Wally forced herself to keep speaking, even if it meant taking more hits.
“We didn’t come here to rip you off,” she said.
“Bullshit!”
Two more kicks. Wally struggled for breath.
“You’re Afrika, right? I’ve heard about you . . . ”
Another kick to her ribs.
“Everybody heard about Afrika,” one of the other women said.
“But you didn’t hear enough,” said another, “or you’d have stayed yo’ white ass far away from here.”
“I heard about you from Panama. We used to trade with him.”
No kicks that time. Afrika gave Wally a longer look.
“Trade what?”
“Nothing. Phone cards. Just for walkin’ around money. Small-time.”
“Well, that’s too damn bad then, ’cause today you done small-timed yo’ ass into hella pain. We got the Boys comin’ in today, and I know what they gonna do wit you.”
A few of the other girls acknowledged her words with nods, some of them obviously looking forward to witnessing whatever punishment the Get Money Boys would deliver.
“We just came to ask a question. . . . ”
“Well you betta ask now, and I hope it’s a good one,” Afrika said, “’cause you done died for it today, white girl. Busting in on the GMB? You outta yo’ fuckin’ mind. . . . ”
Wally thought now, for the first time, how to ask if the Get Money Boys had stolen the shipment of burner phones, and if they remembered who they’d sold them to. She immediately realized how ridiculous and meaningless that question would sound now. Their actual lives—hers, Jake’s, Ella’s—were on the line.
“Best speak up, girl,” Afrika said. “Ain’t no Panama here, and ’til he come back we make the rules here.”
Did Wally hear that right? Until Panama comes back? What was she talking about? Panama—Special Agent Cornell Brown—was dead, beyond question. Like the three of them would be soon, if Wally couldn’t talk their way out.
“Can we just talk to Panama?” she asked, probing for information that she might be able to use. “He’ll tell you we’re okay. Where is he?”
“Panama got warrants,” Afrika said. “He gone. He got people in Louisiana, so maybe he there. Don’t know, don’t much care. The smoke shop is ours now. Like you is ours.”
Wally’s mind spun as she processed the implications: the gang didn’t know Panama was dead, or that he had been undercover for the ATF, obviously. Which meant that they didn’t know the smoke shop had been under surveillance. Law enforcement had managed to keep all of it under wraps, which could not have been easy, and they’d managed to plant some story about Panama being on the lam somewhere in Bayou country. But why?
She could only think of one answer.
“You need to get out of here now,” Wally said. “We all need to go.”
“Say what? Bitch, you get crazier and crazier.”
“Okay,” Wally said, “then just let me stand up for a minute. I need to show you something. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
Afrika thought about it.
“Please,” Wally added.
“I s’pose you can’t do nothin’ stupider than breakin’ in here in the first place.”
Wally stood up slowly, her body aching from the many kicks and her fall from the wall of crates.
“I need a radio,” she said.
“What the what?” Afrika said.
“Please,” Wally said.
Afrika thought about it, her eyes studying Wally skeptically, but then gave another nod. Wally looked to a shelf nearby, where an old boom box sat. It was an old-school beast of a thing with a manual tuning dial and cassette player. It must have been there for years.
Wally hauled the boom box off the shelf and silently prayed that there were working batteries inside. She hit the power switch, and the radio came to life, blasting classic soul—the Isley Brothers.
It’s your thing, do whatcha wanna do . . .
I can’t tell you . . . who to sock it to.
Wally turned the tuning dial, passing over news channels and rap and several stations with mariachi music until she finally landed on an unused frequency. The radio was nearly silent then, except for a slight hint of static. Wally raised the boom box up high over her head and paced around the storeroom.
Afrika and the other GMBs looked at her like she had lost her mind.
“Crazy white girl . . . ”
Wally kept her focus, and continued moving through the large space. She held the radio up to the wall, the shelf supports, and the old landline phone on the wall—but nothing happened. She paused, reconsidering her strategy. Her eyes pored over the large space, searching.
The GMBs were focused totally on Wally now, leaving Jake and Ella free to pull themselves up off the floor. They stood and watched their friend with baffled expressions on their faces—the two of them obviously had no idea what she was up to either.
Wally looked straight up—a simple aluminum work lamp hung above the central worktable, its thick orange power cord running all the way up to a beam in the ceiling. She set the boom box down for a moment, cleared a small amount of space on the worktable—carefully pushing aside several thousand dollars worth of iPads—and climbed up onto the table herself, the boom box in hand. She raised it up toward the light fixture, and when the radio was within a foot of the lamp its speakers began to emit a loud, high-pitched screech, similar to feedback from a concert sound system.
Wally pulled the boom box away from the lamp, and the noise stopped. She pushed the box back toward the lamp and the screeching began again.
Now Wally looked straight at Afrika Neems, who took a moment to process what was happening. When she finally did, her eyes widened as the revelation sunk in.
“There’s mikes?!” she shouted, incredulous. “This place is hot?”
“This place is hot,” said Wally. “Panama was a cop.”
