“Naturally.” Mac waved the waitress over and waited while she poured him another cup of coffee. When she was gone, he leaned across the table. “What’s in this for us? If we decide to go along?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
The figure stunned Mac a little. He sat back. Shit. With that much cash, he could pay off every fucking I.O.U. he had, and still have plenty left. Enough for a car. A color TV. Maybe even enough to get out of this city. Go to L.A. Or Vegas. He glanced toward the magazine rack again. Johnny would love to get out of New York. “And then what happens?” he asked Hagen almost absently, still lost in thought over what they could do with that much money.
“You and Griffith could do whatever you like.”
He smiled bitterly. “Within reason, you mean?”
Hagen shrugged. “Well, of course, we would still have, let’s say, an option on your services. But at least Tedesco wouldn’t be giving all the orders.” The man smiled. “You could freelance. Does that sound good?”
“We’ll think it over.”
“Fair enough.” Hagen stood. “But don’t take too long, McCarthy. The bandwagon is rolling, and you’re either on or off. I’ll be in touch.” He turned and walked out, both apes at his heels.
Johnny came back and slid into the booth next to Mac. “Everything okay?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, fine, kiddo,” he said absently.
“Who was that guy?”
“Hagen.” He looked at Johnny. “He wants us to do a job.” He smiled humorlessly. “He wants us to ice Tedesco.”
Johnny’s eyes gleamed for just a moment behind the glasses, then he lowered his gaze. “Good,” was all he said.
“I don’t know what it might mean in the long run. But at least we’ll get our hands on some cash. A lot of cash.”
“Enough for a car?”
“Sure. Yeah, we’ll get a car this time. I promise.”
“Okay.” Johnny was quiet for a moment, then he looked up and smiled. “Think you can make it home, old man?”
Mac shoved him out of the booth. “Fuck off, punk,” he said cheerfully. Zipping the jogging jacket again, he followed Johnny out of the drugstore.
Chapter 23
Johnny woke abruptly, sitting straight up in the seat. He usually woke that way, as if something had startled him. He groped for his glasses. “Where are we?” he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Just coming into Frisco,” Mac replied, rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. He was tired after the trip from Vegas. Not for the first time, he wished that Johnny had been able to get a license so that he could share the driving. But although he’d passed the written tests with perfect scores in New York, Chicago, Vegas, and Los Angeles, he just couldn’t hack the behind-the-wheel part of the test. Not that he couldn’t drive—he could, as well as anybody. It was just that the pressure of having to perform with a complete stranger sitting next to him, watching and evaluating his every move, wiped him out whenever he tried. The first couple of times it happened, the kid nearly cried. Finally, he just gave up, and never mentioned driving again.
Several times over the last couple of years, Mac had been sorely tempted to just sell the car. The cash would have come in very handy on more than one occasion. But Johnny was so crazy about it. Spent hours polishing it whenever he could. He really loved the blue BMW, so Mac was stuck with it. He sighed. “Hey, guy, what was the name of the motel we stayed at the last time we were here?”
Johnny frowned thoughtfully. “Something stupid . . . Welcome Inn, that’s it.”
“Yeah, right. Was it cheap?”
Two blue eyes peered at him. “Of course it was cheap,” Johnny said drily. “Didn’t I just say we stayed there?”
Mac shot him a glance. “Don’t try to be funny so fucking early, willya?”
Johnny snickered. “Sorry.”
They found the Welcome Inn and got a room. Johnny, as usual, was hungry and wanted breakfast, but Mac just wanted to sleep. He peeled off his clothes and crawled into one of the beds, barely aware of Johnny’s departure.
It was early afternoon before Mac woke, feeling groggy and joint-stiff from being in the car so long. He staggered into the bathroom and got under a hot shower. When he’d finished that, and shaved and dressed, he felt halfway human again. Shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, he stepped out onto the motel balcony.
