Authors: Duane Swierczynski
Canary (35 page)
What the fuck? Wildey’s hearing nothing but engine. C’mon, Honors Girl, talk to me. I told you to keep the commentary going, even if you’re stuck in traffic. Especially if you’re stuck in traffic. Shouldn’t have taken you this long to make it to the Towers.
Don’t tell me you killed the wire again. He checks the gear but the bug is still live, transmitting perfectly.
The transmission from CI #137’s pen, however, is going to Rem Mahoney, and God help him, he’s both sickened and titillated by what he’s hearing. (Maybe he is a perv for other people, too.) How far is this crazy wop gonna go?
D’Argenio lifts my dress over my knees, then up over my thighs. I jolt involuntarily. My arm is twisted up harder, giving me another sharp shock. D’Argenio checks out my legs, gives me this skeevy appreciative nod, lips pursed, before lifting the dress even higher. Oh God. Not this. Not fucking this.
—Huh. Kind of thought there’d be one of those old-school wires taped to your belly. Guess these days, with technology and shit, you could hide it pretty much anywhere. We’re going to have to do a real TSA-style search, ain’t we. Body cavities and everything.
The asshole’s eyes leisurely tour my body, from hairpin to shoes, and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.
—Looks like this is going to be a party after all, am I right, Ringo?
I speak quickly, hoping that this is all just a threat, that if I tell him where the wire is, he’ll stop.
—It’s in my purse! It’s a pen!
The dress drops back down. D’Argenio smirks, grabs my purse from the floor, snaps it open. He finds my iPhone, looks it over, asks if it’s one of those new 5Cs or whatever, but I’m too numb to speak. He shrugs, takes a few steps, drops my phone into a plastic bucket of water. Then he says the scariest words I’ve ever heard:
—You’re not going to be needing that anymore.
D’Argenio makes a big show of dropping the contents of my purse one by one—gum, eyeliner, compact, minipads—one by one into the water bucket before finally pulling out the spy pen. He waves it around like a magic wand.
—There ain’t nobody on the other end listening for you, sweetheart. Cops sold you out.
He slides the pen into his own jacket pocket, pats it. Maybe he thinks he can pawn it or something. After a moment of deliberation, he reaches for my waist. I try to twist away.
—What are you doing?
D’Argenio says nothing, reaches again for my waist.
—Stop!
—What? Don’t you know why you’re in here? Tammy tells me you’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now.
—I don’t know anything.
—Am I asking you any questions?
—Please stop, I don’t know what you want.
D’Argenio lowers his hands, sighs, smiles.
—We had a guy … this is going back fifteen, maybe twenty, years, when I was first starting to come up. Anyway, this guy was a rat, big fucking snitch, and we got him down into a place like this. Only it didn’t go like this. It was a little more, uh, to the point. The guy walks in the door, realizes in an instant what’s going on, but by that time it’s too late. Four guys grab him, one limb each, and then a fifth guy chops his foot off. Yeah. Thwack.
D’Argenio slaps the flat of his right hand into the palm of his left.
—Guy can’t believe it. Like he’s just stepped into a horror movie or something. One of our guys gives him a tourniquet and drops him in the corner, and he’s just going into shock and shit. Everybody just stares at him, and after a while he starts staring back, wondering what’s next. Because something had to come next, right? Either some questions, or more chopping. But the five guys, they do nothing. Say nothing, do nothing. They just stare at the poor bastard, which drives him nuts. He’s still bleeding, and he knows he’s never leaving the room alive, and he can’t help it. He starts gushing. Everything he told the feds, every sin he’s ever committed, every time he whacked off. Like a final statement. Most effective interrogation session I ever saw. Yeah, I was one of those guys. But not with the axe. That kind of grossed me out, to tell you the truth. But it taught me a lesson. You make the right statement, and you don’t even have to say a word. You know what I mean?
“Let her go, Richie. I’ll take her.”
Ringo has no idea what Little Pete is going to do next. Not as if they had a dress rehearsal for this shit, but fuck, Ringo didn’t know this was less about digging up some intel and more about Little Pete getting his jollies. If this is turning into a rape … then no thanks. Kill her, fine, that’s part of the game, and if the girl’s got some kind of wire on her, then yeah, she’s in the game. But why torture her first? Doesn’t make any sense.
