I glanced at the rearview mirror. Train was sitting quietly in the middle, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead at nothing. The two guys on either side of him were in their early twenties. Looked enough alike to be brothers. Close–cropped hair, flat faces, hooded eyes. The first generation of the breeding program? As I hooked onto Wards Island, I heard the sound of a round being chambered. Felt the pistol nestle into the back of my neck.
"You know what that is, Mr. Burke?"
"Yes."
"No matter what happens, Tommy can do his job. The pistol has a hair trigger."
"Tell him to be calm. We're almost there."
I lit a cigarette, leaning back, pressing my head into the gun. Amateurs.
I pulled over under the girders. "Okay," I said, turning sideways to speak to Train, voice low and conversational. "We'll have to walk from here. I'm rolling down my window. Why don't you have Tommy get out and hold the gun while…" I pushed the switch in the middle of the last word, ducking my head. The train hit the wall.
The gun never went off. My breath was gone. The windshield was splattered with flesh and fluid. I let air seep in through my nose until my lungs started to work. I didn't look in the back seat.
Unbuckled my seat belt. Stepped outside. My legs wouldn't work. I sat down outside the Ford, waiting. It would come back.
In a few minutes I started walking. By myself. Fingering the little transmitter in my pocket.
The Plymouth growled alongside me, running without lights. The passenger door opened. I climbed inside. Hit the switch. The window went down. Max drove slowly. The Ford was in sight. I held the transmitter out the window, as high as I could. The Mole said it had a quarter–mile range. We were much closer than that. I pushed the button. The Ford exploded. Flames filled the rearview mirror as Max hit the gas.
He dropped me off where I'd left Morehouse's car.
140
I CALLED MOREHOUSE from a phone on the West Side. "You know the Yacht Basin?"
"Sure, man. Where you think I keep my yacht?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"I'm rolling."
141
HE PULLED IN. Seemed relieved to see his car still in one piece.
"What's on?"
I handed him his keys. "There's gonna be an explosion tonight. Somewhere on Wards Island. Off the approach road to Kirby. The cops'll find bodies inside. They won't make a connect. You know McGowan and Morales?"
"The Runaway Squad? Sure."
"You call them. You got a tip, right? The connect is to a man named Train. He's running the baby–breeding operation." I gave him the address.
"They'll need more than that for a search warrant."
"Save the bullshit for your column, pal. Let them get a warrant the way they always do. You know that Anonymous Informant? The one they use on every search warrant since the Supreme Court told them they needed one? Time for another guest appearance. Tell them to run it through Wolfe at City–Wide. She'll know what to do. Besides, the joint'll be full of victims, not perps."
"Right on, man. When do I know?"
"You got nothing else to do tonight, right? Maybe you're working on that movie script you're always bullshitting about writing someday. So you're monitoring the police band—I know you got a scanner. You get a call a few minutes after they get theirs."
"I'm off."
"Hold up. There's one more thing. A little girl inside the joint. Her name's Elvira. Or Juice—I don't know which name she'll use. Don't let SSC put her in a shelter or a foster home—she'll run. She knows how to do it. She needs a psychiatric hospital. And she's pregnant."
"Okay. Anything else I should know about her?"
"Yeah. She knows my name."
"Crazy people say all kinds of things. 'Specially on the psycho ward."
"Your car sucks," I told the West Indian, not saying the rest— that his word was good.
We shook hands.
142
IT DIDN'T hit me till later. Alone in my office. No lights. Pansy's dark shape on the couch. When Flood had killed the sadist Goldor in his fancy house…killed him to save me…she almost came unglued. Got off the track. Shaking so bad. Throwing away the clothes she'd worn like they were diseased. I'd held her to me. Rosie and the Originals on the cassette. Angel Baby. "Remember reform school?" I'd asked her, dancing so slow we weren't moving our feet. Until she came back to herself.
She couldn't come back to me that night.
Not Strega's fire, not Wesley's ice.
I found my way.
Survive.