Johnny was in the parking lot below, his shirt off, carefully buffing the car. He wasn’t alone, however. A young man in tight swimming trunks had evidently wandered over from the pool, and they were talking as Johnny worked. Mac stood watching for a moment. It was obvious to him that the conversation—probably about the car—was of less interest to the young man than was Johnny himself. He could scarcely take his eyes off Johnny’s bare torso and sunlit golden hair. The kid was oblivious to the attention as he enthusiastically pointed out the advantages of his car.
Mac frowned and leaned over the balcony rail. “Hi,” he said.
Johnny looked up, shading his eyes against the sun. “Hi, yourself,” he replied, grinning.
The young man looked up as well, and it was his turn to frown when he saw Mac staring at him. “Friend of yours?” he asked Johnny.
“Yeah,” Johnny said cheerfully.
Mac just kept his icy gaze on the intruder, until he shrugged. “I gotta get my laps done,” he muttered.
“Fucking faggot,” Mac mumbled, watching him go.
“What’d you say?” Johnny asked.
He looked down at him and grinned. “I said you’re gonna rub the frigging paint off that damned thing one of these days.”
“You think so?” Johnny gave one more swipe at the hood. “Okay, I’m done anyway.”
“Look, I have to meet a guy in Golden Gate Park later. Want to get something to eat and then go on over? We could throw the frisbee around for a while.”
Johnny reacted with his usual enthusiasm, grabbing his shirt and pulling it on hurriedly. “That sounds great.”
Mac walked down the steps. “Who was that guy, anyway?”
Johnny paused by the car door, looking toward the pool vaguely. “Oh, I don’t know. Rick or Rich. Something like that. He was asking me questions about the car. Said he thought it was very nice.”
“I’m sure,” Mac muttered, getting behind the wheel.
“Huh?”
Mac glanced at him. “Be careful who you talk to, willya?”
“I am.” Johnny looked dismayed. “I wouldn’t ever say anything about . . . anything I shouldn’t, Mac.”
Mac patted his knee. “I know that, kiddo. It’s just . . . well, never mind. What do we want for lunch?”
“Pizza?” Johnny suggested.
Mac groaned. “Only you could be three blocks from Fisherman’s Wharf and want pizza. You’re hopeless.”
He started looking for a pizza place.
The park was crowded, but they managed to find a patch of unoccupied grass, and tossed the bright orange frisbee back and forth for nearly an hour. Finally, begrudgingly, Mac glanced at his watch. “I gotta meet that guy, babe. See you at the car in a little while, okay?”
Johnny jumped into the air to catch Mac’s final toss of the frisbee. “Yeah, sure.”
Mac waved a half-hearted farewell and started across the park.
The man in the brown suit was waiting when Mac arrived. He eyed Mac’s T-shirt and blue jeans with some surprise. “You McCarthy?”
Mac lit a cigarette, coughed, then nodded. “Yep.”
The man handed him a large envelope. “A picture and all the particulars are inside.” He studied Mac again and frowned. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Papagallos is no fool.”
“Neither are we,” Mac said coldly. He hefted the envelope. “The money is in here, too, right?”
“Yeah. Just like you said.”
“Fine. That’s it, then.” He turned to walk away.
“Hey!”
“What?”
&nbs
p; “Aren’t you going to tell me about how you’re planning to do this? I just gave you a lot of money. I know you come highly recommended, but—”
Mac stared at the man. “What we do, and how we do it, is our business.” He nodded sharply and walked across the grass, back to where the car was parked.
Johnny was sitting on the front bumper, idly spinning the frisbee between his hands as he watched a softball game. He turned and smiled as Mac sat down next to him. “All done?”
“Yeah.” Mac lit a cigarette and they settled back to watch the rest of the game.
They went down to Fisherman’s Wharf for dinner, and then back to the Welcome Inn. Mac spread the material on Papagallos out onto the bed and began to figure the angles of the job. “I have a headache,” Johnny complained.
Mac reached for the aspirin bottle and tossed it to him without looking up. Johnny dropped four of the pills into a can of Coke and stretched out to watch Beau Geste on television.
