“Why would an ex-con be more likely to—?”
“Pro bank robbers don’t do Bonnie and Clyde crap anymore. It’s still hit-and-run, but you don’t run far. Best way is to have a place to hole up real close to the bank. Just put a little distance between you and the job, then go to ground. And stay there. Disappear. The longer the law looks, the farther away they think you got. Sounds like the way this guy is playing it, too.”
“He would have learned that in prison?”
“Sure.”
“It doesn’t seem . . . I mean, it’s like a trade secret, right? Why would anyone give away information like that?”
“Couple of reasons. In prison, talking is one of the major activities. And you want to be as high up on the status ladder as you can get. There’s always old cons doing the book who’ll—”
“Doing the book?”
“Life. Some older guys, they like the idea of being mentors, pass along what they’ve learned, teach the techniques. And not just the pros. The freaks do it, too.”
“Freaks?”
“Rapists, child molesters, giggle-at-the-flames arsonists . . .”
“What ‘techniques’ could they have?”
“Why do you think so many ex-con rapists use condoms? So they won’t leave a DNA trail. Or why so many ex-con child molesters marry single mothers? Or why—”
“I get it,” she said, repulsion bathing her voice.
“This guy learned about shaking down street whores from somewhere. And about having a place close by to duck into. But whoever told him about ceramic knives left something out.”
“What’s a ceramic knife?”
“What he’s using. They’re not made from steel, they’re made from glass . . . like the obsidian knives the Aztecs used a long time ago. Glass takes a much sharper edge than any metal could. Ceramic knives come in black, too, but steel doesn’t come in white, see? So, if the word’s right about a white knife . . .”
“It is,” she said, confidently.
“Okay, then that’s how we play it. Thing is, ceramic knives aren’t just made of glass, they can also break like glass. They’re great for kitchens, but you wouldn’t want to fight with one.”
“He’s not doing any fighting.”
“That’s right. They’re for slashing, not stabbing. But it’s what he carries. And if he has to use it against someone who’s got a blade of his own, he’s going to come up short . . . unless he’s very good with it. That’s the problem with prison knowledge—there’s no way to really check it out until you make it back to the bricks. Inside, everybody’s fascinated with knives. A good knife-fighter can get to be a legend in there,” I said, thinking of Jester the matador, a million years ago. “And a good shank-maker can get rich. So maybe somebody was talking about how ceramic knives are the sharpest thing going. This guy was listening. And when he got out, that’s the first thing he bought.”
“Or maybe he . . .”
“What?”
“Maybe he wasn’t talking with knife-fighters at all. Maybe the prisoners he was talking with, like you said before, their experience was in terrifying people.”
“Or torturing them, yeah. There’s a school of martial arts that concentrates on fighting with edged weapons. Filipino, I think. Or maybe Indonesian. But they teach offense and defense. Meaning, the other guy’s got one, too, see? It’s for a culture where they don’t have a lot of guns. Prison’s like that, but Portland’s sure as hell not. You probably nailed it, girl. He wasn’t learning from pros, he was learning from freaks. I’ll bet that’s why he went with white. He wants people to remember him.”
“Do you think I’m right about the other thing, too? That he has a place inside the triangle?”
“I do. It scans like a guy just out of the joint, looking to build up a little stake before he tries something bigger. But there’s a few things I’d need to know.”
“What?”
“Housing inside that triangle. Is it expensive?”
“Nothing’s all that cheap in Portland, especially with all the gentrification going on. Neighborhoods that used to be skid row are fashionable now. But right in here,” she said, tapping the spot on the map, “there’s a couple of buildings tabbed for renovation. You know what that means.”
“Yep. Okay, you said the knifeman was with a crew, nobody knows exactly how big. Where’d you get that?”
“There’s at least one more. A black guy. Even younger than the guy with the knife. He’s collected from some of the girls.”
“Any more than him?”
“Not that I know about.”
