Born Bad (16 page)
Authors: Andrew Vachss
"How are you gonna know where to send the bird?"
"My man will have the bird with him. In a cage."
"And my money."
"Yes. And your 'money."
T
his ain't nothing," Ace said, facing the assembled crew. "I got a half–dozen people in that hotel. It's nothing but a crack house. Low–class dive. I be inside hours before they show, cover you from the top floor."
"Righteous," Cross said. "Buddha and Rhino, you guys make the pick–up, all right? Me and Fal, we'll transport Humberto. Everybody get to work wiping things down–we can't have another fire so soon."
F
rom inside the front door of the King Hotel, all the watchful desk clerk could see was the back of a tall man in a long black coat. The tall man looked as if he was waiting for a bus, smoking a cigarette. Only two discordant notes sounded: at the man's feet was a large cage draped in black with a ring handle at the top. And a bright red dot of light holding steady right between the man's shoulder blades. The red dot tracked the man, moving as he moved.
The shark car pulled to the curb. The back door opened. Some words were exchanged. And the tall man climbed into the car, pulling the cage behind him. The car took off.
A few minutes later, the desk clerk saw a slim, fine–featured black man coming down the stairs, an all–black rifle with a complicated–looking scope in his hand. The desk clerk looked away, not meeting the man's eyes. When he looked up, the man was gone, almost as if he had never been there. The desk clerk didn't react. But it wasn't the two hundred dollars in his pocket that earned his silence–the desk clerk knew what the red dot on the tall man's back meant, and he didn't want one on his own. Ever.
T
he shark car worked its way through the badlands, heading for Red 71 as unerringly as the homing pigeon it carried in its backseat. The phone on the seat next to Buddha chirped. The pudgy man picked it up, flicking a switch with his thumb. "Go," he said. "All clear here." Fal's voice.
"Coming in," Buddha replied. "ETA ten minus."
"Roger that. You clear behind?"
"Affirmative."
Buddha clicked off the phone, his eyes flicking back and forth between the road and the rear view mirror. He pulled the shark car through a fresh gap in the chain–link fence, parking just behind the back door to Red 71. He slapped the back door three times with the fiat of his hand. It opened immediately. Cross stepped to one side, covering the area with an Uzi. Buddha entered first. Then the man they had picked up. Rhino was last inside, blocking the doorway with his bulk.
In the basement, Rhino hand–searched the courier, his touch delicate and sensitive. When he nodded an OK, Cross stepped forward and ran an electronic wand over the courier's body. "Relax," he said to the man. "Have a seat."
The man seated himself in an overstuffed chair, reaching into his pocket to light a cigarette.
"What do they call you?" Cross asked.
"I am Ramón."
"Okay, Ramón.
¿Donde está el dinero?"
Ramón's lips twisted into a thin smile, not showing his teeth. "In the cage, hombre. In the bottom of the cage. If you will permit me…"
Cross nodded, and the man got to his feet. He walked over to the cage and gently flicked the black cover off. Inside was a big–chested pigeon. "This is
el bailador del cielo,"
Ramón said, stroking the pigeon's chest. He reached inside and removed the pigeon, cradling it softly. "Pick up the floor," he said to Cross. Cross studied the cage for a long minute, then he removed the newspaper from the cage floor to reveal a fiat metal plate with a ring in the center. He pulled the ring and the floor came off. Underneath there was money. Greenbacks shrink–wrapped in plastic.
"What the hell does Muñoz think I'm gonna do with thousand–dollar bills?" he asked Ramón "All this has to be washed–I can't just spend it."
"Smaller bills would not fit, hombre," Ramón replied. "I am sure you have… resources."
Cross nodded, his fingers stroking the scar on his cheekbone. "Okay, how do you want to do this?"
"First, I check the chip. With this…" Ramón said, taking a mate of the chip from his shirt pocket. "You could not duplicate the chip so quickly. If it plugs into this one, we will know you have done your part of the bargain."
"Do it," Cross said, taking the chip from his jacket.
Ramón carefully aligned the two chips. They came together with an audible snapping sound.
"¿Bueno!"
Ramón said. "This is the one."
"And now…?" Cross asked.
