“Another favorite,” Abe said. “A Mauser C96 broomhandle model from the First World War. This one was chambered for the 9mm parabellum, hence the ‘nine’ on the grip.”
“Is that how it fired—with the rounds sticking up from the top?”
“That’s a stripper clip. They didn’t use magazines to insert in the handle in those days. Instead they top-loaded the rounds through the receiver, pushing them down into the handle. The strip that holds them is then thrown away or saved to reuse another day.”
Jack glanced at him. “But you’re going to sell me something that loads with a clip, right?”
“‘Clip’? What’s this ‘clip’ you’re talking about?”
Was he kidding?
“You know—the thing you load with bullets and shove into the handle.”
“A magazine you’re talking. Not a clip. Don’t ever call a magazine a clip.”
“Why not?”
“Just … don’t.”
“What the big deal?”
“It’s like calling a bagel a kreplach.”
“That’s a big help.”
“They’re different. Don’t do it.”
“Okay, okay.” Sheesh.
“Now, about your new main carry,” Abe said, wandering toward the pistol area. “I’ve been giving that some thought and I think I have just the thing for you.”
Jack followed to where Abe took a flat box off a shelf and handed it to him. Jack lifted the top. A small semiautomatic pistol with a flat black finish lay inside. Near the muzzle end of the slide was a large G with a small-lettered “LOCK” in its belly. After that a “19,” then “AUSTRIA,” and finally “9x19.” That pretty much said it all.
“A Glock 19?”
Abe nodded. “This model is fairly new. The company introduced it just a few years ago as a compact version of the standard Glock 17. It’
s considerably lighter and smaller than your Ruger, and will stop your kvetching about how it feels in the small of your back.”
Jack lifted it from the box and hefted it: definitely smaller and lighter.
“I love it.”
“Just be aware that semis have a lot more working parts than a revolver, so for something going wrong you’ve got a higher risk.”
“Like jamming.”
“Exactly.”
“How often does that happen with a Glock?”
Abe had a pained look as he spoke. “Hardly ever. Almost never.”
“‘Almost never’ is good enough for me.” He replaced the pistol in the box and closed the lid. “Sold. Now, what about a teeny-weeny backup.”
“On that I’ve been thinking too. How teeny-weeny?”
“Ideally, palmable but still packing a wallop.”
“I think I know just the thing.” He stepped over to a pile of newspapers. “I spotted one in here.”
As Abe began thumbing through a tabloid, Jack saw Shotgun News on the front page.
“That looks like the new issue.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then…” He found the page he wanted and folded it back. Handing it to Jack, he pointed to an ad with a photo. “You can study this at home.”
Jack checked out the ad. It showed what looked like a compact semiautomatic, chrome finish with black grips.
He read the header aloud: “‘Semmerling LM4. World’s smallest .45 ACP.’” He looked up. “Sounds good.”
“Not so fast. A few things you should know. It looks like a semiauto but in reality it’s got manual repeating double action.”
Jack ran that through his brain as he studied the photo. “You mean I have to work the slide by hand?”
“Yes—but forward rather than backward to eject the shell. That means: fire, work the slide, fire again, work the slide, and so on.”
Jack frowned. “Not too crazy about that.”
“The slide can be worked with the thumb. With a little practice you should be able to get off a shot a second.”
“How many does it hold?”
“Four plus one.”
Jack shook his head. “Only five? I’m not exactly Annie Oakley on the target range.”
“But they’re forty-five caliber. Don’t forget, this is for backup. If you use it, most likely it’ll be at close range. If you manage just one torso hit close in with a forty-five ACP Hydra-Shok, you’re not going to need another.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Another drawback you’ve got: If you take both the Glock, which is nine-millimeter, and the Semmerling, which is forty-five, you’re going to have to stock in two types of ammo. Some mavens recommend your main carry and your backup should be chambered for the same round.”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t see that as a problem.” He tapped the tabloid. “I take it you don’t have one of these hanging around?”
“Like hen’s teeth to come by. Only maybe six hundred LM-fours ever made. Every time one comes in, a collector buys it. But I can check around and see if one’s available.”
Jack looked back at the photo—grainy, poorly lit—but something called to him. Like the Corvair. He shook his head. Inanimate objects were talking to him now.
“Do that. I think I may—”
The phone rang. Jack could hear its upstairs counterpart echoing down the steps.
Abe grabbed it and said, “Isher.” After listening a few seconds he put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “One of the brothers.”
Brothers? The Mikulskis?
Jack had got himself trapped in a sex-trafficking operation last year that involved two truckloads of prepubescent girls. It had been broken up—decisively—by two masked men with machine pistols. They’d been ready to eliminate Jack just like the others but Abe had vouched for him. The brothers, who’d identified themselves to Jack only as Deacon Blue and the Reverend Mr. Black, had cut him in on the three million they’d removed from the dead traffickers. Abe had told Jack later that they were known as the Mikulski brothers, but wasn’t sure that was their real name.
Jack nodded: Yeah, he’d take the call.
