Apaches

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “We break a garbage law now too?” the man asked with mild irritation.

  The man behind the wheel punched the dashboard repeatedly, his anger at full throttle. He had pockmarked cheeks and hair the color of straw hanging down the sides of his face. “I hate this fuckin’ city,” he shouted. “Take a look at who’s giving us shit. A fuckin’ tow-truck driver and a garbage man.”

  “Do you know you have to pass a test to get this job?” Geronimo said.

  “I don’t give a fuck!” the driver screamed.

  Geronimo leaned his head into the car, looking beyond the two men in the front, staring into the darkness of the backseat, where Saldo sat quietly through the commotion.

  “You’re all going to take a ride to the pound,” Geronimo said to Saldo. “Believe me, you’ll like it. You can roll down your windows and take in the water view. It’s a better place for you to be than here. Have I painted a clear enough picture?”

  Saldo nodded, his eyes and manner indifferent.

  “You’re no fuckin’ garbage man,” the driver said.

  Geronimo shrugged. “I couldn’t pass the test.”

  “What are you then?” the man in the front asked.

  “He’s a cop,” Saldo said. “They’re both cops.”

  “Cops?” the man behind the wheel said. “The tow-truck driver too?”

  “A lot of us have to work two jobs,” Geronimo said.

  “Say the word,” the driver said, looking into the rearview at Saldo. “We’ll take these fuckers out right here and now.”

  Geronimo lifted his hand and showed them the gun. “Let’s not be stupid,” he said to Saldo. “They make a move on me and I move on you and we both know it’s not worth it. So stick to the plan and enjoy the ride.”

  Saldo stared into Geronimo’s dark eyes, feeling the front end of the car start to tilt upward.

  “We stay with the car,” he said to the two men in the front.

  “It’s been nice talking to you,” Geronimo told him.

  “I hope we get to do it again,” Saldo said. “Soon.”

  Geronimo backed away from the car, the two men in the front staring angrily at Pins as he lifted the car into tow position.

  “Kill the engine, please,” Pins said to them.

  “I’d like to fuckin’ kill you first,” the driver said.

  “Hey, I’m nervous as it is,” Pins said with an innocent smile. “I’ve never towed a car before. I would hate to lose you guys on the highway.”

  • • •

  THE THICK WOODEN door to the four-story brownstone swung halfway open, the brass knob held by a large man in charcoal-gray slacks and red suspenders draped over a black shirt. His eyes narrowed as he watched the commotion around the Lincoln. He moved his free hand to the small of his back, fingers wrapping themselves around the handle of a .32 short Colt. He saw the DOT man chain the car and lift it. The two men in the front were exchanging angry gestures while Saldo’s shadow sat motionless in the back. He eased the Colt out of its holster and released the safety.

  “I’m done,” Rev. Jim said, jumping down from one of the window ledges to the front of the door well, blocking the man’s view. “Now for the fun part. Getting paid.”

  “Outta my fuckin’ eyes,” the man hissed at Rev. Jim, the gun held against the side of his right leg.

  “You ain’t anything special to look at either,” Rev. Jim said with a smile, holding his work pail, half filled with water, in his left hand. “You hand me the thirty bucks for the job and I’ll turn invisible.”

  The man looked at Rev. Jim and lifted the gun in his hand to chest level. “Get the fuck outta here,” the man told him. “Now.”

  Rev. Jim held the smile on his face. “They’re only windows,” he said, turning his back on the man with the gun, still blocking his view with his body. He then swung the pail high above his shoulder and crashed it down against the side of the man’s head. The man fell backward into the entryway, out cold, his gun falling to the floor. Rev. Jim stepped into the building and quickly dragged the man into the hall, locking the door behind them.

  “We’re in,” Rev. Jim said into his mike.

  “Who the hell’s we?” Dead-Eye asked.

  “Just a friend I bumped into,” Rev. Jim said.