It was the only explanation she could think of—why law enforcement would go to so much trouble to hide the fact that Panama was involved in the Shelter Island shootout, and that he was with the ATF. The police wanted to keep up surveillance on the smoke shop. It had taken Wally all of two minutes to find one of their radio mikes, but it was likely there were half a dozen more buried in the walls and fixtures of the shop.
“Holy hell,” Afrika said, a look of dread on her face. “We’re outta here. . . . ”
It was a jailbreak, then—without looking back, all the Get Money Bitches made for the exit, not bothering to pocket an iPhone on their way out. The shop was hot, so everything was hot. What they needed to do was put as much distance as they could between themselves and all the stolen merchandise.
Wally, Jake, and Ella were right behind them, and by the time they reached the parking lot, the GMBs had split up, rushing off in ten different directions. Wally looked east and saw that Afrika Neems was about to cross St. Nicholas Avenue, headed as fast as she could in the direction of the park.
“Afrika!” Wally called out, and the girl stopped to turn around and face Wally. “Two weeks ago, a crate of two hundred burner phones were jacked on Frederick Douglass. . . . ”
Wally waited for Afrika to acknowledge the statement, one way or the other, but she remained silent.
“I just need to know where they ended up,” Wally said.
“What’s your name, white princess?”
“Wally Stoneman.”
“He was a tall white man, Wally Stoneman,” Afrika said after taking a moment to make up her mind. “Tall and strong, like a football player. He bought the whole case of burners, all two hundred. Whoever he works for must have lots o’ things goin’ on. . . . ”
“Anything else?”
The young woman took a mo
ment to think.
“He a cracker,” she finally said. “Up from down deep, there. Georgia, Mississippi . . . ”
“Or Alabama maybe?”
Afrika nodded. “Or Alabama, maybe. And that’s all I got.”
Wally thanked her with a wave but wasn’t feeling exactly triumphant. What she’d heard only confirmed what she already knew—for everything she’d put herself and Jake and Ella through, they had no new handle on how to find out exactly what Alabama wanted from her and Tiger.
Wally turned away and rejoined Jake and Ella. They headed south on Douglass, making their way back toward the 125th Street subway station.
“That was cool, Wally,” Ella said. “Where’d you learn that, with the radio?”
“From Nick,” Wally said, referring to her old boyfriend—her first boyfriend, really—a hard-core junkie. “When he got paranoid, he thought the cops were listening in on us wherever we went. He carried a little handheld radio with him, just to do sweeps. Never found a bug.”
“Hey.” A voice from behind them made Wally wait and turn, her defenses up.
Afrika Neems was hurrying to catch up with them.
“Are you gonna see that man again?” she asked, a little breathless. “The cracker?”
“I’m gonna try,” Wally said.
“Then watch your ass,” Afrika warned, looking a little spooked. “He asked me if we could get any punch. . . . ”
“Punch?”
“Some on the street call it that. Or just plastic. A kind of explosive. You can maybe find the real thing, but it can be traced so some fools make it on they own. It’s some serious shit. Five pounds o’ that would take out a whole damn city block. I didn’t have none, but your cracker had money so someone is gonna get it for him.”
“Okay,” Wally didn’t know what this information would mean for her, but it couldn’t be good. “Thanks again.”
Afrika just nodded, then turned on her heels and made her way back north toward St. Nicholas Avenue. Wally, Jake, and Ella continued south on Douglass. Just when they’d reached the corner of 128th and Douglass, two unmarked cop cars sped toward them and squealed to a stop right in front of them. Four very unhappy-looking plainclothes cops stepped out of the cars.
“I think they’re offering us a ride,” Wally said wryly, reacting to the men’s glares.
Jake and Ella laughed without humor. What now?
19.
“A THREE-YEAR OPERATION!” DETECTIVE ATLEY GREER howled. “NYPD, ATF, FBI . . . a joint task force focused on at least four organized-crime groups doing business at the smoke shop. They were just two or three months from making their cases, and you brought it all down in five minutes!”
Wally had never seen Greer like this—all vexed up. She figured the grief must be raining down in buckets from his higher-ups in the precinct. Outwardly, he was his usual self, a reasonably fit guy in his forties who could almost be called handsome, except he always looked like he’d lost his shaving kit and slept in his suit. His eyes, however, were lit up like Christmas right now. Greer was genuinely pissed off. It was almost intimidating.
“The GMBs were going to kill us,” Wally snapped back. “As in kill. Where were your fat-ass surveillance guys while that was going on? Sitting in a dark room with their thumbs up their asses, no doubt. We had to take care of ourselves, and we did.”
Greer opened his mouth to dispute Wally but found no retort. He knew she was right. It took him a moment to compose himself.
“And what the hell were you doing at the smoke shop in the first place?” he said. “That place is a cesspool.”
“I’m not answerable to you for my whereabouts. I have rights.”
“You broke in!”
“Did I? Is someone pressing charges?”
