Kings of Midnight

by Wallace Stroby

  The moon was full and high, a white disc in the clouds. Threshold moment, she thought. Turn around now, go back and get your share of the money, head south. Or see this through, however it ends up.

  She knew what Wayne would tell her. You’ve got the money, Red. That’s what you went into it for. That’s what it’s all about, why you risked your life. Nothing else matters.

  But Taliferro was right. If she left, it would never be over.

  She took out the Glock, eased the slide back, checked the round. The .32 was in her right front jeans pocket. In the left was the extra magazine for the Glock.

  She put the Glock in her jacket pocket, pried loose the plastic cover from the overhead courtesy light, popped out the bulbs. Then she got out of the car, and moved into the shadows.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Benny was shaking. The chill that came up through the tile floor had settled in his muscles and joints. His hands were numb from the flex-cuffs.

  Sal leaned in the doorway, and said, “How long we gonna wait?”

  “A little bit longer,” Taliferro said. He looked at his watch. “Just midnight now, so we’ll give it a little while. Just in case we need to put him on the phone.”

  “Should I get the rest of my stuff?”

  “Might as well.” Sal went out.

  Taliferro looked down at Benny. “You remember this place? You know what it is?”

  “I know.”

  “I shut it down a few years ago. Now it’s like a private club. I use it for shape-ups, keep everybody in line. Everything’s still here, though—jukebox, pool table. I keep the bar stocked. Gives the guys a place to socialize, stay out of trouble. And there’s a bedroom up here if they need one. That’s where your girlfriend is.”

  Benny opened and closed his hands, felt pin and needles in his fingers, the blood starting to flow back into them.

  “Patsy bought this place back in the seventies,” Taliferro said. “It used to be full of wiseguys all the time. All the crews came here to drink, to bullshit. Jimmy the Gent, everybody. Never Joey D, though. He was too good for us, didn’t want to mix with the help, you know? You were around back then, Benny. You remember what it was like.”

  Benny’s mouth was dry. “I remember.”

  “We used to run this city. You wanted to get anything done, especially in Brooklyn or Queens, you came to us. We owned the politicians. The cops, too. You didn’t have to worry about anything. The niggers, the spic gangs, they all respected us, knew who was boss. Nobody fucked with us. It’s not like that anymore, let me tell you. Everything’s gone to hell.”

  “What are you going to do? If she doesn’t call?”

  “You in a rush to find out?”

  Benny didn’t answer.

  “Aren’t many of us old-timers left,” Taliferro said. “You and me, we got that in common, even if you did turn out to be a rat. These young guys, they’re good, but you can’t explain it to them, the way it was. Sal was around then, so he knows. He was just a kid, but he could get things done.”

  Taliferro took out a pack of Marlboros and the silver lighter, lit a cigarette. “If these walls could talk, right?” He blew smoke out. “Some shit took place in here, let me tell you. You got invited up here, there was no telling what was going to happen. Made guys—tough guys—they’d be shaking in their boots, crapping themselves, if they thought Patsy was mad at them. Sometimes we’d be downstairs, drinking, playing the jukebox, and some poor bastard would be up here getting his balls cut off. We never heard a thing.”

  Sal came in, dropped a bundle on the floor, flipped it open with his foot. Green plastic sheeting.

  Sal looked at Benny, then at the tub. “I may need a hand getting him over there.”

  In the doorway, Perry said, “Frankie just called from outside. Says no sign of anybody. No cars driving by, nothing.”

  “Then that’s that,” Taliferro said. He looked at his watch again. “Almost twelve thirty. No reason to keep waiting, I guess.”

  Sal took the straight razor from his pocket, set it on the sink. He opened the toolbox.

  Benny twisted to look behind him. The cracked mirror reflected the contents of the box—a hacksaw with a plastic handle, two butcher knives, garden shears.

  He felt his bladder weaken. A warm wetness crept down his right thigh.

  Taliferro looked at the toolbox, and said, “Haven’t seen those in a while.”

  “All new,” Sal said. “Sharp. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Perry swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m down with this.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Sal said. “I got it. I just need you to help me get him over there, then hold him still while I cut him. Then we just let him drain out.”

  “How long’s that take?”

  Sal shrugged. “Forty-five minutes maybe. An hour, if we want to be sure.”

  Perry looked at Taliferro. “What about the girl?”

  “We’ll hold off a little bit on that,” Taliferro said. “We may need her. Don’t worry. You’ll get your shot before we’re done with her.”

  He turned back to Benny. “Sounds like your partner abandoned you. No need to protect her anymore then, is there? It’s not too late to make this thing easier, you know. For you and the girl both.”

  Benny closed his eyes. He could give them the name she’d used, but knew it wouldn’t change what was going to happen. They wouldn’t let Marta go, no matter what he told them.

  This is what it’s all come to, he thought. After all this time, all his running, this was the way it had ended up, for both of them. Hot tears came to his eyes.

  * * *

  She stood on the flat roof of a truck garage, looked at the building across the street. Two stories, redbrick. The second-floor windows were plywooded over, but edges of light shone around three of them.

