I kept my eyes on the leather apron. The other man disappeared from view. I heard the Plymouth 's door open and someone climbed inside.
'Is that you, Burke?' asked Jacques.
'It's me,' I told him, turning to face him, my back to the leather apron like it was supposed to be.
Jacques hands me the shopping bag. Inside was a blue box. And inside that was a Smith amp; Wesson.357 magnum snub-nosed revolver. The blue steel even smelled new.
I popped the cylinder open, held my thumb in front of the barrel, and sighted down. The rifling was new too. Not a very accurate piece, but the best man-stopper at close range. It would take either.38 Special or.357 magnum slugs, and it had no safety. A lot better than the 9mm automatic Jacques had been pushing over the phone.
I nodded my head in agreement. Jacques held up his hand, palm out, fingers spread. I raised my eyebrows. He just shrugged.
It's good to deal with professionals-even if I was wired like a Christmas tree, nothing would go on the tape. Five hundred bucks of Julio's money changed hands. I slipped the pistol into my coat pocket, put the box it came in back into the shopping bag, and waited. The West Indian took out a box of shells, holding them in his palm. I shook my head- I had all the bullets I needed. Jacques touched a forefinger to his brow. I turned to face Leather Apron again. I heard the car open and close, but I didn't move until I saw the bodyguard start to back away toward the restaurant door. Then I got out of there.
I drove down Atlantic, one hand on the wheel, the other pulling up the rubber floor mat and groping around until I found the panel next to the hump for the transmission. I had loosened the ratchets before I drove to the restaurant. The magnum slipped inside and the rubber mat went back in place. There was nothing in plain view. I couldn't do anything about a cop stopping me, but if he found the piece it wouldn't stand up in court.
The magnum was a heavy-duty piece. Just looking at the business end would scare most people. But guns aren't for scaring people, they're for people who are scared. I was-I just didn't know of what.
34
I DROVE back carefully, speeding up so I blended in with the late-night traffic. The streets were quiet, but if you looked close, you could see things. Two guys standing against the wall of a darkened gas station-the wool caps on their heads would turn into ski masks when they pulled them down, hands in their pockets. A lonely whore in a fake-fur coat with a white mini-skirt underneath, looking to turn one last trick before she called it a night. A van with blacked-out windows driving by slowly, watching the whore while the two men in the shadows watched the van. In New York, the vultures work close to the ground.
Back in the garage, I unscrewed the plate and took out the magnum. I needed to test the piece and I didn't have time to run over to the Bronx and ask the Mole. I broke the gun and loaded it with some.38 Specials I keep in a jar full of nuts and bolts. The door to the basement is set into the garage floor, like a manhole cover. I pried it loose and backed down the stairs, reaching for the light switch with my hand. I heard the rats running across the floor even before the light went on. Some of the bolder bastards just looked at me-it was their place, not mine.
The walls are lined with sandbags donated from a construction site-about four bags deep all around the wall and up to the ceiling. I don't keep anything else down in the basement; there's no other way out except for the tunnels the rats use. It's good for nothing but testing things that make a big bang-you couldn't hear a cannon from the street.
There's a little workbench on the floor down there with a heavy-duty vise attached and a reel of two-hundred-pound-test fishing line. I wrapped the butt of the magnum in the vise, wedged it tight, and tied some of the fishing line around the trigger. I aimed it at the far wall, cocked the hammer, and ran the line back to the stairs. I climbed halfway up and gave it a hard pull. There was a sharp
I pulled the magnum out of the vise, held it two-handed, and emptied it into the wall. It kicked a bit, but not as much as I expected from the short barrel. I broke the gun and dropped the empties into my hand. Jacques was still selling quality merchandise.
The rats were back doing business before I had the trapdoor closed.
35
I WOKE up the next morning and just stayed there on the couch for a bit, watching Pansy growl in her sleep at a patch of sunlight on her face. I'd been dreaming of Flood-I do it all the time since she left. When I was a kid in reform school I used to dream about getting out-staying out-being somebody important, like a major-league gangster. Now I just replay the tapes of my past inside my head-I can't erase them but I do enough editing to keep me sane.
I took my time getting ready to go out and get some breakfast. I wasn't in any screaming hurry to check out the race results.
The bakery was a couple of blocks away, still standing despite the invasion of yuppies. Newspaper columnists who never rode a subway still call my neighborhood the 'mean streets,' but the only danger out there is maybe getting hit by a flying croissant.
There was a new girl working in the bakery, about sixteen years old, with black hair and dark eyes. From the way the guy who runs the place was watching her, she had to be his daughter. I make sure I don't buy there too often-the owner thinks I make the trip all the way from Brooklyn just for his bread. If too many people know where you live, sooner or later you get visitors.
I picked out a semolina loaf for Pansy and a couple of hard rolls for me. Next door in the deli I got some pineapple juice and seltzer plus a slab of cream cheese. A lot of guys I did time with said when they got out they'd always start the day off with a real breakfast-bacon and eggs, steak, hash-browns, coffee, all that. I never did that-I'm particular about who I eat with.
I grabbed a
Upstairs I tore open the semolina loaf and scooped out the guts. Most of the slab of cream cheese went inside. I looked over at Pansy. She was sitting like a stone, drooling. I tossed her the loaf, saying the magic word at the same time. As usual, she bit right through the middle so that the piece on each side of her jaws fell to the floor. It was gone before I had a chance to make my own breakfast. 'You've got the table manners of an animal,' I told her. Pansy never looked up-nobody respects my social criticism.
I mixed the seltzer and pineapple juice, opened the hard rolls, and put the last of the cheese inside. Finally, I turned to the race results. Sure enough, Flower Jewel was the first horse listed in the seventh race. But before I had even a split-second's worth of pleasure out of it, I saw the tiny 'dq' next to her name. Disqualified. I went over the charts, trying to see how I was robbed this time. My horse tried to get to the top but was parked by another animal all the way to the half before she was shuffled back to fourth against the rail. Then she pulled out and was flying in the stretch when she broke stride. When she crossed the wire first she wasn't pacing like she was supposed to, she was galloping. Flower Jewel was out of an Armbro Nesbit mare by Flower Child, a trotting stallion. She had her grandfather's heart, but not her father's perfect stride. What the hell:
