Valley Parking Lot. The only northbound highway on the east side of the city, it’s always jammed, and conditions only get worse in the summer when the city crams a year’s worth of repairs into a few short months. “It should be bearable. It usually doesn’t clog up seriously for another hour.”
Ryan took the elevated Gardiner Expressway west to the northbound DVP. I liked the way he handled a car: aware of everything going on around him, cool and economical behind the wheel. Maybe it was a product of a life spent watching his back, but he seemed to anticipate what other drivers would do-handy in a city where few drivers have skill or judgment. Seconds later, as if to prove my point, a motorcyclist roared up on our right, bent flat over the front of his bike, going at least twenty miles an hour faster than anyone else. He swept through our lane a foot from our front bumper, then did the same to the car in front of us, cutting sharply back to the inside lane.
“You believe this lunatic?” Ryan said.
“He’ll make a good organ donor.”
“You know what depresses me? We could find out who ordered the hit, change his mind, save the kid’s life, settle things with Marco and still get killed by a moron on a bike.”
“If that’s all that depresses you, it’s the first sign you’re not Jewish.”
“Don’t worry,” Ryan said. “I got plenty else on my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Marco ordering a hit on you, but with someone other than me. It could mean he didn’t believe our little act in the park.”
“You certainly did your part to sell it,” I said.
“No joke, Geller. Marco’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but he has his instincts, and if they tell him I’ve thrown in with you, we’re both in extremely deep shit.”
“It wasn’t Marco who ordered the hit.”
Ryan actually took his eyes off the road at that, giving me a sideways look that was mostly bewilderment, salted with a dash of scorn. “What do you mean?”
“Think about the timing. Marco didn’t get to the park Tuesday night until well after nine o’clock. The phone call Franny answered came in two hours before that.”
“Jesus, Geller, how many people you got after you?”
I told Ryan how Jenn and I had infiltrated Meadowvale, ending with our escape from the two hoods who had tried to corral us. I described the Melonhead and the Suit. Ryan didn’t say anything but his grip on the wheel tightened. I could see blood draining out of his knuckles.
I said, “What?”
“The guy with the round face.”
“What about him?”
“There’s a guy out of Buffalo looks like that. I mean, if I was asked to describe him, I’d have used the same words you did.”
“He have a name?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ryan snorted.
“Suddenly this is funny?”
“His name is Ricky Messina. He’s loosely connected to the Magaddinos.”
“And what does he do exactly?”
“Ricky is in my line of work.”
“Great. He any good?”
“He’s not in my league, if that’s any comfort.”
“Not much.”
“I met him once at a funeral I had to attend for appearance’s sake, and he’s all punk. You know what I heard? He gave himself a nickname instead of waiting for a made guy to give him one. He’s taken to calling himself the Clip. Ricky the Clip, ‘cause he clips people. Sounds more like a barber in a one-stool shop, you ask me.”
“What the hell was a hit man from Buffalo doing at a nursing home in Ontario?”
“Either he’s looking for a place to put his dear old mother,” Ryan said, “or that place is dirtier than you think.”
Fifteen minutes and as many near-collisions later, Ryan exited onto Highway 7 and drove west. After a long stretch of car dealerships, body shops and fast food outlets, he pulled into a small strip plaza and parked.
“Wait here,” he said. He popped the trunk latch, then got out and went to the back of the car. When he came back he was carrying the kind of large metal case photographers use for cameras and lenses. In the middle of the plaza, between a beauty salon and a butcher shop, was a storefront whose windows were covered with newsprint. Taped to the door was a For Rent sign with no phone number on it. Ryan knocked. A moment later, a thin man in a white shirt and dark slacks opened it. He and Ryan embraced briefly, clapping each other on the back.
Ryan pulled some money out of his pocket and handed a bill to the man and nodded his head toward an Italian restaurant that anchored the west end of the plaza. The man walked over to the restaurant and gave Ryan a wave before entering. When Ryan beckoned me, I got out of the car slowly, my side sore from the ride. Once we were both inside, Ryan locked the door and said, “We got maybe half an hour.”
The place was set up like a cafe, with red vinyl chairs and wood veneer tables. A tall fridge with glass doors was well stocked with beer and wine, and behind a counter at the far end was an espresso machine and a shelf that held bottles of single malt and blended Scotch, grappa, vodka, gin, cognac and rum.
“Social club?” I asked.
“More like a conference centre.” Ryan opened a door at the back and led me down a steep staircase into a basement with a cement floor and heavy curtains over all the walls.
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
There were guns everywhere. Dozens of them. Pistols on tables, rifles leaning against walls, shotguns in locked cabinets. Boxes of ammunition labelled by calibre.
Ryan set his case down on a table and flipped it open. Six handguns were set in thick grey foam. “This is my Glock 20,” he said, pointing to an automatic. “Hits like a Magnum and holds twenty rounds. Next to it is its baby brother, the Glock 29. Smaller and easier to conceal. Only carries ten rounds but if you need more than that you’re in the wrong business. Now this,” he said, pointing to a huge nickel-plated revolver, “this is the Smith amp; Wesson Classic I took to see JoJo Santini. How’d you like to chew on that barrel? Eight and three-eighths inches of stainless steel. The little one with the long barrel is a. 22 Colt.”
“They think that’s the kind that killed Franny.”
“He was shot close?”
I nodded. “Head and neck.”
“That’s all a. 22 is good for is close-ups. Otherwise, you’re better off throwing it at a guy than shooting him with it. Now this-this is the one: a Beretta 9-mil, the Cougar model. This is good. This is nice. Not too heavy, not too long a barrel-a little under four inches-packs ten rounds and there’s hardly any recoil. Not too accurate from a distance, but if you need it at all, it’ll be up close.”
“If I-me? You brought me here to get me a gun?”
“They tried to kill you twice already. You want to keep going up against them unarmed?”
“I’m not licensed to carry a gun.”
“Neither is Ricky the Clip, for Chrissakes. Neither is Marco or Phil or me for that matter. We don’t have licences but we all got guns.”
“If I get caught with an illegal weapon, I’d lose my investigator’s licence.”
“Get caught without one, you’ll lose a lot more. Suppose Ricky shows up at your door. What are you going to do, demand to see his licence?”
“I can’t take it. I won’t.” My stomach was twisting and my breath seemed harder to find. It wasn’t the penalties I was thinking about, or my licence. It was the feeling of hot desert air filling my lungs, of sand stinging my eyes.
He held the Cougar out to me, butt first. “If you walk out of here without the gun,” he said, “keep walking. Make your own way back to town.”
“Why? Why is it so important that I carry a gun? You care that much about me?”
“Pal, I care about me. If we’re in this together, you might wind up having to watch my back and I don’t want you there empty-handed. You might be good with your fists but you can’t throw a punch fifty feet. Someone’s