“I’m gonna need two days, I think,” Mac said. “The hit comes down on Sunday.”
“Okay,” Johnny replied, his eyes glued to the screen.
Mac folded all the papers again, and shoved them back into the envelope. He stretched out, propping his head against the wall, and watched the movie.
Mac woke up first on Sunday morning. He showered and shaved and dressed quietly, making a cup of instant coffee out of tap water. He sipped the disgusting brew as he moved around the room in the early morning half-light. When he’d tucked his shirt in and zipped his jeans, and pulled on his cowboy boots, he walked over and jerked the blanket off Johnny’s bed. “Wake up,” he said.
Johnny sat up quickly. “Huh?”
“Time to go to work.”
“Oh.” Johnny swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. “I forgot.” He stretched. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Papagallos.”
“Oh, yeah.” He got up and walked into the bathroom, emerging fifteen minutes later, toweling his hair dry.
Mac shoved a can of Coke into his hand. “You awake?”
Johnny took a long gulp of the soda, then nodded. “Yeah.” He dressed quickly.
“You want breakfast?”
“Huh-uh.” He pulled the holster on, settling its familiar weight against his body. “I saw a good movie last night.”
“Yeah?” Mac shoved the omnipresent .45 into his belt.
“Yeah. It was all about this cowboy that was maybe a ghost and maybe not. He came riding into this town and he painted it all red and got revenge on the people who killed him, sort of.”
“Sounds good.” Mac was used to Johnny’s rather unique synopses of the movies he saw. He tried to remember what he’d done the night before. He could recall the card game. Then drinking at some dive. A broad. It all added up to nothing. So what else was new? “Let’s go,” he said shortly.
They never talked much on the way to a job. Johnny propped his knees against the dashboard and whistled softly to himself. Mac pulled into the alley behind the apartment building. “Be careful,” he said ritualistically.
Johnny nodded and got out of the car. Mac watched him go, watched as he worked on the door; then, as the slender figure slipped inside, Mac lit a cigarette and bent over the steering wheel to wait.
BOOK II
Chapter 1
His Christian wife refused to get up early on Sunday mornings in order to make his breakfast. Since it was the one concession to her faith that she held onto with any degree of seriousness, Simon Hirsch did not argue the matter. As the son of a rabbi, he felt obligated to indulge such religious fervor.
He stopped at the Dunkin’ Donut shop on his way over to the stakeout and bought three glazed and a cup of coffee, black. The girl behind the counter was painfully ugly, with a voice like sandpaper and a grating, loud personality. She had only one saving grace, that being the fact that she dearly loved cops, so he flirted with her as she got his order together. He even let his denim jacket flop open, so she could see his holster. Why not. It was Sunday; give the broad a thrill. Cops, after all, had to take their friends where they could find them.
It was nearly twenty after eight by the time he reached the stakeout. He parked just behind the innocuous brown sedan and got out, bringing the doughnut bag. Delaney, red-eyed and bewhiskered, greeted him with a yawn. “You’re late.”
Simon leaned against the car. “Yeah? Anything happen?”
“Sure,” Delaney said, taking the doughnut Simon offered. “Papagallos peed. Took a shower. Gargled.” The last word was muffled around a bite of pastry.
“Gee, I’m sorry I missed all that. How’s Mike sound?”
Delaney snorted. “How does Mike always sound before his morning coffee?”
“Mean?”
“You got it.”
Simon grinned. “Poor Papagallos. The man may be a no-good rotten bastard, but what’s he ever done to deserve Mike first thing in the morning?”
Delaney wiped crumbs from his face and started the car. “It’s all yours, Hirsch.”
Simon stepped back. “Thanks for nothing,” he muttered. He walked back to his own car and got behind the wheel again, switching on his receiver with one hand as he snapped the plastic lid off the coffee cup with the other. Every noise made in the apartment nearly three blocks away came to him clearly.
The first voice he heard was not that of Papagallos, but of his own partner, one Wild Mike Conroy. “Coffee’s ready, Mr. Papagallos. You want some?”
