Beyond Blue (32 page)

“You see,” he said, “my men are smaller, but dey are killers.”

Jerome jumped to his feet. “What is this? Who the hell are you?”

Dubois walked over to Steele and pressed one gloved finger against the forty-four, turning Steele's arms until the gun again pointed toward Jerome.

“Who am I?” Dubois repeated. “My name is Francois Bernard Dubois. What is this? This is the cost of betrayal. This, you little weasel, is payback.”

“What are you talking about?” Jerome asked. “I never did anything to you. I don't even know you.”

“You should have known,” Stone said in his sepulchral tones, “that someday one of the gangsters you've been fronting for would decide you were too big a risk.”

“That's right lawyer boy,” Dubois said. “Your time is up.” Then he turned to Steele, flashing a broad grin. “Go ahead, white boy. Earn your freedom.”

Steele further straightened his two-handed grip, pulled back the gun's hammer and stared down its sights at Jerome's forehead. Jerome looked from Steele to his own men to Dubois and finally to Stone. Then he lowered himself back into his seat.

“No,” he mumbled. “No, this isn't right.”

“This ain't a court of law,” Dubois said. “You can't talk your way out of this one. Kill him, white boy.”

Steele hesitated for a moment, and then stammered, “I don't know.”

Dubois grimaced, showing yellow teeth. Didi's gun turned to focus on Steele. Stone stepped back out of the way. Dubois began to sound hysterical.

“Do it. Do it now.”

Steele released the gun with his right hand, waving that hand in a pleading motion toward Dubois. “Look, maybe there's another way. A way we can make money out of this.”

“To hell with money,” Dubois shouted. His bloodshot eyes flared wide with rage. “This ain't about money. Nobody gonna stab Dubois in the back. And your fingerprints already all over that piece.”

Dubois lunged with unexpected speed, snatching the Magnum away from Steele with both his gloved hands. Steele seemed stunned by his action and backed away.

“Do it,” Didi whispered from across the room. Jerome's raised his hands and opened his mouth to speak just before Dubois squeezed the trigger. Stone was staring at the gun so hard that the muzzle flash seared his eyes even as the blast pounded against his ears. His eyes recovered first, so that he saw Jerome and his office chair flip over backward, but could not hear the thump as they hit the floor.

Gunny and Gorman stepped out of their taxi into the soft autumn rain under the neon sign advertising the entrance of the Good Chinese Kitchen. Water dripped from that sign and several others on the empty street. Chinatown sparkled like a bowl of polished pearls with the sun well hidden by clouds and not far from dipping below the horizon.

Gunny held the door for Gorman and followed him inside. Gunny had only to raise an eyebrow to the bartender, who recognized him and pointed to the back stairs. The crackle of boiling oil and the smell of freshly fried foods reminded Gunny that it was not too early for dinner. He saw few empty tables as they walked through the restaurant. At the door to the back stairs, he stopped and turned.

“Why don't you wait here,” Gunny told Gorman, “and I'll go up and bring Lorenzo down.”

Gorman nodded, and Gunny headed up the narrow stairway, knowing that those above would hear his approach. At the door he paused for a moment in the darkness. He could not know if he was about to walk into a room full of friends or enemies.

Gunny pushed the door open and took one long step forward. Lucania was standing at the head of the meeting table. Mike was at the foot of the table now, nearest to the door. Robbie leaned against the bar, trying to look tough. Gus was not immediately in evidence, but Gunny was sure he was there.

“Hello, Gunny,” Lucania said. He raised his drink toward Gunny in salutation, either a warm greeting or a sad good-bye. “I'm surprised to see you here. I haven't called you yet.”

“Yeah, funny about that,” Gunny said. “But listen, do you think we could have a minute alone?”

“Something we need to discuss?” Lucania asked.

“Actually, someone I want you to meet.”

“He already knows me,” Gorman said, unexpectedly stepping around Gunny. No sound had announced his approach. He walked straight across the floor to stand facing Lucania, ignoring all others in the room.

“You know me, and I know you,” Gorman said. “That was you, wasn't it? Friday morning, corner of Madison and Fifty-ninth?”

