by Don Winslow
“Hello, Neal,” Colin said. “Four o’clock, Piccadilly Circus. They’ll bring her. They’re expecting me, though.”
“Colin! How is she?”
There was a long silence. “Well, sport, you know junkies.”
Dickie didn’t believe it, but there it was, twenty thousand pounds, neatly laid out in a briefcase, Colin’s insipid face grinning at him behind it.
“I hope this is good stuff you’re selling me, Dickie.”
“Don’t push your luck, Colin.”
“Right you are.”
The waiter brought over two small glasses of fiery Chinese wine. “All good deals begin with a toast,” Dickie said. “Here’s to our new relationship. Gan bei, bottoms up.”
“Bottoms up,” he said. “Let’s go fetch my smack.” Bottoms up, indeed, where you’re headed, you fat fart.
Vanessa had a bit of trouble getting Allie out of bed, and she finally had to hold out the promise of a fix if she’d be a big girl and come along. They walked down into the tube station and got her on the train with no more difficulty. They emerged at the Piccadilly station with Allie gentle as a lamb.
“She’s a walking zombie,” Crisp noted.
“That’s Colin’s problem,” Vanessa said. She hoped there’d be no trouble getting their share of the money from Colin. She wanted to get Crisp well away from him.
The Dilly was crowded and noisy. Sirens blasted the afternoon air, and it seemed like every cop in London was pouring down into Soho. It made Vanessa edgy, anxious to find Colin, shake him, and quit this scene.
Except Colin wasn’t there. Neal was.
The Circus was crowded with tourists and zoned-out kids. They didn’t stand out or draw any attention.
“Where’s Colin?” Vanessa asked. Crisp stood behind her. He didn’t trust Neal a bit.
Neal made a point of listening to the sirens, figuring that Colin, with his twenty grand of Kitteredge money in nicely marked bills, must have made out all right. “In jail, probably.”
Vanessa just nodded. Losing had become a way of life.
Allie stared at Neal. This dream was one of the best she’d had, and she was running on low. “Neal?” she asked. “That you?”
“In the flesh.”
She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes, real close. “Neal, I’m very glad to see you but I’m very fucked up.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s like we’re floating around the city, you know… all over… everything is going whoosh, whoosh like? Are you fucked up, too?”
“I think so.”
She hugged him tight. “Oh good. Didn’t want to be the only one. Didn’t want to be alone. You don’t think I remember stuff, but I remember. They sent you to get me. Good old Mom and Pop did, that’s what you said. You gonna make me go home now? To good old Mom and Pop? You’re not, huh, Neal?”
“I’m not.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good, good good.” Her face turned serious. “Can we go now?”
“Right now.”
“Love you, Neal.”
“Love you, Allie.”
Neal started walking her to Oxford Street to hail a taxi. He wanted Ferguson to see her as soon as possible. He hadn’t gone a block before he made them. Footsteps behind him-two pairs… not pros. He picked up the pace and listened. They were coming faster, Could he afford to pause, even if there was a cab handy? Would it be a knife, a sap, or another gun, maybe? The thought of the gun got to him and he fought off the fear. He slowed down a little but tightened his grasp around Allie’s waist. The steps pulled closer, then alongside: Crisp on one side, Vanessa on the other.
Neal kept moving as they talked. “You want something?”
“We’re in a bit of trouble,” Vanessa said.
“I’m not in the mood.”
Crisp grabbed him by the elbow. “Listen, mate-”
Neal straightened his elbow and grabbed Crisp by his belt. He lifted his arm as he moved. The motion hurt like crazy but it kept Crisp off balance and vulnerable. “I’m not your mate and if you give me any shit-any shit at all-I’ll kill you right here.”
Neal didn’t think he would or could kill Crisp, but it sounded good.
“As I was saying. We’re in a bit of trouble. What with Colin in the lockup and all.”
“Your friends are your problem, not mine.”
Vanessa was half-running to keep up with him. “That’s not really true, you know.”
