by Chuck Hogan
Inside was a glass-barreled needle and a length of rubber tubing, and a glass ampoule of clear fluid. The white manufacturer’s label read, “2 ml Fentanyl Citrate—WARNING: May Be Habit Forming.”
Maven knew fentanyl. A prescription drug for cancer patients or long-term pain management. Like OxyContin but more powerful. Something like eighty times more potent than heroin.
Maven went cool and shaky, as though he’d hit up on the stuff just by holding the kit in his hands. He zipped it shut and set it back on the sill. He stood there a long time, immobilized, until he realized that the longer he waited, the better the chance Ricky would know he’d been found out.
Ricky was tearing open a pack of Sour Patch Kids when Maven returned. Ricky was smiling, but everything had slowed down for Maven. He fixed on Ricky’s froth-white skin and raccoon-mask eyes. The sweat stain around his collar.
“Tyra’s coming on soon,” said Ricky. “You gonna hang out, watch with me?”
Maven couldn’t remember what he said, or how he did it, but he got away soon after that and took the long way home.
BOUNTY
LASH MET TRICKY AT DAWN ON THE BEACH AT COLUMBIA POINT. They crossed Day Boulevard into the park, walking wide around some citizens doing a daybreak boot-camp exercise class, running up bleachers and frog-walking across the field while instructors barked at them.
“Here’s two hundred bones, please kick my ass,” said Trick, the scar on his neck tightening as he chuckled within his hoodie. He had been about Rosey’s age when Lash saved his life on that Mattapan sidewalk. Rosey was still laid out in bed, snoring like a bear when Lash decamped, having stumbled in a few hours earlier. He’d been going with a girl recently. He had a lot of friends.
They crossed Old Colony near the JFK/UMass station, staying wide of the commuters, drifting underneath a bridge.
“Fuckers staying busy,” said Tricky. “I ain’t heard all that much, past couple a weeks, but I don’t hear everything neither.”
Lash said, “Street prices going up.”
“Up, up, up. Cost of doing business. Supply drying up all over. Seller’s market out here.”
No economic system was as pure and elastic as street economy. Tricky showed Lash what he had brought him here for, the tag on the stanchion beneath the bridge, painted red and fresh: BANDITS 25/PER D-O-A.
“A street bounty,” said Tricky. “Twenty-five g’s each. Dead or alive.”
“That’s a lot of bones.”
“Four bandits is six figs. Tol’ you this serious. Somebody gonna get popped.”
Lash foresaw dead-enders banding together, bandits hunting the Bandits, turning Boston into the Wild West. “Who put it out?”
“We in Broadhouse turf, but I’d put it on L or C.” Lockerty or Crassion, the other two Pins. “Probably Lockerty. It’s his house getting hurt the most.”
“You know this?”
“Who knows anything? It’s what I hear.”
“You wouldn’t just be protecting your own boss?”
“My boss of bosses. That’d be like you hustling to protect your top man in D.C. Broads can take care hisself.”
Lash unfolded the ATM surveillance photo, another copy, this one without Maven’s vitals on the back. Showed it to Tricky.
Tricky pointed to Vasco. “That Bob?”
“Who’s Bob?”
“What you call a guy, cut off his arms and legs, throw him in the river.”
Lash nodded. “That’s Bob. Vasco, the Venezuelan. What about the woman?”
“Shit. I remember blondes much better.” An ambulance siren went screaming past them, down the Southeast Expressway. “You got my attention though.”
“It could be coincidence, a blind alley, nothing.”
“Not if you’re showing it to me.” Tricky one-eyed the photo, working through it. “A girl, huh? Part of the outfit? What you think?”
Lash didn’t tell Tricky about the phantom minutes on Vasco’s mobile, and the bum numbers to a temp phone. Or what Schramm said about needing somebody close to get access to Vasco’s phone. The Venezuelan’s credit card indicated a bunch of restaurant charges in the weeks leading up to his death, the amounts indicating dinners for two.
