Hard Candy (20 page)

125

I
TOOK THE stairs down with Max.

The Prof was waiting in Morehouse's car. I handed him the soft plastic block from my pocket. The key to Candy's apartment was sharply outlined on its face.

"Tell the Mole I need two, okay? He can leave them in one of the cars for Monday night."

"It's done, son."

126

M
ONDAY, MIDNIGHT. Max and I pulled off the FDR, leaving the car to the darkness. Michelle was in the back seat. Max waited while I walked along the riverbank with Michelle. She leaned into me, her hand on my arm.

"Here's the papers you wanted," I told her.

"This is pretty thick for just a passport," she said, putting the packet into her purse.

"The rest is from the Mole."

She stopped in her tracks. Slit the envelope with a long thumbnail while I lit a smoke. I saw a wad of greenbacks. And a note on the graph paper the Mole uses for stationery. I left her to herself, smoking in silence. When she turned her face to me, tears streaked the perfect makeup.

"After tonight, I'm gone from here."

"I know."

"When I come back, I'll be me."

"Yeah."

"I love you, Burke," she said. Pulled my face down to kiss my cheek. "You watch out for my boy—you take care of him."

I didn't ask her who she meant. "Come back at one, okay?" I told her. "You'll hear some kind of a big bang. Wait five, ten minutes. We're not here, go. If we're coming, we're coming fast. You see us coming toward you, just walk away, leave the keys in the ignition."

"I'm not running around in this mess in my good shoes."

"I mean it, Michelle. Don't wait. We don't need a driver."

She gave me another quick kiss. "Take care of Max," she said.

The ground felt squashy under my boots as we made our way down to the river. Manhattan is a big island; the East River separates it from Queens, dotted by smaller islands. Welfare Island. Roosevelt Island. Once they used them for insane asylums, hospitals, leper colonies. Now they use them for luxury co–ops. Other islands too. Real small ones. Just clumps of dirt and trees sitting in the river. You could get a good view of the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge from them.

Michelle would wait on the Manhattan side. We couldn't just stash a getaway car in that neighborhood—it wouldn't be there when we needed it. The Prof was in place on the Queens side. When the pressure came, we'd move away from it. If we could.

Wesley was waiting. A darker–than–night shape near the water. He handed me the Uzi. A soft hiss as the rubber boat inflated. He pointed to a pair of duffel bags and a large tool chest with a handle on top. Max took the two duffels in one hand, the tool chest in the other. Wesley didn't seem surprised. We boarded the boat. Wesley sat in front, steering. Max and I alternated strokes with the paddles. The river's only about a quarter mile wide where we were working, with the island sitting in the middle. It didn't take long.

We beached the boat. Wesley set up a pair of tripods in the soft ground, pressing down hard to make sure they were firmly seated. He bolted a spotting scope on top of one, a rifle onto the other. No talking— sound carries over water. No smoking. He pointed to the sniperscope, pointed at me. Blew a sharp puff of air. I nodded. Wesley settled in behind his rifle, making himself at home. He swept the bridge with his scope, nodding in satisfaction. He pulled a bullet from his jacket pocket. Long, slender bullet. A soft snick as he chambered the slug. I was inside his mind. Target rifle. One target, one bullet.

Wesley sat behind his rifle, eyes somewhere else. Nothing to do but wait. A foghorn sounded far down the river. The Harbor Patrol had passed almost half an hour ago. They hadn't even swept the island with their searchlights.

I saw the line of humans moving. Walking the bridge. The spotting scope picked them out. Three up front, a man in the middle, three behind. I swung the scope to the Manhattan side. Four men, walking together. I blew a sharp puff of air, imitating Wesley. He settled in behind the scope, moving the barrel in tiny circles. A snake's tongue. Testing. Waiting. Fangs sheathed.

The two groups came together. The man who'd been in the middle from the Queens side stepped forward. One of the men from the Manhattan side detached himself. They walked on the outside of the bridge, safe from traffic. The two men met near the middle of the bridge, slightly to the Queens side. They stood with their backs to the girders. Then they switched places. I blew another puff at Wesley. "I saw it," he whispered. So low it might have been only inside my head.

I saw what Wesley saw.

The target's eyes were shielded by his hat. I zeroed in on the lower cheekbone—the bullet would travel up, climbing all the way till it met his brain. And blow it out his skull.

They were talking. I heard Wesley take a deep breath. Let it all out in a smooth stream. Felt him go coma–calm. So he could squeeze the trigger between heartbeats. The don's lips stopped moving. He cocked his head slightly. Listening to the underboss.

The don fell forward a microsecond before the earsplitting
ccccrack
! ripped my ears. The underboss ducked.

Wesley was on his feet, breaking down the tripod. Max grabbed my scope and tripod in one scoop. Wesley pointed to the Queens side—standing dark and quiet in the distance. No time to argue. We threw everything in the boat. The muscles in my back screamed trying to match Max's strokes. Sirens shrieked somewhere behind us. I knew Wesley would be working the spotlight in front of the boat, watching for the answer. The boat veered left toward my side, where Max's strokes would do most of the work. We ran aground. Wesley popped the release. The air hissed out of the boat as Max made the run to the car.