“All right. But even if they’re holed up close, in one of the squats, that doesn’t solve it. I can’t go door-to-door without tipping them. And I can’t Rambo a whole building by myself.”
“But if you followed him . . .”
“Sure. But what’s the odds of me being in the exact spot where he—?”
“Pretty good,” she said, putting both arms around my neck and pulling herself against me, “if you have the right bait.”
It took us the better part of the next day to get the four different cars in place. If Flacco and Gordo were getting a little tired of playing rent-free Hertz for me, they kept it off their faces. But since they pretty much kept everything off their faces, I didn’t have a clue.
By the time we were done, we had the yellow Camaro, the black Corvette, a blue Ford F150 pickup, and a clapped-out eighties-era Pontiac in red primer all within a two mile radius of where Ann was going to make her stand.
“You sure you want to do this?” I asked Flacco.
“Why not?” He shrugged. “What’s the risk?”
“It’s not that. It’s . . .”
“What?” Gordo tossed in. “What’s up with you, hombre? This is just business, right?”
“I don’t know,” I told them, honestly. “I’m getting paid. But the guy who’s paying me, he isn’t paying for this, understand?”
“You double-backing on him?”
“I might,” I said. “If he turns out to be what I think he is.”
“I still don’t see what’s the problem,” Flacco said.
“Look . . . I don’t feel right about . . . this. You guys, you’re doing things for me out of friendship, right? But I’m getting paid. I’d feel better if I was—”
I caught Gordo’s look, nodded, and swiveled my head to bring Flacco into it, too. “See what I mean?” I said to them both. “You’re insulted if I offer you money, but . . .”
“We like you, amigo,” Flacco said, his voice soft. “But this isn’t about you, okay?”
“Then what—?”
“It’s about Gem, ¿comprende?”
“No,” I said, flatly, squaring up to face him. Glad to finally be getting it on.
“She didn’t ask us to do anything,” Flacco said, hands extended on either side of his face, palms out, as if ready to ward off a blow. “But we know how you and her . . . and . . . we’re with her, you see where I’m going?”
“Yeah. But I don’t even know how it is between me and Gem. So you shouldn’t be—”
“That’s not our business,” Gordo said, quickly.
“But you just told me—”
“Gem, she wouldn’t want nothing to happen to you. We don’t know what you’re doing. From what you say—what you say now—maybe she don’t know what you’re doing, either. Don’t matter to us. You know how it is with women. You don’t have to be with them for them to be with you.”
I didn’t say anything, listening to the quiet of the big garage, trying to decode what they were telling me.
“You know a guy . . . a cop, named Hong?” I asked them.
If anything, their faces went even flatter than usual. When neither of them said a word for a long minute, I tossed them a half-salute and walked out.
I made the first run just before eleven that night, driving the Corvette. Ann was standing in front of a vacant lot, about a third of the way down the block from the cor
ner where some working girls were showing their stuff. Her location would make sense to the watcher that we hoped was on the set: close enough to the action, but not right in the middle of it. Just about right for a new girl who didn’t have a pimp with enough muscle to clear a prime spot for her.
She was wearing neon-lime hot pants, chunky stacked heels with ankle straps, and a not-up-to-the-job black halter top. Her hair was short, straight, and black. She looked luscious . . . but already too used to stay that way for much longer. Perfect.
She played it perfect, too. Let the Corvette cruise by the girls on the corner, then stepped out and waved like she was greeting a friend. I pulled over. She poked her head in the window.
“Any sign of him?” I asked her.
“Nothing.”
“Okay. Get in. If he is out there, let’s give him something to see.”
I brought her back about twenty minutes later. She jumped out quick, still trying to stuff her breasts back into the halter top as I left rubber pulling away.
At the corner, I passed the Camaro, Flacco behind the wheel. Making sure Ann wouldn’t be spending any time out there alone.
And by the time Flacco came back, I was ready with the pickup.
