Apaches (32 page)

“My friend Carmella,” Mrs. Columbo said. “She told me you guys helped her out about six, maybe seven months ago. You found a good home for her baby and paid her off in cash. No questions. Is that part true?”

“Which part?” the man asked.

“About the questions,” Mrs. Columbo said. “When Richie comes in here, if you start asking him a bunch of, you know, personal shit, excuse my French, he’s gonna get nasty and walk out.”

“That wouldn’t be smart,” the man said. “He’d be leaving the way he walked in, with no money and a baby he doesn’t want.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mrs. Columbo said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Edward.”

“You see, Eddie,” Mrs. Columbo said, “my husband wants the baby. I don’t. I went through enough with the two I had and I don’t need to raise more. What I need is to find me work, something that pays good and brings it in steady.”

“What kind of work?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Columbo said, looking around the barren room. “Years ago, before I hooked up with Richie, I did it all, didn’t care what it was. ’Course, I was a little better-looking back then, but I’m still willin’ to do it all, whatever it is, so long as the money’s there at the end. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this. But Carmella said—”

Edward interrupted her, his arms spread out in front of him, the smile on his face locked in place. “Does your husband know about any of this?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Mrs. Columbo said. “Wait till you meet him. I mean, I love the guy and all, but my Richie’s lucky if he can find his ass with two hands. There are guys just made that way. I’m sure you met some workin’ this job.”

“A few,” Edward Glistner said, leaning back in his chair, resting his hands on top of his head.

“Then you know what I’m talkin’ about,” Mrs. Columbo said, running a finger under the folds of the baby’s chin.

“I might have a job for you,” Edward said, turning his head slightly at the sounds of empty garbage cans being tossed by the sanitation workers outside. “If you really are as interested as you seem.”

“Let’s hear it.” Mrs. Columbo looked over Edward’s
shoulder to catch a glimpse of Boomer crossing the street. “Make it quick. Before Richie comes inside.”

“You don’t want him to know?” Edward asked.

“Not till I know,” Mrs. Columbo said. “Then, depending on what it is, we’ll see if he can handle it.”

“It’s everything you say you’re looking for,” Edward said, checking the time on the wall clock. “Steady hours and a pretty good salary.”

“What do I have to do?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

“Come back tomorrow,” Edward said. “Without Richie. We’ll work out the details then.”

“How about a hint?” Mrs. Columbo asked, throwing Edward her most alluring smile.

“Do you like to fly?” Edward asked, smiling back at her, then standing to greet Boomer as he walked into the room.

•    •    •

P
INS WAITED OUTSIDE
Harry Saben’s Cleaners, watching as the blonde in the skintight leggings dropped off three of Saldo’s jackets and two of his slacks. He saw Harry, old and hunched from too many years behind a counter, fill out the work slip, his eyes more on the blonde’s cleavage than on the cut of Saldo’s clothes. The blonde took the slip, gave Harry a smile, and walked out of the store, heading east.

“Good morning,” Pins said to Harry, closing the glass door behind him.

“How may I help you?” Harry asked, traces of a childhood spent speaking Russian still in his voice.

“It’s really about how I can help you,” Pins said. He reached into the side pocket of his windbreaker and flipped his detective’s shield.

“You a cop?” Harry asked, squinting down at the badge through thick glasses.

“I’m investigating a ring that’s ripping off designer labels,” Pins said. “I’m sure someone as experienced as yourself in the business knows the routine. Take a secondhand
jacket, tag a designer label on it, sell it on the street for three times the price.”

“I’ve heard of people doing things like that,” Harry said, nodding his head.

“Then you know there’s a lot of money in it,” Pins said.

“I imagine,” Harry said. “But what can I do?”

Pins leaned closer to Harry and lowered his voice. “Can the department trust you?”

“Yes,” Harry said, lowering his voice right back. “I’m very pro-police. I’d like to see a couple of thousand more of you out there.”

Pins nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to take a chance.”

“It’s not a chance,” Harry said. “Believe me, I’ll go to my grave with what you tell me.”

“The blonde that was just here,” Pins said. “I’m sure you noticed her.”

“Even at my age.”

“She’s part of the ring,” Pins explained. “These clothes she left, they’re not designer clothes. They come out of some sweatshop in the Bronx.”

