The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Which has to be a hit on Bannerman.”

  Wiggins spread his hands.

  “But Lesko says Bannerman doesn't know from drugs. What would Hector have against him?”

  “The question is what the Arab has against him. Hector might not know he exists. All Hector wants is to get rich and go back to Kingston. Hector, by the way, sees himself running for prime minister some day and being loved by all the people. That's after he kills everybody who remembers he used to crack skulls.”

  “Can I keep this?” Greenwald tapped his machine.

  “Like I said, we got it by accident. I've never heard of it.”

  “You better go.” Greenwald looked around. “Just bust out of the car. I'll chase you for half a block.”

  “No more than that. You'll come back, you won't have a radio. Anyway, then what?”

  “You want to know?”

  “Shit, yes. This is interesting.”

  “I'll talk to Lesko. In the meantime, don't walk with your head down. You never know who else is going to fall off a roof.”

  Friday. Half-past noon,

  Molly picked up a menu and walked to Susan's table. She pulled out a chair and sat.

  “Susan. This is getting a little dumb,” Molly said, not unkindly.

  ”I know it is,” she nodded.

  “Why don't you go to his office and get it over with?”

  “He knows I've been coming here, doesn't he?”

  “Except for today, yes.”

  ”I keep hoping he'll come and have this out. If I go over there I'll get mad, or say something stupid, or I'll start crying in front of his travel agents. I do better in restaurants.”

  “Speaking of which, what can I get you?”

  “Just a salad, I guess.” She took a breadstick from the basket and bit off an end. “Can I ask you something personal, Molly?”

  “Sure.”

  “I've heard things about you. About all of you. Are they true?”

  Molly looked into her eyes. She did not see a reporter there. Only a hurt young girl trying to understand Paul Bannerman through her. ”I guess,” she answered. “Probably.”

  “Then how do you stay like you are? I mean, with all of that.”

  “You grew up with policemen,” Molly told her. “They start out being like anyone else. Some get mean. Some don't. We're not all that different.”

  “And like policemen, you're only comfortable with your own kind?”

  “As a rule, that's true. Sad, sometimes. But true.”

  “You've never seen an exception.”

  Molly cocked her head toward the bar. “Billy here is thinking of proposing to his landlady. We're not sure he's ever really had a relationship with a woman before. We'll try to get him to go slowly. And we'll have to watch it carefully. Yes, Susan, we've seen exceptions. But we've seen some real disasters.”

  “Don't you think”—Susan touched her hand—“that I wish I could turn off what I feel and walk away from this? I see my father trying to do the same thing. I don't know if you've noticed, but he's in love. And it's with a woman who, two years ago, he'd have happily sent to prison.”

  ”I could see it,” Molly nodded. “He's struggling with it, just as you are.”

  “And as Paul is?”

  ”I think so.”

  “Then why doesn't he have the guts to come here and talk it through?”

  “You said it. He's afraid to.”

  “Then, damn it”—Susan folded her arms—“I'm going to keep coming here until he does or until I've lost so much respect for him that I don't care whether he comes or not.”

  Molly rose to her feet. ”I have to make a phone call,” she said.

  All women, Bannerman had long suspected, are crazy.

  First there was Molly, on the phone, agreeing for the sake of argument that he was doing the right thing. Staying away. Making a clean break. Then in the same breath saying there's right and there's right. “Get over here,” she said. “Talk to Susan. If you don't come settle this, now, I'll send Billy to drag you over.” Bannerman could only sigh. He's right, but he's wrong. Women.

  Then there was Susan.

  She was hurt. And confused. He understood that. But she, if not Molly, had always been sensible. Once he explained, gently, but firmly, she would have to understand. Then he would walk her to the train, and that would be that.

  “You're a pain in the ass, Bannerman. You know that?”

  “Um . . . hello, Susan.”

  “It's about time. Sit.”

  He took a breath, struggling to recall what he'd intended to say. It did not help that Molly lurked within earshot, pretending not to listen, but exchanging smug little grins with Billy. Glad you're having a nice time, he growled inwardly.

  He sat. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace, cleared his throat, and began the explanation, rehearsed in his mind, of why this could not possibly . . .

  Look, Bannerman,” she said through her teeth, “I've been explained to up, down, and sideways. My father says a nice girl like me doesn't belong with killers but he couldn't tell me why I belong with him. Molly likes us together but she's afraid I think you're Robin Hood. Carla Benedict says a candy ass like me would only be a distraction who would mope and moan every time you're ten minutes late for dinner and, besides, I'm probably not even a good lay.”

  “Carla said that?” Bannerman blinked.

  ”I read between the lines.”

  He tried regaining control. He tried taking her remarks, one at a time, and addressing them sensibly. At this, he thought he heard a moan from Molly.