143
I WOKE UP the next morning by myself. The way I always do. Belle was still gone. The pain in my chest was still there. But now I recognized it for what it was—a tourniquet around my heart, not a stranglehold.
The Plymouth found its way over to Mama's. Judy Henske on the cassette. Singing just to me. An old gut–bucket blues number came through next. I didn't remember the man's name but I know he died young. And hard.
Too sick to go to the doctor
Too tired to go to sleep
Too broke to borrow money
And too hungry to eat
And then a sweet girl singer, fronting off some doo–wop group that never had a hit record.
Your tears in my eyes
Your heart in my heart
Defeat and disguise
Can't keep us apart
The weight wasn't off, but I could carry what was left.
Mama had the Daily News. The story about the bombed–out car on Wards Island was buried on page six. The paper had it down to more mob homicides. Couldn't find a word about Julio. It would take a day or so for the Queens cops to run his prints. And they'd throw the body into the same garbage bag with the rest of the mess Wesley made. Morehouse's column would be out tomorrow.
Max came in. I showed him the story about the firebombed car. He drew his X on the table. Wesley's work. He made a questioning sign. I pulled an imaginary cord a couple of times, made the sign of something rushing past. Train. He bowed.
My brother was right. I'd pulled the switch, but it was Wesley's work. Mine was done.
Almost done.
144
MAX PULLED the racing form from his pocket. I kicked back to read. The horses' names all looked unfamiliar to me. Soon I was lost in a stakes race for three–year–old trotters. There was a shipper from Illinois. Gypsy Flame. An Arsenal filly out of a Noble Hustle mare. Good lines. Her trainer was bringing her along slowly, but she was tearing up the home tracks. A 2:01 at Sportsman's Park in Chicago in the cold weather—that was flying. I went over her last eight races. She always ran off the pace, charged hard going home. She'd be at a disadvantage at Yonkers with the tight turns and the short stretch, but she always ran clean. No breaks on her record. Morning Line had her at 8—1. Yes.
I looked over at Max, to tell him what our selection would be. His seat was empty. I glanced at my watch. Damn. I'd been lost for almost two hours.
Mama was up front, by the cash register. I went back to the pay phones. Dialed my broker. Maurice snatched it on the first ring.
"What?"
"This is Burke. Give me the four horse in the second race at Yonkers. Two to win."
"Horse number four, race number two. Yonkers. A deuce on the nose. That right?"
"Right. You miss me?"
He hung up.
145
THE PHONE RANG before I could go back to my table. I picked it up myself.
"Yeah?"
"Friday, be sure you're watching TV. It don't matter which channel long as it's a network. Try NBC. They got the fastest crew. 'Live at Five.' That's the best show. Don't wait for the late news—watch it go down."
"All right."
"That car. Last night. In my spot?"
"Yeah, the papers made it sound like a train wreck."
"I'm gonna take a trip. Out to the Island. Pick up my money. Then Friday. Watch TV. I'll wave goodbye to you."
"I…"
"Don't say my name. I'm leaving you something in my will. Remember what I said. About kids. Don't let the hunters see the soft spot."
"I won't."
"Goodbye…"
The machine sputtered—I couldn't make out the last word as the phone went dead.
146
"THIS IS real nice, Burke. Just like the joint, except for the food," the Prof said, sneering.
We were in Mama's basement. At a long table we made out of an old door. I was playing gin with Max, the scorepad to his left. He owed me almost twenty grand. A nineteen–inch color TV stood on top of a couple of barrels we had piled up. Max brought it with him that day, carrying it in one hand like an attaché case.
Max reached for a card. "Nix on the six, chump," the Prof barked, slapping the Mongol on the arm. Max ignored him. I grabbed it. Turned my hand over. Gin.
"Why you waste time playing cards with this fool, Burke? Just take out a gun, tell him to empty his pockets."
"He wins sometimes."
"Yeah. Whenever a cop gives mouth–to–mouth to a guy who faints in a gay bar."