Harry reached down and felt Saldo’s black Armani jacket. “It looks so real,” he said. “It even feels the way it should. The label’s in it and everything.”

“I can get you a case of labels by this afternoon.” Pins reached over and grabbed Saldo’s clothes. “That’s the easiest part.”

“Are you going to take those with you?” Harry asked with some concern.

“Don’t worry,” Pins asked. “I’ll have them back to you by this afternoon, cleaned and pressed. When did you tell her they’d be ready?”

“Six tonight,” Harry said.

“Perfect.” Pins jammed the clothes under one arm and reached out a hand to Harry. “I appreciate all your help.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” Harry said, smiling and shaking Pins’s hand.

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Pins said, heading for the door. “Is there anything the department can do for you?”

“Is the place you’re having those cleaned a good one?” Harry asked, walking around the counter.

“It’s a special cleaner,” Pins said. “Like running your clothes through a car wash.”

“Then there
is
something you can do,” Harry said. “A small favor.”

“What?” Pins asked.

“I need to get a stain out of Mrs. Babcock’s black cocktail dress. I’ve put it through the wash three times and it’s still there. I don’t know what the hell she spilled on it, but I just can’t get it to come out. Maybe your place can give it a shot?”

Pins smiled at Harry. “Get the dress,” he said. “I’ll bring it back to you like new.”

“You’re the best,” Harry said, rushing to the back of the store for the dress.

“I hope so,” Pins muttered.

•    •    •

G
ERONIMO WAS LIFTING
a large cardboard Zenith television carton filled with wires and a rusty old air conditioner when he spotted the double-parked car. The black, late-model Lincoln was inched alongside a Toyota Corolla and a blue Renault, engine running, tinted windows up.

Geronimo tossed the box into the back of the sanitation truck and shifted the crush gear, his eyes on the Lincoln. The lead man shifted the truck and moved it slowly up to the next hill of garbage. Geronimo walked in the shadows of the truck, his head down, his mouth inches from the collar of his work jacket.

“That double-parked car doesn’t look right to me,” Geronimo whispered into the tiny microphone wired inside his collar. “You picking up anything from inside?”

“Saldo’s in the backseat.” Geronimo heard the crisp sound of Pins’s crackling words come through his ear mike. The thin wires from the audio devices ran down his neck and into a small box taped to the center of his back. “He’s got two shooters with him, both in the front. All three carrying heavy.”

Pins was parked on the north corner, dressed in the brown uniform of a Department of Transportation officer, behind the wheel of a battered tow truck.

“Shooters always carry heavy,” Rev. Jim’s voice said through the mikes. “Why should these two be any different?” He was on his third set of windows, turning slightly to drop a squeegee into a bucket of water and pick up a hand towel.

“Well, these two are out gunning for us,” Pins said. “Somebody’s tipped them. They know we’re sending a plant into the building. They just don’t know when or who.”

“Do Boomer and Mrs. Columbo know?” Dead-Eye asked, crouched against the iron door leading from the roof to the top floor of the brownstone.

“Their mikes are turned off,” Pins said. “It’s too risky otherwise.”

“It’s your play, Dead-Eye,” Geronimo said. “We’ll walk it any way you want.”

“Just make it fast,” Rev. Jim said. “I’m runnin’ outta water and windows.”

“Pins, can you hear me?” Dead-Eye asked.

“Got you,” Pins answered.

“Back up into the block and tow that car out of there,” Dead-Eye told him. “Geronimo?”

“I’m here,” Geronimo said, dragging a thick bag of garbage from the curb.

“Back-up Pins,” Dead-Eye said. “Let’s try and do this clean. We don’t need a gunfight on the street. Rev. Jim?”

“Talk to me.”

“Get in here without too much noise,” Dead-Eye said. “Just in case I get jammed up.”

“What about Boomer and Mrs. Columbo?” Pins asked.

“They’ve got a job to do,” Dead-Eye said, “and so do we.”

“And Saldo?” Geronimo asked. “How do we play him?”

“Let him take the ride with the tow truck,” Dead-Eye said. “There’s a better chance he’ll run his mouth sitting in the car. Pins will let us know if he says anything we need to hear.”

“Can Saldo’s wire pick me up when I get close?” Geronimo asked.

“Don’t worry,” Pins said. “As soon as you touch the car, I’ll turn it off.”

“Anything else?” Rev. Jim asked.