  “I've made a decision,” Susan announced, interrupting his explanation of the difference between being a cop's daughter, well removed from the things he did on the job, and being in a relationship where there could be no such distance.

  “I'm going to shoot somebody tonight,” she told him.

  Bannerman blinked.

  “And then another one tomorrow night,” she said. “Someone with six kids. And then a couple more every week after that until I get used to it. Until you say, ‘Hey, maybe this kid's my kind of woman.’ ”

  “Susan—”

  “And you'll take me on that ski trip you still owe me, where you'll fall in love with me because I am, by God, a pretty damned good woman and then—”

  He raised a hand. She took it and slammed it to the table.

  “And then”—she leaned forward—“I'll dump you and let you, for a change, sit outside my building for five nights straight before maybe I let you come crawling back, you creep.”

  Paul glanced toward Molly as if for help. She had turned her back. Her shoulders were shaking. He would get her for this, he thought darkly.

  But now his eyes were back on Susan. They rested on her cheek, still bruised. He wanted to reach across the table and touch it. To feel the long brown hair that flowed over her shoulders. To smell its freshness. To kiss the healing wound above her eye. It wasn't so bad. It made her, somehow, even more attractive than before. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was her lack of self-consciousness about it. The way she carried her head. Chin high. I am who I am. A scar doesn't matter.

  His eyes drifted to the swell of her breasts. Over her shoulders and arms. Hands that had touched him, caressed him. How he had missed her. How he had wanted her. Not just her body. Her. To wake up with her. Come home to her. Ride bikes with her, go to movies, fix meals with her. Anything. Everything. Take walks with her . . .

  “Let's get out of here,” he said. “Let's go someplace where we can talk.”

  “About how it can't work?”

  “About how to keep your father from beating up on me if he hears we're even thinking about it.”

  “Thinking about it can't hurt.”

  “No. Maybe it can't.”

  He drove her to the town beach. They had it almost to themselves. Just a few people walking their dogs. They talked, haltingly at first, and then somewhat more easily as the short winter day turned into evening.
Together, they watched the sun go down. The temperature dropped. She shivered. He put an arm around her to keep her warm, then said he'd better take her to the train. “I'm not going home tonight,” she said.

  She stayed at his apartment. He made a light supper. They did not make love. They barely touched except for a single light kiss to her forehead after she fell asleep on his couch and he carried her to his bedroom. He took the couch for himself. He slept in his clothing. In the morning he found that she had covered him.

  He prepared breakfast. They talked some more. Nothing of substance. Neither seemed willing to risk the fragile illusion that they were simply two ordinary people, having breakfast in their robes, enjoying an ordinary, lazy Saturday morning.

  Susan showered first. He waited until he heard the water splashing, then went to the locked cabinet where he kept his telephone answering machine, his private line, its volume control at its lowest point. He opened the cabinet, and, adjusting the volume so that it was audible, just barely, pressed the “play” button. Reality returned with the sound of her father's voice. A message left on Friday evening. Leaving a New York number. Insisting that he call at once.

  His first thought was that Lesko had learned that his daughter was there. He listened to the next message. Lesko again.

  “Bannerman? You're there, right? Pick up the damned phone. ” He turned the volume back down. Some other time. Next message.

  “Bannerman? Not that I want to ruin your weekend or anything but how about this? How about it looks like someone wants to drive forty carloads of explosives into your happy little dreamworld up there and blow it all to shit? Does that get your attention?”

  -17-

  “Hey David.”

  No answer.

  “Come on. ” Lesko whispered into hands cupped over his mouth. “Talk to me. ”

  “About what?” came the response. “Lesko?”

  The answer startled him. But it was Greenwald's voice, coming from the radio he was holding. He must have had his thumb on the button.

  “Forget it,” he said, embarrassed. “It's okay.”

  He was standing within a rack of finished dry cleaning, watching through plastic bags. Bannerman was five feet away, also hidden.

  Lesko had played the tape for him, over the telephone, three times. Bannerman listened, then said he'd meet him in two hours. Lesko heard reluctance, resignation, in his voice. Well, sorry to ruin your Saturday morning, he thought, but tough shit.

  Lesko could see the back of Wesley Covington's head and the front window beyond. St. Nicholas Avenue was almost dark. Covington's delivery truck sat at the curb. Greenwald was in it. Covington had sent his pressers home. One clerk remained, at Lesko's insistence. The place should look normal.

  There was no way to be sure that Hector Manley would come. Except the man said Saturday. It didn't figure he'd show up on 153rd Street, not with all those bullhorns, so if he was coming at all it would have to be at the store, most likely at closing time.

  “Lesko?” Greenwald's voice. ”I see him.”

  “Where?”

  “Across the street . . . watching. He's got a leg breaker with him. The Dandy Man's no midget but this guy's a house.”

  “Just don't let him see you. Let me know when he moves.”

  “He's moving. Here he comes.”