She shoved something into his stomach. It was a magazine. “Have a look at this.”
It was a Newsweek, opened to a page. On the page were the smiling faces of John Chase, wife Liz, and daughter Allie.
Neal tried to bluff. “So?”
Vanessa was much tougher, much smarter, than he ever gave her credit for. “Come off it,” she said.
Neal dropped his head. He was so damn tired. He looked up again.
“What do you want?”
“Out of here.”
He thought about it for a few seconds. It was doable. “And then how do I know I can trust you?”
“You’re a fine one to be talking about trust.”
True enough.
“Okay, I’ll think about it. Go back to the old flat. I’ll ring you tonight.”
She let go of his arm. “Midnight, Neal. Or I see if Newsweek wants to print my pictures of Allie.”
Crisp tossed him a decent imitation of a confident smirk and the pair walked away. Neal flagged a taxi and gave the driver Ferguson’s address.
“Where we going?” Allie asked.
“Someplace to get some sleep.”
She narrowed her eyes like a bad actress doing suspicion. “You’re not taking me home, Neal.”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Assured of that much, she fell asleep in the cab and was no problem putting to bed.
35
Lombardi handed ed Levine the phone.
“It’s for you.”
Ed was grateful for a break from the sullen atmosphere of the hotel room, where John Chase sat in a near-catatonic state of anger.
“Levine,” he said into the phone. He had made a habit of answering phones this way. It was professional, efficient, cool.
“So, Ed,” said the mocking voice on the phone, “where do you want her? Providence… New York… Newport?”
“Carey, you son of a bitch bastard. Where are you?”
“I’m with Allie Chase.”
“You got her.”
That got their attention in the room: heads lifted, ears perked.
“Of course I ’got her,’ what did you think? They don’t call me the best for nothing.”
Levine held the mouthpiece to his chest. “He’s got her,” he said to Chase and Lombardi.
“What kind of shape is she in?” Lombardi asked quickly.
“What kind of shape is she in?”
“She’ll take a nice picture. I don’t think you’ll want her to do 60 Minutes, though.”
Chase smiled. Lombardi went to pour himself a healthy G amp;T.
“You and me have a lot to talk about, Neal,” Ed muttered.
“Oh, yeah, you bet your fat ass we do.”
“Your mother-”
“Ed, you get a pencil, write this down. It’s tricky. British Air, Flight One seventy-seven. Arrives Kennedy two P.M.-tomorrow. That’s August first, by the way. Be there or be square.”
“If you’re screwing us around…”
Neal had hung up.
Neal put down the phone and looked in on Allie. She was out cold. He reflected for a moment on the subject of betrayal. Graham had been right as usual, he thought as he looked down at the sleeping girl. Betrayal is the basic stuff of the undercover. It’s in his bones. Then he Went back to the phone.
As a rule, Joe Graham liked other people’s phone conversations better than his own. He was sitting in his apartment, four cans in
to a six-pack and seven innings into a ball game, when the phone rang three times and then stopped. By the time Hoyt had come out of his stretch and let loose a slow sinker, the phone jangled again. This time Graham picked it up.
“Dad!” came the cheerfully mocking voice on the other end of the line.
“Son, it’s been a long time.”
“Meet me.”
Neal thought it over again and then dialed Colin’s old number. Vanessa answered. “Yeah?”
“What are the names on your passports?”
He made her spell them out twice, gave her instructions about where and when to meet him, and then hung up. Ten minutes later, Miss Vanessa Brownlow and Mister Harold Griffin had two reservations on British Air from Heathrow to Boston. Then Neal phoned Hatcher.
Heathrow airport on a sunday morning is the eighth circle of hell. Three-quarters of the world’s population either are greeting or seeing off the remaining fourth, jamming old, cranky Terminal Three in a sweaty mass of emotional humanity. Give Mother Teresa a couple of hours in Terminal Three on a Sunday, she’ll be shopping for a machete.
