American Blood (32 page)
Marshall said, “You remember what I said?”
“About what?”
“How you’ve set things moving on a certain road.” He looked out the window, an oblique angle down along Seventy-fourth. “There’s still time to back up.”
Lloyd lifted the gun, lowered it again. He said, “Room’s soundproofed. Won’t need to dress anything up.” He smiled. “Quick tidy, no one will know.”
Marshall said, “Well. That’s good to bear in mind.”
Lloyd didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “You know something?”
“What?”
Marshall said, “Universe is infinite.” He dropped his chin a little, like trying to follow something distant. He said, “Means even the very slimmest luck has either already come to pass or will eventually. Anything you can think of, you give a thing endless chances, one day it’ll happen. Somewhere, at some point. Which is good because it means even if you make a wrong turn you’ve got the comfort of knowing that in another dimension your parallel self made a better choice. Maybe you already have. You could have done something that let you avoid sitting here altogether.”
Lloyd didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “Anyway.”
He looked at Lloyd, the steepled fingertips bouncing in a small amplitude, half an inch. He said, “I guess there’s three things we can do. We can call Tony and see what the deal is. Or we can just wait until he gets back. Take a lot longer, but it’s nice and peaceful.”
Lloyd smiled. “What’s the third way?”
Marshall said, “Well. It’ll depend on what you do, I guess. Sort of a reactive thing on my part really.”
Quiet between them. No traffic noise at all and he wondered if the room really was soundproofed.
Lloyd crossed his legs, Marshall’s antipose. He said, “I think I’ll give you to thirty to get out, and then I’ll start firing.”
Marshall waited. He said, “Have you started?”
Lloyd smiled and slouched lower, spread his legs. “Uh-huh. Twenty-five.”
“Oh. I thought you might count it out loud or something, doesn’t matter.”
He slipped his phone from his right pocket, passed it to his left hand, let the right drape easy on his stomach. He said, “I’ll try and get hold of Tony, see what he can tell me in twenty seconds. Or however long it is.”
Left arm cocked with the screen at eye level, he made a show of punching the numbers. Lloyd watching him. Marshall put the phone to his ear, frowning slightly, let’s see what he has to say.
Two seconds’ pause. Then the landline on the desk began to ring.
Marshall said, “Oh, wrong number.”
He looked toward the noise, surprised. Quite a suggestive action, and Lloyd just couldn’t help but glance over too, and without moving his head Marshall drew the gun from his jacket and shot him twice in the chest.
The bullets caught him high up on his right, maybe an inch spread. The Smith hit the ground but didn’t fire.
Lloyd gasped and curled into himself, started to scream but kept it to a low croak in the back of his throat. As he fell forward Marshall could see the twin holes in the chair back, delicate threads of white stuffing visible.
Marshall kept the gun on him. “This is option three. The peaceful wait, with you injured a little bit.”
“Fuck. You shot me.”
“Mmm. Twice.”
“Jesus. You’re crazy.”
“No. I want to know what happened.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s why we’re going to wait for Tony.”
“Oh, god. I can’t. Shit, I’m bleeding. Help. Oh shit.”
“You’ll be fine. Just think of Mikhail.”
“He’s probably dead.”
“Oh. Well think of someone else then.”
Marshall looked out the window and sat listening to him panting. The evening turning pretty as the sun fell away. The traffic fading to paired lights on Central Park West and the park itself a lush green he could not see the limits of. He said, “You saw what I did to Vicki B.’s man. Why did you think I couldn’t do the same to you?”
Lloyd didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “I might give Tony another call soon. But I need to think about what I’m going to say.”
Lloyd had his hands to his chest trying to staunch the flow. “If you … There’s … There’s a safe in the bookshelf behind the desk. I know the combination, it’s, it’s CY160. There’s two hundred grand and a gun, clean, never been used. You could just take it and go. Two hundred K.”
Marshall said, “I’ll think about it.”
“It’s a Colt .45, never been used.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The foyer door opened.
He swung the Beretta round to cover the entry, Lloyd going slack with relief, almost falling off his chair, calling for help.
Marshall stood and moved behind Lloyd’s chair for cover and sighted two-handed, lowered the weapon as Chloe rushed into the room. She screamed when she saw the gun, her brother bleeding. Both hands at her mouth and he thought she’d turn and find cover, run for the foyer, but she came toward him, diving, and with the chair between them he couldn’t block her from the Smith .38, and she grabbed it.
