Chasers (19 page)

7

Theresa sat on the park bench, late spring sun warming her tanned face, her eyes closed, hands folded across her lap. “I knew you were young,” she said to the woman sitting next to her. “I am a bit surprised at how young.”

“Does it affect your thinking?” the woman asked. She was in her mid-twenties, dark hair flowing straight down the sides of her face. Her eyes were the color of crows, and her short black skirt did little to hide a shapely body.

“No, Natalie, not at all,” Theresa said. “If anything, it makes your accomplishments that much more impressive. Back when I carried your years, I would never have been able to manage such a feat.”

“You lacked the opportunity, never the talent,” Natalie said.

“Perhaps,” Theresa said. “But the time has passed and we’ll never know the answer for sure.”

“Why have you come to me?” Natalie asked. “You have a partner, one from your very own country and someone you have known for many years. But I’m a stranger to you, an unknown and, as such, a danger. A risk. You may not think you can trust your partner, but you will never know for certain whether you can trust me.”

“There is no trust in our business,” Theresa said, “no matter how long or how little we know the person across the table. Betrayal and deceit are always in the air.”

Natalie Robinov sat back against the hard slats of the wood bench and turned to look at the old woman. “Tell me again—why is it I need your help?” she asked. “And why now?”

“I knew your father very well,” Theresa said, smiling at the memory, finding no trouble in the harsh tones of Natalie’s questions. “We closed several high-end deals down the years, guns coming to me in return for drugs going to him—all of them pretty much going down as planned. He was a man who sensed when a unique opportunity presented itself, and he was never fearful of making the moves necessary to take full advantage of the situation. I have high hopes that his daughter is cut from the same cloth.”

Natalie turned from the old woman and stared out across the cobbled walk at a manicured strip of lawn, watching two children make a feeble attempt to get a kite off the ground and up toward the sky. Her face broke into a smile when she saw that the elder of the two, with the help of a soft breeze, had gained some traction and managed to get the kite up slightly over his head. He thrust his small clenched fist into the air in a gesture of triumph.

Natalie took a deep breath and weighed her options. She had a difficult decision to make, and she knew that the old woman would require an answer before she eased herself off the park bench. Forming an allegiance between her branch and Theresa’s outfit was the soft part of the equation. It was a business angle Natalie herself had been contemplating for the past several months, and one that offered a number of sizable advantages to the Russians. Theresa had jumped the shark by wrapping her offer with a massive string attached to it, one that called for Natalie to aid and abet the old woman in her betrayal of Angel and his powerful South American drug cartel. It was a move designed to instigate a wide-open battle, forcing her to move sooner than she would have liked into the lucrative but dangerous cocaine market of New York’s tristate area. And it was the weight of just such a decision that Natalie Robinov had been trained and prepped for since back when she was old enough to hide behind the bookcases in her father’s large office and listen in on the discussions that took place inside those thick wood-paneled walls that always smelled of stale smoke and fresh vodka.

It was also a move that would put her right in the middle of Boomer’s declared war on the SA crews. And she knew how dangerous such a move could be, both professionally and personally. It went against everything she had been taught.

“What is it you want from me in return?” Natalie asked Theresa, turning away from the two children lost at play. “And why?”

“To continue to live and to profit,” Theresa said without hesitation. “The same, I don’t doubt, as you.”

“Has Angel given you any indication that he would prevent you from doing either?” she asked.

“People in positions of power, such as Angel at this moment, never put into words what they carry in their hearts,” Theresa said. “Their intentions are never fully revealed until it is too late to alter the outcome.”

“And you know this because you are old and therefore wise?” Natalie said, giving the woman a cold smile.

“I know this because I was at one time in such a position myself,” Theresa said. “And indifference suited me well.”

“I will let you have fifteen percent of the profits I secure from Angel’s dealings,” Natalie said. “If we make it to a second year, your end will increase slightly.”

“In all my dealings with Angel, my cut was never less than a forty-percent share,” Theresa said, taken aback by both the proposition and the sudden cold manner in which it was offered. “And we never worked a deal that came in for less than seven figures.”

“That may be true,” Natalie said. “The two of you complemented each other, and the relationship was good. But on each deal you made Angel needed you. I don’t need you or anyone else to complete my deals. On top of that, Angel is preparing to rid himself of you, which makes a forty-percent cut moot, since you won’t live to hold any of it in your hands. So a fifteen-percent cut off the top of Angel’s cake is as fair an offer as you’re likely to get from me or anyone in my position.”

Theresa nodded her head slowly, a half-curled smile crossing her thick, scarred lips. “If I live to see it,” she said. “I am well aware that I approach the end of my long run. If not by Angel’s hand, then by yours. Such is the harsh nature of this life.”

