“I got something for you,” the old man said. “It’s a simple one. I think they want to see if I can deliver.”
“They think it’s you going to be doing it?”
“Yeah, me and my ‘organization,’ right?”
“Right. Good. Tell me.”
“It’s a pawnshop on Lenox Avenue, near 131st Street. The guy who runs it is a front for them. He’s making good coin where he is, but he’s a greedy fuck—started selling dope out of the place, and The Man got him. It’s about a hundred years in the can for what they nailed him with; he rolled over like a dog. He don’t really know all that much yet, so they’re leaving him out there to get more. He’s also got an undercover working for him—right in the shop.”
“What’s that?”
“A cop, from the CIB; a Puerto Rican kid, he looks like, but he’s a cop for sure. Supposed to be a stockboy or something like that, but he uses that phone too much ... and he’s not placing bets.”
“The cop, too?”
“Maybe more—the beat bulls are getting paid off by this creep, and they keep a close watch on his store so’s he won’t get taken off.”
“Can we get him over here some night?”
“Forget that! The first rule is that
“Why not at his house, where he lives?”
“Too much pressure on the boys, then. The Muslims have been giving this rat bastard hell because they know he’s dealing. We make it look like they did it.”
“A white man in Harlem?”
“You thinking about him or you?”
“Me.”
“Good. You ever use dynamite?”
“Just grenades. In the Army.”
“Same stuff. You light it, you throw it, and you get the fuck outta the way, right?”
“They might get out, too.... No, wait a minute ... are they both up front in the place?”
“Usually the cop is in the back—but if he thinks you from the People he’ll drift up just to be able to testify against you later.”
“Doesn’t this guy know who his contact is?”
“No. He’s a small-time weasel—any fucking hood comes in there with a ‘Message from the Boys’ and this faggot’ll listen, you know?”
“Okay, when does the cop leave the place at night?”
“The guy we want opens up around ten. And his cop helper gets there around noon. They work a long day, close up around eleven at night. We’ll take the cab—it cost me twenty-eight large, but they’ll never find it in this city.”
31/
Wednesday night, 9:10 p.m. A yellow medallion cab rolled up in front of the pawnshop on Lenox, the old man at the wheel. Pet slid the cab down about four doors from the target and pulled out a newspaper. He poked a small hole in the middle of the paper with a sharp pencil, adjusted his rearview mirror until he was satisfied. He slipped the cab into gear and rested his left foot lightly on the brake—the rear brake lights did not go on.
Wesley climbed out of the back of the cab. He was dressed in a steel-grey sharkskin one-button suit with a dark grey shirt and light grey tie. His shoes flashed like black mirrors in rhyme-time with the gross white Lindy Star on his right pinky; his watchband matched his cufflinks, which matched his tie clip; his snapbrim fedora was pearl grey. He carried a small, round cardboard hatbox.
The bells above the door tinkled as Wesley entered. The shop was empty of customers and the pawnbroker was up front in the cage.
“Can I help you?”
“No, I can help
The Puerto Rican drifted toward the front as Wesley’s voice trailed off.
“Who’s this?” Wesley challenged.
“Oh, this is Juan, my stockboy. He’s okay; he knows the score.”
“Get him over here—I want to see his face.”
Juan walked smiling toward the front of the cage. Wesley brought the 9mm Beretta out of the hatbox. The silencer made it seem six feet long, but Juan caught two slugs in the chest before he had a chance to wonder about it or make a move (“Always take the hard man first—it’s tougher on your guts that way, but if you take the soft man first, you won’t be fucking alive to feel good behind it,” Carmine had told him years ago) and Wesley immediately turned the gun on the other man who flung his hands into the air. Wesley said, “Open the cashbox!” so the target would relax, and blew away the side of his face as the man bent toward the drawer.