  • • •

  DEAD-EYE STOOD WITH his back to the flowered paper of the hall wall, his two guns crisscrossed over his chest. He listened as the three men in the room to his right griped about the long hours they were forced to work in return for low pay and small chance for advancement. Dead-Eye took two steps to the side and braced both his feet against the doorway entry, guns now held out at waist level. The men looked up and chose not to move.

  “If you’re looking for money, you’re on the wrong floor,” the one with a thick, dark beard and shaved head announced.

  “I heard,” Dead-Eye said.

  “This is an adoption agency,” said the biggest of the three, a tall, middle-aged man dressed in a long-sleeved olive shirt and tan slacks. “You come here for babies, not for bucks.”

  “I came for your guns,” Dead-Eye said, walking into the room. “Pull ’em out slow and slide them on the floor over to me, butt end first.”

  “We’ll find you, man,” the last of the three, young, with a bushy mustache and slight lisp, threatened. “We’ll hunt you down and burn you.”

  “I lead a really boring life,” Dead-Eye said. “Sounds like you’d bring a little spark to it. Now the guns.”

  The men lifted their weapons from their holsters, bent their legs, and slid the guns over. The revolvers scraped against the hardwood floors, coming to rest near Dead-Eye’s boots.

  “That’s only three,” Dead-Eye said.

  “How many of us do you see?” the one with the beard asked.

  “I see pros,” Dead-Eye said. “Guys paid salaries to kill on orders. Those guys carry more than one.”

  “Maybe we ain’t as good as you think, spook,” the one with the lisp said. “Maybe we’re just startin’ out. Not as smart as we should be.”

  Dead-Eye wasn’t listening.

  He was looking at the eyes of the third man, the one in the dark designer suit and black button-down shirt. The eyes that told him everything he needed to know.

  There was someone standing behind him, ready to do some damage.

  • • •

  BOOMER HELD THE baby with both hands and watched him as he cooed and smiled. Mrs. Columbo rummaged through a large fake leather handbag open on her lap, looking for a tissue. With one hand she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Her other hand stayed in the purse, holding her .38 caliber.

  “I really hate to give up on the little guy,” Boomer said. “It’s tough knowing I’ll never see him again.”

  Edward responded in the most professional of tones. “He’ll be living in a good home. That I can assure you.”

  Boomer looked down at the baby, then across at Edward. “You’re sure about that, right?”

  “Our lists are made up of the best people in need of a baby.” Edward was growing impatient with Boomer’s unending stream of questions. “This child will go to private schools, travel to Europe, and live a life that wouldn’t be open to him living with you and your wife.”

  “Listen to the man, honey,” Mrs. Columbo urged Boomer. “He’s making sense here.”

  “All right,” Boomer said, handing the baby back to Mrs. Columbo. “Just one more question. You answer that one and we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

  “All right, then,” Edward said, pleased that they were nearing the end. “One more question.”

  Boomer leaned across the desk, bracing his knees against its wood exterior, his arms and chest resting close enough to smell traces of Edward’s expensive French cologne. “Do I have your word on what you just told me?” Boomer asked.

  “Honey, please,” Mrs. Columbo said. “You’re insulting the man.”

  “I don’t mean it the wrong way,” Boomer said to Edward. “I just wan
t to be sure. You can understand the way I feel.”

  “Yes, of course I understand,” Edward said, eager to get them both out of his office. “And you do have my word. Everything I’ve told you is true.”

  “Then I guess you got yourself a baby,” Boomer said, pushing his chair back and standing.

  “What’s our next step?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

  “It’s very simple, really,” Edward said, his voice calm and in control. “You hand me the baby and I hand you some money and we all walk away.”

  “How much?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

  “I usually pay six hundred,” Edward said. “But you’ve caught me on a soft day. I’ll make it a thousand.”

  “A thousand dollars?” Mrs. Columbo said, wide smile on her face. “Richie, did you hear? He’s giving us a thousand.”

