I turned on the light by Willie’s chair and looked him over. He was heavily bandaged.
“So how you doing?”
“Making it, thanks to you. That son of a bitch sliced me up pretty good. They take out some of the stitches on Thursday.”
“You going to be okay?”
“Some nerve damage here and there, the doc said. Hell, I’m so sore you couldn’t prove it by me.”
“Sorry this happened, Willie.”
“Those brothers outside — they told me you stumbled into something that should have got you killed.”
“That’s about it.”
“You crawl though enough sewers, you’re gonna meet rats,” Willie said. “You gotta get outta the fuckin’ sewers, Tommy.”
“I’m working on it.”
“I bet.”
I pulled a stool over to his chair.
“Before you get comfortable,” he said, “fix me a drink. You, too, if you want one.”
I poured him a bourbon on the rocks and brought it over. He didn’t have any trouble getting it down.
“I need a favor,” I said. “Got a government van I need painted quick by someone who will do a first-class job and won’t talk. Need some new plates for it, too, something not too hot. Know anyone who can help?”
Willie the Wire scowled and took another swig of whiskey. “You ain’t quitting?”
“No.”
He grunted, drank some more whiskey, and gave me a name and an address.
The sky was turning light when I left. I unlocked the van and drove off to find some breakfast.
Tuesday morning in Washington. July. Already it was steamy hot and the traffic was terrible, as usual, even though the worst of rush hour was over.
Joe Billy Dunn was waiting for me in a McDonald’s parking lot. Cursing under my breath, I looked the area over carefully before I drove in. There was a police cruiser in the parking lot.. and through the windows I could see the two uniformed cops standing in line for Egg McMuffins or whatever. I drove through the parking lot and Joe Billy followed me. I found the shop Willie Varner had recommended in the warehouse district of Wishington, near the railroad tracks north of New York Avenue. Fortunately Willie had called ahead or they wouldn’t have given me the time of day. The place had one entrance off the street, which opened into a large area filled with vehicles of all types in various stages of disassembly. I parked inside. A bald-headed fat black man in the filthy small office beside the entrance eyed me without enthusiasm through the fly-specked window.
“Hey, I’m Carmellini. Willie Varner sent me.”
He removed a soggy stogie from his mouth, then said, “How is Willie these days?”
“Just got out of the hospital. Some dudes carved on him.”
“Did he ever get over that stroke he had … what was it, five years ago?”
“He never had a stroke.”
“Were you in the joint with him?”
“Nope. He and I are partners in a lock shop.”
Apparently I passed the smell test, because he pried himself out of his chair and waddled out the door to look at the van. I got out of his way, stood back while he checked it over.
“What color you want it?”
“White, with commercial letters on both sides — Century Security. And a telephone number, 212 area code.”
“Okay.”
“Need a new VIN number on the dashboard and a set of commercial New York plates, not too warm.”
He turned to face me, worked the cigar around in his mouth while he considered. His eyes narrowed. “Little blood on your shirt.”
“I cut myself shaving.”
He could see that was a lie, but he dropped it. “Plates will cost you another grand,” he said.
“What’s the total gonna be?”
“Three thousand.”
“I think Willie and I got maybe twenty-five hundred in our account. I’ll give you two grand. The rest we need to keep Willie eating until he can get back to work.”
He took the butt out of his mouth and spit on the concrete. “The Wire says you’re good people.”
“He and I have been in business together since he got out of the joint. He’s my best friend.”
“That’s what he said about you.”
I shrugged.
“Okay, two grand. Cash. Pick your ride up two nights from now.”
“Thanks.” I held out my hand and we shook, then I handed him the key.
Joe Billy was waiting for me behind the wheel of Grafton’s car. “What are they going to do to the van?” he asked as we drove away.
“Paint it. Put new plates on.”
“Who do you have to know to get garage service like that?”
“The owner of a chop shop.”
“Guess you have some real friends.”
“A friend of mine does, anyway.”
“I didn’t like it when you stuck that pistol in my face. Don’t do that again.”
“I had to see if you knew that shooter was going to be downstairs and didn’t have the time for a long discussion.”
“And you decided I didn’t know.” That wasn’t a question but a statement.
“That’s about it.”
“What if you thought I knew?”
I shrugged.
“You’d have killed me, wouldn’t you?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” I hadn’t told him about the incident in the elevator, but he had seen the blood.
He drove along, not saying anything, glancing at me a time or two. After a while he said, “Yeah, I guess you would.” If he wanted to think that, it was fine by me.
He headed back toward his place. He had called in sick to the agency today, so he wasn’t in a hurry. Me? I was tired and sleepy and had too much to think about, none of it pleasant. I began asking him questions about himself, just to make conversation.
“What did you do in the army, anyway?”
“Whatever it took to get the coon. I was in Delta Force.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Trooped around in Afghanistan a while with a couple guys, sitting on mountain passes, popping off al-Qaeda warriors sneaking in or out of Pakistan. Used.50-caliber sniper rifles mainly; people think they’re only good to a thousand yards or so, but if you know what you’re doing, you can score hits at twice that. Then did some time in northern Iraq when that went down. Worked with an agency covert team sniping, some sabotage, that sort of thing, making life uncomfortable for Saddam’s boys. The agency guys sorta talked me into joining up with them, so I applied for a transfer. Decided I wasn’t cut out to push paper in an office somewhere. Now look at me, stuck working for you at Langley. Can’t seem to get on one of the teams.”
“Something will open up. Always does.”
“Yeah, and I’ll be in a federal prison someplace.”
“Well, you won’t be dead.”
“People are trying hard to stick you in one of those wooden planters. Might get splattered just being around you.”
“No one lives forever.”
“The good thing about Delta Force was you knew who the bad guys were. This seems a lot more iffy.”
