Apaches (27 page)

“And you’re not someone who can cook worth a shit either.” Joe shook his head and forced a smile, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“I’m a cop, Joe.” Mary rested her head on his chest. “Like it or not, you fell in love with a cop.”

“And I’m still in love with one,” Joe said. “No matter what you might think.”

“Then let me do this,” Mary said in a whisper. “Please.”

“You want my okay for you to go out and get yourself killed.” Joe sighed. “That’s an awful lot to ask from
anybody.
Let alone your husband.”

“The only person I’d ever ask
is
my husband,” Mary said. “I’m asking you to let me go out and feel what it’s like to be alive again.”

“Who tells Frankie?” Joe asked after a long silence.

“We will,” Mary said with a slow smile. “You and me. In the morning, while you’re making us all pancakes.”

“Looks like I’m back to doing the cooking now too,” Joe said.

“And it looks like I’m back to being a cop,” Mary said, leaning against her pillow, holding Joe’s hand and bringing him along.

“Don’t die on me, Mary,” Joe said. “That’s all I’ll ask from you.”

“That’s a big step over what you used to ask,” Mary said, a full smile spread across her face now.

“What was that?” Joe said, slipping under the blankets alongside his wife.

“Not to burn the eggs,” Mary said.

In the shadows of the quiet room, they held each other tight, kissed, and slid farther under the blankets, finding warmth and comfort with each touch.

•    •    •

T
HE MULE SPOTTED
Erica standing with her back to a newsstand, a small cardboard sign printed with the word
STEVENS
across it. She walked over, gave the woman a quick smile and a nod, and handed her the baby boy.

“Your plane’s at the next terminal,” Erica said. “Two stops on the tram.” She was dressed in a black pants suit, the jacket with too much shoulder padding. A thin shawl rested around her neck. She wore open-heeled slides and favored her right leg when she walked. She carried the baby in the crook of her left arm, more like a sack than an infant.

“I hate airports like these,” the mule said, picking up the pace, scanning the state-of-the-art mall interior of Atlanta/Fulton County with a disdainful look. “It’s like being inside a spaceship.”

“You get used to it,” Erica said, shrugging her shoulders and bouncing the baby higher up against her chest. “And you can shop while you wait for your plane.”

“You should go,” the mule told her, waiting for the doors to the computerized train to open. “Just in case you get caught in traffic.”

“Anything you want me to tell Leo?” Erica asked.

“That I need a vacation,” the mule said without a trace of a smile. “They’ve run me ragged these last three weeks. I can barely stand up.”

“We’re in the middle of a gold rush,” Erica said. “There’s too much money to make to let up now.”

“We won’t be making anything if we slip up,” the mule said. “And that’s all that can happen when we’re this tired.”

The train pulled into the stop area and a prerecorded voice alerted passengers as to their destination. The mule stepped aboard, grabbed a handrail, and looked at Erica, giving her a tired smile.

“I’ll be back Tuesday,” she said. “By then Leo should have a new baby for me. This one’s starting to get more than a little ripe.”

The mule turned her back as the doors closed, leaving behind two late-arriving passengers.

Erica stayed on the platform and watched her go, holding the baby and the $125,000 in cash sewn into the empty cavity of his body.

•    •    •

G
ERONIMO SAT ON
a damp block of wood on the deserted beach, listening to a series of ocean waves batter the soft sands of the shoreline. His legs were crossed and his arms folded; his head was tilted up toward the star-packed sky. A rush of cold wind blew through the back of his dark blue sweater and sent thick strands of his hair slapping across the front of his face.

This small strip of land had become Geronimo’s favorite spot, a private beach nestled quietly away from
the large clapboard homes of Ocean Parkway, down a side ramp from the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway. It was his refuge, a place to come, hole up and clear his head, re-energized by fresh salt air and marsh breezes. A place where he could feel safe and disconnected from the pressures of his life.