The sun was coming up over the first buildings, oranging the bridge. Lash folded up the photo printout. “Let me hear from you. Anything. I want to be the one to settle this, not leave it to the streets. And, hey—if I hear you cashing in these mo-mos yourself, we don’t have a pleasant relationship no more, you feel me?”
Tricky flat-smiled him from within his heavyweight hoodie cowl. “I’ll take that under consideration.”
PAINTED ROCK
TERMINO MUST HAVE TIPPED ROYCE, BECAUSE ROYCE WAS IN THE kitchen pouring himself a glass of FIJI water when they got back from the surveillance.
Glade started speaking as soon as the door was closed. “So now there’s a fucking price on our heads.”
They had overheard their name during a ghost-phone snoop. Bad guys talking about a bounty on the Sugar Bandits, making plans accordingly.
Royce said, “That scares you.”
Glade rocked back as though Royce had swung a pillow at him. “It doesn’t make me feel good.”
“It’s a mark of honor. A sign of respect.”
Glade smiled sideways, looking at Royce as if he were being put on. “Okay, I gotta call bullshit on that one.”
Termino, laying his keys on the counter, said, “What’d you expect? We’d steal from these kingpins, and they’d like it?”
Royce said, “We stay tight, stay alert—we’re solid. Nothing has changed.”
Suarez said, “Nobody expected us before. We swooped in like ghosts. Now they’re looking for us. Waiting for us—expecting us.”
Maven said, “These guys are hiring cops now. That’s right—real cops. Dirty cops.”
Royce keyed in on that. “More.”
Maven said, “They got on to a BPD cop out of Hyde Park, and his partner.”
“You get names?”
Maven nodded.
“They’re paying protection?”
“For an escort. Sellers and buyers going in fifty-fifty.”
“How much?”
“Five hundy a key.”
Royce nodded, wheels turning. “That’s a good piece. What’s the load?”
“Between eighty and a hundred twenty keys.”
Royce smiled after a moment. “The tougher it gets to move the goods, the more they have to try to shove through at once. The more we take down, the bigger the scores that come to us.”
Glade said, “Did you miss the part about the cops?”
“So what?” said Royce. “As long as it’s not a surprise. We still have all the advantages. Anything we see coming we can neutralize.”
Suarez sat down on one of the padded stools, taking weight off his healing leg. “People coming at us now, instead of the other way around—that changes the game.”
“So we change with it. Come on. You’ve all dealt with insurgents before. This is the fun part. Unless you guys want to tail off, feel you have enough money …”
Maven grinned. Royce challenging them and enticing them at the same time. Playing Glade and Suarez like puppies.
Royce said, “How much you all worth anyway? Maybe I’ll turn you in myself.”
Begrudging smiles. Termino went to get himself a beer.
Royce said, “Step back and see this for what it is. This says we are making a significant impact. It says we are now the Man in town. Not the fuzz. Not the kingpins. Us, right here. And nobody knows anything about us, and nobody’s gonna know anything about us. So long as we stay razor sharp, as always.”
After silent nods, Glade said, “So, what, do we drop these guys? Wait for the next gig?”
“Are you high? Eighty to one hundred twenty keys?”
Termino returned with his beer. “Hell, fifty keys would be a major score.”
“But,” said Glade, “how’re we gonna work around cops?�
��
Royce looked at Termino. A thinking look, not a knowing look. Maven was still trying to read Royce. This turn of events had the side effect of revealing Royce and Termino’s partnership within the crew. Termino was Royce’s eyes and ears with the rest of them—which meant what? Was Royce being careful? Or concerned about something else?
Roycey.
Maven had all but ruled out Clearwater’s characterization. There had to be many Brad Royces out there. Plus, Clearwater’s memory had been a little squishy about other things.
Royce said, “All we’ve been through, and sometimes I think you haven’t learned a goddamn thing. Who’s got the most to lose in this whole thing? Not us, no. Hiding behind a badge—that makes a dirty cop supervulnerable. If we play it right.”
Suarez sat forward. “And how is that?”
Royce started to speak as the door opened. Danielle stepped inside, the five of them clustered around the granite countertop like players over a Stratego board. She wore tight jeans and a long, hippie-type blouse of thin, white linen, cinched up and bow-tied halfway down her waist, making a shelf for her chest.