Neal Carey was delighted to see the place. Allie firmly in tow, holding his hand and a small dose of Thorazine, Neal edged to the BA sales counter, paid for his and Allie’s tickets with plastic, and Crisp and Vanessa’s by cash. Blackmail payments are not tax-deductible. He avoided the crowd at the escalator and took the back stairs up to the Departure floor.
Hatcher was pretty good, Neal noted. He stayed about fifty or sixty feet back and eased his bulk through the crowd without pushing or shoving. Neal recalled a Grahamism: A civilian sees the crowd; a street man sees his way through the crowd. Neal led Allie into the bookshop, picked up some magazines she seemed to like and a paperback copy of Peebles’s A Short History of Scotland for himself. Hatcher peeled off at this point and checked out the mobbed coffee shop. He came back a few minutes later and nodded to Neal.
Crisp and Vanessa were in the coffee shop, and they were alone. For once, they hadn’t screwed up. Neal hadn’t really thought that even this dynamic duo would be dumb enough to try to snatch Allie back in the middle of Heathrow Airport, especially not during a terrorist campaign when about half the white males in the building were plainclothes cops. But he wasn’t taking the chance.
They had somehow commandeered a booth, and seemed oblivious to the hostility of the sullen waitress and the stares of the various Pakistanis, Indians, and Africans who found them bizarre, Neal slipped into the booth across from them. Allie followed.
He slid the ticket packet across the table to Vanessa. She looked it over and asked, “Why Boston?”
“You think I want to see you in New York?”
“You don’t trust us?”
“Maybe I don’t want to get off the plane and be greeted by a photographer from Newsweek. This will make it just a little tougher for you to double-cross me.”
Vanessa didn’t like it. “How am I supposed to get to New York then?”
“I don’t care. You see the big guy over there at the counter? Tea, toast, and sausage? He’s a cop.” Neal cut Crisp’s protest off. “I just want to make sure this all goes smoothly. Have you ever taken an international flight before? Okay, you go back downstairs with your ticket and passports and check in. They’ll take your bags there. Then you go through security. Passports and tickets again. Now, just to be sure everything is hunky-dory, meet me again in the coffee shop inside the security area. I’ll give you your money there.”
“You’re a cautious bastard,” Crisp said.
“I wonder why.”
He let hatcher trail them down to check-in, finished off his own coffee, and said to Allie, “We’re going to get on the plane now.” “Where are we going?”
“I told you. L.A.”
“Disneyland. I want to ride that elephant thing.”
“Dumbo?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, I like Dumbo.”
I seen a horsefly, I seen a deerfly, I ain’t never seen an elephant fly.
“You gonna get me clean in L.A.?”
The question took him aback. “If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Then we’ll do it. C’mon.”
The lady at the British Air counter was like all ladies at the British Air counter, cool and polite.
“I have an aisle and a window for you, Mr. Carey.”
“Terrific.”
“Enjoy your flight.”
The line at security was long and slow. Nobody was taking any chances. Neal didn’t mind. He had left plenty of time to catch the plane, and he’d just as soon the plane he was on didn’t blow up in midair, not after all this. When it came their turn, he let Allie go first, and turned to nod his goodbye to Hatcher. The cop should be having a good day. His drug bust had made the morning editions and they had all spelled his name right. He gave Neal the thumbs-up sign: Crisp and Vanessa were through security.
He found them right at the coffee shop.
He said to Vanessa, “Allie should go to the loo now.”
“I’ll take her.”
“I’ll have your money. You want pounds or dollars?”
“Aren’t you the considerate one? Dollars, please.”
Vanessa took Allie by the hand and walked off. Neal looked at Crisp and smiled. “How about you, champ, you want to hit the WC?”
“Turning poofter on us, Neal?”
“Let’s do it.”
The security lounge was far less crowded. Only people with tickets were in there, so they made it to the gents’ loo with ease. They walked to the last stall, the handicapped one with lots of room, took a quick glance, and locked themselves inside.
