Black Water Transit

by Carsten Stroud

  When they got outside, the heat was flat and strong on their faces. Creek was silent until they got to the valet stand and he handed the muscle-bound kid his ticket.

  “The racing-green Corvette, sir. I hear screaming rubber, I will snap your collarbone like the celery stick in a Bloody Mary.”

  The kid grinned at him, jogged off. Creek scanned the parking lot, turned to Jack, shading his eyes in the hard white light.

  “Where’s your little torpedo of screaming doom?”

  “In my pants. Where it belongs. But thanks for asking.”

  “Very amusing. Where is it?”

  He was talking about Jack’s 1967 Shelby Cobra, a jet-black roadster with a 427 mill capable of speeds in excess of all reason. The Cobra was one of Jack’s three major vices, along with too much wine and too much work.

  “Being detailed. At Frank’s. I’ll go pick it up today.”

  “How?”

  “Cab. What’s this? A sudden attack of courtesy?”

  “Let me get it for you. I’m going that way anyway.”

  “Don’t be considerate. It throws me off balance.”

  “I am always considerate. It’s part of whom I am.”

  “Who.”

  “Who?”

  “Not ‘whom.’ Who.”

  “As in ‘whom’s on first’? Okay, get your own damn car. Now, tell Uncle Raleigh. What did you think of them?”

  “Glazer? There’s a man who likes to talk.”

  “Whom likes to talk.”

  “Don’t start. Did you notice they all looked like seals?”

  Creek grinned. “Yeah. Now that you mention it. But the deal?”

  “I like it. I told everybody we’d be reworking the fund. Now we are. It’ll keep the Teamsters out at any rate.”

  “What about Dave at the bank? He’s not going to be happy, you taking the pension fund away from Chase.”

  “Chase will still have the payroll operations. All Glazer’s people are going to do is channel the investment strategy. That won’t hurt Dave Fontenot. The market’s going bats. Galitzine Sheng and Munro are right in the middle of it. They’ve been around for years.”

  “They’re not going to be much fun to work with.”

  “That’s not likely to bother you much, Creek. You haven’t pulled a good day’s duty since the Reagan administration.”

  “Once Ronnie was in, I figured my work here was done. Answer me one question?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You don’t really like letting go of it, do you?”

  “I’m not. I never ran the fund. That was the problem.”

  “I mean the company itself. I watched you in there. You don’t like anybody helping you out. Not even me. Black Water Transit is the only thing you’ve ever done. It’s all you have. No offense, but your personal life sucks canal water. Streak’s all you had, and look—”

  “My son’s name is Danny. Not Streak. Let’s stay off that topic, okay? We’re never gonna agree. We needed to work the pension fund better. Change is good, Creek. Change is good.”

  “Leave my underwear out of this. You were drifting back there. Where’d you go?”

  Jack looked out to the parking lot.

  “Soc Trang.”

  “Oh, jeez. Here we go. Down Memory Lane in my Cobra gunship. What did you do in Vietnam, Grandpop? Well, my boy, we lit up a boxcar full of dinks and we danced the Watusi on a mountain of blackened skulls. Care for a dried gook’s ear, little fellow? They’re just like Pringles, only crunchier.”

  “You’re a sick bastard, Creek. Sometimes I miss the war.”

  “Mainly because you and me, we didn’t get all shot to shit.”

  “Maybe. But it was something to remember. It held your attention. I almost fell asleep in there. Most of the time, I feel like I’m on Thorazine. I was wide awake and inside every minute of that war. A man needs to feel his life.”

  “Some men, Jackson. Shallow little men, mutts with no inner resources. It takes your man of character to do sweet dick every day and still have a rich inner life. That’s why you have to work. Jeez, you’re a wop. What’s the phrase? Il duce far niente?”

  “You mean qui dolce far niente. How sweet to do nothing.”

  “What did I say?”

  “Basically you said, ‘The leader does dick.’ ”

  “Exactly my point!”

  “I’ll find something to do. Maybe I’ll breed horses.”

  “Personally? This I got to watch.”

