Apaches

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “You find a guy named Saldo,” Nunzio said, opening a manila folder and sliding out a half dozen head shots of a man with thick dark hair and a long scar running down the right side of his face. “He’s the guy who fed Malcolm the lady’s business card. He’s her main New York line into the baby market. Pays top dollar and asks very few questions.”

  “What is it you do, exactly, Nunzio?” Rev. Jim asked, looking over at the older man with a trace of admiration.

  “I listen,” Nunzio said.

  “Pins, we’ll get you an address and a plate number by early tomorrow morning,” Boomer said.

  “I’ll have him wired before lunch,” Pins said. “You want him bodied too?”

  “How the hell can you body-wire him?” Boomer asked. “You’re not gonna be anywhere close to the guy.”

  “I don’t have to be.” The confidence in his own abilities overcame Pins’s shyness. “I don’t even have to meet the man.”

  “What are ya gonna do?” Rev. Jim asked. “Mail him the wire and ask him to put it on himself?”

  “He gets his clothes cleaned somewhere,” Pins said. “As soon as I have his address, I’ll figure out where. I’ll plant the bugs there before he puts on his clothes.”

  Boomer glanced over at Dead-Eye, who looked back at him and smiled. “My hunch is the guy works out of the East Side. We’ll have the layout soon enough. I want the building covered in case of trouble.”

  “If there’s a super or a guy at the door, I can talk my way into having them let me do the windows,” Rev. Jim said. “I’ll look scruffy enough so they won’t notice.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” Nunzio added.

  “Go in on a day there’s a garbage pickup,” Geronimo said. “Around the time they’re working that street.”

  “Why?” Boomer asked.

  “I got a friend in Sanitation,” Geronimo told him. “He’ll let me work on the truck crew. This way I’m visible but nobody notices me. There’s trouble, I’ll be there.”

  “That covers the ground and the outside of the building,” Boomer said. “That leaves the roof for you, Dead-Eye. Your gut tells you something’s not right, don’t even hesitate.”

  “What about me?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “What am I doing while all this is going on?”

  “Nothing,” Boomer said with a smile. “You’re my wife and no wife of mine’s gonna have a job.”

  Mrs. Columbo looked down at the baby, lifted him to eye level, and kissed his flushed red cheek. “Your father’s an asshole,” she cooed as she placed him on her shoulder and patted his back. Seconds later, the baby let out a loud burp.

  “That’s what he thinks of you,” Mrs. Columbo said with a laugh.

  • • •

  LUCIA SAT AT the head of the eight-foot dining table, a yellow folder spread open beneath her elbows. A crystal ashtray and wine goblet were off to her left, a 1980 merlot in one, a filter-tipped cigarette smoldering on the edge of the other. She stared across the length of the bare table at the private investigator sitting nervously at the far end. He had on a cheap coffee-colored suit, worn at the cuffs, a brown shirt in need of a wash, and a poorly knotted cream tie. He was thin and balding, the top of his head coated with beads of sweat, his small fingers softly drumming on the top of the table. Three of Lucia’s men stood silently behind him, hidden by the shadows of the drawn brocade drapes that kept out the afternoon sunshine. There was a large glass of ice water in front of the man. It sat untouched.

  “You’re charging me two hundred and fifty dollars an hour plus expenses, Mr. Singleton,” Lucia said in a level-toned voice. “I expect you to have something to show for it.”

  “It’s all there in the file,” Trace Singleton said. “You can see for yourself.”

  “I don’t want to see for myself,” Lucia said in harsher tones. “I want you to tell me.”

  “That ambush on your apartment was pulled off by a group of cops,” Singleton said, wiping a thin line of sweat off his upper lip. “Working on their own.”

  “How do you know they were cops?” Lucia asked, taking a puff from her cigarette.

  “That part’s confidential,” Singleton said, smirking. “That’s one of the reasons I’m so good at what I do. You gotta trust me on it.”

  “And if I don’t trust you on it?” Lucia asked. “What happens then?”

  “Then I guess you and me can’t do business anymore,” he said, glancing behind him at the three large men who never seemed to move.

