“It wasn’t hard—black line against a red building, and I had almost a minute to get set up. I figured it would only cost us a second or so and the rope hanging down was the only bad part of the whole thing.”
“How many shots you have to fire?”
“I got it the first time—I cut loose as soon as you let go.”
“You’ve got Pet’s blood in you, alright.”
Wesley spotted the SWAT team deploying on the roof. He flicked the walkie-talkie to the intercept band.
“Not a fucking sound in there, Sarge. Want us to go in?”
“Negative! Stay right there! The Captain’s getting on the horn down here first—maybe the bastards’ll surrender.”
The cop’s short laugh sounded just like a bark over the speaker. Then the bullhorn’s battery-powered voice blasted the air.
“You men up there! This is Captain Berkowitz of the Tactical Patrol Force. Throw out your weapons and walk out of the back door one at a time, with your hands away from your bodies. You will not be harmed. The building is completely surrounded—you don’t have a chance. You have to surrender peacefully—don’t make it any worse on yourselves.”
It didn’t surprise Wesley that only silence came back out at the police from the building. The cop was back on the horn again.
“Listen, you people ... the man you shot isn’t dead—he isn’t going to die! It’s not a murder rap yet—don’t make it one! Come out without your weapons ... you have thirty seconds.”
The kid said “Fuck!” softly, almost beyond audibility, but Wesley had been listening for it.
“He’s dead, kid,” Wesley told him. “The first shot took his face off. The cops are just running a hustle, that’s all.”
“They said...”
“Doesn’t mean anything. We’re not the only ones don’t play by the rules. Fat Boy is gone to heaven, I promise you.”
One of the cops on the roof lobbed in a tear-gas grenade—the wind carried the gas right out of the window of the sealed room and it stayed quiet. A sharp
“They must of figured they wasn’t going to break in that street door,” Wesley smiled.
While the TPF Captain kept up a steady stream of threats and promises, the floor of the building rapidly filled with cautious policemen who started up the stairs. They slid back, cursing and frightened. After they reported back to the Captain, he tried the bullhorn again. “All that crap on the stairs isn’t going to keep us out forever, men! You’ve got nowhere to go! Make it easy on yourselves!”
A break in traffic opened up and the kid shot for it like any good city hackster. They followed the highway to 23rd Street and doubled back toward the building. Four blocks from the site, they found traffic choked off again—a burly cop was gesturing threateningly at anyone who tried to get by.
The police-band was frantically screaming instructions to all units again—about thirty men had entered the building and were slowly making their way up the stairs with the aid of sandbags ... then they were even more slowly taking down each door on their way to the top. It was 2:45 p.m.
The kid made a gross U-turn right in front of the cop and the cab headed back toward Times Square. This time, they angled toward the water and finally pulled up on Twelfth Avenue just past 26th Street, right in front of the Starrett Lehigh Terminal. The huge, abandoned building had a giant SPACE AVAILABLE sign on its facade.
“There’s going to be a whole lot of motherfucking space available in one building I know about,” Wesley said. “Are we still within range?”
“Easy,” the kid responded. “We got about four-tenths-of-a-mile leeway from the Erie Lackawanna Yard and that’s a couple a blocks further north.”
“The building’s about as full as it’s going to get now. Hit the switch before they get into the room.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I set the dynamite to blow upwards, you know? I just wanted to blow out that one room, so’s they won’t find anything. We need at least one body so they won’t catch wise—it should look like the guys in that room decided to check out together instead of surrender.”
The kid didn’t reply. He reached forward and pushed the three buttons on the radio transmitter in correct sequence. In seconds, there was the familiar dull-booming throb, followed by a space-muffled crash. It wasn’t impressive at that distance.
The cab turned right at 42nd and slowly threaded its way back east. They picked up the FDR Drive down by the river and headed back toward home.
79/
As soon as they got inside, they both went to Wesley’s apartment, first setting all the security systems and leaving the dog in the garage. Wesley flicked on the television. The picture showed a huge, milling mob that the police were trying to control, not being too gentle about it. The TV announcer had a huge bulb-headed microphone with a white numeral “4” on its base. He looked harried.
“One of the worst tragedies in the history of our city—Prince Duvalier has been assassinated by person or persons unknown and the killers have apparently blown up the building in which they were trapped in an effort to avoid capture. At least four police officers are missing in the wreckage and presumed dead. The fire department is on the scene and rescue crews are working at top speed to clear the debris. The building from which the shots came is apparently owned by a major firm, but we have been unable to contact a spokesman....”
Wesley clicked off the set and looked at the kid. “Not dead, huh? The fucking maggots.”