“Anything?” I asked, as soon as she climbed in.
“No. But he’s there.”
“How do you know?”
“I got the high-sign from one of the girls on the corner. He’s been around tonight. Collecting. I figure I’ve been doing so much business he hasn’t had a chance to move on me yet.”
“We’re going to do one more. You remember?”
“Yes,” she said impatiently. “Black Corvette, yellow Camaro, blue pickup—all done. Next up’s a rusty old Pontiac.”
“Good. Now, don’t be—”
“Just relax, B.B. I’m not getting in any strange cars.”
“And if he does make his move . . .”
“I just turn it over, and watch where he goes, if I can. I don’t try and follow him,” she recited, sighing deeply to show she didn’t need another rehearsal.
“Okay.”
“At least it’s easier to do it in a truck.” She chuckled.
“Ann . . .”
“Just stop it, all right? I’m fine. I know what I’m doing. He’s not going to do anything if I turn over the money.”
“And you think Kruger will really pay off? Tell me what he knows?”
“If you get it done? Sure. That’s his rep. He’s had it a long time. And he wants to keep it.”
I pulled over where she told me. Saw several other cars full of the same cargo. But this was no Lovers’ Lane; it was the checkout line in a sex supermarket, and I wasn’t worried about disturbos interrupting the action. Ann made herself comfortable on the front seat, her head in my lap. From the outside, it would look like the real thing.
“Are you going to do it?” she asked, softly.
“What? This isn’t a—”
“Not this,” she said harshly, giving my cock a squeeze. “Help me get the Ultracept.”
“I told you before. I don’t know if—”
“I don’t have much more time.”
“Then maybe you’d better go ahead without me.”
“Didn’t anything I showed you mean anything?”
“You’ve got me confused with one of the good guys,” I told her.
“No, I don’t. How does a hundred thousand dollars—in cash—sound to you?”
“Like nice words.”
“Not just words.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Never mind. Just take me back and let’s get this part done. Then we’ll . . . then you’ll see.”
I met Gordo where we’d arranged. Flacco and I changed places. I took the passenger seat of the ’Vette, he got behind the wheel of the pickup and moved off. Gordo drove me around to the back of the vacant lot, kept the peek while I pulled on a black hooded sweatshirt. I was already wearing black jersey pants, black running shoes, and black socks. A thin pair of black calfskin gloves covered my hands. I pulled a navy watch cap so low down on my head that only my eyes showed . . . then I slashed some light-eating black grease below them, and pulled the hood up. The Beretta went into my waistband, concealed by the sweatshirt. I fitted a heavy rubber wristband over the black leather slapjack, and I was ready.
Gordo looked me over, nodded approval, and vanished. He’d be close by, in case I had to exit fast.
I’d been over the waste ground a couple of times in daylight, and had a sense of where things were. I found a deep pool of pitch-black near a pile of rubble that was an open invitation to rats, and settled in.
From where I knelt, I could see the old Pontiac pull up. Watched Ann climb in. I knew I’d have some time to wait, so I concentrated on my breathing, letting the ground come up inside of me, settling my heartbeat, trying to become one with the rubble I was lurking in.
By the time I’d achieved that state, I knew we weren’t alone.
It took me a few minutes to focus him out of the shadows. Tall and slender, wearing a denim jacket with some kind of glitter design sewn along the sleeves, light-colored slacks that billowed around the knees, then narrowed to the top of shiny boots that looked like plastic alligator, at least from the thirty yards or so that separated us.
He wasn’t so much lurking as lounging, his stance as lame as his outfit. Whoever schooled him forgot to mention that predators don’t pose. There’s always bigger ones around. Or smarter ones.
He stuck something in his mouth and fired it up. From how long it took him to get it going, I figured it for a blunt. Pathetic little punk. Then I thought about the white knife, and let the ice come in.