Grip released, the girl scrambles away, but D’Argenio catches her in his arms. “Come on now. This is gonna be fun.”
Ringo isn’t squeamish. In fact, Ringo and violence are longtime friends. There isn’t a bone he hasn’t broken, or has
had
broken. His jaw has been fractured twice, his skull and palate once each. He’s been shot through the cheek and ear. Dislocated both wrists, an ankle, his clavicle, right knee. Lost a handful of adult teeth. He’s had multiple leg fractures, internal injuries. Countless scars, bruises, and contusions. But this is nothing compared to what he’s dished out. He first killed a person for money at age thirteen, and has done it countless times since. But this …
“All due respect,” he says, “but do we want to do this?”
“Ringo, all due respect? Shut the fuck up.”
The snitch looks up at D’Argenio. “Tammy really likes you. She can’t stop talking about you.”
“Yeah? I think that’s the problem here,” Little Pete says, backing her up until she bumps against a metal support beam. “Her talking too much. Not thinking enough.”
“She calls you her Little Pete.”
The boss blinks. “Come again?”
“That’s what they call you—Little Pete, right? Tammy told me all about it.”
“Told you about what.”
“About how little you are.”
Ooof, Ringo thinks. If this girl wants to die fast she’s walking down the right path. Still, it’s a bit of a surprise when his boss says, “Do her, Richie.”
Wildey marches to the front desk. He’s in plainclothes (and black) so he gets the narrow eyes from the security guard until he says he’s here for the party up on 30. At which point the guard grows even more suspicious. There is no party on 30, sir, you must have this information wrong. Wildey asks if there’s a parking lot under the building—he’s expecting a friend. The security guard points to a stairwell, happy to be rid of him. Wildey descends.
He won’t find anything. CI #137’s Honda Civic has been moved to another location many blocks away, keys chucked down a nearby sewer drain.
When it comes to snuffing somebody, Ringo doesn’t believe in drawing things out. None of that
got-any-last-words
shit. Unless torture is on the agenda and you need to play some mind games, better to just go and do it without preamble or warning.
Of course, D’Argenio fucked up the element of surprise with that stupid
Do her, Richie
crap. Fucking idiot. The girl, now on full alert, twists away, spins around, and takes a few steps back, eyes darting around for options. Of which there are few. But now she’s armed with a valuable piece of information. D’Argenio may have a gun, but he knows (and she knows) that he’s not going to just shoot her. He’d rather his hired gun do the honors to avoid bloodying his own hands. Nice going there, boss.
“Don’t you take another step, you stupid bitch,” D’Argenio says. “Richie, c’mon!”
Ringo sees the futility but takes a step forward anyway, more out of duty than anything else. As expected, the girl takes another step back and snarls, “Stay away from me!”
The veins in D’Argenio’s neck bulge. “What are you waiting for?”
Ringo gives him a look like,
You’re fucking kidding me?
The girl takes another step back, closer to the wall. D’Argenio makes two impatient gestures with the gun. Over there. Kill her.
Ringo sighs. “Just give me the Glock.”
“No. No gun. That’s too easy. I want you to twist her fucking head off while I watch.”
“You know she’s gonna claw the shit out of me.”
“You afraid of a little girl?”
“Fuck you!” the girl screams.
“Yeah … as a matter of fact, fuck you indeed,” Ringo says. “
You’re
not the one who’s gonna leave all kinds of forensics over her. Gun makes it a whole lot easier.”
Now it’s D’Argenio’s turn to sigh, shake his head. He puts his hand on the butt of the Glock. “Fine. Hurry up and get this shit over with.” Ringo, relieved, takes a step forward to take the piece, but is astounded when there’s a loud crack. Takes a minute for Ringo to put it together. The girl wasn’t backing up because she was afraid. She was inching back toward the closest thing to a weapon in the room: a wooden mop. The same mop Ringo used on the floor a bunch of hours ago. The girl is tall and gangly but moves quickly; the mop handle cracks D’Argenio in the face. Hands fly up to his face and he staggers to the side, not quite in the direction Ringo predicts, forcing him to make an end run around him. By the time he does the girl has pulled another surprise: her hairpin. Which is real fucking sharp, and pressed near D’Argenio’s jugular. She’s behind D’Argenio now, and with the pin pulled out, her hair is long and wild and feral. She looks like she could do
anything
. The tip of the pin sinks into D’Argenio’s neck. Blood comes bubbling out of the tiny puncture wound.