  “I like horses.”

  “Way too much. I can see that from here. Why not golf?”

  “I’d rather stick hot needles in my eyes. Golf is a cult, like the Shriners, only the hats are sillier.”

  Creek’s attention was elsewhere, out in the parking lot.

  “Okay, now who’s this mook in a suit coming up on us here?”

  A mid-fifties-looking man had just gotten out of a dark-blue Mercedes 600 and was walking toward them, looking right at them, a big man shaped like a wheat barn, with wide sloping shoulders and a battered, rocky-looking face, his white hair shaved close to his skull. He was very well turned out in a lightweight navy suit, a pale-blue shirt open at the neck. When he got closer he nodded and smiled.

  “Mr. Vermillion? Mr. Johnson?”

  “Yes?” said Jack. Creek said nothing.

  He reached them, nodded at Creek, and looked back at Jack.

  “My name is Pike, Mr. Vermillion. Earl Pike. Have you got a minute?”

  Jack assessed him. The guy looked … military, somehow. His skin was seamed and darkly tanned, as if he’d spent a lot of time in the Southwest. Age maybe fifty-five, maybe older. His carriage was very stiff. Jack could see him in full dress blues. Or maybe he just had a back problem. He could feel Creek peeling off.

  “Jackson, my lad, I’ll leave you with this gentleman. Mr. Pike, you have a good one.”

  Jack smiled at Creek, nodded. Creek stepped out into the parking lot just as his dark-green Corvette appeared. He overtipped the valet and climbed in, inclining his head to them both as he accelerated away. The Corvette throbbed and burbled and then they could hear the music playing, zydeco, Creek’s favorite.

  Earl Pike waited in silence until Creek reached the highway.

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time to talk a little business?”

  He was smiling and looking as friendly as he could manage, but it didn’t fit him. His eyes were off the power grid, a pair of dead sockets, and if he smiled much, it hadn’t left any marks on his face. There was a jagged burn scar above the man’s right eye. Jack figured he’d had a lot of surgery to cover it. He needed some more.

  Pike offered Jack a hand and gave him a grip like getting your fingers caught in a car door. As he shook it, Jack saw that Pike’s knuckles were bandaged. Pike looked down at his hand, smiled.

  “Flat tire. On the Taconic. Had to change it myself, and the wrench slipped. Ripped up my knuckles pretty good. Sorry.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Pike?”

  “You want to go in, get a drink?”

  “No, I’m in a rush, actually. Sorry …”

  “I’ll take just a minute. I’m sorry to come in unexpectedly, but I’ve got to drive back down to New York this evening and this was the only chance I had to talk to you. I hate to impose. It’s kind of urgent. Dave Fontenot suggested I meet you here. He said your meeting should be about over. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Dave Fontenot? At Chase?”

  “Yes. We had a foursome at Meadow Mills last week and I mentioned I needed to talk to someone in freight. I need some advice, actually. About a shipment. It’s unusual. He said you were the best.”

  Dave Fontenot was the Chase Bank VP who handled all of Black Water Transit Systems’ accounts. This wasn’t the first time he’d sent business Jack’s way. Personal connections made up most of the business world in Albany. Okay, Jack figured. I can see this.

  “What can we do for you today, Mr. Pike?”

  A thin
smile from Earl.

  “You ship, right?”

  “That’s what it says on the door.”

  “Containers? Sealed?”

  “Yep, if you want. We have a bonded warehouse, we’ll ship anywhere. Ground. Air. Down the Hudson. Up the Erie. The Saint Lawrence. I can have a rate card faxed—”

  Earl Pike was nodding through this, something else showing in his face. Jack saw a caution light there and his silent alarm went off. Pike was looking over his shoulder. Glazer and Bern and Kuhlman came out into the parking lot, nodded at Jack, and moved away toward a large gray Fugazy limo. When they were far enough away Pike turned back to Jack and spoke softly.

  “Dave says you were a marine. That right?”

  “I was.”

  “See the show?”