Geronimo was slow to recover from the multiple wounds he had suffered at the drop of a grenade from the hands of a madman. On a Brooklyn street, surrounded by caked blood, streams of smoke, and frightened screams, he had left behind a shattered stomach, chunks of his liver and kidney, and all of his small intestine. The months of rehab were painful and frustrating, and a man with less inner strength would have found it easy to quit. But Geronimo had actually thrived under the weight of such a battle, especially one so personal, and he made it his business to come out of it as whole a person as possible.

Barely able to digest even soft foods and cool liquids, he had to learn how to eat all over again. The early surgeries to piece his stomach back together were ineffective and painful. Still Geronimo would not give in, mixing weekly visits to an army of specialists with nightly sessions with a Native American mystic whose form of medicine knew no age.

Geronimo believed in the healing ways of the past and the recuperative powers of long-dormant ghosts. That was one of many reasons he spent so much time sitting in his private corner of beach, alone in darkness, lost in the shadow of the stars.

He took to his healing by walking in small steps and casting his will to the whim of past warriors, gaining from the study of their lives the strength he currently lacked and the force of spirit he had nearly abandoned after his disability.

When he wasn’t being probed by technicians or losing himself to the fog of the mystic, he stayed to himself and prayed to the gods of his mother. His prayers were more
than pleas for renewed health. They were soulful cries that he be made one again and be allowed to die as he was meant to die, as he was destined to die.

As a warrior.

Down deep in his heart he knew it was an impossible request. His future looked to be as numb and dull as the emptiness he felt in the pit of his stomach. It would be a mournful life devoid of action and confrontation.

He missed those tense moments with the instrument, the precious rare seconds when he was alone, only a slight twitch of the hand away from instant death. Those hours spent in front of a bomb, time slipping before him with each tick of the clock, were the hours Geronimo felt fully alive and in total control. It was the period during which he felt most united with the spirit of his ancestors. And he would give anything to experience that feeling again. That was what he prayed for.

It was a desperate prayer from a lonely man.

It was not until his dinner with Boomer, in a restaurant whose food he couldn’t eat, that Geronimo realized his desperate prayer might be answered.

•    •    •

L
UCIA HELD OUT
her empty glass and stared across the ocean as a young waiter nervously poured from a stainless-steel pitcher filled with perfectly chilled martinis. She was stretched out on a blue lounge chair on the sun-drenched front deck of the
Maraboo
, a sixty-five-foot yacht her fourth husband, Gerald Carney, had bought for her as a wedding present. A black two-piece bathing suit revealed skin tanned the color of toast. Light beads of sweat dotted her thin arms, shapely legs, and flat, muscular stomach.

The boat was anchored three miles off the Bermuda coast and carried a full working crew of seven—one waiter, one chef, a nanny, and four armed bodyguards. The nanny was there to care for Gerald Carney’s eight-year-old daughter from a previous marriage. The girl,
Alicia, sat on a white beach towel and played to Lucia’s left, dressed in a polka dot swimsuit and surrounded by a gaudy array of Barbie dolls.

Gerald Carney sat across from his wife, legs crossed, white sailor shirt hanging over a plump stomach. Carney was sixty-one years old, a retired investment banker born to money and bred to silence. He met Lucia in the spring of 1980 when she came to his Manhattan office seeking advice on how best to shelter her cash flow. He knew her business was drugs and had heard rumors about the hand she played in disposing of her previous husbands. But Gerald Carney had dealt with all breeds in his four decades of investing, laundering, and skimming money. His nefarious clients had made him a very wealthy man.

Carney and Lucia were quick to move their financial conversation from his office to a nearby bar and then, within weeks, to the bedroom of his Park Avenue penthouse apartment. They married on the same rainy afternoon that Carney’s divorce from an East Side socialite was finalized. They chose to keep separate residences, Lucia more comfortable working out of her central bases of Miami and Sedona, while Carney kept to his Manhattan-Los Angeles axis. He asked few questions about her business and she asked none about his. But she grew to trust him in all matters financial. In less than a year’s time, Lucia saw her hidden stash of five million dollars nearly double. Her new husband never met any of her associates and she was quick to shun the role of hostess on those rare occasions when they were in the same town. Theirs was a business partnership that made room for occasional moments of passion.