“You’re psychic, maybe?” Abe said into the phone. “He’s right here.” He handed the receiver to Jack.
“Who’s this?” Jack said.
“Deacon Blue.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Spend all your money yet?”
“Working on it.”
“We’re hearing whispers about another deal like the one we interrupted last fall.”
“Yeah?”
“This one sounds a little smaller. Interested?”
“You did pretty well all by yourselves last time.”
“We might need your help this trip. You said to call you if that came to be the case. We’re calling. Want to talk?”
He hesitated. “How soon do you think it’s going down?”
“Sounds like next week.”
The only thing Jack had going next week was the Zalesky scam. He had to be around for that next Saturday, otherwise he was free. But did he want to get involved with these guys? He’d seen them at work—remorseless, methodical killers. But he’d also seen their other side. And he sort of owed them.
“Okay. Let’s talk. When and where?”
“How about we pick you up in front of Abe’s around ten A.M. tomorrow. We’ll go for a little ride.”
“See you then.”
He handed the phone back to Abe and then pointed to the box with the Glock 19. “Can you giftwrap that for me? And some appropriate ammo too?”
“Of course. I’ve got a soccer shinguard box that should hold everything. What are you going to do with the Ruger?”
“Good question.”
“I can give you something in trade. Always a market for Magnums.”
Jack found himself unsure. “I don’t know. My first gun … I feel I should keep it. You know, like Uncle Scrooge kept his first dime?”
“I don’t know from your uncle, but we’re talking a weapon here, one you’re not supposed to own in this city. The more of those you have, the greater the chance of getting found out. Remember the KISS rule: Keep It Simple, Schmuck.”
Jack figured he was probably right, but still wasn’t sure.
“Let me get back to you on that after I’ve tried out the Glock.”
“Not a problem.” He put his hands on his hips. “New car, new weapon … what next?”
“New apartment.”
SUNDAY
1
At 10 A.M. sharp, a battered 1985 Lincoln Mark VII pulled into the curb in front of Abe’s. Some kind of heavy-duty engine that didn’t sound like the original equipment grumbled and rumbled under the hood. The tinted window slid down to reveal Deacon Blue behind the wheel. His brown hair was shorter than when Jack had last seen him. Dark aviator shades hid his eyes.
“Hopinski.”
Jack walked around to the other side of the low-slung sedan and pulled open the door. The passenger seat was empty. The Reverend Mr. Black—blond hair and similar shades—lounged in the rear seat. Both wore fatigue jackets and jeans.
Black raised a hand. “Hey, you.”
“Hey, guys.”
The car began rolling before Jack closed the door.
“Before we do anything else,” Blue said, “we need a name for you.”
From behind him, Black said, “Yeah. It gets old saying ‘you’ all the time. And we know it isn’t Archie. You wanna go with ‘Jeff’?”
Jack stiffened. Jeffrey Cusic was the name on his phony ID he’d got from Ernie, supposedly the best money could buy.
“You guys been doing some research?”
“We’re good at it. Got another name you prefer?”
He trusted these two. They’d taken his back one time when he hadn’t asked. Turned out he hadn’t needed them, but they’d been there just in case.
“How about Jack
?”
“Jack what?”
“Just ‘Jack’ will do. And what do I call you guys—Mikulski light and Mikulski dark?”
“Black and Blue’ll do,” Black said.
“All right. Where are we going?”
“Just motorvatin’,” Blue said as he turned onto West 79th. “Sunday morning’s the only time driving’s any fun in this town.”
He had a point. Traffic was almost nonexistent. They cruised up a ramp onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. The Hudson River glittered under a pristine winter sky and Jack caught a glimpse of the boat basin before they headed downtown. They had the road pretty much to themselves.
“How are those little girls?” Jack said.
Blue shrugged. “We checked with … our affiliate a while ago. She’d never had to handle that many kids at once before, but she got it done. Those who hadn’t been actually sold by their parents have been returned home. The others went to relatives here in the States.”
“You’re sure about your affiliate?”
Blue nodded. “Oh, yeah. She’s devoted. She’s got a network, and even diplomatic connections. She can make things happen.”
He thought about a certain little girl among the twenty-eight who’d been rescued.
“Remember Bonita?”
“Yeah,” Black said from the back. “The one who didn’t want to let you go.”
“Right. Any idea where she wound up?”
“Nope. We don’t get personally involved. We get them out of trouble and our affiliate gets them back home. I’m sure she’s fine—all the girls wound up with a share of the loot we grabbed from the slavers.”
The road sloped down to sea level around 57th Street and they continued downtown past dilapidated piers.
“What’s going on this time?”
Blue said, “Word’s slipping around that a mixed shipment of young stuff is coming in. A dozen or so. Another Arab deal. The same guy as last time—Ali Mohamed—is putting out the word. He’s not saying when or where the auction’s gonna be held, just letting the pervs know so they can have their cash ready.”
“Auction…” Jack shook his head. “Last time it was supposed to be held in the Hamptons. Think it’ll be the same place this go-round?”
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