Chasers (21 page)

“There’s no reason we can think of that would make us want to kill them,” Boomer said, smiling and snapping his gun back into his hip holster. “I mean, why the hell would we? Those two guys in that car are going to hand over all their money to a friend of ours and—this is my favorite part of the whole episode—one of them, not sure yet which, is even going to take our dog for a walk. Why would we want to shoot anybody who does all that for us, just for the asking?”

The two hitters looked at Boomer and Dead-Eye and then turned toward the far corner of Jackson Avenue, their eyes on the late-model black Cadillac doing an idle spin in the middle lane of a Mobil gas station. “If they do end up doing even a thin slice of that,” the taller man said, “you won’t need to shoot me or my partner. Just hand over your gun and let us pump the bullets into each other. Better to go out that way than with Angel having at us.”

“Why die if you can lie?” Dead-Eye said.

“I don’t follow,” the taller man said.

“There’s a shocker,” Boomer said.

“Let me A, B, and C it for you,” Dead-Eye said. “But first I need one or two answers to one or two questions, and I need them heart-attack fast, before that Caddy moves away from that station and that lady and her dog make their play.”

The two men gave each other a quick glance and an even quicker nod. “What do you need to know?” the taller man asked, looking from Boomer to Dead-Eye.

“The duo in the Caddy,” Boomer said. “You laid eyeballs on them before, or they on you?”

“Wouldn’t know them if they died in my arms,” the taller man said. “We were supposed to hand the keys to the van over to two dudes in a black Caddy and they would toss out a loaded suitcase. That’s all we were told, and that’s the full run of what we were going to do.”

“Either one of you deals with Angel face-to-face, or is it all worked through the ranks?” Dead-Eye asked.

The taller man pointed to the young man standing several feet to his right. “Manuel has met him,” he said. “I saw him once, from a distance. I like it better that way.”

“How good a liar would you say you are, Manuel?” Dead-Eye asked. “And tell
me
the truth.”

“I can bullshit better than most, but if you’re asking about Angel, then that’s a whole other religion,” Manuel said. “You try a line on him and he can smell it out even before the words get past your teeth.”

“This his first deal with the two in the Caddy?” Boomer asked. “Or he trade powder for cash with them before?”

“First one I been a part of, that much I can sell you,” Manuel said. “But from the way they acting, and the way this was all set to go down, it has that blind-date feel to it.”

“Then Angel has more reason to trust you and not them,” Boomer said. “Now, it’s what you two do with that level of trust that will be the difference between a forgive-and-forget and your bodies ending up under the expressway.”

“You want us to tell Angel they double-dealt us—that the ride you want me and Manuel to get on?” the taller man asked.

“That’s it, hard on the head,” Dead-Eye said. “They got the drop on you, kept the cash, and took the van and all the goodies inside. If you’re guilty of anything, it’s of not being in gear for a betray move. Now, Angel might well be pissed about that, no doubt. But not as steam angry as he will be at being taken off by a crew he trusted. You two flowing with this, or am I moving at warp speed?”

“We hear you,” Manuel said. “You two are invisible. You take the dope and the cash and walk from it clean. Let Angel and the other crew have a dustup about it, each calling out the other.”

“It’s all one big fucking lie festival,” Dead-Eye said. “There won’t be a word of truth passing across anybody’s lips.”

“The big question is still left to hang out there,” Manuel said. “Why the fuck should we lift finger one to let you walk, leaving us with empty hands looking up at an out-for-blood-and-bone Angel?”

“If it were just about that, then that’s a question with a slam-dunk answer,” Boomer said. “But what we’re putting out for you to grab has everything to do with keeping you alive. Because no matter what else happens, we’re going to get clean away with it, cash and dope in our back pockets. And if we find ourselves with a little extra time, we might even cash out the van.”

“If Angel don’t bite down on what we have to tell him, if we get off on poor feet from the first step, then we’re looking at the inside of a meat grinder for sure,” the younger man said, sweat now forming on his forehead and his upper lip. “And I don’t know if I got it in me to sell a man like him a box of wolf tickets.”

“Then you’ll both die,” Boomer said. “Which was going to happen anyway, however you decide to turn the wheel. I figure if you follow our map, you might be able to buy yourself a little bit of time.”

“We’re not giving you any late-breaking news here,” Dead-Eye said. “You walked into a line of work that doesn’t come with any pension plans or golden parachutes. The only way out for you is with a cold bullet on a warm night. You want to live to see grandkids, go sell life insurance or old cars.”

“The same holds true for the two of you?” Manuel asked.

“Everybody dies in this game, player,” Boomer said. “There are no survivors.”

Stephanie walked up to the black Cadillac, approaching the driver’s side, Buttercup walking leash-free beside her. She smiled at the heavyset man sitting behind the wheel of the car, which was parked next to the gas-station entrance. “Why does a sweet flower like you keep time with a big, ugly dog like that?” he asked, his smile showing a thick line of crooked brown teeth. “You should have a poodle or one of those little shits look like rats.”