“You can walk away from it,” Natalie said to the old woman. “Turn your back to it, take your millions, find a quiet place in a warm part of the world, disappear. Not many of us are ever afforded that chance—to walk into a new life and find peace. Even fewer take it, and my guess is you won’t. But if you have ever given it any thought, now would be the perfect time. I would even arrange and guarantee your safe passage to any port.”

“I was not meant to die in a rocking chair by a fire,” Theresa said. “And neither were you. We will do our deal and make our move on Angel and his crew. For now, we share a goal and an enemy. So long as that holds true, our partnership will remain intact.”

Natalie stood and looked down at the old woman. “We’re partners now,” she said. “Until the day when our common enemy is no longer a concern to us. And then we will again be on opposite sides and I will do whatever I have to do to take you down.”

“I would have it no other way,” Theresa said, her voice resigned but resolute.

Natalie nodded and walked away, disappearing into the crowds of Central Park.

8

“I don’t know, Nunzio,” Boomer said, staring across at his friend, a large glass of red wine by his side.

“I
do
know,” Nunzio said, slapping at the table with the flat of his hand for emphasis. “You need this kid on your team, sick or not. He won’t let you down, and he’s got the kind of skills you make good use of, that much I know.”

“This is a shit-scary disease,” Dead-Eye said from the other end of the table. “How you get it, where you get it, and who can get it—all are questions. All we know for sure is that whoever
does
get it dies fast, and not in a good way.”

“How do you connect with him?” Boomer asked, taking a slow sip of his wine.

“I’m a friend of the family,” Nunzio said. “I’ve known Andy since he was old enough to walk in here on his own. He’s good people, and he was a great cop. I would never send him your way if he wasn’t either one.”

“What kind of shape is he in?” Dead-Eye asked. “Once we start our move, we’ll need to go at warp speed and we can’t make any room for a slow-up.”

“Most days you wouldn’t even know he’s sick,” Nunzio said. “He’s sharp, alert, on the mark. He can move as fast as you need him to move.”

“What about the other days?” Boomer asked. “The ones where he won’t be at top speed. What would we be looking at there?”

“I’m in the dark there, as well,” Nunzio said. “From what I hear, it’s not easy for him, but he can struggle through it if he has to. He’s a tough kid, Boom, on a raw break. But this I do know, he would die before he let any one of you down.”

“What’s he bringing to our table that we can make use of?” Dead-Eye asked. “Most crime-scene guys I worked with only cared about dust and prints. On a job like the one we’re going out on, that shit don’t even break into our top-ten list.”

“You can read his files if you want to know how good he is,” Nunzio said. “Besides, let’s look at this Delta Force team you’re putting together. There’s the two of you and Jim. The three of you combined are still missing crucial body parts. You got a burner out of Arson and a wheezer of a dog in need of some serious drug rehab. You ask me, Andy fits your crew like a missing glove.”

Boomer set his glass aside and leaned in closer to Nunzio. “The team has one thing in common, the dog included. We all got our wounds doing our job,” he said. “It’s part of what holds us together. At least it did with the first crew, but I expect the same to be true of this one.”

“Andy got his wound on the job, too,” Nunzio said. “Only his scars don’t come from any bullets or knives. They come from a disease. Look, however you decide about him, that’s not my call, it belongs to you. All I’m doing is putting him on the table. But there’s no mistake about it—Andy Victorino is as wounded as the rest of you, maybe even more. In his case, you just can’t see the scars.”

“Where is he now?” Dead-Eye asked.

“You’ll meet him tomorrow night,” Nunzio said. “You can fill him in on his need to know over some dinner.”

Boomer sat back and smiled. “How did you know we wouldn’t turn him away?” he said. “That he’s not anywhere close to what we’re looking to add to the team?”

“I didn’t and I don’t,” Nunzio said, pushing his chair back and casting his look from Boomer to Dead-Eye. “But what I did know was that if you two did take a pass on him it would have nothing to do with his being sick or that he might be gay or that you’re too scared of catching whatever the hell it is he’s got running through his system. It would be because he wasn’t the cop you needed. But he’d get a fair shake, treated no better and no worse than the next guy. And that’s the best that anybody can ask.”

“Sounds to me like a deal that’s done, then,” Dead-Eye said, sitting back in his chair, legs stretched out under the table. “And, as far as my money goes, this team is shaping up to be a Super Bowl special. All we’re missing is a blind guy and a cop in a wheelchair. Then the photo would be perfect.”

“You could take out an ad,” Nunzio said as he turned and walked back toward the front of the restaurant. “See what comes out of that.”

