long as they’re in with him. When they show on the street without the diamond, it means he’s done with them and they’re nothing but a fucking piece of meat after that. He’s got a new one every couple months or so.”
“Could the kid live down there a couple a weeks and watch the black guy?”
“I don’t think so, Wes. That’s a real freak show and the kid might panic and whack one of them when they hit on him.”
“He might at that—one of them moved on me last night.”
“What happened?”
“This was on my way back to the Sheraton. I was waiting for the light to change, and this freak comes up and asks me if the CT on the ID bracelet stands for ‘cock-teaser,’ right?”
“Jesus! I told you you shouldn’ta worn that....”
“Hey, look, Pet, he just wanted to hit on me, period. No matter what fucking initials I’d of had, he would’ve said
“You have to hurt him?”
“On the street? I told him I’d meet him in the last row of the Tom Kat at midnight.”
“The Tom Kat?”
“Some sleazo joint I saw on the way down.”
The old man laughed, “I can’t see the kid doing that—he’d have opened up that freak for sure.”
“You got to forget your image if you want to move out there. What happens if you lay up for a couple a weeks without doing anything? Will they think you lost your guts?”
“Nah, they’ll think I’m getting ready to go on in.”
“Would the Prince want to make it personal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would he have to hit you himself ... or could any of his freaks do it?”
“He’d want to hit me himself. It’d mean a lot if he did. You take a man out, you take his rep for yours.”
“What’s he use?”
“Mostly his hands—he’s one of those karate experts. He never carries, but one of his freaks is always around, and they all shoot or stab. But he works small. They say he can kill you with anything: a rolled-up newspaper, a dog chain, you know what I mean.”
“So he’d have to be close. And you don’t.”
“You could never pop him from one of the buildings. He’d know you was inside before you even got set up. Did he see your face?”
“So what? He didn’t know who I was.”
“He will the next time,” Pet said solemnly. “You can forget about getting close, too.”
“All right. Stay here for a few days—I’m going out to look at him good this time.”
43/
Wesley spent six days in Times Square, catching only occasional glimpses of the Prince. But he did locate the black man with the diamond earring, and the black man had a pattern. Too much of a pattern—whatever else he was, Wesley knew he wasn’t a professional. Every night, just before 11:00, he went to Sadie’s Sexational Spa (“THE BEST IN THE WESTside”) on Eighth between 44th and 45th. He stayed about a half hour each time.
He went in different directions after that—never the same way. Wesley followed him three times, and each time he met the Prince, always on the street or at the entrance to one of the bars.
Wesley returned to the garage a little after midnight on Wednesday. Pet came out of the shadows and walked over to the car:
“Can we do it?” the old man wanted to know.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna be sticky. You’re going to have to go in there with the car. Go in
“Why you want him like that?”
“Misdirection. Like with the backfiring car you told me about.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“The rest is mine. You just wait with the car. No, bump that— how many cars can you plant in different spots around the cesspool?”
“If I started now, I could probably get about six, ‘specially if the kid helps.”
“Okay, we’ll use under the West Side Highway Bridge by the river. On 40th, and 33rd, and 23rd. And 42nd & Fifth, and anyplace else you think is good. Get the list where you got them stashed, and get ready to go out in the cab by 8:30 tomorrow night. I’m going to sleep.”
“Wesley...”
“What?”
“We give the kid a key, then he could take care of the dog if—”
