Gideon’s Sword

Gideon sensed Garza knew nothing of Hart Island. It gave him a certain satisfaction to be ahead of Glinn and his smooth-?operating sidekick for once. “I’ll handle it myself.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll need backup. Don’t be a damn idiot.”

Gideon scoffed.

“Where are you meeting him?”

“None of your business.”

“You go rogue on us, Crew, and we’ll shut you down, I swear to God we will.”

Gideon hesitated. This was a complication he didn’t need. “Corona Park. Queens.”

A beat. “Corona Park?”

“You know. Where the old World’s Fair was. We’re meeting at the Unisphere.”

A silence. “When?”

“Midnight tonight.”

“Why there?”

“Just a place to meet.”

Garza shook his head. “A place to meet.”

“Nodding Crane murdered my friend. Now it’s either him or me. Like I said, this has nothing to do with you. When I get done with this business, I’ll take care of yours. Don’t try to stop me.”

Garza was silent for a while, then he nodded. As the train pulled into the next stop, he rose and left, a disgusted look on his face.

Crew got off at 170th and the Grand Concourse. He walked eastward toward the park, passing a row of abandoned buildings. Reaching the park — a sad affair with dirt instead of grass and trash everywhere — he slowed his walk to a loiter, glancing around, just another suburban guy looking for drugs. Almost immediately he was accosted by a dealer, who passed him murmuring smoke, smoke.

He stopped, turned. “Yeah.”

The dealer swerved and came back. He was a short, stooped kid with a comb stuck in his hair, pants hanging south of his ass. “What you need?” he asked. “Got smoke, blow, horse…”

“A pistol.”

Silence.

“I’ll pay big money,” Gideon went on. “But I need something heavy-caliber, best quality.”

The dealer didn’t seem to hear at first. Then he muttered something that sounded like “wait here” and rambled off.

Gideon waited. Twenty minutes later the kid was back. “Follow me,” he said.

Gideon followed him out of the park and into an abandoned building on Morris Avenue, an old brownstone with bashed-out windows and a dark, urine-fragrant interior. As dangerous as this was, it was better than asking Garza for another gun on bended knee. He didn’t want to be any more beholden to the man than necessary. He knew he should be nervous, even scared, and yet he felt nothing. Nothing but rage.

The dealer went to the dismal stairwell, whistled up it. A whistle returned.

“Second floor,” he said.

Gideon mounted the stairs, stepping over a scattering of used condoms, crack vials, and vomit. He reached the second floor. On the landing, two men waited, both dressed in expensive gym clothes with puffy white sneakers. They were Hispanic and well groomed. The taller one, obviously the leader, had a carefully clipped five- day stubble, plenty of rings and gold chains, and smelled strongly of Armani Attitude. The shorter one sported several cold sores.

“Let’s see the money,” said the tall one, flashing a self-assured grin.

“When I see the gun.”

The leader shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back, looking down at Gideon. He was tall and used his height to intimidate. His eyes, however, were stupid. “We got the gun.”

“Let’s see it. I don’t have all day.”

The short one with the cold sores reached into his jacket, pulled a gun halfway out. “Nine-millimeter Beretta.”

“What’s the price?”

“How much you got?”

Gideon felt his rage, already close to the boiling point, rise. “Listen, sucker. Name your price. Then I’m going to check out the piece. If it’s good, I pay. If not, I walk.”

Tall Man nodded, puckering his lips. “Show it to him.”

Cold Sores removed the gun, handed it to Gideon. Gideon took it, looked it over, snapped the rack a few times. “The magazine?”

Out came the magazine. Gideon took it, frowned. “Rounds?”

“Look, man, we can’t have no shooting here.”

Gideon thought about that. They were right, of course. He would have to field-test it later. He took the magazine, slapped it in, hefted the gun, pulled the trigger. It appeared to be in excellent condition. “I’ll take it.”

“Two thousand.”

That was a lot for a seven-hundred-dollar pistol. He looked at it closely. The serial number had been filed off, which probably meant nothing. Acid would bring it up again. He felt in his jacket pocket, where he had put his cash, done up in rubber-banded blocks of five hundred. He selected four, brought them out. He put the gun in his pocket and gave the packets to Tall Man.

He turned to go and heard a voice. “Just a minute.”

He turned back to find both men with pistols aimed at him. “Give me the rest of your money,” Tall Man said.

Gideon stared. “You robbing me? A customer?”

“You got it, boy.”

Gideon had another two thousand in his pocket. He made a quick decision, pulled out the money, tossed it on the ground. “That’s all of it.”

“Pistol, too.”

“Now, that’s going too far.”

“Then kiss your white ass good-bye.” They both grinned, aiming their guns.

“My white ass?” Gideon asked, incredulously. He reached in, removed the pistol, aimed it at the men.

“You’re forgetting it ain’t loaded, you punk-ass bitch.”

“If I give you the gun back, promise to let me go,” Gideon whined, holding it out.

“Sure thing.” Two shit-eating smiles followed this assurance.

Gideon’s hand shook so much they began to laugh. Tall Man reached over to get the pistol and, just at that moment of distraction, Gideon lashed out at Cold Sores, smacking the gun out of his hand while at the same time jamming his foot against the side of his knee and twisting himself out of the way of Tall Man’s line of fire. As Cold Sores went down with a howl, Tall Man fired, and Gideon felt the bullet tug the shoulder of his jacket. With a furious scream he fell on Tall Man. He went down like a rotten tree and Gideon landed on top of him, wresting the gun from him in one violent motion and jamming it in his eye, pressing it hard against the eyeball.

“No, no, oww!” the man screamed in pain, trying to twist his head, but the barrel was pressed so hard against his eye, he was forced to stop moving. “Stop, please, oh shit, don’t! My eye!”

Cold Sores was up again, having retrieved his gun. He aimed it at Gideon.

“Drop it or I fire!” Gideon screamed like a lunatic. “And then I’ll kill you!”

“Drop it!” shrieked Tall Man. “Do what he says!”

Cold Sores backed out of the room, limping, not dropping it. Gideon could see he was going to run. Hell, let him go. Cold Sores broke and ran. Gideon could hear his footsteps clattering down the stairs, and then a crash as he fell in panic. More lopsided running and then silence.

“Looks like it’s just us,” said Gideon. He could feel warm blood running down his arm. The bullet had evidently grazed his shoulder. A tuft of material stood out. The actual wound was dead, without feeling.

Tall Man blubbered incoherently. Keeping the barrel pressed hard into his eye socket, rendering him