“She’s my partner,” Stephanie said. “We split it all down the middle, fifty-fifty.”

“Give me a for instance,” the man behind the wheel said.

“All you need to do is name it—from Mama’s meat loaf to the mortgage, we slice it up and share,” Stephanie said, looking from the heavyset man to Buttercup and nodding at the dog as she circled toward the passenger side of the Caddy, which was still idling. “In point of fact, there’s nothing that comes to mind that we don’t do a fair share on. And that includes any money that might cross our path, whether earned or lifted.”

The heavyset man sat up in his thick leather seat, his left hand instinctively reaching for the semi that was holstered against his rib cage. The man sitting in the passenger seat had a handgun resting loose across his lap, the fingers of his right hand gently tapping the thick barrel. He was looking up at Stephanie, her figure half shielded by the light rain, and ignoring Buttercup, who had by now inched toward his side of the car. “Thanks for sharing your shit with us, girlfriend,” the heavyset man said, the smile now gone. “But I heard all I want to hear. So no need to let us stop you and your fat, ugly friend from getting to where you need to get.”

“Buttercup doesn’t like to be called fat, and I can’t imagine she’d wrap her paws around ugly, either,” Stephanie said. “I don’t know any lady that would.”

“I give a fuck what your dog likes or doesn’t like to be called,” the heavyset man said, his voice rising a few decibels. “Now you both get the fuck away from the car, this gas station, and this street. And the faster you do it the better I’ll feel about it.”

Stephanie leaned in closer to the car. “That’s not a problem,” she said, her eyes hard on the heavyset man. “Just as soon as you hand over that black bag in the back seat we’ll be on our way. No fuss, no muss.”

The man on the passenger side had braced his back against the car door, the gun now in his right hand and pointed at Stephanie. The heavyset man stared at Stephanie, watching her curl her fingers across the edge of the car panel, her body relaxed and at ease. “Gas station is no place for a pretty woman to die,” he said to her with a slow shake of his head. “And die you will if you don’t fucking move away from my car.”

“I can’t leave without the money,” Stephanie said. “After all, a girl and a dog need to eat.”

Stephanie and the heavyset man held their look for several long seconds. The man on the passenger side slid his body closer, his leather jacket making a squeaking sound as it brushed against the thick upholstery. At the other end of the car, Buttercup braced her body for a jump, her muscles silent and still, spring-coiled and ready for the action she had learned to crave.

Stephanie dived to the ground as soon as she heard the click of the gun, hammer moving against the cylinder. A bullet zoomed past her and blew a small hole in a large black garbage bin. A second shot rattled off a block of cement, inches from the base of a high-test gas pump. The latch on the driver’s side snapped open and the heavyset man put one foot to the ground. Stephanie pulled a switchblade from a leather band wrapped around her right wrist, snapped it open, and jumped to her feet, six-inch blade poised to penetrate skin.

“Will you stop pumping out bullets like a blind fuckin’ sniper, Malo?” the heavyset man shouted to the man in the passenger seat. “Do you fuckin’ see me here or no, you retarded bastard?”

“I thought you wanted me to take her out, you fat fool,” Malo said. “And you know I was keeping an eye out for you, which is why I missed her ass twice. You were twenty-five pounds lighter, bitch be bleeding.”

“Let me worry about this bitch,” the heavyset man said, stepping out of the car. “You just make sure you take care of the foamy-mouth bitch she came in with.”

Malo swung the passenger door open and eased his legs out, gun still in his right hand, feet firm on the grease-stained ground. Buttercup caught him at chest level, pushing him back inside the car, her massive paws fast-squeezing the air out of his lungs, her hot, arid breath heavy on the man’s face. Malo struggled to lift his gun hand up and put the barrel against Buttercup’s side. The dog pressed her weight down on him even harder and then opened her jaw and clamped down hard on his neck, causing thick lines of blood to gush out of his wild-pulsing veins. Malo’s eyes locked onto Buttercup’s, filled with both fright and a maddening frenzy, as he felt the warm blood flow. The gun fell from his fingers, and his legs turned light as feather dust without any sense of feel. Buttercup held her position, waiting for her latest prey to surrender the quick.

The heavyset man was lighter on his feet than he appeared, doing a catlike pounce from the car to behind one of the gas-station pumps, knees bent, gun at the ready. He didn’t flinch or turn when he heard the turmoil in the front seat of the car between Buttercup and his gunman, Malo. “Fuckin’ loser,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t even take out a fuckin’ dog bigger than a billboard. If that bowser doesn’t finish his ass off, I sure as shit will.”

He clenched when he heard a sneakered foot touch a thick spot of grease and he did a full circle around, his trigger finger ready for a pump-and-dump.