Lucania put his glass down. “You are very good. Now, what do you want with me?”

Gorman looked into Lucania's black eyes and for a moment it was as if no one else existed in the room. “You don't want to have this conversation here. Not with your friends listening.”

“Then maybe I don't want to have this conversation,” Lucania said. “I feel safe here.”

“This isn't you,” Gorman said. “I can see that already in your eyes.”

“You're wrong,” Lucania said with a sad smile. “This is very much who I am now. I think you should move on to another cause.”

Gorman thumped a finger into Lucania's chest. “I haven't given up on this one yet.”

“Hey, you heard the man,” Mike said, stepping forward. He stopped behind Gorman's left shoulder. Gunny stepped forward but Gorman waved him still with a low motion of his right hand.

“Mr. Lucania, you seem to have lost your way,” Gorman said. “I'm here to remind you of your correct path. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do,” Lucania said. “What you don't understand is that the path you're talking about is no longer available to me. I'm with a new family now.”

Despite his words, a deep sadness pulled Lucania's face down. Gunny could see enough of Mike's face to see that he didn't understand the conversation, but he did understand the sadness in his boss' voice.

“You better go on home, if you know what's good for you,” Mike said, close to Gorman's ear.

“I can put you back together with your real family,” Gorman said in a harder voice, “but you've got to make your move now before the sludge drags you down.”

Mike's heavy right hand landed on Gorman's shoulder. He puffed up the way fighters often do and looked down at Gorman's head as if it might make a tempting target.

“Look here, old man,” Mike said. “Nothing's dragging Mr. Lucania down and you just better drag your ass out of here.”

Gunny started forward, but was frozen by the look in Gorman's eyes when he turned to look up at Mike. Gorman managed the kind of genuine hard look that used to freeze the toughest grunts in their tracks. After that the world blurred in front of him and he had to reconstruct the action in his memory to be sure of what had happened.

Gorman had turned his head slowly, down and to the right. His body weight shifted subtly and there was a sigh, perhaps of frustration, maybe of anger. Then as suddenly as summer lightning, his left fist swung up, around, and down, landing like a six-pound hammer on the spot between Mike's eyes. Gorman gave no shout, or even a grunt, but the movement must have focused all the power in his entire body. A shudder ran down Mike's body as if the shock of that one blow had flowed through him and down into the floor. Mike's mouth dropped open an inch. His knees seemed to lock and he fell backward in slow motion.

Before Mike hit the floor, Gorman had returned his full focus to Lucania.

“This gang you're running with, they are not a winning team, Lucania,” Gorman said, using his old drill instructor voice. “They look like the future to you right now, but I'm here to tell you they're yesterday's gang. You know how it is in the streets right now? Let me tell you, you go in the wrong neighborhood wearing the wrong color rag, you get dead fast. But your gang, your real gang can go anywhere. This gang's colors are black. Look at you. You're wearing the color of death. You need to decide real fast what gang you really belong to, buddy. And,” he stabbed a thick index finger toward the left end of the bar, “You tell that asshole hiding behind the bar that if he takes a shot at me I will kick his little ass. In fact…”

Gorman tore his attention away from Lucania and faced the end of the bar. “Come here son. Just come over here.”

Gunny had seen Gorman's power before, but he still found it amazing. After five long seconds of silence, Gus stepped out from behind the bar. He looked to Lucania, but his face was sheepish as he approached Gorman. To Gunny's surprise, Gorman switched to his paternal voice then.

“Look here, son, if you want to be a sniper, you've got to put out your cigarette before you get into place.”

Then Gorman turned back to Lucania. “Listen, I understand about this identity thing. I used to belong to a gang, and our colors were green. Gunny, his old gang's colors were khaki. I understand that you were in his old gang. But he and I joined the same gang, and our new colors were blue. True blue. Believe it or not, that's a gang you never leave. Now sometimes things get so bad that gang can't handle it, and we have to go beyond that, beyond blue. Like tonight. And now you've go to decide what your true colors are.”

Gorman stepped in close and his voice became so low as to almost be subliminal.