I took the wheel. Wesley and Max loaded the stuff into the trunk, climbed into the back seat. I pulled away smoothly, heading for the empty factory district of Long Island City.

"Thanks, Prof."

"It's been fun, but my piece is done," the little man said. Meaning he didn't want to stay along for the ride. I stopped within sight of the IRT. Held out my hand. He grasped it, let go. Opened the door and split. Never looked into the back seat.

127

I
FOLLOWED Wesley's directions to an abandoned factory building off Meserole Street in Brooklyn, not far from the Queens border. Wesley got out, unbolted a heavy padlock. I drove the car inside. Pitch–dark. It even smelled empty.

Max reached into the trunk. Held the stuff up for Wesley to see. Wesley made a "put it down right there" gesture. "I won't be here tomorrow," he said to me.

The freight elevator was a bombed–out void. Wesley walked in the darkness like he could see. We followed the sounds he made. Found my hand on an iron railing. Staircase. Wesley walking ahead. Three flights. The top floor was only half there. No glass in the windows. Light from somewhere came through them. Boxes piled up, some covered with a tarp. Cans of food against one wall. Rats made their scratching escape noises.

I lit a smoke. So did Max.

Wesley sat on one of the boxes.

"No doubt in your mind?" I asked him.

"I hit him. With those bullets, I hit him anyplace, his head's in pieces."

"They'll go crazy looking for you."

"Crazy…you ever have a suicide dream, Burke?"

"What's a suicide dream?"

"Where you dream of killing yourself. You ever dream of killing yourself?"

"I did once."

"What happened?"

"I dreamed I was real depressed. Sad like there wasn't any reason to keep on. So I made a list. Of all the people I wanted to take with me. Figured I was gonna die anyway, I'd just start blasting everyone on the list. Sooner or later, one of them would get me. Save me the trouble."

"Did it work?"

"No." I felt crazy laughter bubble in me. "I got through the whole list. Then I didn't want to die anymore."

"My list is too long. Yours too?"

"Not anymore."

"You all settled up?"

I thought about Train. Julio. "Just about."

"What'd you use on that Mortay?"

"Use?"

"To off him."

It was like talking into a machine. But not a tape recorder. "A .38 Special. And I dropped a grenade on his face after he went down."

The machine's voice lightened. Wesley's laugh. "A fucking .38? A pistol? Why didn't you just throw rocks at him?"

"I got it done."

"He was supposed to be real good. Like Max here. You got him with a pistol, he must have been close."

"He was."

"Chump."

"I know. Now. Now's too late." For Belle.

"Anything I can do for you?"

"You mean…?"

"What I do. I'm almost done."

"Just Julio. And Train."

"So I was right. From the beginning. You were on his case."

"No I wasn't. Things changed. I learned something."

"Something about a kid?"

"Yeah."

"That soft spot—it's like a bull's–eye on your back."

"Nothing I can do."

"It's not your problem, right? Not your kid."

"I didn't want it like this. I wanted to be…something else."

"What?"

I dragged deep on my smoke, looked into the monster's eyes. "I wanted to be you," I told him.

"No you don't. I'm not afraid. Of anything. It's not worth it."

"Wesley, what do you know about Train? What made you think I was on his case?"

"The guy who hired me. I figured it had to be something like that. He knew your name."

And then he said the man's name. Danielle's father. The man with the special basement on Long Island.

I threw my cigarette on the floor. Ground it out.

The monster knew. "There are no good guys, Burke. You're a thief—go back to stealing."

I didn't like the sound of my voice. "Not just yet."

He read my thoughts. "He's on the house. Keep your list short. I'll meet him after Train's done. To get the rest of my money. I'll leave him where I meet him."

I lit another smoke. "I told Train I'd take care of you."

"Good. They're easier when they're sleeping."

"You need a ride anywhere?"

"No. I got a car stashed just down the street. I'll get rid of the stuff first, then I'm gone."

Max bowed to Wesley. The monster moved his head in return. Stiffly, like he wasn't used to it.

I followed Max down the stairs.

128

T
HE ALL–NEWS station had nothing.about the killing on the way back to Manhattan, but it was all they were talking about by the time I got up in the morning. Ghost stories. The one I liked best had Colombians blasting the don from a speedboat passing under the bridge.

129

I
DROVE OUT to the junkyard. Sat down with the Mole. Told him about a girl named Elvira. About selective breeding, supervised by slime.

I drove back to the city in a black Ford four–door sedan. Max followed in Morehouse's Datsun.

130

I
N MY OFFICE, I went over the Ma Bell printout the ex–cop had gotten for me. One of Train's six numbers had no long–distance calls at all. Never used up its message units either. A dead line. For incoming.

It was one of the numbers stored in Candy's phone.

131

J
ULIO LEFT A MESSAGE for me at Mama's. I called him at his club.

"What d'you want, old man? You think I'm setting up a meeting now, you're crazy. You got nothing to threaten me with."

