Ask the Dice (22 page)

"The Eze brothers I just did were
Baltimore
's enforcers."

Mr. Ogg coughed a little. "How's that again?"

"I recognized them only after it was too late. They were the Eze brothers."

"Tough shit. They encroached on my turf, and that's the penalty they pay."

"Don't you need to get a green light from
Baltimore
before whacking their guys even if they go rogue? Or at least give
Baltimore
the option to deal with them?"

"You're right, of course. This muddies the water."

"Luckily I've got a solution. Suppose they just vanish?
Baltimore
will grouse, but no corpses will turn up to bite us later in the ass."

"Yeah, I like that. A lot, in fact. Sharp thinking, Tommy Mack. No bodies, no harm, and no foul."

Of course,
Baltimore
would hold me, not Mr. Ogg, responsible for the unauthorized hit on two of their guys. I’d realize later that wasn't too smart of me. "Right, right. Just give me a little direction on the corpse disposal," I said.

"Concrete."

"Say what?"

"Deep six the two dead Eze scrotes in a concrete tomb. By the time any pneumatic drills bust out their DNA, you and I will be long gone from the scene."

"Concrete. Sweet. You got a such tomb in mind?"

"Yep. Down the pike from me, the city is replacing the bridge. The construction manager owes me a solid. When I get off here, I'll give him a heads up. Cart the stiffs over there. But first wrap them in sheets of black plastic tied up good and tight for dumping when the tin-hatters pour concrete tomorrow morning."

"Doing that in broad daylight is dicey."

"The manager—his name is Greenblatt, by the way—knows how to do it. Just deliver the bundles tonight, and he'll take care of the rest."

I chuckled, no humor. "No fuss, no muss."

"Do it fast before the cops make the house into a crime scene, and our lives get complicated."

A bit later found me rolling up both Eze brothers—they stank of feces and urine—into the black plastic sheets like giant enchiladas. I glimpsed a spooky view into my own future. What if I messed it up bad enough and took first place on Mr. Ogg's shit list? The reason why was moot. He'd order a faithful torpedo (paid like I was being here) to kill and dump me in the concrete pylon to a street bridge. I'd meet an inglorious end, and my stiff left where I'd become the butt of gangsters' jokes like Hoffa was now. Sick of the “what-ifs,” I refocused on my present task.

I reversed the coupé into the Eze brothers' carport, keyed open the trunk lid, and heaved in each cocooned stiff, bogging down the rear leaf springs. Then I made it over to the rebuilt bridge and slanted in behind a Russian-made backhoe.

A man drawing down on a cherry-tipped cigar moseyed over to the grainy light toward me. My fingers groped to unlimber the tire iron I kept next to my seat. He waved to show he was a friendly. My fist relaxed my grip on the tire iron as he exhaled smoke near the window I'd powered down. He side-armed away the sparky butt, coughed into his fist, and rasped at me.

"Cold as a nun's cunt out here."

"Thanks for the weather report."

"Funny. Did you bring the parcels from Mr. Ogg?"

“Are you Greenblatt?”

“Warts and all.”

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "In the trunk."

"Then break the parcels out."

"Not so rambunctious," I said. "What are the chances the parcels will bob to the top and lay out in plain view of the motorists crossing the bridge?"

"I got tomorrow's forecast, and the sun should be warm enough. We'll pour, and they'll lay entombed in cured solid concrete. Nothing short of an atomic bomb blast will ever pop them out."

"Does the concrete seal in the stink raised by their stiffs?"

"None of the other stiffs we've buried in concrete created any problems."
"Right answer since if they're ever found, I'll see to it that you're buried in your own

concrete grave—alive."

"Okay, Mister Hard Ass, I hear you. Do you want to lend me a hand lifting the parcels from your trunk?"

"Let's have at it," I said, ranging out of the coupé. “You can grab the shitty end.”

Chapter 25

T
he pager on my belt chittered while I was hammering the coupé along the Beltway. I'd forgotten the pager, and D. Noble stirred from drowsing and tilted his head at me.

"You got a mouse squeak there, home slice."

"I heard it. I'm not deaf."

"Do you want me to grab it?"

"No, I'll pull off at the next exit ramp."

"Who beeps you?"

"Mr. Ogg and his niece are the only ones on this pager."

"Hit him on my cell phone."

"Too many eavesdroppers."

"There's encryption."

"Who told you that fairy tale?"

I barreled off the Beltway, checked my pager, and saw it was not Mr. Ogg but the lovely Rita. I slowed down on a street hemmed in by shoddy strip malls, not a fruitful hunting ground to flush out a coin phone.

"This is ridiculous," said Danny, now with us. "Just use a cell phone."

"Wasted breath," said D. Noble. "Home slice is a vain throwback. He clings to his manual typewriter, black-and-white TV, and transistor radio. I can't budge him to get with modern times, and it's driving me batty."

Danny placed her firm hand on my shoulder. "I think you'll do okay on the cell phone. Make your call, and I'll coach you through it."

I had an urge to shake off her grasp and tell them both to go pound sand. Instead I wrested the pager from off my belt. "Here, dial the number on your cell phone. When it rings, fork it over to me."

"I'll show you how to connect."

"Cell phones aren't completely alien to me," I said. "The sales associates have given me store demonstrations since I knew I'd have to use one at some point."

"Impressive," said D. Noble as Danny input the number she took from my pager. I accepted the cell phone from her and greeted Rita.

"Tommy Mack, where are you?"