  Lucia pushed back her chair and walked down the length of the table, the fingers of her right hand skimming the dark wood surface. She walked past Singleton and over to one of her men. She looked up at him and smiled, slowly running a hand up the front of his blue silk shirt and down to his side, stopping when she found the handle of the 9-millimeter Luger. She pulled the gun from the man’s hip and rested it against her stomach, her back still turned to Singleton.

  “Were you telling me the truth?” Lucia asked, her eyes cold and steady, looking at her man, her question aimed at Singleton.

  “About what?” Singleton turned slightly in his chair, one arm braced against the curve of the antique wood.

  “That everything I need to know is in the file?”

  “Everything’s there,” Singleton said, his arrogance tempered by the oppressive heat in the room. “Like I always say, you bring me in, you bring in the best.”

  “You were also right about something else,” Lucia said, turning away from the man in the silk shirt.

  “You get to know me better, you’ll find out I’m right about most things.” Singleton was full of swagger now, squinting over at Lucia. The dim light in the room kept the gun in her hand hidden from his line of vision. “Now, which thing in particular were you talkin’ about?”

  Lucia raised the gun and aimed it at Singleton. “You and I can’t do business anymore.”

  Lucia’s index finger put pressure on the Luger’s quick trigger and clicked off two rounds, both of which landed in Singleton’s forehead, cracking open the back of his head, sending blood and bone fragments splashing against the flocked red wallpaper. Singleton’s upper body slumped against the back of the chair, resting there as if he were fast asleep.

  Lucia handed the Luger back to the man in the blue shirt. He took it by the handle and shoved it into his hip holster.

  “Have someone clean up the room,” Lucia told the three men. She walked back to the head of the table and picked up the folder. “I’ve got some reading to do.”

  • • •

  “WHERE IS YOUR husband now, Mrs. Connors?” the well-dressed man behind the desk asked Mrs. Columbo, flashing a toothy smile.

  “He’s trying to find a parking spot.” Mrs. Columbo shifted one leg over the other. Boomer had made her wear a tight miniskirt and she was showing more than enough thigh to interest the man behind the desk. “That’s no easy thing in this neighborhood.”

  “How did you find out about our agency?” the man asked, still with the smile, his eyes scanning Mrs. Columbo and the baby braced against her right arm.

  “My friend Carmella,” Mrs. Columbo said. “She told me you guys helped her out about six, maybe seven months ago. You found a good home for her baby and paid her off in cash. No questions. Is that part true?”

  “Which part?” the man asked.

  “About the questions,” Mrs. Columbo said. “When Richie comes in here, if you start asking him a bunch of, you know, personal shit, excuse my French, he’s gonna get nasty and walk out.”

  “That wouldn’t be smart,” the man said. “He’d be leaving the way he walked in, with no money and a baby he doesn’t want.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Edward.”

  “You see, Eddie,” Mrs. Columbo said, “my husband wants the baby. I don’t. I went through enough with the two I had and I don’t need to raise more. What I need is to find me work, something that pay
s good and brings it in steady.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Columbo said, looking around the barren room. “Years ago, before I hooked up with Richie, I did it all, didn’t care what it was. ’Course, I was a little better-looking back then, but I’m still willin’ to do it all, whatever it is, so long as the money’s there at the end. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this. But Carmella said—”

  Edward interrupted her, his arms spread out in front of him, the smile on his face locked in place. “Does your husband know about any of this?”

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” Mrs. Columbo said. “Wait till you meet him. I mean, I love the guy and all, but my Richie’s lucky if he can find his ass with two hands. There are guys just made that way. I’m sure you met some workin’ this job.”

  “A few,” Edward Glistner said, leaning back in his chair, resting his hands on top of his head.

  “Then you know what I’m talkin’ about,” Mrs. Columbo said, running a finger under the folds of the baby’s chin.

  “I might have a job for you,” Edward said, turning his head slightly at the sounds of empty garbage cans being tossed by the sanitation workers outside. “If you really are as interested as you seem.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Mrs. Columbo looked over Edward’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of Boomer crossing the street. “Make it quick. Before Richie comes inside.”