  “Some. Flew a Cobra gunship out of Soc Trang. You?”

  “A little. I Corps. Up and down Thunder Road.”

  “That would count.”

  “Mind my asking, you own firearms?”

  “A few. Nothing nuclear.”

  Earl Pike nodded and moved a little closer into Jack’s space. Jack could smell the man’s aftershave, something with lime in it. His voice was deep and he spoke in a hoarse whisper, which forced you to listen harder. It was an old DI trick Jack knew from Parris Island. But he had Jack’s attention.

  “You follow the firearms issues?”

  “Not much.”

  “You’ve heard of the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act of 1994?”

  “No. Gun politics aren’t really my thing.”

  “It’s a ban on all sorts of weapons, semiauto assault weapons, big magazines, that kind of thing.”

  “Well, sounds good to me. We got punk-ass kids in high school airing out the student body all over the country. We need more guns like we need more skin diseases. What’s the problem?”

  “We can disagree about that later. I have a … collection. Very unique. Irreplaceable pieces. Pieces of immense historical value. I can give you a complete description. You’d see what I mean. These are museum-quality weapons, weapons that helped make this country. This omnibus bill, it negated the grandfather clause and collector status. My collection was always intended for my children, had they lived, or perhaps for a museum. Now my children are gone, and this law makes it very difficult to manage the collection. So I’m thinking perhaps it’s time to let it go.”

  “Your children are dead? I’m sorry. I really am.”

  Pike’s face went through an alteration, and Jack saw a flash of grief, then something else. Ferocity. Rage. A murderous rage. Just beneath the man’s skin. A death mask. Then it was gone.

  “It was a long time ago. A fire. About the collection …”

  “Why not donate it to a museum?”

  Pike shook his head and gave Jack a thin smile.

  “I’m a little short on altruism right now.”

  “You want to sell it, then?”

  “Yes. There are good markets. And, to be frank, I resent the interference. I’m a good citizen, solid. I should have the freedom that I … that we fought for. But we have these … urban liberals. If I’m not careful, the ATF will just seize the collection.”

  “They’d compensate you.”

  Earl made a gesture with his huge right hand, moved a lot of air with it, moved it too close to Jack’s face. Jack held his temper.

  “Pennies. An insult. I’ve been contacted by a collector in Mexico, a retired Mexican cavalry officer. An old friend of the family. We’ve talked it over, and I know he’d value it, he’d ensure its intact survival for another hundred years. The problem is getting the collection to the buyer. It’s rather large and needs to be shipped with care, by a professional.”

  “Large shipments of weapons must be reported to the ATF, even in-state. I keep them informed because they demand it. You do it or I do it. I won’t ship weapons across the street without doing the paperwork. Mr. Pike, I sympathize. I don’t like the nanny state any better than you do. But the law is clear. I break it, I get caught, I lose my license, lose my business, maybe go to jail. Can’t do it. Sorry.”

  Pike didn’t seem fazed.

  “I’ve done some research on the issue. Collections of historical pieces do not need to be completely itemized for the ATF. You can declare key elements of the collection and refer to other items as attachments and accessories. As long as the basic declaration is accurate in principle, the ATF will never question it. They’re understaffed, anyway—they have less than two thousand agents nationwide, and few of them are field agents. Most of those have been directed to monitor gun shows and do random inspections on licensed dealers. The ATF management is busy supporting class-action suits against the gun manufacturers or helping to rape the cigarette companies. You could very accurately say that the attention of the ATF is likely to be elsewhere. And I am prepared to pay whatever is required to move this collection safely. Whatever.”

  Jack took a long calm look at the man’s face. Pike did not flinch or break eye contact.

  “What are we talking about here, Mr. Pike?”

  “Business. Simply business. You have a service for which I am prepared to pay well. I would expect to pay an administrative fee. Well beyond the standard rates. You understand?”

  Jack looked away from the man, scanned the parking lot. They were in the open, under a broad, arched wooden shelter in front of the Frontenac. The parking lot was full of cars. It was a bright clear day. Any one of those cars could be crammed with federal agents with minicams, directional mikes. Mr. Pike here could have more wiring in his underbra than Diane Sawyer. Jack felt his heartbeat increasing. This might be a federal sting. Or not.