  The street entrance was a black door, dark windows on either side. Through the glass, she could see the faint glow of light inside. A torn awning read ORY LOUN E, the letters faded.

  It was a corner building. On the left side, a fire escape ran up to the roof. On the right, an empty lot—overgrown grass, broken cinder blocks, a shopping cart on its side. The rest of the block was dark and silent. Storefronts with metal gates, graffiti scrawled across them. Low-roofed garages and warehouses. A single street lamp lit half the block. Two others were dark, burned out.

  Two vehicles were parked on the side street. A dark blue Ford Explorer, and the Lincoln Town Car she’d seen in Staten Island. There would be no way to tell how many men were inside the building, until it was too late.

  She looked at the boarded-up windows, remembered what Benny had told her. People went in there, but never came out.

  In the distance, the lights of the Verrazano. The moon hung above it, illuminating the clouds.

  They don’t know you’re here, she thought. You could go back to the car, leave now. What Benny would do if the situation were reversed.

  A burning knot seemed to grow in her stomach. She looked at her watch: twelve thirty. He and the girl might be dead inside there already, probably were. If they were ever there in the first place.

  * * *

  Taliferro stood, stretched and yawned, hands in the small of his back. He flicked the cigarette into the sink. It landed hissing.

  Sal was leaning against the wall, arms folded, Perry in the doorway behind him.

  “What’s going on out there?” Taliferro said.

  “Nothing,” Perry said.

  “Okay, tell Frankie to bring the money up. We’ll count it a final time, do the split here. Get it over with.”

  When he left, Taliferro looked at Sal. “You ready for this?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Gonna be a long night.”

  Sal shrugged.

  * * *

  Crissa crossed the street a block away, staying close to the buildings. On the opposite corner, she waited in a doorway, watching.

  Faint light under the awning, someone opening a c
ell phone, a bandage over his eye. Frankie Longo. She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t known anyone was there.

  Careless. She should have known they’d post someone outside. She’d almost blundered into his sightline, raised the alarm before she was ready.

  She waited. He spoke into the phone, then closed it, opened the black door, went inside.

  She counted off three minutes, and when no one came back out, she crossed the street in shadow.

  * * *

  Benny watched as Perry and Longo carried the duffel in between them. They dropped it near his legs.

  “He piss himself?” Longo said.

  “Can you blame him?” Taliferro said.

  “Guess not.”

  “Dominic still downstairs?”

  “Yeah,” Longo said. “He’s keeping an eye on the street.”

  “Good. The money from the bag, that go back in with the rest?”

  “It’s all in there,” Perry said.

  “Let’s count it out one last time,” Taliferro said. “Then divide it up.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Longo said. He knelt, unzipped the duffel.

  “You’ve got the money,” Benny said. “What good is killing us going to do?”

  “This guy never gives up,” Sal said.

  “Don’t do this,” Benny said. “Please don’t.”

  “You had your chance to talk,” Taliferro said. “That time’s over. Don’t beg. Don’t demean yourself. It won’t change anything.”

  “Danny, I’m sorry. The shit I did, that was me. It had nothing to do with Marta.”

  “Bad luck for her then, isn’t it? Getting mixed up with you.”

  “This isn’t right.”

  “‘Right,’” Taliferro said, “has got nothing to do with anything.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  There was a metal trash can near the rear of the building. She dragged it over to the fire escape, overturned it, climbed up. From there, she could reach the bottom rung of the ladder.

  The can started to buckle under her, but she had a good grip now. She stepped off, dragged the last section of fire escape down with her, hinges creaking. Flakes of rust rained down.

  She went up slowly. The second-floor window was boarded. She could hear muffled voices inside, but couldn’t make out the words. She moved on up to the roof.

  The surface here was tar and tin flashing, spotted with pigeon droppings. It creaked under her. In the moonlight, she could see the roof door, the padlock there. She could hear the distant hum of traffic on the Belt Parkway.

  She stepped carefully, testing for weak spots. When she reached the door, she got out the penlight, shone it on the latch. It was an elongated padlock, but an old one. She looked around, saw a discarded bit of flashing a few feet away. She carried it over, took out her pocket knife, and used the tip of the blade to carve a ragged M shape in the thin metal, an inch across.

  She put the penlight away; the moon was bright enough to work by. She folded the metal M over on itself, slid it around the locking bar of the padlock, forced it down into the mechanism. She jiggled it until she felt the metal teeth engage the tumblers. The lock popped open. She took it off the latch, set it down on the roof.

  The door creaked loudly when she tried it. She drew the Glock with her right hand, pulled at the door handle with her left. The hinges were stiff, and she had to jerk the door to get it open. Bits of rotten wood fell away from the jamb. She pointed the Glock in. A short flight of unlit stairs, then an open doorway and a corridor beyond.

  She tried to swallow, couldn’t, her mouth too dry. She started down the steps.

  * * *

  When Longo had all the money laid out on the floor, Taliferro looked at Perry and said, “Go on in. You can pick up your share when you’re done.”

  “Now that’s what I call a good deal,” Perry said. He went out into the hall. Benny closed his eyes.

  Longo was crouched over the money on the floor, counting it again, mouthing silently.

