a well-oiled machine. It was easy to tell from the way he walked, the way he carried himself, like a leopard that might move gracefully but could strike at any moment.
His hair was so blond it was nearly translucent, the dark roots only visible if you got close enough to look. And very few people got that close.
Everything she had worked for and planned for until now had come together perfectly. This was not the time to second-guess anything. When she needed to be on time, she was. When she wanted something to happen at her convenience, she made sure it did. So the fact that they were half an hour late to the meeting, and doing nothing but standing a block away killing time, may have made him anxious, but he knew there was a reason for it.
The woman standing next to him was tall and lithe, nearly six feet herself and possibly even more athletic. She was of Latin descent, and her dark skin brought out her emerald-green eyes. Those eyes rarely showed any outward signs of emotion. But on this night, those eyes were just a little wider, a little warier. They both knew how much was at stake, how much they’d worked twenty years for.
“Should we go in yet?” he asked, making sure the words came out as pure question. No insinuations whatsoever.
She checked her watch. Her long, black hair was tied into a tight braid that flipped around like a scythe. She portrayed no hurry, and very few emotions at all. She had filled him in on her reasons for this meeting and what they hoped to achieve from it.
A rapper, she’d said. Li’l Leroy, or something like that. So many rappers had Li’l attached to their name, as though they wanted to make you think they spent their nights swinging on jungle gyms or bouncing on trampolines.
Not this Li’l, however. What he was going to do tonight would most certainly get his Li’l card revoked.
“It’s time,” the woman said. The blond man began walking. No time wasted with a nod or salute or even a word. If it was time, every second mattered. And then she spoke, as if she’d read his mind. “I want him to be anxious,” she said. “He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He doesn’t know what he thinks he’s buying. I want him flustered and on edge.”
“Why?” the blond man asked. He felt that was a fair question. He wasn’t imposing, just asking her to elaborate.
“Because once he tries the product and thinks back to this meeting, he’ll know that we came late for a reason. We’re doing him a favor by even being here. So the next time we come he’ll be sweating like a junkie. He’ll eat out of our hands if we want him to.”
The blond man nodded. Despite his shortcomings-and the man knew he had many-he had remarkable self- awareness. He did not have the calculating mind that she did, but he had enough confidence to admit it. He had the utmost respect for the woman, and if she was sure about what she was doing, so was he. So while this rationale did not completely make sense to him, he knew it did to her. And that mattered more.
His mind may not be as sharp as the edge of a knife, but it was as powerful as a sledgehammer. He may not have been subtle, but he got the job done.
The woman said, “Let’s go.”
They approached the building, located in uptown Manhattan on 135th Street off Adam Clayton Boulevard-right near the neighborhood YMCA. The building was completely devoid of tenants. Well, that was the technical truth, as there were no tenants who lived there on a permanent basis. The owner of the complex was named Leroy Culvert. Leroy Culvert was worth well over thirty million dollars.
While there were no permanent tenants, the building was not kept in a state of disrepair. It was not an eyesore like so many other unoccupied projects in uptown New York, but rather, Culvert kept it in good enough shape that it was never approached by squatters, never frequented by junkies and never attracted the homeless population who assumed that a building in total disrepair was one where not too many people asked questions.
Culvert kept it in just good enough shape that it went unnoticed in the neighborhood. It wasn’t nice enough that it would stick in peoples’ minds, but not dilapidated enough that it would pique their interest for other reasons.
In fact, the dark-haired woman was moderately impressed by the security system. A reinforced steel door and roving camera setup that was partially obscured by tree branches. Just enough to keep the bad guys out without alerting pedestrians as to what-or who-was being guarded.
The blond man punched out a number on his cell phone. After two rings, a man with a deep, baritone voice answered.
“Whozis?”
“Mr. Malloy and a guest. We’re here to see Mr. Culvert.”
“We ain’t hear nobody buzz upstairs.”
“We don’t ‘buzz.’ And we both know that your buzzer system also records fingerprints. I’m mildly impressed with your security, but Mr. Culvert knows how we do business.”
“Hang on a sec.”
Malloy smiled. He could hear mumbling on the other end. The man with the deep voice clearly said “Whatchoo want me to do?” several times. He didn’t bother to put the phone on hold, just covered it with his palm.
Amateur hour.
Finally the man got back on the line.
“A’right. You can come through. Eighth floor. And you better not be packin’.”
“Don’t worry,” Malloy said. “We’re simply here to do business.”
The buzzer sounded, and the blond man pushed open the door with his elbow. He held it as the dark-haired woman entered. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder to let him know he’d done well. The blond man nodded his acceptance.
The corridors were well lit, but the apartment doors looked like they hadn’t been opened in years. Culvert clearly had his command center and had no use for the other apartments in the building. Yet there were cameras everywhere. The blond man made a note of them. Cameras meant a security log. A security log meant there was a recording station somewhere inside the building. He would have to find it before they came back.
“Cameras,” the woman said.
“I’m on it.”
“We’re not leaving without the tapes.”
“Today?” the blond man said. If that was the case, their whole plan would change.
“Don’t worry about today. But be ready for next time.”
The blond man said he would be.
The elevator took them to the eighth floor. A white guard a shade under six-five and 280 pounds greeted them. He had a layer of peach fuzz for hair, and a semiautomatic strapped over his shoulder. His mouth nearly sank into his several layers of chins, but despite the man’s loutish appearance, he didn’t need much dexterity to aim and pull the trigger. The rifle’s safety was still on, but the muzzle was pointed at the two visitors. It wavered between them as though playing
“M4, .22 caliber semiautomatic,” the woman said, gesturing at the gun. “A fine rifle.”
“Glad you like it,” the guard said. He had a massive chest but a doughy face, and was already breathing hard. So far neither guest was impressed with Culvert’s choice in security. “Just follow me, keep your mouths shut and your hands where I can see them, or this baby here will do all the talking,”
“Fair enough,” the woman said with a smile.
“What did I tell you?” Doughy said, his eyes wide. “You told us to shut up,” the blond man said, playing along.
“Okay, that’s the last thing I’d better hear out of you. Come on, you freaking wiseasses. Mr. Culvert wants to see you.”
They followed Doughy down the corridor. When he approached the end, he banged loudly on a metal door. Then he looked up at a camera stationed above it.
With a click the door unlocked and someone inside opened it for them. Doughy waited until the door was wide open, and then led them into the command center.
Sitting on a large, plush sofa was a black man, late thirties, thin but with the muscle tone of someone who