  “You don’t want him to know?” Edward asked.

  “Not till I know,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Then, depending on what it is, we’ll see if he can handle it.”

  “It’s everything you say you’re looking for,” Edward said, checking the time on the wall clock. “Steady hours and a pretty good salary.”

  “What do I have to do?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

  “Come back tomorrow,” Edward said. “Without Richie. We’ll work out the details then.”

  “How about a hint?” Mrs. Columbo asked, throwing Edward her most alluring smile.

  “Do you like to fly?” Edward asked, smiling back at her, then standing to greet Boomer as he walked into the room.

  • • •

  PINS WAITED OUTSIDE Harry Saben’s Cleaners, watching as the blonde in the skintight leggings dropped off three of Saldo’s jackets and two of his slacks. He saw Harry, old and hunched from too many years behind a counter, fill out the work slip, his eyes more on the blonde’s cleavage than on the cut of Saldo’s clothes. The blonde took the slip, gave Harry a smile, and walked out of the store, heading east.

  “Good morning,” Pins said to Harry, closing the glass door behind him.

  “How may I help you?” Harry asked, traces of a childhood spent speaking Russian still in his voice.

  “It’s really about how I can help you,” Pins said. He reached into the side pocket of his windbreaker and flipped his detective’s shield.

  “You a cop?” Harry asked, squinting down at the badge through thick glasses.

  “I’m investigating a ring that’s ripping off designer labels,” Pins said. “I’m sure someone as experienced as yourself in the business knows the routine. Take a secondhand jacket, tag a designer label on it, sell it on the street for three times the price.”

  “I’ve heard of people doing things like that,” Harry said, nodding his head.

  “Then you know there’s a lot of money in it,” Pins said.

  “I imagine,” Harry said. “But what can I do?”

  Pins leaned closer to Harry and lowered his voice. “Can the department trust you?”

  “Yes,” Harry said, lowering his voice right back. “I’m very pro-police. I’d like to see a couple of thousand more of you out there.”

  Pins nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to take a chance.”

  “It’s not a chance,” Harry said. “Believe me, I’ll go to my grave with what you tell me.”

  “The blonde that was just here,” Pins said. “I’m sure you noticed her.”

  “Even at my age.”

  “She’s part of the ring,” Pins explained. “These clothes she left, they’re not designer clothes. They come out of some sweatshop in the Bronx.”

  Harry reached down and felt Saldo’s black Armani jacket. “It looks so real,” he said. “It even feels the way it should. The label’s in it and everything.”

  “I can get you a case of labels by this afternoon.” Pins reached over and grabbed Saldo’s clothes. “That’s the easiest part.”

  “Are you going to take those with you?” Harry asked with some concern.

  “Don’t worry,” Pins asked. “I’ll have them back to you by this afternoon, cleaned and pressed. When did you tell her they’d be ready?”

  “Six tonight,” Harry said.

  “Perfect.” Pins jammed the clothes under one arm and reached out a hand to Harry. “I appreciate all your help.”

  “It’s been my pleasure,” Harry said, smiling and shaking Pins’s hand.

  “I’ll see you in a few hours,” Pins said, heading for the door. “Is there anything the department can do for you?”

  “Is the place you’re having those cleaned a good one?” Harry asked, walking around the counter.

  “It’s a special cleaner,” Pins said. “Like running your clothes through a car wash.”

  “Then there is something you can do,” Harry said. “A small favor.”

  “What?” Pins asked.

  “I need to get a stain out of Mrs. Babcock’s black cocktail dress. I’ve put it through the wash three times and it’s still there. I don’t know what the hell she spilled on it, but I just can’t get it to come out. Maybe your place can give it a shot?”

  Pins smiled at Harry. “Get the dress,” he said. “I’ll bring it back to you like new.”

  “You’re the best,” Harry said, rushing to the back of the store for the dress.

  “I hope so,” Pins muttered.

