Chasers (23 page)

13

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me here,” Sean Valentine said. “Passing some classified folders over to your side of the table is one thing. Helping to waste a cop is a whole other pot of soup. Not at all what I signed on to do.”

“You signed up to do what you were told,” Talbot said, flaunting his lack of patience, channeling his anger. “We didn’t rent you, Mr. Valentine. We bought you, and we own you and your services until we determine otherwise.”

“I’m
not
going to off another cop,” Valentine said, pounding a hard fist on the Formica countertop. “That’s the plain and the simple of the equation.”

“First of all, he’s a former policeman, long retired,” Talbot said. “And second and more important to your concerns is you won’t be the one killing him. I wouldn’t ask that of even you. All I require is that you place him in a position where it becomes an easy job for one of my shooters.”

“From what I know and heard, you don’t need me to do any of that,” Valentine said, sitting back in his chair and reaching a vein-rich hand out for a near-empty tumbler of Jack Daniel’s. “You’ll find him and his crew real easy. That’s because they’ll be either right in front of you or right up your ass. Either way, it’s a no-miss.”

“Which should make your task all the easier,” Talbot said, his words hot with the contempt he always reserved for those who sell off their honor for cash but still insist on maintaining a certain degree of respect. “You’ll track their activities and then alert me as to the most opportune time to strike. That is, after all, part and parcel of why your esteemed and dangerous benefactor doles out such a hefty cash-filled envelope each and every month.”

“And if I refuse?” Valentine asked, a hint of a step-back creeping into his voice. “What then?”

Talbot sat back, smiled, and stared at the corrupt cop in the designer suit. “I really don’t think that’s a question you want me to answer,” he said. “Though I doubt it would be much of a stretch for you to imagine the inevitable reality. Suffice it to say you’re not the only stained cop eager to own a larger home or impress both an older wife and a younger mistress.”

Sean Valentine took a deep breath and let his gaze drift away from Talbot, taking in the dark wood furnishings of the old-school club the mob middlemen always chose as their meet-and-greet place. Valentine was now in his mid-forties, a respected member of the police commissioner’s hand-selected inner circle, his career marked by a well-timed series of promotional leaps that were accomplished less by his street actions than by his ability to procure the right favor for the right official at the most appropriate time. It was a skill he had mastered in the years since he graduated from an all-boys Catholic high school in Queens, back when the prospect of a career in civil service seemed the fastest and easiest avenue for him to secure a weekly paycheck that brought with it the potential for a number of side benefits. Valentine viewed the Police Department as a stepping-stone to greater riches, knowing full well that the only way to achieve such a goal was to work the corrupt side of the ledger.

He began his climb up the greased pole with short-change shakedowns and pocket-cash handouts, rousting local merchants into doling out weekly payments in return for the extra spin of a cruiser around the street. He upped the ante soon after locking in an assignment to an élite and eventually disgraced anti-crime unit working the rooftops and hallways of the troubled Hastings housing projects in the Bronx. In his eighteen months of running buy-and-bust operations against the Rain Reynolds crack crew, Valentine proved adept at racking up impressive arrests with minimum work while stripping high-end dealers of both drugs and large sums of cash. Covered by the large shadows of a four-member team of hard chargers, he averaged a low-five-figure graft income each month while still managing to catch the roving eye of police brass impressed with his tactical abilities and polished manner. A bogus arrest highlighted by a tainted shooting did little to damage a reputation he helped fuel by utilizing prearranged testimony from a string of street players whose pockets he helped line. It took Valentine all of seven years to bring to fruition his plan of plunder while working under the guise of a respected member of the NYPD. By the time he put on his captain’s jacket and walked into his first precinct command in Brooklyn, Sean Valentine was a fully purchased and paid for cop, earning a high-six-figure illicit income and at the beck and call of any crime boss with access to a phone.

In all his years of reaching for bribes and functioning successfully in a tight and well-constructed web of corruption, Valentine had never butted heads with a buyer quite as cunning and ruthless as Jonas Talbot. And more than any drug dealer or crew leader, he had solid reasons to fear Talbot, convinced that the fixer would have his hide wasted as easily as he poured himself a fresh tumbler of bourbon.

“I’ll work to set it up,” Valentine said. “I would just as soon not be there when it goes down, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Your reluctance will be duly noted and brought to the attention of all parties concerned,” Talbot said. “And I’m sure it won’t be a cause for alarm for anyone involved, so long as the target is within the shooter’s scope.”