“You got everything through okay?”
“I’m not in bracelets, am I?”
“Vanessa, too?”
Crisp nodded. “You worry too much.”
Crisp pulled the stuff out of a makeshift pocket sewn inside his jeans.
The alcohol felt nice and cool on Neal’s skin. The needle stung like a bastard.
Neal picked a good spot to sit and watch them board their flight. He wanted to make damn good and sure they got on. He thought about Lombardi. Call this book Trust Level Zero.
They strolled through the gate as if they’d been doing this all their lives.
Now it was his turn. Why do I feel so jumpy? he wondered. This is the easy part. He gathered Allie up and they hit the line. Ten minutes later, they were at the last checkpoint, and Neal eyed the attendant nervously. Can he tell? he thought nervously. Can he tell? Neal handed him the ticket and passport. Was the man looking at him more closely than he had the others? Can he tell? Is it the guilt in my eyes? Smile, now. Just a little, not too much. He can tell. I’m screwed.
“Enjoy your flight, sir,” the agent said with just the trace of a smirk. He passed Allie right through. The plane took off right on time.
Levine hung the phone up. “They’re on board.”
“How do you know?” Lombardi asked.
“I have a source at British at Kennedy. He checked the computer. I’ll call the Senator.”
“Tell him I want to come along to meet them.”
“You and me both.”
“This better be good, Lombardi,” Chase said over the phone. “You hauled me out of a meeting with half the crackers in Dixie.”
“They’re headed in.”
“Have the car meet me. Have you called Mrs. Chase yet?”
“I work for you, Senator.”
“Call her. She can get a helicopter down and still make it.”
“How’s it going there?”
“We have a good shot at it. Do you think you can get born again?”
“I feel like a new man already, Senator.”
Allie liked the movie. She didn’t have the headset on, but she made up her own dialogue, which wasn’t too bad, Neal thought. She ate both their lunches and only had to go to the lay once for a refresher course in sedation. She was i
n a pretty good mood for a young lady as sick as she was. When she wasn’t putting words into De Niro’s mouth, she talked about life after getting straight, and California sunshine, and getting them a little house around Malibu somewhere. She bet she could pry some cash out of the old trust fund, Dad or no Dad.
Neal nodded and made listening noises and drank heavily. The first-place Yankees had a twilight doubleheader against the Sox and he could just make the second game if he hustled. He was sick of himself, and sick of his lies, and it would be real nice to get involved in a game where they had some rules.
36
U. s. senators with chauffeurs and limos and twenty-dollar bills park where they want to at Kennedy airport, even right beside signs saying UNLOADING ONLY. Chase and Lombardi sat in the backseat. Chase drummed his feet and looked at his watch. The plane was due any moment and Liz hadn’t shown up yet. Hung up in traffic. How could a helicopter get hung up in traffic? Lombardi was on the phone to his people at the convention. The Senator was still hanging in there. That cracker bastard was taking his time, though. Probably praying about it.
Ed Levine was set. Standing at Arrivals outside the Customs gate, he checked his troops again. He had brought along four muscle types. They were spread out well. Little Neal wasn’t getting by. Two would grab the kid and waltz her over to Daddy for the hugs and kisses. The other two would grab Neal and stick him in a car. They would drive to some lonely parking lot, where Ed would expound on his displeasure. He had reluctantly promised Graham he wouldn’t break anything; after all, Neal, had brought the girl back.
A few minutes later, the light flashed on BA 177. Ed stepped outside to the car. Lombardi rolled the window down.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want to bother you or anything, but they’re down and headed into Customs.”
Chase set the car phone down. “How long?”
“Depends.” Fuck you.
Chase gave him a dirty look. Levine could care less. This thing was about over and then he wouldn’t have to deal with the sleazy SOB anymore.
“We’ll be there in a minute. You haven’t seen my wife, have you?”
Ed knew thirty-eight good answers for that one but didn’t use any of them. “One at a time, Senator. One at a time.”
