And what a douchebag! Who throws a woman out a window? A coward, that’s who. Not someone likely to put up any resistance to a team like his.
Pinkerton knows it’s a good thing he was called in. The local guy—Alfonzo something. Who is he, anyway? OK, SWAT, so maybe he’s got some game, but no way he’s seen any action up here.
The Ford arrives at a large intersection and turns left onto Route 30 south along Tupper Lake.
And a name like that. Alfonzo. He should be fixing Fiats in a dusty garage at the edge of town.
“Hey, Ricky,” Pinkerton says to the guy farthest away on the bench opposite near the back. Ricky is the misfit of the group who ended up in the SERT accidentally. He was a U.S. Army Ranger and allegedly knew his stuff, but he wanted to be a police officer after his service, and only ended up on the team because there was a space and he only took it because of the pay. His wife had a baby four months ago and her loss of income had prompted his transfer from a city desk where he wrote up policy documents or some damn thing. Pinkerton wants to either draw this guy out of his shell or transfer his ass back.
“Ricky—who’s this Alfonzo guy? And what the fuck are they doing with a Puerto Rican upstate anyway? What is he, lost?”
“His mother’s Italian,” Ricky says. “Father’s from Vermont. Runs an apple farm and antique shop I think. He’s a really nice guy,” says Ricky. After he says this, and seeing the horror on Pinkerton’s face, he looks down at his own boots again.
Ricky doesn’t like Pinkerton any more than Irv does.
“Whatever,” Pinkerton says to no one in particular.
Bored with Ricky, and typically unimpressed, Pinkerton whacks the side of the pickup and shouts for the driver to put on the sirens. “I want to be back at the bar telling war stories before happy hour is over, you got that? I don’t see any reason we all need to be paying more than three bucks a beer tonight. How much farther? We don’t want little Alfonzo getting all the glory, now, do we? No, we don’t. No, we absolutely do not. What’s our ETA?”
The driver screams out his window. “Twenty-two more miles, sir.”
Pinkerton calculates. At sixty miles an hour, which is about what they are doing, that makes it twenty-two minutes to the destination. Fifteen minutes maximum on site. And then they flash the lights again on the way home. It will have to do.
“What kind of place is it?” Pinkerton asks.
“Some kind of compound in the woods, sir. The satellite photos show a house on a little peninsula.”
Right. Good. A real and proper operation. A cabin in the woods. Like the Unabomber and the Evil Dead.
Oh baby, yeah.
With the wind battering his head, Pinkerton calls the Alfonzo guy on the phone. It rings twice before it is answered.
“Plymouth? This is Pinkerton. You’ve been informed of our assistance?”
There is a brief pause, which Pinkerton finds odd. This is a serious mission. What’s this guy doing, thinking about the answer? He expects compliance, attention, focus, and some attitude.
“Ah . . . yup. Howard called Irv. I’m not convinced we need a twenty-five person assault team to apprehend a guy sitting quietly in the woods, but . . . OK.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got one. Iron fist, baby. We’re going to circle him and move right in. What’s your ETA to the rendezvous?”
“Well, with the new boat we’re not making the greatest time, to be honest. I figure twenty to twenty-five minutes to cross the lake and then another twenty or thirty through the brush by foot.”
“According to my map,” says Pinkerton, not looking at one, “this place is right on the water. Why the long walk?”
“Well,” says Alfonzo, “I don’t consider that a long walk. Do you?”
“I think we’re going to get there before you,” says Pinkerton, shaking his head at the wop’s cluelessness and lack of drive. “I’ll bet you’re right, though. My guys are probably enough. In which case, we’ll have to secure the location first. I’ll keep you informed,” he concludes, and pushes the red button on the phone, which really should launch something rather than simply end a call.
Keep him informed, my ass.
Ricky, trying to ignore Pinkerton’s mood, feels his own phone ring in his breast pocket and so he answers it, putting a stiff finger into his left ear to block out the wind.
“Hello?”
“Ricky, it’s Irv.”
“Oh, hey, Sheriff.”
“Ricky, listen. I need you to stay close to Pinkerton on this one. I can’t tell you why, because it would put you in something of a spot, but let’s just say I want a nice, calm approach over there. You’re not soldiers and this isn’t a war zone. You’re police officers hired and sworn to serve and protect. Uphold our laws. Think friendliness. Kitty-cats and trees. Bake sales. Car washes. Teaching kids to wear helmets and use reflectors on their bicycles. Remember that stuff?”
“Vaguely, sir. Though . . . fondly.”
“I know you do, Ricky. Because under all that shit you’re wearing you’re a nice guy, unlike . . . you know who.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep an eye on Pinkerton. Don’t shoot any civilians. Or any women you happen to see. Women who might already be there, for example. Women who might also be civilians. And friends of mine. I guess what I’m saying, Ricky, is this: If things get bad, you just shoot Pinkerton. OK?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll just carve out the slugs, chuck him in the lake, and shrug in boyish wonder when we’re questioned later.”
“I got you, sir.”
Ricky looks at Pinkerton, who looks back at him.
“Who was that?” Pinkerton asks.
“The sheriff. Wishing us luck.”
“He didn’t call me.”
“It was more . . . advice for me, I think.”
“Yeah. I don’t need any.”
The route is smooth and gently curved. The lesser people in their vehicles part the way to make room for the alpha males in their trucks, the way nature intends.
The private driveways for the bankers start coming into view