“How soon you looking to get this all done?” Valentine asked.

“They’ve already begun pecking at our seed,” Talbot said, “which has ruffled feathers. Using that as an accurate gauge, I would say no more than a week at the most.”

“What makes you so convinced that with one of their own out of the way the other five in the group won’t keep up the fight?” Valentine asked.

“The one they refer to as Boomer is who leads their charge,” Talbot said. “He is also the one who sustained the personal loss. He has more at stake than the others. Minus his hand at the helm, the rest will soon enough lose their desire for the big fight and scatter back to their previous posts. Perhaps not right away, but soon enough for it to matter.”

“And if they don’t?” Valentine asked. “If you’re wrong and Boomer going down turns out to be a rallying cry for them and others out there who want to be them? What happens then?”

“Then you will be one very busy individual, Mr. Valentine,” Talbot said. “And, I might add, an even richer one—which is, I presume, your overall intent.”

“That and living long enough to spend all of the cash, right down to the very last buffalo nickel,” Valentine said. “In my book, the two go hand in glove.”

“Then it’s best we get ourselves to the starting gate,” Talbot said with a wave of his right hand. “And bear in mind, do your utmost to place the target in a situation that makes allowances for only a minimum of distractions. We would prefer, at all costs, not to live through a repeat of our recent restaurant adventure.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near that job,” Valentine said as he eased his chair back, stood, and adjusted the jacket of his blue suit. “The fault there is on the triggers. The setup and timing were all spot on.”

“I was merely using it as an illustration and not as an outlet to cast blame,” Talbot said. “It is the type of incident that we must all strive to avoid, even if it does send a loud and rather effective signal to our enemies as to the seriousness of our intent.”

“I could use some spread money,” Valentine said. “I’ll need to coat a lot of palms if I’m going to get this job done the way you want.”

“First the dead cop,” Talbot said, turning his gaze away from Valentine and concluding the conversation. “Then the dead presidents.”

14

The drug dealer with the thin, long scar running down the left side of his face, from his forehead to his jawline, stood with his back firmly against a chipped blue wall, his eyes opened wide enough to pop, sweat running off his light frame like water off the edge of a cliff. His upper body was trembling, and he had soiled a new pair of off-the-rack dark gray cargo pants. His legs were spread wide apart and held in place by Buttercup’s head, the police dog’s large mouth firmly locked around the dealer’s crotch, teeth separated from skin by only a verbal command.

“Motherfucker, you don’t need to go and fuckin’ do what you lookin’ to do,” the dealer said to her. “Somebody give this bitch something to eat!”

Buttercup had sauntered into the small empty bar on East 117th Street, moving past empty stools and cheap leather booths as if she were a long-running regular. She looked around, her eyes moist from the dual hit of stale beer and old smoke, her paws sticky and set to slip from the wet spots of booze that filled pockets of the dented and rusted fake-tile floor. The dealer spotted her when he came out the back room, a lit cigarette dangling from his thin lips, his arms hauling a case of warm Coronas. “You either piss or shit in here and I will fuckin’ waste your big sorry ass,” he said to Buttercup. “Cut you up and toss you to the rats in the basement. Let them feast on your hide.”

Buttercup held her place, watching as the dealer tossed the Coronas into a back booth, flicked open a red-handled switchblade, and walked toward her. She locked her rear paws and waited for the dealer to stand close enough to jab the sharp point of the blade against the soft part of her right shoulder. The quick flick stung and drew blood, which did a slow roll down her hide and onto a set of grimy black tiles. “I’m telling you to turn and walk the fuck out,” the dealer said, tossing a hard kick Buttercup’s way. The blow, softened a bit by the man’s bare foot, caught her on the flat end of her stomach, a few inches from one of her many battle scars. “I’m not the kind of fucker bitch like you needs to be handing out grief tickets to, hear me? I don’t like dogs and I especially hate big dogs, and you are, hands down, the biggest fucker I ever laid my momma’s eyes on, hand to Jesus.”

The dealer held the knife at eye level and smiled down at Buttercup. He steadied his feet and crouched down a bit, giving him both leverage and position to plunge the blade deep into the dog’s rib cage. Buttercup held her hard stance and timed what would be her first and only move, no growl or sound giving any indication that she was anything more than a large, tired-eye stray who had casually wandered into the wrong bar at the worst time, leaving herself open to the death-rattle intentions of a dealer floating high on his own merchandise.

