Lone Wolf #3: Boston Avenger

by Barry, Mike

  Sands stood abruptly and walked past the short man at the door into the kitchen, feeling the fear ebbing all the time. These were not men who knew power; they had come into it by accident but they had no follow through. “I’m going to make myself a drink,” he said. “If you want to give me your orders you can have one too. We’ll all have a drink together to show that there are no hard feelings and then you’ll go and I’ll go upstairs and forget that any of this ever happened. You’re obviously beyond your depth here and I don’t blame you for anything.”

  “Listen,” the East European said, with a note of frustration, bringing Sands around and yanking him into position, “I understand what you’re saying. Of course I do. We’ve all got to protect ourselves and nobody’s asking you to come out and admit anything until you have evidence of our own good faith.” He turned to the other man. “Go to the car and get the valise,” he said.

  “I think that’s a very bad idea. I think—”

  “Shut up and get the fucking valise,” the man said. “I’m handling this, so you just take fucking orders and keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  The stocky man seemed to dwindle. His body sagged, his eyes became dull. “All right,” he said. He crossed quickly in front of Sands, went into the hallway and out the door into the night, not closing it. The East European took out his gun giving Sands a thrill of terror before he saw that it was a nervous habit and the man was simply using it to still his hands.

  He looked up at Sands with a curiously open expression and said, “We’re trusting you, you see. We’re not coming in here with guns to threaten you or pistol-whip or hurt your family. You’re in the driver’s seat, we’re the ones asking for a break here.”

  “A quarter of a million dollars?” Sands asked cautiously. “Of what?”

  “Heroin, uncut. You know that.”

  “How do you know it’s a quarter of a million dollars?”

  “We don’t,” the man said. “That’s what we’ve heard, that’s what it’s supposed to be. It sure as hell looks like a quarter of a million dollars. It might be twice as much as that, though. We just couldn’t tell until we start to run it through channels and we can’t run it through channels in our position.”

  “You stole it?” Sands said quietly.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “We didn’t exactly deliver it,” the man said. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m being honest with you and trying to come on straight now, but there are certain things we can’t tell and that are none of your business. The thing to do is to get that fucking thing into channels and that’s where you come in.”

  “That’s where I don’t come in,” Sands said. “It’s illegal merchandise that’s been stolen. That makes it double murder and you must think that I’m a fool. I’m going to have a straight sctoch, no ice, no water. What do you drink?”

  “Just wait,” the East European said. “You wait for the drinks, there’s time for that later.” He looked toward the hallway; there was the click of a door closing and then the stocky man came back grunting, carrying a valise. He put it on the floor, upended, then placed it on a side and looked at the East European questioningly.

  “I still don’t think—”

  “Shut up and open the goddamned thing,” the man said.

  The stocky man fumbled with the clips and swung the top open. And Sands, taking three involuntary steps forward, found himself staring, almost with reverence, at more junk than he had ever seen in his life.

  Raw, uncut heroin, it lay there arranged in neat little packets, glinting at the light. Sands took one more step, then another, and knelt by the suitcase. Almost unconsciously he extended a delicate forefinger, worked it within a bag just to the touching point and then withdrew it. He sniffed carefully, professionally, while the two men watched.

  “I guess it’s genuine,” he said.

  “Of course it’s genuine, goddammit.”

  “There’s no way to be sure unless you ran tests on it though,” Sands said carefully, modulating his voice, keeping all excitement out of it.

  “You don’t have to run tests.”

  “Oh yes you would,” Sands said quietly. “When you’re dealing with something in this quantity of this alleged purity, tests would be absolutely necessary. There’s too much involved.” He paused. “Of course I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said.

  “Look,” the stocky man said, apparently at the end of his patience, “let me slug the guy. Just once; let me hit the son of a bitch and then we’ll get somewhere.”

  The East European made a quick, placative gesture, then turned to Sands. Sands, very carefully had taken a pack of cigarettes out and lit one cautiously, waving the match in a small circle, keeping the gesture as unobtrusive as possible. “My friend is over-anxious,” the East European said. “We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to get this here and taken a hell of a lot of risk and he feels that we just don’t have the time to circle around on this anymore.”

  “So get it out of here,” Sands said, putting the cigarette to his mouth and inhaling delicately. No one could see the shake of his hands, he was sure of that. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”

  “We may have to do that,” the man said, “but you still haven’t answered our question.”

  “What question?”

  “Will you help us put this into the pipeline?”

  “You want me to fence for you,” Sands said. “That’s what it comes down to.”

  “Something like that. Maybe. I don’t know if we’d want to put that word on that.”

  “You know,” Sands said, keeping his motions slow and quiet, sitting on the couch and leaning over to tap the cigarette into an ashtry, “even assuming that I could help you people, which I don’t admit for a second, why should I? What would I get out of it tantamount to the risks?”