“Okay, fine. If you didn’t break in, then the GMBs are guilty of assault and possibly kidnapping, plus possession of illegal firearms. You want to make good? Then you press charges against the gang chicks . . . ”
“I wish I could help you, but my memory of it all has gotten a little hazy. Probably low blood sugar. I’d make a terrible witness.”
Wally wouldn’t be inclined to snitch on Afrika Neems anyway, but the fact that she’d offered information about Alabama clinched it—Wally would rather be a friend of the GMBs than an enemy, any day.
Greer went quiet for a moment, looking like he was trying to chill himself out.
“You understand, Wallis,” he began again, marginally calmer this time, “that the perception here at the precinct is that I have some amount of influence over your conduct. So when you go off and—”
“I didn’t ask for that,” Wally cut him short. “I didn’t ask for your influence, or your probie foot patrols knocking on my door, or our little heart-to-heart fatherly advice sessions.”
The words had come out sounding more harsh than she had meant, and Wally felt the smallest pang of guilt. However annoying he was at times, he’d proved he was someone she could rely on. Fortunately, Greer seemed to take her rant in stride—twenty years on the NYPD had obviously hardened him to verbal abuse. He leaned back in his chair and waited, allowing Wally a moment to collect herself.
She had considered the possibility of spilling everything to him about Alabama and the other gunman—she obviously needed all the help she could get—but now that she knew they were somehow linked with Tiger, there was no way she could involve any kind of law enforcement. Through one of the Society’s sources, Wally had managed to get a look at Tiger’s criminal file. Included in his sheet was information from Interpol—the international crime fighting organization—about serious charges that would be waiting for him if he ever returned to Russia. But his situation in the United States was even worse.
Tiger had come to America with their father, Alexei Klesko, and the two men had left a swath of destruction and violence across New York—much of which Wally had witnessed firsthand. On Shelter Island, Tiger had redeemed himself in Wally’s eyes, but that meant nothing to the New York State Police, much less the ATF or the FBI. All of them had warrants out for Tiger, which meant that Wally would never be able to involve the authorities in her search without putting her brother in jeopardy. She wondered what Greer would do if he ever came into contact with Tiger, but wouldn’t risk finding out.
“I’ll tell you what else is disappointing . . . ” Greer said.
“Oh yes, please.”
“You seemed like you were off on a new and good track,” he said, “and now you’re palling around again with your old street crew.” He motioned toward one of the interview rooms on the west side of the precinct floor, where Jake and Ella were sitting and waiting their turn to be questioned. They both looked pretty wiped out, probably still feeling the effects of the intense scene with the GMBs.
“You have no idea, Greer,” Wally said with a half laugh. “If you’re so concerned about the state of my mortal soul, you should be glad I’m with them. Jake and Ella are the straightest arrows I know. The dirtiest thing they’re into now is pig shit, and I mean that literally.”
Greer looked dubious but also weary. He sighed deeply.
“Go home, Wallis,” Greer said. “And take your morally pure friends with you.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Wally said, not moving from her seat. “But I was wondering—”
“Whoa, I know that tone of voice,” Greer said, astounded. “You’re going to ask me for some kind of favor, now? Unbelievable.”
“Not at all. I was just wondering if you knew anything about an old friend of mine from school. I knew he was having problems at home—like, bad domestic stuff—but I heard that something big went off at his place today. I’m just wondering if he’s okay.”
Greer gave her a long, hard look. He clearly didn’t believe anything out of her mouth anymore. Justifiably so.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Kyle Townsend,” Wally told him.
Greer typed in the name and Kyle’s address, clicking on a few options before proceeding to read through several documents. After a minute, he turned back to Wally with narrowed eyes.
“It says here that 911 received a call from an anonymous female who reported a case of domestic abuse and possession of drugs and weapons—enough to start an Upper East Side cartel.”
“A concerned citizen, obviously,” Wally said. “What did the police find?”
“Nothing. No Kyle Townsend, no father Townsend. No evidence of domestic abuse. Not one gram of dope, not one weapon or bullet. According to the building staff, father and son had bugged out two days earlier and haven’t been seen since.”
Kyle and his father were gone. Wally hated to hear this—had her 911 call actually made things worse?
Shit.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Wallis?” Greer asked, seeing the look of concern on her face. “If you’re holding something back—”
“Kyle is a friend,” Wally answered, “and I’m definitely worried about him. Are the cops going to do anything else? I really believe Kyle’s in trouble, and his father is the cause of it.”
“We’ll keep the inquiry open, but that’s all we can do at this point. There’s no evidence at all of a crime, unless you can give us something more.”
Wally thought about it. She’d heard Kyle’s story, but she had nothing to back up what he’d told her. Now the two of them were gone, and Wally had no idea where. End of story.
“Shit,” Wally said. “I don’t know anything else, Greer. I wish I did.”
The three of them had just enough energy left to make it back to Wally’s apartment, stopping only to pick up a pizza on the way. They all changed for bed and turned on an episode of The Wire while they ate the pizza. It was a great show, but nothing they saw on the screen was more intense than what they had lived through at the 131st Street Smoke Shop.
Tiger Page 14
