A Bomb Built in Hell

“The dog would kill him.”

44/

The yellow cab rolled up Eighth Avenue, Pet driving, Wesley the passenger. He wore a khaki fatigue jacket and heavy twill khaki pants tucked into soft-soled field boots. Under the jacket, he wore a black Banlon pullover with long raglan sleeves.

In the side pocket of the pants he carried two identical knives; the blades extended back through the handles and were anchored by a tiny metal bead. Wesley carried the Beretta zipped into the inside pocket of the field jacket. One outside pocket held a screw-on silencer. Another held two full clips of hollowpoints. Swinging from the thin webbing belt was a pair of baseball-sized fragmentation grenades. The front pocket of the pants held a Colt Cobra with a two-inch barrel. Wesley also carried a small plastic bottle of talcum powder, four pairs of rubber surgeon’s gloves, and a black silk handkerchief. Clipped to the back of the webbing belt was a pair of regulation police handcuffs. Also on board was a thousand dollars in bills, from singles to centuries, a soft pack of Marlboros, a disposable butane lighter, and a miniature propane torch.

Sewn into Wesley’s left sleeve were registrations for the six cars, as well as a valid FS-1 for each—but only one set of keys, which would start any of the vehicles in the garage. He also carried a driver’s license, Social Security card, draft card, a DD 214 form from the Army, a membership card in Local 1199 of the Hospital Workers Union, and a clinic card showing that his next appointment was for Monday at the VA Hospital on 24th and First Avenue. Wesley had once spent twenty-four hours a day for three weeks dressed the same way—he could move without giving the slightest hint of all the extra weight.

The cab stopped on 44th and Wesley got out. It was 10:15.

Wesley entered Sadie’s. A red light glowed against the far wall. Beneath it a fat man with a menacing face sat behind a scarred wooden desk. The fat man’s face lit up with what was supposed to be both a smile of welcome and a warning.

“Can I help you, buddy?”

“I want a massage.”

“Twenty-five bucks in front. You pay me for the massage—you got twenty minutes. Anything extra, more time, whatever, you settle with the girl, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now take a look in this here book and tell me which a the girls you want.”

He showed Wesley the kind of album proud mothers keep of weddings. There were about forty pages, with two devoted to each girl. Wesley watched as the man thumbed through it. They all looked alike. Wesley’s finger stabbed at random.

“How about that one?”

“Sorry, buddy, this is Margo’s night off. But if you like blondes, how about this?” He displayed a well-worn 8x10 glossy with obvious pride. The merchandise was lying down on a couch, nude and looking straight into the camera’s eye. She looked about sixteen.

“Yeah, okay. Is she ready now?”

“Sure, just hold on a minute. Joanne!” he bellowed. A girl who vaguely resembled the picture in the album came into the front area to escort Wesley back to a booth. He couldn’t see her face at first, but as they walked back together, he saw she moved like she was thirty-five and tired. She ushered Wesley into what looked like a large closet: plasterboard walls, an army cot with folded sheets, a pillow without a case, a tiny lamp with a pink low-watt bulb, a cracked porcelain bowl half-full of tepid water. The girl pulled her shift over her head. She was wearing what looked like the bottom half of a bikini and several pounds of flesh-colored powder.

“Why don’t you just lie down on the bed there and tell me what you’d like, honey?”

Wesley’s watch said 10:28.

“Come here.”

“Sure, honey, but you know that’ll cost you extra, right?”

“Right.” Wesley motioned for the girl to sit beside him on the cot; he took out two hundred-dollar bills and folded them flat across her knee.

The girl nervously licked her lips and gave him a half-smile. “Honey, I know this is Times Square and all ... and I can show you a real nice time ... but for that kind of money maybe you want one of the other girls here, I don’t—”

“You can get this, and another two hundred, just for being quiet and helping me a little bit.”

“What do you mean? Listen, I don’t go—”

“Just take the money and keep quiet, okay? I need some answers and some help. I can pay you for it ... or I can cut your fucking throat.”

The razor-edged knife was nestled against the girl’s carotid artery before Wesley finished the sentence. He watched her eyes to make sure she wouldn’t panic or scream, finally satisfied himself that she wouldn’t.

“No noise, okay?” he said quietly. “Just no noise and some answers and I’m gone.”

She said nothing.

“Every night, just before eleven, a short, husky black guy comes in here. He’s got a big Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear and—”

“I know who he is, that sicko.”

“Yeah. Okay, who’s he go with?”

“Anyone, man. For what he does, he can’t be choosy. You know what he wants