“That wouldn’t be of much help,” Boomer said, raising a bottle and pouring out a fresh glass of wine for Dead-Eye as he rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “At least not so far as it concerns the blind guy.”

They both sat and drank their wine in silence, watching as a series of couples and small groups came into the restaurant, eager for a long night of food and fun. Boomer had been a back-table regular at Nunzio’s since it first opened its doors, his safe haven away from the hard turns of an outside world he had long ago learned to distrust. The wine list was first-rate, the food Southern Italian and prime, and he could sit alone in a crowded room without feeling uncomfortable about it. And while Nunzio was probably more crook than cop, he was also a man Boomer trusted and loved, one of those rare friends who would always offer his help a click or two before you even realized you needed it.

“Putting the jokes aside,” Boomer said, looking away from the other tables and across at Dead-Eye, “what do you think of this team?”

“Way too early to make a final play call on them,” Dead-Eye said. “We know how good Rev. Jim is under the heat, seen it ourselves three years back. The dog is, for my money, too fucked-up
not
to be dangerous. I just hope with all that dope that went up his nose he’ll be together enough to know to bite the other guys and not us.”

“What about Stephanie?” Boomer asked.

“She’s at the head of the class with the burn squad, there’s no denying,” Dead-Eye said. “But we’re looking up to a whole different kind of fire with these hard-ass crews, and she hasn’t spent many of her days or nights inside that homeroom. How she handles the heat is something we won’t really know until we’re snap in the middle of it.”

“And we know a little less than zero about this new face from the crime unit Nunzio just dropped on our dinner plates,” Boomer said. “I figure he was top-tier on the job; no point in Nunzio bringing him to our attention if he wasn’t. What I don’t know is how much his illness is going to slow him down. And having someone on the team not at full speed is not an option.”

“And we’re not talking about a couple of bullet wounds with him, either,” Dead-Eye said. “He’s landed on a disease that the guys in white coats know nothing about, let alone you and me. If it’s going to be an issue, we’re going to have to deal with it from the get-go.”

“Way I see it, Nunzio’s right: everybody on this team has wounds they need to deal with,” Boomer said. “Maybe his didn’t come out of any shoot-outs or from a wacko at a fire scene, but came to him they did, and he was wearing a badge and carrying a gun when it happened. That makes him as much of a cop as any of us. I figure you feel pretty much as me or you would have raised your hand about it by now.”

Dead-Eye nodded and glanced across the table at Boomer, pouring out a fresh glass of wine for each of them. “My only question as regards that kid has to do with the why,” he said. “He’s facing a ticking clock, anywhere from six months on the short side to three years if he rides along with some luck on his end. There are a lot better ways to pass the last pages of his calendar than doing a head butt against a pack of mad-dog SA crews who will be more than eager to waste his ass faster than any disease.”

“He doesn’t know any other way out,” Boomer said. “Same goes for you, me, and everyone that’s on this team and was on the last. We’re chasers, Dead-Eye, and were from that very first day we hit the streets wearing a uniform that probably didn’t look as good as it felt. We chase the targets and stay on them until we nail their ass with either a cuff and convict or a bullet pattern to the chest. And we’ll stay chasers up till the very end, when those bullets coming back our way bring us to a final stop. It’s who we are and how we go—that’s the plain and the simple of it all, and it always has been. To deny it is to turn your back on who it is we really are and what it is we were meant to be.”

“That’s not something I ever want to do,” Dead-Eye said, pushing his wineglass off to the side. “Not back in the day and not in any of the days I have left.”

“Which leaves only one door for us to go in,” Boomer said. “And it might well be the last one we walk through together.”

“Best that we get our asses in gear, then,” Dead-Eye said. “Get our team of chasers in place and find out first taste if these drug dealers really came to town looking to play it hard.”

Boomer pushed his chair back and stood up, his right hand instinctively rubbing against the gun resting in its shoulder holster. “Die or let die,” he said to Dead-Eye as the two walked out of the restaurant, their heads down, footsteps light, bodies tense and poised for action.

Nunzio sat on a leather-covered stool, his back to the wall, a flat-screen TV hanging just above his head tuned to a sports recap, and watched as his friends disappeared around a tight corner. He sipped from a tall glass of Fernet Branca coated with ice and took in a slow, deep breath. He checked the time on his watch and signaled the bartender to pass him a black phone resting under the central cash register. He slowly punched in the seven digits and waited through five rings before he heard a click and a voice. “It’s a go,” he said. “For them and for us.” He paused briefly before he pulled the phone from his ear and rested it back in its cradle.

His friends were about to start a street war.