He sounded strong, alive. In control. "Who said anything about threats? Cut that out. Talk sense. We're on the same side. Your problem disappeared with my problem, okay? I'm gonna make some moves of my own now. There's one little thing…"

"What?"

"The bitch, she has something for me. Something I wrote down once. She says she'll give it back, I give her a present."

"Why tell me?"

"She's a crazy woman, you know that. She has something stuck in her head, there's no talking to her. She wants to give it to you. You bring it to me, you take the present back to her. Then it's done."

"Get somebody else."

"I would. It's her, okay? You know what she's like."

"I'm not going to see her."

"Hey! Somebody's gotta do it. I'll take care of you, don't worry."

"And then we're quits."

"On my honor."

132

I
CALLED STREGA. "You called him?"

"Yes."

"You couldn't leave it alone?"

"Don't be mad. You know I told you the truth. And he wants the letter. It's in the way now. The little man has big plans."

133

I
HEARD the slug muffle the phone with his greasy hand. "The guy wants Don Julio."

"I'm here," he snapped into the phone.

"She says she'll hand it over to me. Out in the open. She wants to see it happen."

"What's that mean?"

"It means you come. Alone. I come. Alone. She drives up. Hands me what you want while you watch. Goes back to her car. I give you the letter for the present you have for her. You wait while I take it over to her. I get in my car and we all go home."

"My boys won't like me going anywhere alone."

"You're the boss, right? Who cares what they like."

"All right. Where?"

"You know her. Queens it's got to be. You're coming from Shea Stadium, okay? On the Grand Central. Just before La Guardia, there's a gas station. You pull over there, where there's a railing. You can park the car, walk down to the water. Where guys fish in the summertime. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"She says tomorrow. Eleven o'clock in the morning. You park all the way to the right. She'll be there, parked to the left. I pull in between you. Get it done."

"I'll be there."

I called Strega. Told her what tomorrow was going to be.

134

W
ESLEY said Julio was on the house. A trade for the don. But the don had been Wesley's killing. All his. Danielle's father had turned me into a dog. A hunting dog that fetched his raw meat back. He had to pay. Wesley said he'd do that freak. In his soundproof basement. Train was a trade. Not all mine, but enough.

I couldn't let Wesley within shooting range of Strega—the monster might feel the heat. And strike. Strega. The witch–bitch. She'd set it up this way. "You wouldn't let anything happen to me." Wesley was out.

At eight–thirty, I swung into the gas station. Told the guy to fill it up. Max got out to go to the men's room. The pump jockey filled the tank, took my money. I drove off alone.

A couple of minutes after eleven, I backed into the lot. Strega's BMW on my left, Julio's Caddy on the right. I swung the Plymouth between them. Got out, opened my trunk, left it open. Walked to Julio's car. His window snicked down. I put my head inside, checked the back seat. Empty.

"Get out, Julio."

He showed me a thick envelope. "I thought you were supposed to get the letter first."

"I am. I want you to open the trunk. Make sure you came alone. Mine's already open, you want to look."

He got out, a sneer on his face. Unlocked the trunk. Empty.

"I'll be right back," I told him.

"Burke, wait a minute." His gloved hand on my arm. "I got no more troubles, you understand? Except her. Crazy people, they're always trouble. They
stay
trouble."

"Why tell me?"

"I know you can get to Wesley. I'm going to make some arrangements. I want to pay him for the last job. The old don, he was a fuckin' idiot. No trap, no games. I give you the cash, you deliver it to Wesley. I don't gotta be around. I just want him to know…no hard feelings…it's a new regime, like they say. You could do this?"

"Maybe."

"Yeah, you always say 'maybe.' I ask you if you get up tomorrow morning, you say 'maybe.' You can do it. When you see Wesley, you tell him he's all right with me. Aces. I even got a nice easy job for him. Cash up front, how's that?"

"I'll see."

I left him standing there. Walked over to Strega's car, feeling his eyes on my back. She stepped out of the little sedan, wearing a black coat, black scarf over her red hair. She handed me a thin envelope.

"I was right," she said.

"Yeah, you were," I said. "Now get out of here."

"I want to see it." Witchy eyes, even in the sunlight. "I was right…about everything."

I walked back toward Julio. The old man came forward, one hand reaching into his pocket. Highway traffic hummed to my right, planes thundered to my left. I held out Strega's envelope to Julio. With his confession inside: how he made a little girl–child dance for him. The child he just sentenced to dance again under Wesley's bullets. He took his hand out of his inside pocket, slipped what I handed him into his coat. Reached back inside. A fat envelope. I took it. Closed my hand over his. He pulled back. "What…?" Max launched off the railing in a dark blur. Julio twisted his neck sharply just as I heard the snap. He fell into me. I slipped his dead arm over my neck, walked him to the railing. Propped him on the bench, emptied his pockets. An old man, sleeping in the sun. Until you got close enough to catch the smell.

I walked back to my car. Closed the trunk on the dark bundle of blankets back there. Followed the BMW out of the parking lot.

The Plymouth shot past Strega, heading for the Triboro Bridge. I thought I saw her wave something at me but the windows of her car were very dark. I couldn't be sure.