“No, but help yourself,” came the reply from the gravel-voiced racketeer. “Me, I’m gonna wait until my guest arrives, and we’ll have breakfast together.”
There was silence then, except for the sound of someone turning the pages of a newspaper, and the soft clink of a spoon against a cup. Simon smiled a little, imagining the almost orgasmic expression that would cross Mike’s face as he finally got his first gulp of coffee. The hyper redhead was worthless until that morning fix.
“When she gets here,” Papagallos said, “you make yourself scarce.”
“Yes, sir.”
The servile tone of Conroy’s voice was so totally out of character that it brought a soft chuckle from Simon. The guy shoulda been a goddamned actor, he thought admiringly. Over the past month the wily undercover cop had insinuated himself so well into the Papagallos organization that odds were being given around the squad room of just how long it would be before the aging gangster gifted Michael Francis Conroy with control of his empire.
Simon wasn’t betting, holding out, insisting that the old fart would probably adopt Conroy inside of another month. Wild Mike thought that sounded pretty damned good. He’d always wanted to be an heir, and the only thing his own father had left him were ten younger siblings to support and a sizable bar tab.
Simon finished the coffee and crumpled the cup. He really hated this part of the job. The waiting. The subtle feeling of helplessness. It was much better when the situation was reversed. He liked being on the inside. Working undercover, the edge of excitement kept him on his toes every minute. It was partly fear, of course, never knowing exactly what was going down from one minute to the next. The fear, however, was balanced by the security of knowing that Mike was someplace close, waiting to back him up.
Mike, he knew, was feeling the same way now. It was amazing and a little scary the way they balanced one another so perfectly.
The odd couple, as they were called around the squad room. The tough Irish street kid and the Jew from Boston.
Simon rolled down the car window, letting the fresh air from last night’s rain blow gently against his face. Papagallos must be expecting his newest broad. Idly, he thumbed through the pages of his notebook. Karen Hope, that was her name. A looker, too, from what Mike had said. Well, that figured. Lookers always went for guys with money.
Of course, Kimberly was a looker. Blonde. Regal. The original ice princess. But that wasn’t a very good example, because when they’d gotten married, she’d figured that she
was hooking up with the future partner in some big deal Boston law firm. It had never occurred to her that she would end up married to a cop and living in a tract house in San Francisco. Hell, she could have married a WASP, if that was the kind of life she’d wanted.
Simon frowned a little, scratching at an earlobe.
The fight last night still rankled. It was so absurd. He didn’t even give a damn about the anniversary party, but suddenly the celebration of their fifteen years of wedded bliss seemed to have assumed painful importance to Kimberly. He’d given her carte blanche to do whatever the hell she wanted. Except for one thing.
Kimberly was flatly refusing to invite Mike and his wife.
“I will not have that drunken Irishman ruin another party,” she said, sounding regal. “Remember New Year’s Eve?”
He remembered. The memory brought a faint smile to his lips. Wild Mike had been in top form that night. It wasn’t even as if the vase he broke was an antique or anything. It was just a vase. And Mike had paid for it, a fact that didn’t seem to mollify Kimberly at all.
When the fight ended, long after midnight, the issue wasn’t really resolved. She just kept insisting that Mike wasn’t going to be invited, and he simply said that, in that case, she shouldn’t expect him to show up either. Hell.
Simon stopped thinking about it, focusing his full attention on what was happening in the apartment. It was a little after nine when he heard the knock at the door. “Aha,” Papagallos said, sounding pleased. “She’s a little early. Couldn’t wait, I guess.”
“I guess,” Mike agreed.
Simon could hear the sound of footsteps crossing the tiled foyer and of the door opening. The muffled crack of the silenced gunshot seemed to roar through the car, startling Simon so that his head jerked around. A muscle pulled in his neck. “What the shit,” he mumbled. A second shot followed almost immediately. Before its echo died completely, he had the car started. He turned the volume on the receiver all the way up. The door to the apartment closed softly, but he heard it. “Mike?” he said aloud.
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