“Either of you move,” she says, “and it goes all the way in.”
“Richie,” D’Argenio says through gritted teeth, “you fuck!”
Ringo watches Feral Snitch Girl carefully. She telegraphs her next move but there’s really nothing he can do about it. Not without setting off a chain reaction that will end well for nobody.
As predicted, the girl reaches out to D’Argenio, pulls the Glock out of his pants, clocks him on the side of the neck with it, then pushes him hard into Ringo, who’s ready to catch him. D’Argenio pushes him away, pressing fingers to his cut neck and a free hand to his now-aching head.
Now the Glock is her hands, pointed at them. It trembles in her hands, but she has a firm grip.
“You,” she says. “Richie.”
“My friends call me Ringo.”
“Don’t fuck around with me!”
Ringo is already showing his palms. “Take it easy, honey.”
“Fucking kill her!” D’Argenio says. He’s slurring. She cracked him good. Maybe she splattered a little bit of his brains against his skull. Maybe that will be an improvement.
“Reach into your boss’s pocket, take out his keys, then toss them to me.”
“You’re dead, you fucking cunt!”
Ringo looks at D’Argenio for guidance while trying to keep a straight face. Fucking Little Pete. If he had been a normal fucking guy and walked the gun over to Ringo, or even met him halfway, this wouldn’t be happening.
“Gimme the keys.”
You can always tell by the eyes, and Ringo can tell: She’d definitely pull the trigger. Not because she’s a stone-cold killer or anything like that. She’s a frightened, wounded animal. If all she has to do to stay alive is squeeze the trigger, then you can be sure as shit she’s going to pull the trigger.
“Give me the keys, Pete,” Ringo says.
“No. No fucking way.”
“You’re either going to hand them to me or I’m going to knock you out and then take them out of your pocket. Come on. It’s the right move.”
Ringo hopes the look in
his
eyes tells D’Argenio he means it. D’Argenio mutters something about not fucking believing this. He digs in his pocket, slaps Ringo the keys.
“You ready?” Ringo asks the girl.
The girl nods. He tosses her the keys underhand. She catches them in her right hand. Probably had a daddy who used to throw a ball around with her in a backyard somewhere. Good on you, Pops. You may have just temporarily spared your daughter an ugly death in the Rat Receiving Station.
“Back up against the wall,” she says. Some of the fear in her eyes has been replaced with hope.
“You even know how to use that thing?” D’Argenio asks.
“Want to find out?”
Then the girl moves toward the door, looking at them, looking at the door and inserting a key, looking back at them, looking at the door and turning the key.
D’Argenio sneers. “You’re not going to last five minutes on the fuckin’ streets once I put the word out!”
The girl flips the lock, then glances back at him. “Are you actually daring me to kill you?”
Ringo can’t help it. He starts laughing. A big belly laugh. D’Argenio’s so pissed Ringo can practically feel the heat radiating from his skin. The door slams shut. Fuckin’ Little Pete, just like the bad old days. Ringo’s laughing so hard that he doesn’t hear D’Argenio pick up the mop, tuning in only when he snaps it over his knee and comes at him.
Mom, I am such a fucking fool. They played me. Been playing me, all this time.
The only two people who knew I was wearing a wire: Lieutenant Mahoney and Officer Wildey. No backup, no tech support, nothing. Just those two. So they either sent me to die or they ignored my cries for help. Neither is forgivable. I can no longer trust them.
D’Argenio was right. The cops sold me out.
So now I am hurrying down Second Street in nineteen-degree weather wearing nothing more than a thin-strap nylon cocktail dress. The wind whips my hair around my face and stings my cheeks. My feet hurt so bad, but I don’t dare take my heels off. I have nowhere else to go but south, south, south on Second, to a small row house on Vernon Street—the only hope I have left.