Only one thing he could do.
* * *
Walking south just past Columbus Circle, the bag from the safe slung on his shoulder: two hundred grand cash and a silver Colt M1911, just as Lloyd had promised.
He turned east on Fifty-sixth to miss the patrol cars from Midtown North coming up Eighth. He called Ashcroft.
“Where are you?”
Marshall said, “Lee, I think I might have blown the op.”
Rojas
The club was down the western end of Central Ave., pink stucco,
CALOR
in red lettering on the lintel. He slowed as he drove by in the Mustang. Suit-clad doorman lighting a cigarette, just a few guys drinking at the bar. He watched a moment, anonymous in the new car. Traffic built behind him and someone leaned on the horn. He accelerated and made a right into the parking building next door and followed the ramp up to the top floor. The V8 in a low growl as it came slowly round the loop.
He parked at the edge of the building and sat a few seconds with the engine running. The desert stretching westward and in the distance Mount Taylor just a shallow knoll at the right of the yellowed pan. A blurred white band where the sky came down to meet it.
He shut off the engine and left the key in the ignition and dragged the bag across the console and got out. Then he took the vehicle ramp down to the street and turned left and walked back along to the club. The doorman ignored him as he approached, but as Rojas entered the guy stamped out his cigarette and followed. Low light in here. Contrast with the bright street wasn’t helping. The two guys at the table over to the left were just silhouettes as they stood and buttoned their jackets.
He headed for the door to the back room. A guy seated at the end of the bar swiveled smoothly on his stool and stood up to block his way, drink still in hand. He knocked the dregs back and set the tumbler down, ice tinkling a little.
He smiled as Rojas drew near. Tattoo on his neck just visible above his collar. “Didn’t think we’d see you in here.”
“Why’s that?”
He closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. “Oh. We just didn’t.”
Rojas said, “Is he in?”
The guy touched his cuff links, one and then the other. “Are you carrying?”
Rojas said, “In the bag.”
He looked at it. “What else you got in there?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
The guy stood aside, gestured with one arm. “Come on through. Take a seat.”
Rojas passed through the door and the four others filed through behind him. Like some funeral procession in their dark attire. He went and sat at the red leather booth curved against the left corner and set the bag on the table by the stripper pole. The cigarette man went back to his post and the guy he’d spoken with turned away to make a call on a cell. The two others standing near the door, hands clasped.
He heard the guy on the cell say his name. Something else in a low tone Rojas couldn’t catch, and then a long spell of nodding. One foot on its heel, watching the toe as he listened.
The guy said, “Yeah, okay. Good.”
He clicked off and came over, passing the phone hand-to-hand as he walked. He said, “Five minutes. I gotta pat you down first.”
Rojas stood and let himself be frisked. The two others just watching.
“I got a .44 in the bag.”
The guy with the phone didn’t answer, just unzipped the duffel and looked in. Colt’s finest, sitting on 3.1 million cold. He said, “Don’t lunge for it. You want a beer?”
* * *
They brought him a Corona. He sipped as he sat waiting. He wasn’t sure of the time. Midafternoon, maybe. The beer half gone by the time Jackie Grace arrived. Tidy as always in a gray suit and tie, white shirt, collar so crisp it looked like you could break a piece off. He was wearing black boots with gold spurs, black cowboy hat tilted forward a little, covering one eye.
He tipped the hat back as he reached the table, gave Rojas some eye contact as they shook hands. Then he spun a chair round from another table so they could sit facing each other. A nice little move, all in the wrist. He took off his hat and placed it on the table, ran a hand through his hair as he sat down.
“Hot out there. Shit.” He glanced around. “Hector, get me a napkin or something, would you. Fucking sopping.”
The guy with the phone slipped out and returned a moment later with a napkin and laid it in Jackie Grace’s outstretched hand. Jackie mopped his brow, folded the napkin, blotted again a little more carefully.
“You want me to take that, Mr. Grace?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll hang on to it. Troy, you met Hector?”
Rojas said, “Yeah, I seen you a few times.”
Jackie hiked a thumb. “Tyrone and Carlos over there by the door.”