He never got off a round.

The knife blade caught him at chest level and penetrated bone, muscle, tissue, veins, arteries. He couldn’t speak and let the gun fall to his feet. His eyes bulged, white spittle mixed with blood rushed down both sides of his mouth. He leaned against one of the gas pumps, his breath coming in slow bursts, his body sliding down the edge of the greasy tank, his elbows knocking aside the black rubber hose and nozzle. “You won’t live to wear anything you spend that money on,” he rasped.

“Not a problem,” Stephanie said to him, turning her back. “I’m not planning on spending one cent of it.”

“What, then?” the heavyset man asked.

“I’m going to burn it,” Stephanie said.

She snapped her fingers and waited as Buttercup ran to her side. She went over to the car, checked the bleeder in the front seat, opened the rear door, and looked into the thick black bag, stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. She pulled a red cylinder out of the rear pocket of her jeans, snapped down on a black button, and tossed it into the car. Then she and Buttercup turned and crossed Jackson Avenue, leaving two dying men in their wake.

They were two corners down when an explosion tore the car to shreds, sent the gas pumps hurtling into the air, and transformed the area into an inferno. “Lesson to be learned there?” Stephanie said to Buttercup. “Don’t ever play with fire.”

10

Angel slammed his fist down on the hand-carved desk. “What the fuck am I running here?” he shouted to the group of six men, one from each of his respective crews. “A van filled with high-end dope disappears and cash meant for my pockets is left in the back of a car, burning like wood on a winter night. And the doers, so far as any genius in this room can ascertain, belong to no gang we’ve ever heard of. And not even the two bright bulbs who survived the take-and-bake can finger them. Did I ace that quiz?”

“We’ll find out who they are and where they are, don’t worry,” one of the men, the youngest of the six, finally said. “All we need is a little more time. The job just happened a day ago; we have to get people in place to get the answers we need.”

Angel stared silently at the young man for a few moments. “Your name is what again?” he asked.

“Ramon,” the young man said. “I used to run for you in the old country. I was an altar boy back in the day. Remember?”

Angel reached under his desk and came up with a black semiautomatic clutched in his right hand. He pumped three bullets into Ramon, sending the young man reeling to the floor, then let a moment pass as a thick pool of dark blood blended into the room’s antique Persian rug. Angel pushed his chair back, stood, leaned across his desk, and fired two more slugs into Ramon’s silent body. He then sat back down and looked up at each of the five men standing quietly around their dead partner. “Do you all need more time or was it just him?” He waited for a few moments, letting the silence answer his question. “In that case,” he said, “how about I hear what we do know about these fuckers?”

“There are a lot of rumors out on the street,” one of the men said. He was tall, with a solid gym build and dark bangs partially hiding the upper half of his handsome face. He spoke with a Latin accent. “Not a lot of facts, which is no surprise given the way they pulled the job. I don’t think they’re hooked up with any of the other crews, especially not the Italians.”

“And what’s the why for that?” Angel asked.

“No crew—and I mean not a one—is going to go out and hire a team to take us off and have them come back in the house with only half the haul,” the man said. “There are no deal points to be made by burning up a half million dollars.”

“It sure as shit got our attention, Eduardo,” Angel said. “And let’s do a for instance and say that’s what they wanted to get out of this whole game from the get-go. Throw down a flag and let us know they’re out there and put us in their scope. What if that’s their deal? What if they don’t give a fuck about the dope or the money, any of it? What if they’re just coming in for us?”

“To take over our turf?” Eduardo asked.

“No,” Angel said with a slow shake of his head. “To come in and take back what used to be their ground.”

“Which dealers are we talking about here?” Eduardo asked. “Any turf left that has anybody else’s name stamped on it has either us or the G-Men hovering over it. All the other crews have either stepped back or signed on.”

“What if they’re not dealers,” Angel said. “What if they work the other end of the wide avenue?”

“We got every squad and unit working the drug trade on our radar,” Eduardo said. “It was the first step we took when we walked out onto the field. We know all the badges, good ones and bad. If this was pulled off by cops, it would have hit our ears in less than an hour’s time.”

“Not these cops,” Angel said. “They don’t cut across anybody’s radar. They work on their own timetable and for their own reasons.”

“Which are what?” asked a thin young man standing with his back against the mahogany wall.

“They don’t want a piece of our business,” Angel said as he looked from one face to the next. “They only want a piece of us.”

“You know where they crib?” Eduardo asked.

“I know someone who can find out,” Angel said.

“What do you need us to do?” Eduardo asked.

Angel stood and rested the flat of his hands against his hips, the crease on his hand-tailored slacks butcher-blade sharp, his shirt crisp as a late-autumn morning. He bent his upper body a few inches forward and stared down at Ramon, a thick pool of blood forming around his back and waist, and then looked up at the men in the room. “You tell me,” he said.