  “That’s great, honey,” Boomer said, looking out the window over Edward’s shoulder, seeing the Lincoln being towed away.

  “That’s more than we made all of last month,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I can’t thank you enough, Eddie.”

  Edward opened the central drawer of his desk, pulled out an envelope, and counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills. He handed them to Boomer, who folded them and shoved them into the front pocket of his jeans.

  “I left the diapers and clothes in the trunk of my car,” Boomer said. “Want me to go and get them?”

  “That won’t be at all necessary,” Edward said. “We’re fully stocked.”

  “Then there’s nothing left to do but leave,” Boomer said. He leaned down and kissed the baby curled in Mrs. Columbo’s arms. “I’ll wait outside,” he said to her, keeping his head down and walking toward the door. “Don’t take too long.”

  “Won’t be more than a minute,” Mrs. Columbo said.

  She waited for the door to close before she stood and handed the baby over to Edward. He reached for him and held him face forward on his lap.

  “You’re not going to forget me, now, are you?” she asked Edward.

  Edward shook his head no. “I’ll call as soon as there’s a slot for you.”

  “Can you make it quick?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “I’m real eager to get started. We really need the money.”

  “I just gave your husband a thousand dollars,” Edward said.

  “You kidding me?” Mrs. Columbo said. “With the bills we got, I’m lucky that’ll last us through the weekend.”

  Edward stared at her, smiled, and nodded. “Do you mind working nights?” he asked.

  “You’re holding the only thing that kept me home,” Mrs. Columbo said, pointing to the baby in Edward’s arms.

  “Take the baby for a moment,” Edward said, holding out the child. “I need to look up something on the computer.”

  Mrs. Columbo took the baby and stood over Edward’s shoulder. He clicked on the IBM at the side of his desk and watched it chart down a list of names and destinations. He hit a few buttons, leaned back in his chair, and smiled. “Have you ever been to Maine?” he asked.

  “No,” Mrs. Columbo said. “But I always wanted to go there.”

  “You’ll be going tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve just logged you in. Someone will call you and tell you what time to be at the airport. You’ll be met there by a woman. She’ll tell you what to do.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you,” Mrs. Columbo said in a seductive manner, handing Edward back the baby.

  Edward picked up on it, gazing at her legs and holding the smile. “I’m sure between the two of us, we’ll come up with something interesting,” he said.

  “I know we will,” Mrs. Columbo said. She leaned down and kissed the baby good-bye, resting one hand on Edward’s shoulder.

  “We’ll speak again soon,” Edward said.

  “I’ll be by my phone,” Mrs. Columbo said, opening the door leading to the foyer. “Waiting.”

  • • •

  DEAD-EYE SAW THE shadow behind him lift a hand holding a gun. He rolled over on the hardwood floor and came up on his knees, surprised to see that it was a woman standing there, one of the mules from the other room. He had his gun aimed at her chest but didn’t fire. Instead, he watched Rev. Jim come up behind her, grab her around the neck, and pull the gun out of her hand.

  Dead-Eye turned and whirled back to the three men behind him, getting to them before they had a chance to pull out their stash guns.

  “Everything cool?” he said to Rev. Jim.

  “Like ice,” Rev. Jim answered, shoving the mule into the room. “But what do we do with the Three Stooges?”

  “Have the mule help you find some rope,” Dead-Eye said. “We’ll tie and gag the whole bunch and go out through the roof exit.”

  “Boomer’s already on the street,” Rev. Jim said. “Mrs. Columbo’s the only one still in.”

  “She’ll be out soon,” Dead-Eye said. “And so will we.”

  “Which means I’m the only one who got screwed,” Rev. Jim said.

  “How you figure that?” Dead-Eye asked.

  “I cleaned all their windows,” Rev. Jim said. “And never got to see a nickel.”

  “People always take advantage of the handicapped,” Dead-Eye said. “Get used to it.”

  • • •

  BOOMER AND MRS. Columbo walked with their arms linked toward the car parked at the corner.

  “We can’t leave that prick in there with that baby for too long,” Mrs. Columbo said, hatred in her voice.

  “Pins put in a call downtown while you were still up there showing off your legs,” Boomer said. “Edward’s going to be taken down in about half an hour.”

  “You should have an undercover team on sight until the others show,” Mrs. Columbo said.

  “The two guys in suits across the street,” Boomer said. “They’ll make sure nobody runs in or out.”

  “Good work,” she said.

  “I try,” Boomer said.

  “I’m on their list,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I leave for Maine tomorrow night. A woman’s supposed to meet me at the airport.”

  “We’ll have somebody meet her first,” Boomer said.

  “I told you my plan would work, Boomer,” Mrs. Columbo said, beaming. “Admit it. You wouldn’t have thought of this. You probably would have just gone in there and shot up the place.”

  “I’m limited in what I can do,” Boomer said, reaching for his car keys. “And I don’t think Eddie would have been as interested in my legs.”

  • • •

  LUCIA STOOD IN the center of the airport hangar, her back to the black Learjet. She was surrounded by eleven armed men. They were all young and brazen and were led by a tall man with a shaved head that gleamed under the glare of the hangar lights.

  His name was Wilber Graves.

  A thin, long-haired assistant in jeans, black polo shirt, and black pumps handed each of the men manila packets filled with background information on the Apaches—photos, home addresses, dates of birth. The men took the folders and kept their eyes focused on Lucia, dressed seductively in a black knit halter top, thigh-high skirt, and open-toed black pumps.

  “There are seven names in the folder,” she said, her eyes moving from face to face with mannered ease. “They are to be handled.”

  “How soon?” Wilber asked, standing behind Lucia, his voice a deep baritone.

  “As soon as you find out what they know about us.” She answered without turning to look at him.

  “Are you suspending operations until we finish the job?” Wilber asked.

  “No,” Lucia said. “All cargo still moves.”

  “Don’t let these people worry you,” Wilber said in a voice filled with confidence.

  “I don’t let anything worry me,” Lucia said, stepping closer to Wilber, watching as his blue eyes scanned the length of her body. “I let other people worry. People like you, Wilber.”

  “I won’t disappoint you,” he said.

  “That’s good to know,” Lucia said.

  Lucia walked away, her thin heels cl
icking against the thick cement floor. Wilber and his team watched her go, waiting for the Learjet to be fueled and take them toward their date with the Apaches.

  16

  MRS. COLUMBO SMILED over at her husband, Joe, as she piled an armful of clothes into a tan overnight bag. He was resting on the bed, hands behind his head, a paperback novel open across his chest.

  “How’s the book?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

  “You haven’t read it, have you?” Joe asked. “You know how I hate when you tell me how things end.”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “I haven’t read it.”

  “It’s pretty good,” he told her. “In fact, I think with this one, even you would have a hard time guessing the ending.”

  “What’s the plot?” she asked, folding her clothes neatly into the bag.

  “People are found dead at a big research hospital,” Joe said, sitting up in the bed. “No one can figure it. They come in for a simple operation. They come out a corpse.”

  “It’s probably somebody who works for the hospital,” Mrs. Columbo said with a shrug. “What kind of research do they do?”

  “Mary, I’m begging you.” Joe clasped his hands together. “Let me have just this one book. Let me get to the end and not know.”

  “What kind of research?” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Cancer,” Joe said, resigned to his fate.

  “The head administrator,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Tell me about him.”

  “Straightforward and honest,” Joe said. “Cares about the hospital and the people who work there. You’re off base if you think it’s him.”

  “Was the administrator a surgeon before he quit to run the hospital?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

  “I suppose,” Joe said. “I have to go back and double-check.”

  “That’s your man,” Mrs. Columbo said, standing and walking over toward a bureau. “And your killer.”

  Joe stared at his wife, trying to fight the temptation to pick up the book. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and went to the last chapter.