"Now you put the chip right here," Ramón said, tapping the tiny cylinder on the bird's right foot, just above the talon. "Then he flies home. Straight home. You will see…if you look…that you cannot fit a transmitter in the pouch. And if you attach one anywhere else,
el bailador
will not fly. You understand?"
"Yeah," Cross said, still stroking the scar. After a few moments, he left the room.
W
e're ready to go," Cross said into the cellular phone.
"When will you–"
"I gotta talk to him first."
"Talk to who?"
"My man. The one you got."
"I told you–"
"I don't give a fuck what you told me," Cross said quietly. "We're in the end game now. You want to talk to your man, I can do that. You want to play, you gotta do the same."
"Call back in one hour," Muñoz said. "And have Ramón with you.
I
t's me," Cross said into the phone. "You want to speak to your man?"
"Put him on."
"Yes, I am here,
jefe,"
Ramón said. "Everything is as it should be." Ramón said "Yes" twice, rapidly, then he handed the phone to Cross.
"Okay?" Cross said into the mouthpiece.
"Momentito,"
Muñoz said.
Another minute passed, then Cross heard the unmistakable voice of Princess. "I'm good," the bodybuilder said. "These pussies got me trussed up like a fucking turkey, but they haven't done nothing."
"They feeding you?" Cross asked.
"Hell, I'm probably down to two–thirty with all this crap. They don't even have my vitamin supplements. And–"
"Okay, Princess, just calm down, all right? They'll be cutting you loose soon."
"Are you satisfied?" Muñoz's voice cut in. "Are you ready to release our bird?"
"Tomorrow," Cross said. "Tomorrow at first light."
"Why not now, hombre? Our bird can fly at night."
"I need a few hours to make sure you guys are playing it straight. First light. When Princess shows up, we'll let your man go."
"Adios," Muñoz said, hanging up.
H
e's okay?" Rhino asked, anxiety making his voice even squeakier than usual.
"He said 'vitamins,' " Cross replied. "You know what that means…he's all right, but he doesn't see a way out of there. If he said 'minerals,' he'd have an exit spotted. I don't think they messed with him."
"You think they'd actually let him go?" Buddha asked.
"I was them, I wouldn't," Cross said.
T
he next morning, dawn slowly breaking through a blue–black night sky. Ramón stood on the roof of Red 71, the pigeon in his hands.
"Do it," Buddha told him.
"¡Volar!"
Ramón called, tossing the pigeon into the air. The bird took off, climbed, then banked, wings working smoothly.
A few seconds later, a tiny bird took off from Cross's leather–gloved hand, its blue–gray wings a blur in the sky, a distinctive
killy–killy–killy
trilling from its beak. The bird climbed like an F–16, a blur in the vision of the watchers on the roof who were tracking the bird by its rust–colored tail feathers. Cross picked up his cellular phone.
"Launched," is all he said.
"Let's go," Cross said to Buddha. As Buddha turned to follow Cross downstairs, Rhino's huge hand curled around the back of Ramón's neck.
I
don't get it, boss," Buddha said. "I know we got a transmitter on that hawk of yours…but I've seen that bastard fly. There's no way the pigeon's gonna make it back home before it gets taken out."
"East," Cross said into the cellular phone, watching a small round blue screen set into an electronic box he held between his legs. "Holding steady. You on it?"
"Roger," came back Fal's voice.
"It's not a hawk," Cross told Buddha absently. "It's a kestrel. A falcon, okay? I got a mated pair up there. The female's sitting on some eggs. The male brings food. I haven't fed them for days–eggs. The male brings food. I haven't fed them for days–wouldn't let them loose to get food for themselves, either. And I've got the male trained to hit pigeons–he fucking loves them."
"Yeah, but…"
"What?"
"You got the bird all stoked up, right? So he's gonna knock that pigeon right out of the sky. How in hell are we gonna–?"
"Kestrels only take prey on the ground," Cross said. "He'll wait until the pigeon touches down. Then its Kaddish for him."
Urban scenery flew past the windows of the shark car as Cross continued to give directions to Buddha in person and to Fal over the phone.
"What's his name?" Buddha asked.
"Who?"
"The bird, chief. The…kestrel or whatever you call it."
"Name?" Cross asked, puzzled. "It's a bird."