“Lorenzo Lucania, show me your true colors.”

Rico Steele saw the flame stretch out from the barrel of his gun, and the equally bright light in Dubois' eyes. The blast covered Jerome's scream. Act one was over and it was time to move.

Steele's left hand stretched out to capture Dubois' wrist. His right cross snapped Dubois' head around hard. Caught completely by surprise, Dubois collapsed to the floor. One down.

At the same instant that Steele grabbed Dubois' arm, Stone chopped down hard on Didi's wrist. Didi's gun dropped just before Stone's uppercut sent him to dreamland.

Stunned by the flurry of activity, the other three gunmen turned to target Stone or Steele. They both dived for the floor by the front wall, and the gunmen tried to follow.

It took one second too long. Psycho, Doc, and Frankie rushed forward like Alabama's Crimson Tide, smashing the Haitian gunmen to the floor. Palms down on the floor, Steele watched as a half dozen of the worst lowlifes he'd met in years wrestled around for control of the three loose handguns. It would have been funny if not for the potential that the scene could turn lethal.

It was Frankie who finally broke the stalemate with a hard right to the jaw of the man beneath his bulk. He grabbed up the stray pistol and got up to his knees. For a second he tried to get a clear shot at one of the men his partners were pummeling, but then looked down at his arm as if to remind himself who his real enemies were. While Psycho and Doc straddled and pounded on the two black gangsters, Frankie raised the gun and aimed it at Steele's face.

“Good-bye, asshole,” Frankie said.

Before Steele's eyes finished widening the office door slammed open. A uniformed police officer stepped in and,
quickly spotting the danger man, turned his pistol on Frankie.

“Freeze, all of you. Put the gun down, mister, right now.”

Frankie had a brief moment of indecision, which Stone ended by saying, “They never travel alone, you know.”

Frankie thought about it for about one second. Then he lowered the gun to the floor. His friends stood up, and Frankie pointed to the Haitian thugs with his one good hand.

“We didn't start it, officer,” Frankie said. “These guys all came busting in here and they shot our boss, Mr. Jerome.”

Steele got to his feet, straightened his clothes and scooped up his pistol. “You would be Officer Brooks?”

“Yep. Your friend Ms. Chiba asked me to look in on you fellows. Now what's this about a man named Jerome?”

A low moan from behind the reception desk drew everyone's attention. Jerome's hands landed on the desk. Next his head appeared as he slowly crawled up. For once he seemed to have nothing to say.

“Boss. You're okay,” Doc said, as if no one else would have noticed.

“You see, Rico?” Stone said through a smug grin. “Some plan Bs are better than others.”

“I never thought they'd buy it,” Steele replied, “loading my gun with blanks and all.”

“Blanks?” Jerome asked, touching his chest to make sure no hole had gone unnoticed.

“Yeah,” Stone said. “We have to thank you for your part in this Jerome. You really sold it for us.”

“Yeah,” Steele added, while he collected up the handguns scattered around the floor. “He was so friggin' scared he jumped a mile when the gun went off. Idiot flipped his chair back, all the way over. I'll bet there's a nice lump on the back of his skull.”

Stone walked over to the reception desk and sat one cheek up on it, crossing his arms and shaking his head, before turning to Brooks again. “Now, let me explain how
this bust is going to make your career. I hear you've had some rough times in your personal life, but at least we can get you moving toward detective.”

“Don't listen to these guys, officer,” Jerome said, finding his voice. “They brought these killers in here. They threatened me. That one tried to kill me,” he said, pointing at Steele.

“Actually, I only pointed a gun I knew was full of blanks,” Steele said. He nudged Dubois with his foot. “This one tried to kill you.”

“Yep,” Stone said, still facing Brooks. “That's why we loaded Steele's gun with blanks, so there would be no doubt of Dubois' intent to murder Jerome here. And that's why this nice lawyer here is going to turn state's evidence. He has everything you need to not only bring down several criminal organizations he's been working with, but also to vindicate a few cops who've had their careers damaged by false evidence in court.” Stone turned to Jerome and lowered his voice. “And you will remain quiet about those officers you might have real evidence against.”