Angel Face

got the day right, the time?’

‘Swear on Krishna, Bobby. When Ricky left the pool hall on Wednesday, he was goin’ straight to pick up the whore. I remember because it was rainin’ pretty hard and he was worried about the traffic comin’ out of Manhattan. I mean, you gotta think—’

Benedetti completes Atwal’s thought. ‘You gotta think, what with Ricky being killed in his own home, that the whore was with him at the time. And if the whore survived, you also gotta think that she was the one who killed him. And if she was the one who killed him, she can tell me who paid her to kill him.’ Bobby Ditto cracks his knuckles. There’s nothing to be gained by further discussion with an outsider. He’s got the business card. The ball’s in his court. ‘Like I already said, I appreciate your comin’ down. So, if there’s anything I can do for you ...’

‘Well, maybe there is something. Just an idea.’

Bobby smiles to himself. He doesn’t begrudge Sammy Atwal. Giving up the business card before requesting a favor? That shows respect, and class, too. ‘Let’s hear it.’

‘I don’t know what Ricky told you about me and the boys ...’

‘Everything.’

Atwal laughs. ‘Like you said, Ricky liked to talk. But the thing is we’re movin’ up. We’ve outgrown our suppliers. We need more product.’

‘How much more?’

‘Like three or four ounces every couple of weeks.’

Bobby Ditto’s thrilled, though he’s careful not to show more than mild interest. It could’ve been a lot worse. ‘You understand, Sammy, there’s no credit thing happening here. It’s cash up front.’

‘I understand.’

‘And you gotta be ready to jump. I don’t hold product, not for nobody. If you tell me you need a week to raise the money, I’m gonna walk away from ya. And once I walk away, I don’t walk back.’

‘OK, understood.’

Bobby stands up. The meeting’s over. ‘You did good today,’ he tells Atwal as they walk to the door. ‘You showed respect and respect is how we do our thing in America. You’ll be hearin’ from us, count on it.’

They come through the door to find the Blade talking to a warehouse worker, a woman whose name Bobby doesn’t know. Par for the course with the Blade, a pussy hound if ever there was one. Bobby’s about to make the Blade very happy. He’s about to tell the Blade there’s a hooker who needs to be taken off the street and questioned. He’s about to tell the Blade he doesn’t really care what happens to the hooker afterward.

SIX

Carter fires up his computer shortly after finishing breakfast on Monday morning. He’s expecting confirmation of a wire transfer to his bank in Panama, payment for a job well done. Sure enough, the money’s right where it’s supposed to be and Carter immediately transfers the full amount to a bank in Moscow. Instructions for the Moscow bank are already in place. After deducting their commission, the bank will move the cash to a smaller bank in the South Pacific that doesn’t record the money’s next – and final – destination.

His business concluded, Carter turns to his email box, deleting the spam before opening a heavily encrypted email from Paul Marginella, universally called Paulie Margarine. Paulie is Carter’s agent. He secures the jobs and makes the payments after deducting his commission. But not any more.

Hey kid, I got some bad news for you. Or maybe not. It depends on how you’re doin these days. But I ain’t been feeling right for a long time now and I’m gonna have to shut the operation down. No hard feelins, OK? We did good while we could (hey, that rhymes – I’m a poet who don’t know it) and we have to move on. Best of luck. Paulie.

Carter takes the message to Sweat & Strain, a gym on 10th Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen. He focuses on three words as he rides cross-town on the L Train: Or maybe not. For some time now, Carter’s been tempted to break off the relationship himself. In his own mind, he compares each job to a combat deployment. Maybe the odds against being killed or wounded in any given operation are great, but if you’re deployed over and over again ... Carter doesn’t bother to complete the thought. He’s killed twenty-three men in fourteen cities over the past two-plus years, and the cops investigated every death. Sure, he’s protected himself. The emails that pass between Carter and Paulie are the sum total of their contact, and they do not go directly from Paulie’s computer to his. Paulie’s emails are addressed to an email forwarder in Minsk, the capital of Belarus. From Minsk, they voyage to the websites of three forwarders on three different continents before Carter retrieves them. One of the spook agencies, the CIA or the NSA, might be able to track and decrypt the emails, but not a local cop shop.

But if Carter can’t be traced through Paulie Margarine, there’s still the possibility that he’ll be caught at the scene of the crime, say by a police cruiser turning on to the block at just the wrong time, or be tracked down because he missed a surveillance camera or left a minuscule bit of DNA behind, despite his many precautions.

In Carter’s opinion, there are no guarantees. In Carter’s opinion, the most remote outcome is rendered probable by enough repetitions.

So Carter’s relieved on the one hand. Paulie’s absolutely correct – it’s time to move on. But coming right after Janie’s passing, the prospect of a career change adds fuel to an already smoldering fire.

Carter doesn’t neglect his workout. He works harder than usual, in fact. S&S is run by a mixed martial artist named Jordan Boone who promotes his self-defense system, which includes a dozen manuals selling for ten dollars each on the gym’s website. Boone claims to have distilled his method from ‘every martial art on the planet.’

Forget about tactics that work in a ring or a cage. Self-defense is about protecting yourself from attack by incapacitating your opponent long enough to get away.

That’s all bullshit, of course, at least in Carter’s opinion. Half the patrons of Boone’s gym are serious knuckleheads far more likely to be the attacker than the attacked. But the system, with its kicks, strikes and throws, works as well as any other. You practice the moves, over and over and over, until each and every opening draws the appropriate counter-attack, until you see and strike before you’re conscious of what you’re going to do next. Then, if you’re Carter, you run away. Carter has no criminal record and the last thing he wants to do is draw the attention of the police.

Most of the regulars at Sweat & Strain outweigh Carter, especially the ones who juice with steroids. But Carter’s not only fast, he’s also fearless, and he’s acquired a bit of a reputation. He’s not surprised when a pro named Johnny ‘The Crusher’ Carpenter asks him to work out. They go at it for an hour, until Carpenter breaks it off and heads for the showers. Carter would like nothing more than to follow – he’s gotten much the worse of the exchanges – but he has one additional task ahead, one he absolutely hates, skipping rope. Which is why he forces himself to do it.

Six hours later, at four o’clock in the afternoon, Carter approaches the front door of a house on a tree-lined street in Astoria, Queens. The single-story house isn’t much to look at – brick walls, shingled roof, a picture window in the living room – but it rests on a generous lot surrounded by a thick hedge in the back. Carter hesitates only for a moment before ringing the bell.

The man who opens the door is about Carter’s age, but that’s the only resemblance between the two. He’s fifty pounds heavier than Carter, with a serious gut and jowls befitting a man twice his age.

‘Can I help you?’ he asks.

‘I’m here to see Paulie Marginella.’ Carter knows this must be Paulie’s son, Freddy, who was in prison the last time Carter and Paulie met. ‘Does he still live here?’

‘And who are you?’

‘My name’s Carter.’

Freddy’s double take proves one thing: Paulie’s got a big mouth. Carter smiles. ‘I know I’m not expected, but I heard that Paulie’s not feeing well ...’

‘My dad’s in the backyard, catching a few rays.’ Freddy steps aside to let Carter into a small foyer. ‘This is about what exactly ...’

‘It’s about me paying my respects to a sick friend.’