  “Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else?”

  Earl’s face grew redder, and his eyebrows knotted across his forehead. He squinted out at the sun-bleached lot.

  “Yes. Perhaps we should.”

  GREENWICH VILLAGE

  NEW YORK CITY

  1710 HOURS

  The place on Gansevoort was lit like an Anne Rice novel, but smelled worse. It was a little after five, but it was already packed. By the time Casey and Levon had extracted Tony LoGascio from the place, Two-Pack was bailing out of the neighborhood at a dead run.

  They tossed Tony LoGascio into the back of the unit and threw him a blanket, since all he was wearing was a kind of black latex jockstrap and a pair of floppy rubber leggings tied to a belt around his waist. His torso was thin but well muscled, his skin milky white and covered with spidery veins. His hair was long and fine as black silk. He came across as a homeless ferret with a skin disorder.

  “So what’s this bullshit about a sodomy charge?” he says, taking a major attitude right off the mark.

  “In a minute,” says Casey. “While we’re here, what can you tell us about a snatch, happened up in Harlem today?”

  He made the kind of face you make when you’re giving something very serious and intense thought. He shook his head, eyes very wide. The Wagner Houses thing? Oh goodness. He heard all about it on the radio. Terrible thing. Times we live in. Man, I really wish I could help, Officers. I mean, I feel for the little kid, you know?

  Casey knew there was nothing in the department press releases about the victim’s age. She let Levon deal with it.

  Levon moved in the seat and flexed his shoulders. Heavy muscles jumped and rippled under his shirt.

  “Let me put the question to you again another way,” said Levon in a soft voice. “Where were you and what were you doing at the time this kidnap occurred in Harlem?”

  They both watched as a cartoon “thinks” balloon appeared in the air over the guy’s head.

  “Golly. Let me see. Yes. I was in Flatbush. Playing soccer with some friends. In Prospect Park.”

  “You can prove this?”

  “Sure. All afternoon. Let me make a call—”

  “We’ll do that for you. So maybe you can explain why a witness at the scene gave a description of one of the kidnappers and the descrip
tion matches you perfectly?”

  “Easy. He’s wrong.”

  “How do you know the witness was a male?”

  “I … I guessed. It’s always gonna be fifty-fifty.”

  They show him the witness sketch. It’s obviously Tony LoGascio. He stares at it for a while—they can both hear the gears in his skull grinding like a rusted gate—and then he shrugs.

  “So you got a problem coming in and doing a lineup?”

  “A lineup? For this witness?”

  “No. A lineup for the victim.”

  “No way. Anyway, she can’t.”

  “And why can’t she?”

  “The victim? I mean, well, she’d be all shook up there, not be able to make a good ID. And a little black kid, right? Hurt, like.”

  “How would you know that? We didn’t release her age. We never said she was black. Maybe she wasn’t even a she, right?”

  “Well, I just figured, you know, a sex thing. A kidnapping? That would probably be a sex thing. Right? A little girl. Anyway, it said on the news there that the vic was a nig—a black child, so, you know, I guess I just assumed that was what you were saying. And it’s Harlem. So she’s a little black kid, like.”

  “Of course,” says Casey. “Everybody in Harlem is black, like. We all know that. Why do you think the victim couldn’t, like, ID you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I mean, I did, but that’s because it wasn’t me.”

  Casey nodded. Raised a finger of caution and tapped her nose.

  “Because she can, Tony. They picked her up a while ago. She’s in rough shape, but she can do a lineup. She wants to do one real bad.”

  “Yeah? She can, hah? So, that’s … that’s good, okay? She’s okay, huh? That’s gotta be one tough little girl, hah? Assuming she is a little girl, I mean. No offense, right? But that’s … that’s good, hah?”

  “Yeah. Okay, so you have no objection to the lineup, then? Be a good citizen, help us eliminate you as a suspect?”