  Lesko could see them now. They appeared on the sidewalk, framed against the truck. The smaller one moved closer to the window. He stopped there in its light, staring through it. The big one, the house, caught the eye of a customer who was about to enter. He glared at her with bar-bully eyes. Stupid eyes. She turned away. Now his eyes met those of the girl at the counter. He motioned again with his head. “I'm not going,” she said quietly to Covington.

  “Please.” He reached behind a partition and produced her coat. ”I won't be long.” He placed it over her shoulders.

  “I'll go because you say,” she told him. “Not pig face out there.”

  Gently, firmly, Covington guided her to the door. He kissed her hair, then eased her through it. He watched as she passed between the two men outside, wincing as she mouthed an obscenity toward the big one. He waited. Her footsteps receded. He turned the sign on his door so that the word Closed faced outward. He returned to his place behind the counter.

  “Bannerman?” Lesko whispered loudly. “I'll handle this. Stay out of it.”

  “Fine with me,” came the muffled answer.

  “Mr. Covington?”

  ”I hear you.”

  “You okay?”

  ”A little nervous. I'm fine.”

  Lesko had already told him: “You see a gun, you drop. They just want to talk, you listen, but stay behind the counter with your back close to the conveyer. They say things to scare you, be scared. We don't want them wondering what makes you brave.”

  The door opened.

  Hector Manley entered first, then the other. There was no question which was which. The leg breaker, close to 300 pounds of him, was dressed in a hooded sweatshirt of olive drab. Thick black boots laced over army fatigues. An inch-thick chain around his neck, not gold, stainless steel. He wore wraparound sunglasses with black plastic frames. Hector wore a trench coat of black leather, cut extralong in the style of Eastern Europe, a turtleneck sweater, white, the same voodoo sunglasses. Boots were gray. Cowboy boots. Looked like snake. Probably his mother, Lesko thought. But not a bad looking guy. Lesko could see where he got his name.

  The man in leather did not speak. He waited, hands clasped in front of him, his eyes locked on those of Wesley Covington. The hooded one approached the counter, peering beyond it. Searching. Listening. The fingers of one huge hand brushed lightly over the top of the cash register. He looked at Hector. Hector nodded.

  The cash register moved. It began to tilt. Very gradually. The big man added pressure. It crashed to the floor. Change rolled across linoleum. Still no one spoke.

  The big man found the hook on which outgoing garments were hung. He ran his fingers along it. It began to bend. He tore it from the counter. Screws and splintered wood came with it. In a lazy, contemptuous backhand motion, he flung this hook toward Wesley Covington. It missed. It vanished into the hanging garments a foot away from Raymond Lesko. The screws, the torn wood, caught the plastic. It stayed there.

  Hector Manley raised a hand, then lowered it slowly toward the pocket of his coat. He interrupted this motion to make a gesture that, it seemed, was intended to reassure the man behind the counter. He continued, into his pocket, and produced what appeared to be a small group of photographs. With these, he approached the counter. There he laid them out, one by one, facing Wesley Covington. There were four. He touched a finger to the first one. The touch was light, almost gentle.

  “Your wife?” he asked.

  Covington did not answer.

  “It will happen on the street,” Manley told him.

  Covington stared.

  “The streets are dangerous. It will happen in full view of her friends. They will not save her.” His voice was soft, his diction precise, his manner sorrowful. “There are some,” he continued, “who will blame me for this sadness. They will say, ‘Covington challenged the Dandy Man. He paid the price.’ But in truth, Mr. Covington, you will have yourself to blame.”

  He pointed to the second photograph.

  “Your little girl?”

  Lesko should have seen it coming. He saw the muscles growing in Covington's back. He saw the hands balling into fists. But he had told Covington to do nothing. Say nothing. Make them push a little. Make them want to step behind the counter, put their hands on you, get them within reach. But the picture of his daughter was not a little push. Lesko heard what sounded like a dog. He almost looked around. But then he realized that the long low growl was coming from Covington. By the time he knew that, Covington's hands were across the counter. They were clawing at Manley. One found his lapel. The other his throat.

  “Shit!” Lesko muttered. He braced himself.

  Man
ley fought off Covington's lunge. A forearm knocked one hand away, an elbow the other, and with it he smashed the side of Covington's head. But Covington had gripped his coat again. With a great heave he pulled him forward, over the counter. Manley rolled and twisted free. The bigger man moved in.

  “Heads up, asshole.” Lesko tore through the plastic. One stride, one kick, caught Hector Manley in the throat. Manley rolled over, wide-eyed and gasping. Covington leapt on him. The clothing hook appeared in Lesko's right hand. He swung it from the floor toward the big man's crotch. It sank in there. He ripped it loose. The big man tried to scream but could not.

  “You like to break things, fuck face?” Lesko hissed. ‘I’ll show you breaking things.”