NYPD Red

Gabe shrugged. “He just got out of prison. He may not even have a quart of milk in the fridge.”

“Maybe you should just shoot him the second he opens the door.”

“No,” Gabe said. “I have to make sure he didn’t tell anyone. Mickey’s a nonstop talker. That’s how I met him. We were shooting some piece-of-crap terrorist-on-an-airplane movie. I was a passenger and Mickey had to blow off the cockpit doors. I asked if I could watch him set up, and before you know it, Mick is giving me a short course in special effects. I figured this guy is a gold mine of tech stuff I can use one day, and I struck up a friendship. By the time he went off to prison, I kind of liked the old guy. It’ll be nice to catch up with him.”

“Catch up. Find out what he knows. Then kill him,” Lexi said.

“Looks like you’ve been reading the script.”

Gabe took the number 7 train to Flushing, got off at 33rd Street, and walked to Skillman Avenue. He was glad he had a gun. A guy could get rolled in a neighborhood like this.

Nothing had changed since he had last been here. He wondered how Mickey managed to keep the place the whole time he was in jail. He’d have to ask him during the nice-to-see-you-again part of the conversation.

He rang the bell and identified himself over the intercom. Mickey buzzed him in.

The ground floor reeked of garbage and piss. He waited for Mickey to send the elevator down, then rode it up to the fifth floor, patting the compact Walther PPK tucked into the pocket of his windbreaker.

The door to the elevator opened directly into the loft, and Gabe walked in.

“Hey, I’m over here at my workbench,” Mickey called out from the opposite end of the space, forty feet away.

Gabe crossed the length of the room. Peltz was sitting on a wooden stool. He had aged at least ten years in the past four. His shoulders were stooped, and his hair and skin were both ashy gray.

“One thing’s for sure. You didn’t get too much sun,” Gabe said.

“Grab a seat,” Mickey said. “This is cool. You really got to see this.”

There was only one place to sit-a threadbare old armchair-and Gabe lowered himself into it and sat back. “What’s so cool that I got to see?”

“This,” Mickey said, holding up a chrome cylinder about the size of a penlight. “It’s a pressure-release trigger. Watch what happens when I click it.” He pressed the silver button at the top of the cylinder and held it in place with his thumb.

“Nothing,” Gabe said. “Nothing happened.”

“Exactly. But guess what happens when I lift my thumb off the button?”

Gabe didn’t have to guess. He knew. He started to stand.

“Don’t move,” Mickey said. “The seat cushion is lined with C4. The instant I release this button, your ass will be blown to kingdom come.”

Chapter 33

“Mick, are you serious?” Gabe said.

Mickey sat motionless. “Serious as a body bag.”

“What the hell is going on? Why would you want to blow me up?”

“I don’t want to blow you up,” Peltz said. “I’d rather talk business.”

“No problem,” Gabe said. “Talk.”

“First, get rid of the gun. Wherever it is, reach for it, and set it down on the floor. If you shoot me, you’re dead a half second after I am.”

“Okay, relax,” Gabe said. “I mean, don’t relax. Just keep pressing hard on that button.”

He reached inside his windbreaker pocket, took out the Walther, and slid it across the floor. Peltz picked it up and put it on top of his workbench.

“We good?” Gabe said.

“So far.”

“Okay, so talk business.”

“I didn’t call you so I could blackmail you, Gabe. That’s what you’re thinking, but that’s not my style.”

The Chameleon just nodded.

“I got a memory like a steel trap,” Peltz said. “Eight years ago we did a bunch of Sopranos episodes together. I remember we were on location in Jersey, just hanging out, and you told me you had an idea for a movie about a guy who starts killing off a bunch of assholes in the film business.”

“Half the people who work in this business come up with that idea,” Gabe said.

“I didn’t get much sun in prison, Gabe, but I didn’t get stupid. That day, you and me talked about a bunch of cool ways to kill people off. One of them was swapping blanks for real bullets in a prop gun. Funny that you should be on the set today when Ian Stewart gets killed exactly that way.”

“It doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it.”

Peltz just grunted. “It’s also funny that the Molotov that got tossed at Brad Schuck tonight was a wickless. The same one my father taught me to make. The same one I taught you. Now that I see you again in person, you look about the same size as the guy who tossed it.”

“I’m average height, average weight, along with a million other guys.”

“But I’ll bet you’re the one guy behind those three pricks getting offed today.”

“I’m not, Mick. I swear.”

“Then why were you so quick to come running over here in the middle of the night? And why’d you bring the gun? I told you-I didn’t ask you over here so I could blackmail you.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

“Because I want in,” Peltz said. “Remember the ending I pitched for your movie idea? Get about a hundred of those dickwads all together in one place and blow them up. You loved it. You going to do it?”

“Even if I was the guy behind all these killings, I could never afford to put something like that together. You of all people ought to know, Mickey. Explosives cost an arm and a leg.”

“An arm and a leg. Ba-da-bump. That’s why I like you, Gabe. You got a bomb under your balls, and you’re not afraid to crack wise with the guy who’s got his finger on the button.”

“Jokes aside, Mickey, C4 is cheap if you got a license to buy it legal. But once you’re out there on the black market, it’s hard to find, and even if you can, the prices are through the roof.”

“Not if you know where to shop. Listen to me, Gabe; if you’re looking for the big bang, I’m your powder monkey. I not only know where to get what you need, I know how to rig it, and where to put the charges for the best body count.”

Sweat dripped down Gabe’s face as he stared at the chrome cylinder in Peltz’s hand. Mickey might kill him, but he didn’t seem bent on blackmail.

“Why would you even want to get involved?” Gabe asked. “Why risk going back to jail?”

“Because I could buy shit cheap, mark it up, make a few bucks, and still save you a bundle. And because I’ve spent the past twelve hundred and eighty-three nights laying in a prison cell thinking how I could get even with the system that put me there. So either tell me what’s on your wish list and I’ll make it happen, or just go home. I’m not going to blow the whistle on you. I’ll be glued to the TV rooting for you.”

Gabe reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and put it in Mickey’s free hand.

Mickey scanned it for less than thirty seconds. “I’d make a few adjustments, but not bad for an amateur. I guess I taught you pretty good.”

“How much would I need?”

“Sixty pounds of C4 should do it,” Mickey said. “It’s big enough to do the job and light enough to carry around in a backpack.”

“Can you get it?” Gabe asked.

“Piece of cake.”

“Fast?”