I lit a smoke, sipped at the cup of clear soup standing next to me. Pansy snarled in the corner—she wasn't used to color TV. And she wanted pro wrestling, not soap operas. She's only a dog—she thinks she can tell the difference.
Max took out a racing form, still pumped up with our last success. Gypsy Flame had destroyed the field, powering overland on the back stretch, clearing the others by the paddock turn, driving home with room to spare—$17.20 to win, more than seventeen hundred bucks to the good on our first bet in months. I waved it away—I couldn't concentrate. Max had picked up the cash from Maurice. Like old times. Moving money, not bodies.
"When's this gonna go down?" the Prof asked.
"I don't know, brother. I told you a dozen times. He called, said to watch the tube. So I'm doing it. You don't have to stay."
"He wasn't my friend, but I'll see the end."
"Okay, then. You want to sit in for Max?"
"No way. Fucking Wesley. You always could pick 'em, Burke."
He acted it out for Max—some of the characters I'd hooked up with in the joint. The Prof had a gift for it—he used to be a preacher.
Time passed. Like it does inside the walls. Except it was safe where I was. Working on my alibi. Mac was upstairs. Lily was going to drop over later. Hell, I was hoping the cops rolled by too. Whatever Wesley was up to, I wanted to be on another planet.
147
MAX SAW it first. Rapped the table to get our attention. A trailer running at the bottom of one of the soap operas. HOSTAGE SITUATION IN RIVERDALE SCHOOL… ARMED TERRORISTS SEIZE ST. IGNATIUS…POLICE AND FBI ON THE SCENE…STAY TUNED.
"No way," the Prof said.
But I knew.
The soap opera played on. At two–fifteen, they broke in for a live report. Guy in a trench coat, hand–held microphone, sound truck behind him.
"We have no details yet. Apparently, an armed team of terrorists has captured the school. The doors and exits are blocked. The terrorists arrived in a rental truck and entered the school disguised in some way. The police were alerted by a phone call from inside. There was machine–gun fire. If the camera will just pan over…you can see the truck on the edge of the school yard. This is as close as the police will allow us to go. We understand there has been a telephone hookup to the terrorists, and the Hostage Negotiation Team is in place."
The anchorman from "Live at Five" cut in. I guess they told him to report to work early. Wesley would have been pleased. And the anchorman asked the right question. "Tom, you say shots were fired. Were they fired by the terrorists?"
"We just don't know. The police have a tight ring around the school."
"Tell us something about the school."
"St. Ignatius is an exclusive private school here in Riverdale. One of the oldest prep schools in the area. Grades nine through twelve. Some of the most prominent families in the city send their children here."
I clicked on the radio. They had a crew at the scene too. The reporter said something about a media demand, whatever that meant.
Back to the TV. The field reporter was on camera. "It seems that the terrorists have herded the children into the gymnasium. One of them just broke a window. We can see somebody attaching a bullhorn of some kind. I think they're going to make their demands…"
A cop's voice. "You! Inside! What do you want? You can't get out!"
The bullhorn fired back. A measured, unexcited voice. A machine talking through a machine. "I want a helicopter to take us to the airport. I want a fucking 747 to take us to Cuba. You got that, pigs?"
"Crazy bastard thinks it's 1969," the Prof said.
"Let the kids go!" the cop shouted back. "Let the kids go and we'll get you the plane."
"Dumb–ass motherfucker forgot the ransom." The Prof shook his head sadly.
The camera held steady on the school. The field reporter read from a list of famous people whose kids were inside. Tomorrow's judges, politicians, mobsters. The seeds Wesley wanted to burn out of the ground.
"You! Inside!" The cop on the bullhorn again. "We've got the plane for you! Waiting at the airport! Let the hostages go and we'll send in some police officers to take their place! Unarmed!"
The monster's voice cracked back. "Bring more cops! You need more cops! Lots of cops!"
"Oh shit!" the Prof muttered, no questions left.