She said, “You forgot to put up the NO GIRLS ALLOWED sign.”
Royce said, “What is it, darling?”
“I need to borrow Maven.” She turned to Maven. “I need a ride.”
Maven felt the others stir. He had become her unofficial chauffeur, and that had been all right with him in the beginning, when he was getting to know her. Now she expected him to come when she snapped. Now it made him look different in their eyes.
Maven said, “We’re right in the middle of something here.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you want? Me to say ‘please’?”
Maven nodded. “Yeah.”
“Fine. Please.”
Something in her eyes showed him that her “please” was real. She needed him, not just as a driver. He checked with Royce, who gave his permission with a hand wave.
Maven stood and caught the car keys she tossed him.
MAVEN PULLED OUT OF THE ALLEY AT THE WHEEL OF ROYCE’S LATEST ride, a Mercedes-Benz Black Series two-seater. “Why couldn’t your boyfriend drive you?”
“I wanted you.”
“Why is that?”
Her head was turned toward the window, the radio playing so low that only the bass notes were audible. “I have to go back to Gridley, that’s why.”
“Gridley? What in God’s name for?”
“Just drive. Please.”
Another please. He waited for her to say something more, but she just sat there. “Fine,” said Maven, plucking Royce’s sunglasses from the visor, pushing the car into gear, and rolling out toward Storrow Drive.
She was quiet most of the way. Little pieces of the town had changed since his youth, but not so that it mattered. She directed him to a street he had never been down before, a 1980s-era development. It had an Indian name then, one he couldn’t recall now. The sign that had announced it was gone.
“Pull over on the street.”
He set the parking brake outside a house of dark brown wood, set back behind trees, its roof coated with green needles. A curtain flickered in a downstairs window.
“Christ, there they go,” said Danielle, picking up her clutch off the floor. “Freaking out about who’s parked outside their house. So fucking frightened in their small world, God.”
Maven made out silhouettes behind the sheer curtain. People looking out without realizing they themselves could be seen. “Is this your parents’ house?”
Danielle pulled out a small vial and poured a bump of cocaine onto the webbing of her left hand.
Maven said, “Hey—what the fuck do you think you’re—”
“Oh, fucking relax please.”
She upped it, trying to improve her mood. Maven’s dropped halfway between sickened and pissed off. “Where are you getting this shit?”
“What do you care? You don’t want any.”
“I care because I’m in the car with you, driving you around …”
“Oh, grow up. Jesus.”
“You have a problem.”
“No, what I have here is a solution.” She did another bump, delicately, in a practiced way.
“Jesus, Danny.”
She stuffed the vial inside the front left pocket of her jeans. “Just—shut up and come inside with me and be my friend, okay? For fifteen minutes. Okay?”
Maven got out of the Mercedes and followed her down the long driveway to the door. The shadows behind the window didn’t answer the bell until the second ring.
Danielle Vetti’s father was tall but without much bearing, a thin, gray mustache topping his mouth, a long, brown cardigan sloping off his shoulders over corduroy pants and slipper shoes. Danielle’s mother appeared behind him, wearing a heavier sweater, looking stern and concerned. They both had napkins tucked into their collars. The smell of broiled poultry and stewed vegetables passed through the screen.
“You remembered,” said Mr. Vetti.
Danielle nodded. “So can I come in?” Challenging him, as though the answer might be no.
She pulled open the screen door, and Maven followed her inside. She made no introductions, so he mumbled, “Hello,” and the Vettis nodded back with suspicion.
Danielle rounded the corner to a formal dining room. The long table was set for three, a chair at either end, and a special high-backed wheelchair in the middle. Maven remembered the Vetti family at that restaurant so long ago, the day he discovered—as though it were a scandal—that the hottest senior girl in high school had a handicapped sister.
Danielle leaned around the chair, whispering to its occupant, rubbing her sister’s forearm. Maven could not see around the chair back. He was acutely aware of the parents standing near him, ready to leap to intervene.
“I’ve already served the meal,” announced Mrs. Vetti.