All he did for the next fifteen minutes was watch the street, drag on his maryjane stogie, and fidget like a guy who thought he was going to get stood up. He was about as inconspicuous as a macaw on a glacier.
The Pontiac rolled to the curb. Ann got out, taking her time, as if she was scanning the street for new customers. When nothing showed, she stepped into the lot, walked behind an abandoned sofa, pulled the hot pants down to her thighs, and squatted below my sight line.
I couldn’t tell if she was relieving herself, or just making it look real. The watcher thought it was real—he hung back until she straightened up and pulled her pants back on. When he made his move, I made mine, cutting across his path, hanging just over his right shoulder so I’d be ready to follow him as soon as he split.
I didn’t want to get close enough to spook him. Couldn’t hear what either of them said, but I could see him brace her. Saw the white knife that earned him his rep. Watched Ann open her tiny little purse and take something out, hand it to him.
I saw him turn to leave. That should have been it, then—just follow him to his crib and take care of business. But he changed the game when he reached out and grabbed Ann by the arm. I saw the white knife slash, heard her make a grunting sound and go down to one knee. I was already moving by then, heard him say, “Fucking cunt! Don’t ever forget me!” as he backhanded her across the face.
Ann saw me coming, waved her hand frantically. He took it as a “No more!” gesture. I took it that she wanted me to stay with the plan. He made up my mind for me when he wheeled and headed back toward where he’d come from.
As I merged with the shadows, I caught a glimpse of Ann sticking a small packet in her teeth, tearing it open with one hand, then smearing it all over her arm. Alcohol swab? I couldn’t wait to see—the knifeman was moving now. Not exactly running, but making good time. And plenty of noise. Following him was no trick.
Ann’s guess about his hideout was on the money. He made his way through an alley to the side of an abandoned building. The door was barely hanging on the hinges. But when he swung it open, I could see a metal gate inside. His key opened the padlock. He stepped inside, about to vanish.
“Show me your hands, punk. Empty!” I said softly, the Beretta a couple of feet from the back of his head.
He whirled to face me. “I .
. .”
“Now!” I almost whispered, cocking the piece.
His hands came up. Slow and open.
“You made a mistake,” I said, moving toward him, using the cushion of air between us to force him back inside the building. We were in a long, unlit hallway. All I could make out behind him was a set of stairs.
“Look, man. You got the wrong—”
“I don’t think so. They told me, look for a jailhouse turnout who carries a little white knife. And that’s you, right?”
“I’m not no—”
“Yeah, you are. That’s why you hate women so bad. And the white knife, that’s like your trademark, huh?”
“That was your woman? I didn’t know—”
“My woman? I look like a fucking pimp to you, pussy?”
“No, man. I didn’t mean—”
“Where’s your partner?”
“My . . . I don’t have no—”
“I don’t care what you call him, punk. The nigger you’ve been working with.”
“Look, you don’t get—”
“Yeah. I do,” I said, reading his face. “I do now. He’s not your partner, he’s your jockey, right?”
“Cocksucker!” he snarled, dropping his right shoulder to swing. I chopped the Beretta viciously into the exposed left side of his neck. He slumped against the wall, making a mewling sound, left hand hanging loosely at his side. I brought my knee up in a feint. He went for it, tried to cup his balls with his good hand. By then, the slapjack was in my left hand. I crushed his right cheekbone with it.
I pocketed the slapjack, then turned him over. It was hard to do with only one hand, especially with him vomiting, but I managed it without letting go of the Beretta. When I saw there was nothing left to him, I went back to work with the slapjack, elbows and knees, all the while whispering promises about how much worse this could get, until he passed out.
Kruger hadn’t asked for a body. And he hadn’t offered enough to trade for one, either. My job was done.
I started to get up and fade away when I flashed on Ann. In that vacant lot. The white knife . . .
A good needle-artist could change the tattoos on his hands. But no surgeon was going to reattach the first two joints of both his index fingers. I took them with me.
Pain Management Page 21