Rojas nodded at them. He didn’t get anything back.
Jackie Grace clapped his hands once. “Hooray, everyone’s met. That’s terrific.”
He stretched his legs and crossed the boots at the ankle, ignoring the bag but no doubt looking forward to the story. Rojas had met him a few times. Jackie Grace was the club owner, one of Leon’s middlemen: he’d married into some good cartel contacts, helped facilitate deals when Rojas and Leon were bringing meth up from Durango. The marriage had come apart a few years back now, but he was still tight with the cartel guys, if not the wife.
He pointed at Rojas’s beer as he took a pull, looked back over his shoulder. “Get me one of them as well. Corona. And tell him not to cut the lime too fat.”
They waited a minute, not talking, both of them gazing idly at different walls, trying to seem patient. Eventually Hector set a beer on the table, a thin wedge of lime floating in the neck. Jackie took a long pull, throat pulsing. “Oh, that’s good.” He held the bottle at arm’s length, eyed the label like it was a new brand. Then he set the bottle down and pulled the bag toward him. The zip was still open.
“All right. What’ve we got.”
He tilted his head back to see in. “Ha. Shit, that’s heavy stuff. Anaconda, haven’t seen one of them in a while. What’re you packing, Colt .45?”
Three million bucks looking back at him and it was the gun that got him going. Rojas said, “.44 Mag.”
“Man. Yeah, I had a Smith 29, used to take .44s. Had to just about hang a weight off the end, stop it flying over your head when you pulled the trigger. Jeez it could kick.”
Rojas said, “I’ve got some trouble with Leon.”
Jackie Grace laughed. “Let me guess. This is your severance pay?”
Rojas said, “Yeah. Not quite.”
Jackie shook the bag. “What is this, two million?”
“Three point one.”
Jackie didn’t answer. He looked around. Hector was in the other booth, arms stretched along the top of the chair, shoulder holster showing beneath his jacket. The phone on its flat in one hand, flicking his wrist gently to make it spin. Tyrone and Carlos leaning by the door. Jackie said, “Carlos, pull that door, would you?”
Carlos pulled the door. It felt like business now. Jackie had some beer. He said, “So what’s the story, Troy?”
“How much do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. I figure you rehearsed something in your head, so why don’t we start there.”
Rojas said, “Leon’s gone funny on me.”
Jackie smiled, looked up and down the length of the pole, like checking it was plumb. He said, “I reckon if someone took three point one mil off me I’d be pretty funny, too.”
Rojas said, “The funny came first.”
“The funny came first. All right.”
Rojas didn’t answer.
Jackie said, “So what do you want from me? I guess that’s why we’re sitting here.” He looked under the table as he swapped his crossed ankles round. “You’re after something.”
Rojas said, “There’s three point one in the bag. I’ll split it with you if you get rid of Leon for me. Call it one point six.”
Jackie took his time with that. Rojas’s head pounding in the quiet. After a moment Jackie said, “Well, that suddenly got pretty serious, didn’t it?”
Rojas didn’t answer. He felt his voice drying out. He took a sip to get him over the line: “One point six million to whack him.”
Jackie Grace said, “Leon’s not easily whacked.” He ran a hand through his hair, wet spikes raked back all quill-like. He said, “I heard about what happened to the Frazers.”
Shit, he thought at that price even Leon would be an easy sell. Rojas said, “What, you mean Emile?”
“Yeah, and the kid, whatshisname.” Jackie gestured vaguely. “Cops found Senior out west by Tohajiilee, real mess, like dead in his car, backup guy shot in the head, and then just this morning they found the kid at this restaurant over by the rental place, just stabbed right in the throat. Actually in his car too, so I don’t know. Guess there’s a nice … You know. Like-father-like-son angle to it. But anyway.”
Rojas said, “I don’t think that was Leon.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. Senior was pretty neat and tidy, had Leon written all over it. Used Emile’s gun was the thing. Popped Chino and then did Emile. Not the easiest thing in the world.”
“So what’s the issue?”
Jackie spread his arms and leaned toward him, and when he spoke his voice was softer. He said, “Issue is, you don’t want him after you, shit, I completely understand, because I wouldn’t want him after me, either. But, you know, frankly, one point six mil isn’t enough to offset the risk of blowing a hit and having him coming for me, too.”