  • • •

  GERONIMO WAS LIFTING a large cardboard Zenith television carton filled with wires and a rusty old air conditioner when he spotted the double-parked car. The black, late-model Lincoln was inched alongside a Toyota Corolla and a blue Renault, engine running, tinted windows up.

  Geronimo tossed the box into the back of the sanitation truck and shifted the crush gear, his eyes on the Lincoln. The lead man shifted the truck and moved it slowly up to the next hill of garbage. Geronimo walked in the shadows of the truck, his head down, his mouth inches from the collar of his work jacket.

  “That double-parked car doesn’t look right to me,” Geronimo whispered into the tiny microphone wired inside his collar. “You picking up anything from inside?”

  “Saldo’s in the backseat.” Geronimo heard the crisp sound of Pins’s crackling words come through his ear mike. The thin wires from the audio devices ran down his neck and into a small box taped to the center of his back. “He’s got two shooters with him, both in the front. All three carrying heavy.”

  Pins was parked on the north corner, dressed in the brown uniform of a Department of Transportation officer, behind the wheel of a battered tow truck.

  “Shooters always carry heavy,” Rev. Jim’s voice said through the mikes. “Why should these two be any different?” He was on his third set of windows, turning slightly to drop a squeegee into a bucket of water and pick up a hand towel.

  “Well, these two are out gunning for us,” Pins said. “Somebody’s tipped them. They know we’re sending a plant into the building. They just don’t know when or who.”

  “Do Boomer and Mrs. Columbo know?” Dead-Eye asked, crouched against the iron door leading from the roof to the top floor of the brownstone.

  “Their mikes are turned off,” Pins said. “It’s too risky otherwise.”

  “It’s your play, Dead-Eye,” Geronimo said. “We’ll walk it any way you want.”

  “Just make it fast,” Rev. Jim said. “I’m runnin’ outta water and windows.”

  “Pins, can you hear me?” Dead-Eye asked.


  “Got you,” Pins answered.

  “Back up into the block and tow that car out of there,” Dead-Eye told him. “Geronimo?”

  “I’m here,” Geronimo said, dragging a thick bag of garbage from the curb.

  “Back-up Pins,” Dead-Eye said. “Let’s try and do this clean. We don’t need a gunfight on the street. Rev. Jim?”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Get in here without too much noise,” Dead-Eye said. “Just in case I get jammed up.”

  “What about Boomer and Mrs. Columbo?” Pins asked.

  “They’ve got a job to do,” Dead-Eye said, “and so do we.”

  “And Saldo?” Geronimo asked. “How do we play him?”

  “Let him take the ride with the tow truck,” Dead-Eye said. “There’s a better chance he’ll run his mouth sitting in the car. Pins will let us know if he says anything we need to hear.”

  “Can Saldo’s wire pick me up when I get close?” Geronimo asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Pins said. “As soon as you touch the car, I’ll turn it off.”

  “Anything else?” Rev. Jim asked.

  “Yeah,” Dead-Eye said. “Stay alive.”

  Pins slammed the truck gears into reverse and backed the hook end close to the bumper of the Lincoln. The driver’s side window rolled down and an overweight man in wraparound sunglasses stuck his head out.

  “What’s up, asshole?” he said in a Spanish accent, watching Pins lift a large wooden slab and place it under the front tires of the Lincoln.

  “You’re double-parked,” Pins said. “That’s illegal.”

  “I’m in the car,” the driver said. “I can move it.”

  “You should have thought of that before,” Pins said. “Once the wood’s down, the job’s a done deal.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” the driver said, his face red with anger. “You don’t have to tow anybody anywhere. I’ll move the fuckin’ car.”

  “The wood’s down,” Pins said. “You can’t move it once the wood’s down.”

  “Fuck you and the wood,” the driver said.

  The middle of the garbage truck stopped right next to the Lincoln. Geronimo approached from the passenger end, his hands down by his sides, one holding a semiautomatic, a silencer attached to the muzzle. He gave two hard knuckle taps on the passenger window. The window buzzed halfway down, letting out miniclouds of smoke, most of it wrapped around the face of a man in light-colored clothing.