It was the kind of marriage Lucia had always dreamed about.

A fairy tale come true.

•    •    •

T
HE
C
ROSS
B
AY
Lanes were shut down for the night, outside lights dimmed, front doors bolted. Inside, the large Bud sign above the bar cast a green glow across the
lanes, all of them dark except for one. A corner jukebox sent out a haunting Ry Cooder instrumental.

Pins Ryan stood crouched above the black bowling ball cupped in his hands. His feet were planted firm and balanced. He took three steps forward, arched the ball behind him, and brought it down in one smooth motion. His front foot curved as the ball slammed against the hardwood and buzzed toward the pins, scattering eight of them, leaving behind only the three and four. Pins walked slowly back to the scoring table, took a swig from a bottle of Amstel, and then stood still, enjoying the quiet darkness of his alley.

He had bought a share of the place three months after his shooting, going in as full partner with two retired firemen from Ozone Park. The income from the alley, coupled with his disability pension, made Pins more than comfortable and afforded him the stable environment he had always sought. Besides, he could bowl seven days and nights a week without digging into his pocket.

He had neither a wife nor a family, but since so much of his life had been spent in solitary circumstances, this lack of intimate ties no longer seemed important. He had plenty of friends, most of them bowling buddies. And unlike many of the other disabled cops Pins came across from time to time, he didn’t miss the job. On certain occasions, when a special call came in, Pins still laid down some plants for the department, pleased to note his wounds hadn’t cost him his skills.

He removed the ball from its base, took his position, and blew out the two standing pins to record a spare. After penciling in his score for the opening frame, he took in a deep breath, relishing the stale smells of the old alley, looking around at the rows of shiny balls glistening in the light off the Bud sign. Behind him, racks of old bowling shoes, each colored uglier than the next, hung in straight rows of twelve across, based on size and use. He loved being in the alley, especially when it was dark and empty, a dozen lanes all to himself.

Pins had left the dinner with Boomer having no answer framed in his mind. Boomer’s plan had the ring of a no-win mission. Jail time or death were the only likelihoods. But there had been a feeling to the group, a warmth and spirit emanating from each cop that forced Pins to hold his tongue. He missed that camaraderie in the years since he was shot off the job, that sense of belonging to a special group, of being kidded and teased by others who shared the same passion and dedication.

The alley was his home, a place for him to get away, roll as many games as it took for him to erase from his mind the places he’d been and the faces he wanted to forget.

But being a cop was where he was most needed.

If Pins could no longer fill that large void as a member of the department, he could easily do so as one of the Apaches. He could be their safety net, planting bugs in hidden places. A piece of his life’s puzzle that had been missing for years could now be fitted back into its proper place.

Three games, one beer, and two cups of coffee later, Pins had decided to join up with Boomer’s team of crippled cops. He would lay down the taps and wires to help the Apaches reel in Lucia Carney. He would ignore his fear of the gun and hide behind the shield of the electronic bug.

Those three games were the best Pins had bowled since before he took the bullets meant for the body and transgressions of another man.

•    •    •

B
OOMER SAT ACROSS
from a gray metal desk stacked high with books, files, and newspapers, hands jammed inside his jacket pockets, gnawing on a thick wad of Spearmint gum. He watched as Dr. Carolyn Bartlett reached down into her briefcase and pulled out a worn manila folder with Jennifer Santori’s name written across the front in
black felt tip. She placed it on top of a six-deep pile of similar-looking folders, opened it, gave the cover sheet a quick read, then sat back in her tattered black swivel chair. She looked over at Boomer through tired eyes, her face shrouded by tension.

“I appreciate your stopping by,” she said, her voice echoing the exhaustion in her eyes.

“I was already in the neighborhood,” Boomer said casually, resisting the temptation to blow a bubble with his gum. “I’m going to meet Jenny’s folks over by the courthouse. Watch that bastard get arraigned.”

“I know,” Dr. Bartlett said. “They told me.”

“When did you talk to them?” Boomer sat up in his chair, his police radar kicking into alert.