  “One million, one hundred and fifty-nine thousand,” he said when he was done.

  “What’s that work out to per man?”

  “Straight split?” Longo said.

  “Why not?”

  “Shouldn’t you get more, Danny? I mean, you made this whole thing happen.”

  “Nah,” Taliferro said. “I couldn’t have done it without you guys. Five-way split is fair. What’s that, about two-forty each?”

  “Closer to two-thirty. Nowhere near what we were expecting, though.”

  “Still,” Taliferro said. “Not bad for a few days’ work, is it?”

  “Not bad at all,” Longo said.

  * * *

  She moved down the hall. There were two doors open ahead, light spilling onto the floor. She could hear voices. Two men, maybe three, Taliferro one of them.

  Through the second door, she caught a glimpse of tile. A bathroom. At the far end of the corridor, stairs led down. There could be others down there, waiting for her.

  At the first door, she heard scuffling inside, a muted groan. She put gloved fingertips against it, eased it open, more of the room coming into view. A mattress on the floor, a scarred spool table, a floor lamp in one corner. On the table was a box of condoms, a leather slapjack, and a chromed automatic.

  She opened the door wider. Perry had Marta pinned facedown on the mattress, arms bound behind her, knees on the floor. She was fully clothed, but gagged. She was fighting him, trying to throw him off her, but he was laughing. He pushed her face into the sheet, reached around with his other hand, unsnapped her jeans.

  Crissa stepped into the room, tapped the Glock twice against the doorjamb. He froze for a moment, then turned. She aimed the gun at his chest.

  “Hoped I’d see you again,” he said.

  Marta pushed back against him, and he slid into a sitting position on the floor. She twisted away on the mattress, eyes wide with panic. He was still grinning.

  “Stand up,” Crissa said.

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll shoot you where you are.”

  He looked past her, into the hall. “I don’t think so.”

  “You ready to find out?”

  He got to his knees, then stood. “Maybe you don’t realize the situation here.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  Marta rolled off the mattress, scrambled to her feet. Crissa looked at her, then back at Perry. He’d taken a step closer to the table.

  “If you’re going to reach for that weapon,” she said, “go ahead.”

  “I’m not going to do anything. Except wait. Even if you kill me now, you’ll never get out of here alive. You want to shoot me? Go on.”

  He was right. A shot in here would bring the others, and she had no idea how many there were. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Your move,” he said.

  * * *

  Longo was dividing up the money. “I may need to break up some of these packs, to make it even.”

  “Go ahead,” Taliferro said.

  Longo looked at Benny, winked. “See, if you hadn’t been such a greedy prick, you could have had a piece of this.”

  “That’s what I told him,” Taliferro said.

  When Longo had the money in five piles, he stood, looked down at them. “So, that’s what a million dollars looks like.”

  “That’s right,” Sal said, raised a revolver from his side, and shot him in the head.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Crissa jumped at the shot. She twisted to look back into the hallway, and then Perry dove for his gun, took the table over with him. She turned back, and he was moving fast, kicking the table away, rolling clear. He came up on one knee, his gun in a two-handed grip, aimed at her chest. She shot him in the throat.

  Blood sprayed the mattress. He dropped the gun, went over on his side, hands at his neck. Gasping, he tried to roll away, his face contorted. She kicked his gun into a far corner.

  The threat would come from behind
her now. To Marta, she said, “Stay here,” then went into the hallway, the Glock up. Sal Bruno was coming out of the bathroom, snub-nosed revolver raised. No surprise in his eyes, no expression on his face.

  They fired at the same time, the sound of the shots filling the hall. His first bullet splintered the doorjamb by her face. She threw herself back, squeezing the Glock’s trigger again and again, casings flying. His left shoulder jerked as if on a wire, and the next two shots hit his chest, pushed him back.

  Her feet tangled, and she went down, still firing. Her last two shots went high, one into the wall, the other the ceiling. He took three drunken steps back, face still blank, then fell into the open stairwell.

  She rolled onto her knees, then her feet, breathing hard, ears ringing from the shots. How many more of them were up here?

  She swung into the bathroom doorway, gun up, took it all in. Benny bound on the black-and-white tile floor. Taliferro standing over him, holding an automatic to his head. Longo slumped facedown near the duffel bag, blood on the wall above him. Money on the floor. Moonlight coming through a window.

  Benny met her eyes. She saw the plastic sheeting on the floor, the straight razor and toolbox on the sink, the saw and knives.

  Taliferro gripped Benny’s collar, twisted the muzzle of the gun into his temple. His knuckle was white on the trigger. She aimed the Glock at his chest, her hands steady.

  “I knew you’d come back,” Taliferro said. “Knew you wouldn’t leave your partner behind.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it,” she said, and fired twice.

  The first shot drove him back. The second took him high in the left side of the chest, turned him. He hit the sink, knocked over the toolbox, dropped his gun. He reached out at the last moment, caught the edge of the sink to keep from falling.

  He wavered there, looking back at her, and she saw the realization in his eyes. She lowered the Glock. His hand opened slowly, and then there was nothing in his eyes at all. He fell back onto the floor.

  She let out her breath.

  Benny said, “There’s another one downstairs.”