She leans into him. “What’s your name, kid?”
The boy smiles at her, showing thick gums, white teeth.“Jackson,” he says. “Tell me which card’s the three of clubs, pretty lady.”
McCoy leans in, still closer. “I don’t gamble, Jackson,” shesays quietly, evenly, no longer smiling. “I’m an FBI agent. You’re not in anytrouble,” she adds, raising her hand preemptively, as she sees the boy begin toadjust his position, angling himself to the right. “But you will be if youreach for that bag.”
McCoy gestures over her shoulder. “See that guy turning thecorner right now? Two o’clock.”
The boy looks over, undoubtedly seeing Harrick emerging fromaround the corner.
“He’s my partner. If he sees you try to signal Jimmy in anyway, we’ll lock you up.”
The reference to Jimmy, she figures, is as meaningful to theboy as her threats. She is telling him that she already knows what is going onupstairs.
“Put your hands on your face, Jackson,” McCoy says. “Do itnow.”
The boy complies eventually, slapping a hand on each cheek.He doesn’t seem particularly worried. Closer to sulking.
McCoy takes his gym bag and opens it. She doesn’t find aweapon and didn’t expect to. She lifts a hand-held radio out of his bag andputs it in her jacket pocket. “What’s he paying you, out of curiosity?”
“Twenty bucks a pop.”
“What’s a pop? Half a day?”
“Seven to one, lady. Damn.” The boy shakes his head. He hasjust lost one of his day jobs. The other one, which apparently starts at one,involves the card hustle, but not here. Jackson probably hits the trainstation, the bus terminal, somewhere downtown where the white folks don’t somuch mind being hustled by such a cute little guy.
“I’m taking the radio with me, Jackson. But all the same,keep those hands on those cute cheeks of yours. Don’t make a move now, okay? Mypartner has a short fuse.”
“I ain’t movin’, lady,” he answers in his disappointedvoice.
McCoy pats Jackson’s shoulder and moves up the stairs. Sheuses a key that was copied from an upstairs neighbor, last week. Harrick followedthe woman to the store, showed her his credentials, and persuaded her to lethim make a copy.
McCoy speaks into her collar. “Am I clean?”
“Clean,” Harrick’s voice crackles back in her earpiece. Whathe means is that Jimmy, upstairs, has not looked out his window, down at McCoytalking to the boy, nor has Jackson made any attempt to signal his boss fromthe stoop.
Once inside, McCoy removes her heels, takes one of the twoflights of stairs and stops on the landing. She tosses her leather jacket, leavinga pajama top-nothing frilly, just a light-blue top. She takes off her cap andmusses her hair.
“I’m going black,” she says, removing the earpiece.
She takes the next flight of stairs and walks up to thedoor. There is loud music coming from the apartment, as they had been told. Butit’s not as loud as she had been led to believe, and she realizes she shouldhave considered the source, an eighty-one-year-old woman.
Still, it’s her excuse, so she’ll use it.
She bangs on the door and shouts. “Hey!” She gets noresponse so she tries again, slamming the door hard, getting a good feel forits sturdiness. It’s thin, cheap wood, which is no surprise, but there’s atleast a chain lock, also predictable. She hopes like hell she will not have tobreak down a closed door.
“You wanna turn that music down?” she shouts.
The voice comes from inside the apartment. “What’s yourproblem?”
“My problem is you, jerk-off!”
She hears him moving inside, toward the door, possiblyapproaching the peephole.
She takes a step back before he gets too close.
“Take a pill, sweetheart,” the voice says through the door.
“It’s eight-thirty in the morning!” she hollers, watchingthe door.
“Christ, lady-”
McCoy lets her weight transfer to her toes. She sees thedoor crack open and comes forward with full force, before the keychain has evenstretched taut against the space, while the man is still in the midst ofpositioning his weight backward to open the door. That’s the key. It wouldprobably take her several attempts to get through this door if it were shut,assuming she could do it at all. It’s all about surprise and balance.
She leads with her shoulder. She wants to keep her feet butit’s been a while, and anyway, this guy will be on his back, too. She hits thedoor and feels a pop in her shoulder, nothing permanent, but something she’llremember for a while. Something this guy, Jimmy, will remember for a while,too.
The chain lock pops from the force. McCoy manages herbalance as she stumbles on the hardwood floor of the apartment. Jimmy is on thefloor behind the door.
“I’m a federal agent,” she says quickly, lest Jimmy get anyideas. Under these circumstances, this might be good news for Jimmy. But shewill take no chances. She removes her weapon, tucked in the back of her jeans,her credentials quickly following, a badge on a leather base. She kicks thedoor shut and keeps the weapon trained on Jimmy, before he even knows what hashappened.
Jimmy is mid-thirties, with stringy blond hair and darkerfacial hair. Why do these idiots think goatees look good?
“FBI,” she says. She motions with her weapon. “Get up. Sitdown on that disgusting couch.” McCoy backs up and kicks at the stereo until itshuts up. “Sit, Jimmy. Sit. This might work out okay for you.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jimmy answers,making his way to the couch and falling on it.
McCoy gives him a crosswise look, lets her eyes move aboutthe room. There are betting slips in piles on a desk, next to a ledger withnumbers in three vertical columns-one for the bettor, one for the game, one forthe amount, all in code. Four-no, five different cell phones-ghost phones,stealing signals from legitimate phones, making them untraceable. A bowl ofCheerios, half-finished, sits on the desk as well. “This wouldn’t be your firstoffense,” she says, deliberate in her choice of the conditional tense. “Youprobably know the sentencing guidelines better than I do.”
“This ain’t right.”
“That’s what you get for chincing on your sentries, Jimmy. Aten-year-old kid?”
Jimmy’s jaw clenches. He’s probably got some ideas aboutthat kid in his head.
“Wasn’t his fault,” she says. “We’ve been watching you. Itwouldn’t have mattered.”
“What the hell is this?” Jimmy asks.
A fair enough question. A federal agent, dressed in a pajamatop and jeans, comes in solo and doesn’t seem all that interested in bustinghis chops. McCoy felt she had no choice. She wants to involve as few people aspossible in this operation. And okay, maybe she wanted a little physicalexercise.
“I have a couple of questions for you, Jimmy. If you answerthem, I’m gone in thirty seconds. If you lie, we’re not friends anymore.”
Her new amigo squirms in his seat, folds his arms. “So askme,” he says.
“Doctor Neil Lomas,” she says. “And if you tell me you don’tknow him, I’m cleaning up this apartment.”
Jimmy ponders this, and that confirms her suspicion. Givingup the name of one of the people who places bets with him is not asking toomuch, considering the alternative. But this one is giving him pause.
She wonders what he knows about Doctor Neil Lomas. Does heknow why he started gambling? Probably not. Does he have any idea that DoctorLomas is in the process of producing a deadly drug that will beindistinguishable from baby aspirin?
Definitely not. No, Jimmy’s hesitation has nothing to dowith Agent McCoy’s interest in the doctor.
“I got no business with that guy,” Jimmy says.
Actually, as phrased, Jimmy is probably telling the truth.
“Doctor Lomas was into you for fifteen grand,” she tellshim. “You were getting impatient. Stomp your foot twice if I’m wrong.”
“What the fuck.”
“Now, just like that,” McCoy adds, “you’re leaving himalone. You haven’t sent anyone after him for months.