Danielle stiffened, then finished what she was saying to her sister, and turned. “Call us down when it’s time for cake.”
She walked to the stairs, leaving Maven to step past her parents and follow her. He passed two school portraits of Danielle’s sister—heavily filtered, her face the center of a cloud, her eyes focused on something way beyond the camera—but none of Danielle.
Upstairs, Danielle entered a room with a stripped-down bed and a bare bureau and sealed boxes. She looked around, then stepped to the window and looked out onto the back slope of a lower section of roof, and the yard below.
“This is the window I used to sneak out of.”
She slid open the closet door, revealing plastic storage tubs, garbage bags full of old clothes, and more boxes. From the top shelf she pulled down an oversize book with a hard, black cardboard cover. She set it on the bed, opened it, and returned to the closet.
A modeling portfolio. Maven was struck by the way she set it out for him, with no explanation, no indication that it might be important to her that he see it.
Full-color headshots and swimsuit shots. Various advertisements, some torn right out of magazines, others bordered with product and model info. A few studio shots featuring different, outdated hairdos, of the kind you might have seen hanging on a wall at Supercuts in the late 1990s. Danielle smiling; Danielle pouting; Danielle tossing back her head in laughter. A jeans ad featuring her twirling a lasso and wearing dusty chaps. A Ralph Lauren–style shot of her playing croquet with a shirtless, unmuscled boy. And an underwear ad, a moody, soft-core Calvin Klein knockoff of Danielle sitting on a closed toilet seat in a scooped bra and lace panties, staring out at him from a decade ago, calling to him to come back in time.
He looked up. She had the vial out of her pocket again. She didn’t want to answer any questions from him, didn’t want to explain herself. Intimacy on her terms alone.
“You know the first time I did coke? Out in the woods during sixth-period study hall, junior year. One of the funnest days in my life. You know who gave it to me? Alex. Your sister.”
“What makes you think I wa
nt to know this?”
She dumped another lump onto her fist and hit up again. “One of the funnest days ever.”
Her mother’s voice called up from downstairs. “Danielle?”
Downstairs Danielle refused a chair, crouching instead at her sister’s side. Her name was Doreen. Her mouth sagged under red-rimmed eyes, her tremulous arms pale and swollen. Her fingernails were long, responsible for the scratches on her neck and face. Her hair was the same shade as Danielle’s, but short, home-cut.
A cake sat before her. One layer, frosted purple. Two candles in the center.
Mrs. Vetti sang “Happy Birthday,” and Mr. Vetti quietly joined in. Danielle just stared at the cake, not opening her mouth, not even faking it.
When they finished the song, Danielle blew out the twin candles for her sister.
Mrs. Vetti lifted two wrapped boxes to the table, and Doreen’s eyes found them immediately. Her downturned lips straightened into something like excitement, her tongue moving within her mouth.
“Here, Dory,” said Danielle, digging into her jeans pocket. For an insane moment, Maven thought she was going to pull out the vial of coke. She drew out a soft blue velvet jewelry pouch. “Open mine first.”
Danielle opened it for her, lifting out a stunning bracelet of platinum hearts spaced with purple amethyst gemstones. She held it out for her to see, then fixed the clasp around her younger sister’s trembling wrist.
“It looks pretty,” said Danielle.
“Pre-tty,” repeated Doreen. Though she seemed more taken with the velvet pouch it had come in.
Mrs. Vetti said, “That is much too fine for her.”
Danielle responded with a long, uncomfortable stare.
Mrs. Vetti pretended not to notice, picking up one of the wrapped presents. “Look, Doreen.” She ripped it open. “A pillow. A new pillow. Hypoallergenic.”
Maven stared at Danielle, wondering what she might do. Danielle was touching the bracelet on her sister’s wrist, petting it with one finger.
Mr. Vetti, oblivious to the gift giving, asked her, “Where are you living now?”
Danielle did not answer. She never even turned to acknowledge the question. She looked at her sister’s face, then hugged her in her seat, pressing her cheek against Doreen’s cheek, whispering, “I love you,” then standing and walking out to the foyer.