  The stocky man said, “This is ridiculous. We’re not getting anywhere with this clown and I think—”

  “Give me a second,” the East European said. His eyes were wide now and extremely alert. He kneeled easily, extended an arm, brought himself to eye-level with Sands. “Of course there are risks,” he said. “With something of this proportion there would have to be risks. But think of the returns.”

  “What returns? There are people who would kill to get that stuff back apparently.”

  “Fifty percent,” the East European said flatly. “Fifty percent and we’ll take your accounting. Or you can give us fifty thousand dollars cash right now and we’re out of it. That’s all we want, fifty thousand dollars in bills and you can take it anywhere you want.”

  “That’s crazy. I’m a professor, not even a professor, an associate. Where would I get that kind of money?”

  “We’re heard around that you have a pretty profitable sideline. That you might have that kind of money.”

  “Well I don’t,” Sands said. “I have about four thousand dollars in savings and a couple of thousand in stock warrants that I can’t even sell and maybe a couple of thousand worth of furnishings. You’re looking at most of what I’ve got.”

  “Are we really?” the man said quietly.

  “I don’t think we can do business,” said Sands. He put out the cigarette with contrived casualness and stood, rearing far above the kneeling man. “There’s nothing to discuss. Even assuming that I was everything you seem to think I am, I don’t have any interest in buying this stuff and I don’t think I want to take the risks. This is no straight deal; you’ve misappropriated that shipment.”

  “All right,” the East European said. He stood, turned to the stocky man. “We tried. Let’s go.”

  The stocky man came over, kicked the valise closed, snapped the clips. “I told you this was a waste of time,” he said. “This is all bullshit.”

  “That may be.”

  “I have one suggestion,” Sands said quietly as the shorter man hoisted the valise. The sight of it going away from him was suddenly intolerable but he he
ld himself in check. Discipline. Everything was discipline. “If you want a suggestion that is. You’re ready to rush right out of here now.”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” the man holding the valise said, “you’re the one who—”

  The East European made that placative gesture again, somewhat more abruptly. He seemed to be increasingly impatient. “Let the man talk,” he said, “and just shut the fuck up now, I mean it.”

  “You can leave it here,” Sands said, “leave it here and I’ll see what I can do with it. Check back in twenty-four hours. I’m not saying for an instant that I can do anything but you could do that.”

  “You’re crazy,” the stocky man said, “you’re out of your fucking mind. We’re supposed to just leave that thing with you. Just walk out and leave it? Why, you’re—”

  “What choice do you have?” Sands said with sudden harshness. “Come on, tell me. You’re the ones who have a problem here, not me and don’t you forget it.”

  He clenched his fist, feeling a dim sensation of power rising within him. These men had the guns, they had walked into his home, they had begun by threatening him but Sands knew, looking at them as clearly as he had ever known anything in his life that he was in command. They were at his mercy. The guns had merely been masks for their condition because the fact was that they were beggars. “You give me twenty-four hours with that valise and I’ll see what I can do,” he said coldly. “I’m making no promises and making no commitments but at least I might be able to use certain contacts to get an evaluation. And not conceding for an instant, for one second, that I’m into the kind of things you think I’m into, I might be able to scout around and find someone who is and who could make arrangements.” He stood, walked briskly toward the hallway, opened the door and motioned. “It’s your decision,” he said. “I don’t want you in my house anymore. You can take the valise and get out or you can leave it here and trust me. Make up your minds now.”

  The stocky man, his face discolored, breathing heavily said, “It’s a lousy deal, Paul. I don’t like any part of it. Let’s get the stuff and go.”

  “Who told you to use my name?” the East European said, “you stupid son of a bitch, keep my name out of it.” He closed the distance between them in three strides and hit the stocky man full in the face, open-handed.

  For an instant, Sands thought that the stocky man was going to pull his gun and that there was going to be, right in his living room, a small massacre. The man jumped, reached inside of his pocket cursed violently. “Don’t do it,” the one named Paul said. His gun suddenly was in his hand. “Don’t even think of it.”

  The stocky man subsided. He seemed to shrink. He shook his head, backed away from Paul, his hands flailing. “All right,” he said, “all right, I think you’re crazy, but not here. Not here.”

  Paul turned to Sands and said, “I don’t like this. I don’t like any part of it.”

  “I don’t see why you should.”

  “But you’re not giving us any choice here really, are you?”

  “The choice is yours,” Sands said. He edged all triumph out of his voice although the temptation was to giggle in a way that he had not for twenty years. If he did so, however, he knew that he would lose the control that he had so delicately asserted. “I mean that.”

  “The whole deal stinks,” Paul said. “On the other hand we’re supposed to trust you, to put this stuff into your hands—”

  “Just for twenty-four hours.”

  “For twenty-four hours, for twenty-four minutes, what’s the difference? We’re supposed to walk out the door here, put the stuff in your hands and trust you. On the other hand, we’re supposed to walk out with it.”

  “If I were in your position,” Sands said, “if I were in your position, I think I’d rather leave it with me. Wouldn’t you? Because if you walk out with it you’re going back where you came from.”