Buddha shrugged, tracking the big car expertly.
H
e's heading for the fiats," Cross said into the phone. "No place else he could be going. You got visual?"
"Locked on," Fal said. "He's sitting right above the pigeon. Just hovering. Ready to dive."
"When he drops, that's it," Cross said. "Stay tight."
I
got him," Fal's voice barked. "It's a three–story, bar on the first floor. Says
Los Amigos
on the door. Right on the waterfront, at the end of Pine Street."
"You sure?" Cross asked.
"Dead sure. The pigeon's dropping down, heading for home. And your bird, he's just waiting."
"Cars in front?"
"Just one. A white…Lincoln it looks like. I can see…yeah! There's a coop on the roof. Whole bunch of birds up there. It's gotta be–"
"Move in," Cross said, breaking the connection.
The shark car's nose shot into the air from the sudden acceleration as Buddha mashed the pedal. The target building came into view as they saw Fal's blue Montero heading toward the back. "Here he comes!" Rhino squeaked as the kestrel went into a power–dive. The pigeon may have seen the kestrel's shadow or it may have been alerted by its primitive sensors–it fluttered its wings rapidly, seeking the shelter of the coop. As the pigeon touched down, the kestrel struck, its tiny talons balled into fists, stunning the pigeon, which staggered away, wings flapping. Muñoz ran toward the pigeon, waving his arms to scare off the intruder, but the kestrel calmly mounted its prey, tearing at the flesh of the pigeon's chest. Muñoz slashed at the kestrel with a machete, but the kestrel danced away, its baleful unblinking eyes trained on the new enemy. Muñoz thrust his body between the pigeon and the kestrel, frantically clawing at the pigeon's courier pouch. A series of explosions sounded below–flash grenades thrown through the glass windows of the bar. Muñoz heard machine–gun fire. A thin smile crossed his lips. With one mighty swipe of the machete, he chopped off the lower portion of the pigeon, scrambling on his hands and knees to recover the courier pouch as the kestrel tore the other half of the pigeon apart–a pair of professional predators, each doing his work.
Downstairs, Rhino swept the ground floor with a long blast from his Uzi, screaming "Princess!" at the top of his lungs. Two men charged down the stairs–they were immediately cut down by a blast from Ace's shotgun. Fal pointed at Buddha, who was working his way along the wall, his Glock out and ready. When Buddha nodded, Fal pointed at an open door. As soon as Buddha started to move, Fal started to climb up the stairs, chest fiat against the wall, gun arm extended as a probe.
Buddha stepped carefully down the darkened stairway. He saw Princess in a far corner, the bodybuilder's chest crossed with heavy chains like bandoliers. Princess's head lolled against his chest–Buddha could only see the top of his shaven skull. Buddha holstered his pistol, his eyes sweeping the room for any sign of a key to the chains. A shot rang out, catching Buddha in the left shoulder. The pudgy man went down, whipping out his pistol and returning fire in the same smooth motion. He heard a muffled grunt of pain from the deep recesses of the basement and kept crawling until he was next to Princess. Then he stood up suddenly, Bring a burst from his Glock at the same time. With all his remaining strength, Buddha braced one foot against the chair Princess was strapped into and shoved, toppling the bodybuilder to the floor just as more shots peppered the wall behind him.
Buddha crawled until his body was covering most of the fallen Princess, then he calmly ejected the clip from his Glock and snapped in another, waiting.
Muñoz pocketed the microchip and started down the stairs, machete at the ready. On the third floor landing, Muñoz catfooted his way toward the rearmost room. He stepped inside, satisfied himself that the escape rope was still anchored to the floor. Muñoz had a car waiting below–he could be gone in minutes if his luck held. As he gathered the rope in two hands, Cross stepped into the room, a .45 in his fist.
Muñoz turned to face his enemy, legs spread apart, the machete back in his hand. Cross held the .45 in two hands, aimed at Muñoz's chest.
For a few seconds there was silence.
"So, hombre," Muñoz said. "I guess it always comes to this, yes?" He fired the machete at the floor where it stuck, quivering. Then he moved toward Cross, Fists clenched. "I guess you always wanted to see who is the better man, didn't you?" he snarled, crouching.
