“Oh, yeah,” T.G. said, nodding, as if he caught some other meaning. “Sure. But that don’t help me any. I see him, he’s one dead nigger.”
“Buffalo,” Ricky said, shaking his head. “Christ.” He tried to listen more carefully, but he was still thinking about the boat scam. Yeah, that Gardino’d come up with a good one. And man, making a hundred thousand in a single grift-he and T.G.’d never come close to that before.
Ricky shook his head again. He sighed. “Got half a mind to go to Buffalo and take his black ass out myself.”
“You the man, Lime Rickey. You the fucking man.” And T.G. started rambling once again.
Nodding, staring at T.G.’s not-drunk, not-sober eyes, Ricky was wondering: How much would it take to get the fuck out of Hell’s Kitchen? Get away from the bitching ex-wives, the bratty kid, away from T.G. and all the asshole losers like him. Maybe go to Florida, where Gardino was from. Maybe that’d be the place for him. From the various scams he and T.G. put together, he’d saved up about thirty thousand in cash. Nothing shabby there. But man, if he conned just two or three guys in the boat deal, he could walk away with five times that.
Wouldn’t set him for good, but it’d be a start. Hell, Florida was full of rich old people, most of ’em stupid, just waiting to give their money to a player had the right grift.
A fist colliding with his arm shattered the daydream. He bit the inside of his cheek and winced. He glared at T.G., who just laughed. “So, Lime Rickey, you going to Leon’s, ain’t you? On Saturday.”
“I don’t know.”
The door swung open and some out-of-towner wandered in. An older guy, in his fifties, dressed in beltless tan slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer, a cord around his neck holding a convention badge,
Association of… Ricky squinted. Association of Obese Ferret Molesters.
He laughed at his own joke. Nobody noticed. Ricky eyed the tourist. This never used to happen, seeing geeks in a bar around here. But then the convention center went in a few blocks south and after that, Times Square got its balls cut off and turned into Disneyland. Suddenly Hell’s Kitchen was White Plains and Paramus, and the fucking yuppies and tourists took over.
The man blinked, eyes getting used to the dark. He ordered wine-T.G. snickered, wine in this place?-and drank down half right away. The guy had to’ve had money. He was wearing a Rolex and his clothes were designer shit. The man looked around slowly, and it reminded Ricky of the way people at the zoo look at the animals. He got pissed and enjoyed a brief fantasy of dragging the guy’s ass outside and pounding him till he gave up the watch and wallet.
But of course he wouldn’t. T.G. and Ricky weren’t that way; they steered clear of busting heads. Oh, a few times somebody got fucked up bad-they’d pounded a college kid when he’d taken a swing at T.G. during a scam, and Ricky’d slashed the face of some spic who’d skimmed a thousand bucks of their money. But the rule was, you didn’t make people bleed if you could avoid it. If a mark lost only money, a lot of times he’d keep quiet about it, rather than go public and look like a fucking idiot. But if he got hurt, more times than not he’d go to the cops.
“You with me, Lime Rickey?” T.G. snapped. “You’re off in your own fucking world.”
“Just thinking.”
“Ah, thinking. Good. He’s thinking. ’Bout your altar bitch?”
Ricky mimicked jerking off. Putting himself down again. Wondered why he did that. He glanced at the tourist. The man was whispering to the bartender, who caught Ricky’s eye and lifted his head. Ricky pushed back from T.G.’s table and walked to the bar, his boots making loud clonks on the wooden floor.
“Whassup?”
“This guy’s from out of town.”
The tourist looked at Ricky once, then down at the floor.
“No shit.” Ricky rolled his eyes at the bartender.
“Iowa,” the man said.
Where the fuck was Iowa? Ricky’d come close to finishing high school and had done okay in some subjects, but geography had bored him crazy and he never paid any attention in class.
The bartender said, “He was telling me he’s in town for a conference at Javits.”
Him and the ferret molesters…
“And…” the bartender’s voice faded as he glanced at the tourist. “Well, why don’t
The man took another gulp of his wine. Ricky looked at his hand. Not only a Rolex, but a gold pinky ring with a big honking diamond in it.
“Yeah, why don’t you tell me?”
The tourist did-in a halting whisper.
Ricky listened to his words. When the old guy was through, Ricky smiled and said, “This is your lucky day, mister.”
Thinking: Mine too.
A half hour later, Ricky and the tourist from Iowa were standing in the grimy lobby of the Bradford Arms, next to a warehouse at Eleventh Avenue and 50th Street.
Ricky was making introductions. “This’s Darla.”
“Hello, Darla.”
A gold tooth shone like a star out of Darla’s big smile. “How you doing, honey? What’s yo’ name?”
“Uhm, Jack.”
Ricky sensed he’d nearly made up “John” instead, which would’ve been pretty funny, under the circumstances.
“Nice to meet you, Jack.” Darla, whose real name was Sha’quette Greeley, was six feet tall, beautiful, and built like a runway model. She’d also been a man until three years ago. The tourist from Iowa didn’t catch on to this, or maybe he did and it turned him on. Anyway, his gaze was lapping her body like a tongue.
Jack checked them in, paying for three hours in advance.
Three hours? thought Ricky. An old fart like this? God bless him.
“Y’all have fun now,” Ricky said, falling into a redneck accent. He’d decided that Iowa was probably somewhere in the south.
Detective Robert Schaeffer could’ve been the host on one of those FOX or A &E cop shows. He was tall, silver-haired, good-looking, maybe a bit long in the face. He’d been an NYPD detective for nearly twenty years.
Schaeffer and his partner were walking down a filthy hallway that stank of sweat and Lysol. The partner pointed to a door, whispering, “That’s it.” He pulled out what looked like an electronic stethoscope and placed the sensor over the scabby wood.
“Hear anything?” Schaeffer asked, also in a soft voice.
Joey Bernbaum, the partner, nodded slowly, holding up a finger. Meaning wait.
And then a nod. “Go.”
Schaeffer pulled a master key out of his pocket, and drawing his gun, unlocked the door then pushed inside.
“Police! Nobody move!”
Bernbaum followed, his own automatic in hand.
The faces of the two people inside registered identical expressions of shock at the abrupt entry, though it was only in the face of the pudgy middle-aged white man, sitting shirtless on the bed, that the shock turned instantly to horror and dismay. He had a Marine Corps tattoo on his fat upper arm and had probably been pretty tough in his day, but now his narrow, pale shoulders slumped and he looked like he was going to cry. “No, no, no…”
“Oh, fuck,” Darla said.
“Stay right where you are, sweetheart. Be quiet.”
“How the fuck you find me? That little prick downstairs at the desk, he dime me? I know it. I’ma pee on that boy next time I see him. I’ma-”
“You’re not going to do anything but shut up,” Bernbaum snapped. In a ghetto accent he added a sarcastic, “Yo, got that, girlfriend?”