"Dumb question."

"No it isn't. That's why we've been trying to get a hold of you. Get this: the police have arrested Gwen's killer."

"Who gave up this chump to the cops?"
"The police ID'ed his prints from their database. Gutt is his name. Uncle Watson says

he was her blackmailer, too."

"Did Detective Sergeant Bang make the arrest?"

"Who cares? Her killer is in jail, and that's the main thing."

"So now it's all forgive and forget when before I was only good for landfill fodder?"

"Why do I get this snotty attitude? This news changes everything."

"Does it? You might think so but not me. Why was Gutt extorting Gwen? What smut did he have on her? Was she slutting around again?"

"Hey, that's my little sister. Be careful what you say."

"Anyways, we let bygones be bygones. The problem with that scenario is I get two in the head like Gwen did. Then my stiff gets chucked into a concrete vault out in the nowhere 'burbs."

"I feel sorry for you, Tommy Mack. Your paranoia has made you bitter."

"Yeah, nice gabbing with you, too." I punched out our link. "Stupid bitch."

"What was that shit about, home slice?"

"Rita claims the cops have busted Gwen's killer. Gutt was also her blackmailer."

"So, you're back to being Mr. Ogg's blue-eyed boy, and life turns sweet again."

"Not only that but she wants us to meet."

"After the kiss and make up, you leave zipped up in a body bag."

I nodded. "That's how I see it, too."

Danny jumped in with a pragmatic point. "It wouldn't hurt to check if she's being straight with you."

"How so?" I asked.

"Call up your cop friend," she replied. "Ask him if the arrest is for real."

"Me talk to Bang? But hey, you know what? I like it. Get me the police."

"Not on a cell phone," she said. "The police can triangulate your position by using the satellites, so this time you're better off by using a coin phone."

"Good idea."

Old
Yvor
City
lolled at the bewitching hour. This long night had kept us trapped in the coupé, scatting from hither to yon. D.C. was a big ass city to hide in, and as I saw it, our remaining on the lam upped our chances to dodge bullets. In 2002, the D.C. snipers Malvo and Mohammad had illustrated how frenetic mobility could elude a vigorous manhunt. The assholes had tooled around in a roached out sedan free as an April breeze for three gruesome weeks. My conclusion was fugitives like me on the lam stayed alive, but they got squashed if they went to ground and stopped moving.

The nearest coin phone was at a 24-hour drugstore. I nested us in the streetside shadows, threw on the emergency brake, and headed into the drugstore. My glance took in a tall cashier, her jet eyes dogging me back to the old-fashion phone booth just off from the pharmacy counter. My follow up glance back saw her raising a cell phone to her ear and mouth.

A déjà vu moment electrified me. She knew me or about me, but the ominous dread by the next instant had faded, and I thought my hyperawareness was screwing with my head in a bad way. I darted into the phone booth, flumped down on the corner seat and fished out two quarters, but I found no damn phone directory. Cursing, I returned up front and asked the tall cashier. She took her sweet time searching under the counter for the directory before handing it over to me. Back inside the phone booth, I dialed the Old Yvor City PD HQ, and not the direct number I wanted. After getting transferred three times and one hang up, I finally got with Detective Sergeant Bang.

"You've got some balls, Zane. I'll give you that much. Where are you?"

"Never mind. My grapevine tells me you made a big collar for Gwen Ogg's homicide."

"Then your grapevine is running haywire. You're still our prime suspect. Make it easier and surrender now."

"I'm not guilty. Just listen to me. What if I give you her actual killer?"

"Your credibility is on thin ice."

I ignored his cop cynicism. "I'm asking if I also hand over the right proof, will that be enough for you to call your attack dogs off me?"

"Such compelling evidence might—just
might
—alter the focus of our investigation. Be more specific."

"Not yet. You'll soon get it all."

"Jerking me around, Zane, is a dangerous idea."

"I'm being serious here. Deal or not?"

"Let's see what you've got, and if it turns out to be solid as you claim it is, we'll take it from there. Best deal I can for do for you."

"Then be up for my call."

As I replaced the phone handset, a corky pock noise lifted my eyes to see a spider-webbed bullet hole drilled through the booth's clear plastic panel. Huh? Startled, I was used to seeing the bullet holes
after
I pulled the trigger and punched them, but I hadn't squeezed any triggers. The gunshot's thunder crashed on my ears. Somebody had fired aiming this way, trapping me in the phone booth like fish in a barrel.

Adrenaline juiced me to roll hard off the corner seat, my shoulder striking the collapsible booth door to vee apart. My forward momentum hurled me out and scrabbling over the tile floor. The next bullet whirred by me, fanning my temple. Bushmaster .223 used to hunt big game, if I knew my gunfire acoustics. I didn't get a clear glimpse at who’d slated me to be their road kill.

I hunkered behind that desk you sit in to check your blood pressure. Short of yanking a frag grenade out of my ass to lob up front and take out the shooter, I calculated my odds as bleak. I'd no piece. I doubted if D. Noble and Danny out in the coupé had heard the gunshots. The next volley flaming out its death slug grazed a tunnel across the skin on my wrist. The flesh wound burned like a hot brand. Just then a bebop tune skittered into my consciousness—Bird was blowing it up-tempo—and it added to my chaos until a solution cleared my thoughts.
Improvisation, Tommy Mack. All that's jazz can be used here
.
Grab what's at hand, press it into a weapon, and rub out this blood-crazed cretin, or else this will be your last gig.