“Yeah,” Dead-Eye said. “Stay alive.”

Pins slammed the truck gears into reverse and backed the hook end close to the bumper of the Lincoln. The driver’s side window rolled down and an overweight man in wraparound sunglasses stuck his head out.

“What’s up, asshole?” he said in a Spanish accent, watching Pins lift a large wooden slab and place it under the front tires of the Lincoln.

“You’re double-parked,” Pins said. “That’s illegal.”

“I’m in the car,” the driver said. “I can move it.”

“You should have thought of that before,” Pins said. “Once the wood’s down, the job’s a done deal.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” the driver said, his face red with anger. “You don’t have to tow anybody anywhere. I’ll move the fuckin’ car.”

“The wood’s down,” Pins said. “You can’t move it once the wood’s down.”

“Fuck you
and
the wood,” the driver said.

The middle of the garbage truck stopped right next to the Lincoln. Geronimo approached from the passenger end, his hands down by his sides, one holding a semiautomatic, a silencer attached to the muzzle. He gave two
hard knuckle taps on the passenger window. The window buzzed halfway down, letting out miniclouds of smoke, most of it wrapped around the face of a man in light-colored clothing.

“We break a garbage law now too?” the man asked with mild irritation.

The man behind the wheel punched the dashboard repeatedly, his anger at full throttle. He had pockmarked cheeks and hair the color of straw hanging down the sides of his face. “I hate this fuckin’ city,” he shouted. “Take a look at who’s giving us shit. A fuckin’ tow-truck driver and a garbage man.”

“Do you know you have to pass a test to get this job?” Geronimo said.

“I don’t give a fuck!” the driver screamed.

Geronimo leaned his head into the car, looking beyond the two men in the front, staring into the darkness of the backseat, where Saldo sat quietly through the commotion.

“You’re all going to take a ride to the pound,” Geronimo said to Saldo. “Believe me, you’ll like it. You can roll down your windows and take in the water view. It’s a better place for you to be than here. Have I painted a clear enough picture?”

Saldo nodded, his eyes and manner indifferent.

“You’re no fuckin’ garbage man,” the driver said.

Geronimo shrugged. “I couldn’t pass the test.”

“What are you then?” the man in the front asked.

“He’s a cop,” Saldo said. “They’re both cops.”

“Cops?” the man behind the wheel said. “The tow-truck driver too?”

“A lot of us have to work two jobs,” Geronimo said.

“Say the word,” the driver said, looking into the rearview at Saldo. “We’ll take these fuckers out right here and now.”

Geronimo lifted his hand and showed them the gun. “Let’s not be stupid,” he said to Saldo. “They make a
move on me and I move on you and we both know it’s not worth it. So stick to the plan and enjoy the ride.”

Saldo stared into Geronimo’s dark eyes, feeling the front end of the car start to tilt upward.

“We stay with the car,” he said to the two men in the front.

“It’s been nice talking to you,” Geronimo told him.

“I hope we get to do it again,” Saldo said. “Soon.”

Geronimo backed away from the car, the two men in the front staring angrily at Pins as he lifted the car into tow position.

“Kill the engine, please,” Pins said to them.

“I’d like to fuckin’ kill you first,” the driver said.

“Hey, I’m nervous as it is,” Pins said with an innocent smile. “I’ve never towed a car before. I would hate to lose you guys on the highway.”

•    •    •

T
HE THICK WOODEN
door to the four-story brownstone swung halfway open, the brass knob held by a large man in charcoal-gray slacks and red suspenders draped over a black shirt. His eyes narrowed as he watched the commotion around the Lincoln. He moved his free hand to the small of his back, fingers wrapping themselves around the handle of a .32 short Colt. He saw the DOT man chain the car and lift it. The two men in the front were exchanging angry gestures while Saldo’s shadow sat motionless in the back. He eased the Colt out of its holster and released the safety.

“I’m done,” Rev. Jim said, jumping down from one of the window ledges to the front of the door well, blocking the man’s view. “Now for the fun part. Getting paid.”

“Outta my fuckin’ eyes,” the man hissed at Rev. Jim, the gun held against the side of his right leg.

“You ain’t anything special to look at either,” Rev. Jim said with a smile, holding his work pail, half filled with
water, in his left hand. “You hand me the thirty bucks for the job and I’ll turn invisible.”