Camera panned to the SWAT team. Riflemen with scopes. Cops in riot gear—helmets with faceplates, flak jackets, pump shotguns. A cauldron coming to a boil.
The announcer's professional voice came through, just the trace of a tremble inside.
"There's a man on the roof! Get the camera on him."
A man standing there in jungle fatigues, field cap hiding his eyes, gloves on his hands.
The rented truck exploded. A greenish cloud filled the screen. Bursts of machine–gun fire ripped. Screams and shouts from everywhere. The announcer held his ground.
"The unknown man on the roof has apparently detonated the explosion in the terrorists' truck here on the ground…the crowd is taking cover. A squad of policemen has gone around to the back of the school to try and gain access to the roof. The darkness you see on your screen isn't your picture…apparently some type of gas has been released from the truck…we're about five hundred yards from the scene…the gas is lifting…we don't know how many terrorists are left inside."
The camera focused on the lone madman.
"The man on the roof is lighting something. It looks like a torch. He's holding it high above his head…he…oh my God…he looks like some bizarre Statue of Liberty…he's…"
The dynamite exploded in Wesley's hand and the screen went blank.
148
WE STAYED THERE until late that night. Flipping channels, checking the radio. Every report made a liar out of the previous one. Seventy–five kids dead. A hundred. Two hundred. School security guards machine–gunned. Grenade tossed into the administration office. One of the surviving kids said he heard explosions, gunfire. Then a voice on the PA system telling all the students to get into the gymnasium. A man was standing at the podium, dressed in military fatigues. They all filed inside. The man put some stuff around the door seams. Dropped duffel bags in all the corners. One of the kids screamed. The man raked the row with the machine gun. The kids shut up after that. The ones still alive. The man was shouting at the cops through the bullhorn. Then he ran out. Everything started to blow up. The kid talked in a mechanical voice from his hospital bed. You could hear his doctors arguing with the cops in the background.
The cops were combing through the human wreckage. So far, they hadn't found a single terrorist.
"You think Wesley's going to Hell?" I asked the Prof. He believes in that stuff.
"If he is, the Devil better be ready."
"Amen."
149
THE COPS HIT Train's operation. Found what they were looking for. Morehouse broke the story. Lily led the
team of social workers debriefing the kids. The FBI Pedophile Task Force was in on it. Even Interpol.
I called Morehouse.
"Congratulations on your scoop."
"Yeah, man." He sounded sad, the sun gone from his voice.
"What's wrong?"
"The little girl? The one that needed to go to the psycho ward?"
"Yeah?"
"She went out a window. While the cops were breaking down the front door."
"She's on the loose?"
"It was the top floor, man."
"It's not your fault—she was gone anyway."
"Sure."
150
THE PACKAGE arrived a couple of weeks later. A nine–by–twelve flat envelope. Thick with paper inside. Routed from my Jersey P0 box, the one I use for mercenary stings. Max handed it to me in the warehouse.
I slit it open. A single sheet of paper. Neatly typed letters. "Put on a pair of gloves before you open the next envelope. Burn this part."
I did.
A dozen sheets of single–spaced typing. On a typewriter they'd never find. Each page numbered. Written in blood so icy it ran clear. My hands trembled. I lit a cigarette.
My name is Wesley. You never knew me. None of you did. But you know my work. I killed my first human in 1967.
He gave the lieutenant's name. Where it happened.
Four rounds in the chest. M–16. I killed two men in that prison you put me in.
Dayton and another guy I hadn't known about.
When I got out of prison, I started killing people for money.
Names, places, dates, calibers. The dope dealer even the Marielitos and Santeria couldn't protect. A blowgun with a poisoned dart. An ice pick in the kidney in the middle of a racetrack crowd. The list went on for pages.
Marco Interdonanto. Car bomb. Carlos Santamaria Ramos. At La Guardia. A spring bomb in a coin locker.
The one where the whole crowd died along with him.
Tommy Brown. I cracked his skull with a lead pipe and set fire to the house.
Hard Candy Page 20