  “We’ve got to go back where we came from anyway,” the stock man said, and then subsided as Paul looked at him. “All right,” he said, moving toward the door to join Sands, but in no aggressive way—it was apparent now that all he wanted to do was to get out—“all right, I don’t care anymore.”

  “You can check back with me tomorrow night,” Sands said with enormous calm. He knew now that control had passed entirely to his hands and his only emotion, strangely, was depression because he had a good idea of what he was taking on and it probably meant no more good for him than it did to this pair. “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Paul looked at him in an almost pleading manner. The man who had, with superb control, wedged his way into the household and shaken Sands so much was gone, he had been replaced by a cautious, tentative, almost desperate low-grade punk who now seemed to be trying to hold on to some piece of the situation. “We’ll trust you,” he said, “we’ve got no choice.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But if you cross us up, you’ll pay for it Sands. Remember, we know exactly who you are, where you live, everything about you. We know stuff about you you don’t know yourself.”

  “All right,” Sands said. “Whatever you say.” Again, he had to resist a patronizing giggle. Fools: all of them were fools. If this was any true representation of the element which was responsible for procurement, Sands thought, he should have gotten into his own supply years ago. Well, no time to think about that now. “I’ll be here,” he said. “Believe me, I’m not going anywhere at all.”

  “You better go somewhere.”

  “I’ll make a few phone calls,” Sands said obligingly. He walked with determination through the hallway, yanked open the outer door. Night spilled into the hallway. He stood into one side of the hallway, feeling an umbrella stand press against his knees, and motioned for the two of them to leave. They did so, Paul first, leaving without a word, then the stocky man with a sidewise scuttle, looking up at Sands with the bright, uneven, demented stare of a sideshow freak being examined.

  “Don’t fuck around with us,” this one said. “I don’t work for him. I don’t work for anyone. You fuck around with this stuff, I’ll tear your balls off.”

  “All right,” Sands said again. A small illumination of pain drifted from his groin upward but he was not going to grip himself instinctively or otherwise. Don’t let them know that they have reached you and, in effect, they haven’t reached you at all. All that they understand, he told himself, is the visible. No taste for abstractions. The stocky man went out into the night and Sands closed the door on them, locked it, put up the chain and then the police lock which he had had installed as a precaution three years ago but which he had never used until this moment.

  He walked back into the living room slowly. The valise, closed down like a sleeping face, confronted him. He wanted to rip it open, tear at the clips and, lifting the lid, confront the treasure within, but he did not. Control: everything had to do with control. He merely stood there, confronting the valise and blanking his mind at the conscious level, while deep within the instincts and subliminal apperceptions ground away, telling him without inquiry what his next move must be.

  Karen crept down the stairs and leaned over the banister. She had put on a pink nightgown and looked young and vulnerable, the fabric twisted around her, the shell of her body hinting at a softness he had never known before. “Phil,” she said, “Phil, what was all that about?”

  He did not answer her. He knelt over the valise instead, looking at it. Inside the music beat at him. In the far background this woman was talking, she was talking away but it meant nothing. It was happening at a level from which he had long since ascended.

  If she did not shut up soon he would throw her out, forcibly if possible. But just for the moment he blocked out everything, hearing the music rush at him, looking at the valise which when opened would confirm nothing more or less than the simple truth: the biggest, the most meaningful score of his life.

  Fallen right into his fucking hands. He didn’t even have to work for it.
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br />   “Come on,” he said to the woman who might have been his wife, “get the fuck out of here.”

  He sounded, he realized, like the stocky man.

  Junk could do that, even to him.

  V

  Wulff slept three hours, because it was either that or go under altogether, got up at three a.m., his anger congealed into a desperate fury. He lay awake in the darkness contemplating whether he should wait until dawn for his strike at Tucci, and then abruptly decided against it. He would go now. He would move in now. Better to move against these people at night, because he could catch them at the low ebb of their purposes. Even the vermin had to sleep; he would take advantage of that.

  He got out of the bed seething, got back into his clothes seething, took two pistols out of supply and moved on. The machine gun was a tempting idea but it would only load him down for a swift attack. Later, later, when he had the enemy massed as he wanted them to be, he could move in with the full clip. Now he would travel light. He went out of the room and down the stairs, past the desk where the clerk lay sprawled in a stupor and outside into the quiet, broken streets of Boston.

  There were several cars on the street which he could have appropriated but even as he started toward one he reversed direction. The hell with it. He was not going to fiddle with ignition systems, bypasses, electrical gimmickry at this point. He did not have the patience, every nerve in him was directed to action. A car turned the corner slowly, engine racing unevenly, the driver apparently lost. Wulff stepped in front of it deliberately, waved his arm. The car bore down on him, accelerating slightly as the driver seemed to balance one thing off against the other, finally slowed and stopped. Hit and run was not this driver’s specialty although anything standing in a city street at this hour probably deserved it. Good, Wulff thought. Good. He gripped the pistol, stepped toward the car.