As the knife flew through the dank air, earmarked for a plunge into her right side, the wounded police dog made her leap, catching the dealer in center square, her strong, rigid jaw locked down on the man’s crotch, her eyes open, her body relaxed. She waited out the dealer’s panic-fueled attempts to dislodge her teeth from his body, the knife long gone from his hand, released in that first surprised rush of pain and now replaced by closed-fist punches that rained down on Buttercup from both sides. Each blow grew weaker in intensity, and she clamped down tighter.

The dealer turned his head when he heard the front door swing wide open and saw Rev. Jim walk in and nod in his direction. “This your dog?” he managed to ask.

Rev. Jim ignored the question and instead stepped behind the bar and reached down into a sink full of ice chips and water and pulled up a cold bottle of Dr. Brown’s root beer. “I used to drink this shit all the time when I was a kid,” he said, more to himself than to either the dealer or the dog. “Could never get enough of it. I tell you true, this is
exactly
what I needed after the day I just had for myself.”

Rev. Jim used the edge of the wood to snap off the bottle top and took a long swig of the cold drink. He closed his eyes and let a wide smile spread across his face as he leaned his arms on top of the bar. “That more than hit the spot, let me tell you,” he said to the dealer, glancing at the thin man shivering across from him, the dog wedged in between his legs. “Bet you could use one right about now. Am I right on that or not?”

“Fuck you and fuck the drink,” the dealer said, red-zone anger sidestepping the pain and the fear. “Don’t need or want any of that shit from you. What I do
want
is for you to get your hound away from my balls. Right now that’s the only business you and me got that’s worth even close to two shits.”

“I can’t help you there, Little Jack,” Rev. Jim said. “I wish I could, dealer, really do. But my hands are cuffed on that particular request.”

“Why the fuck not?” Jack said. “One word from you and I bet this dog would roll over and lick her own ass. Don’t fuck with me. Now’s not the time.”

“Buttercup’s not my dog,” Rev. Jim said, lifting the bottle of root beer and bringing it to his lips. “And I can’t control what doesn’t belong to me.”

“The bitch ain’t yours, then how come you know her name?” Jack asked. “Answer me that, fuckhead.”

“We work together, me and the lady,” Rev. Jim said. “Haven’t been together long, truth be told. In fact, this is our first time out as partners.”

“What the fuck kind of Starsky and Hutch bullshit scam you looking to peddle my way?” Jack asked, his body so heavy with sweat it gleamed in the early-afternoon sunlight. “What the fuck kind of a cop has himself a dog as a partner?”

“You don’t even know close to the half of it,” Rev. Jim said. “Get yourself ready for this one. That dog not only outranks me, she earns a bigger take-home pension—tax-free to boot, I would like to add.”

“You shittin’ on me,” Jack said, his suspicion coated with a small dose of grudging respect for the dog whose snout was wedged between his thighs.

“If only,” Rev. Jim said. “Sad truth of it is if old Buttercup there wants to rip your balls off and turn them into a set of doggie chews, there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it, other than stand and watch you scream like a man on fire. It’s her call all the way, is what I’m trying to tell you here. I’m nothing to her but a trusty backup.”

“I don’t fuckin’ believe any of this,” Jack howled. “If you can’t get my ass out of this situation, then who the fuck can?”

“Nobody I know,” Rev. Jim said with a shrug. “But I
can
try to reason with her. She is, after all, a lady and might listen if a reasonable request was put in front of her wet nose.”

“Like what?” Jack asked.

“Well, let’s say—and we’re just talking here now—you gave me a heads-up as to where the G-Men brothers crib out,” Rev. Jim said. “You know, the real place—not that club in Spanish Harlem that they drink and eat in most nights. I hear something solid like that and maybe I can start to do a little whisper work in Buttercup’s ear.”

“I do that and it’s not just my balls I got to do a wonder worry about losing,” Jack said. “Those crazy fuckers get wind of me moving my lips in their direction, they’d turn my ass into a Big Mac with cheese before the morning sun kicks up. Sorry, badge, that’s one question that comes with a no-can-do label attached.”

“It’s your call,” Rev. Jim said with a slight shrug. “I just threw it out there to save you some grief and heavy-duty explaining down at the emergency room. But—and these are the last words about your balls that will ever pass my lips—the dog is here now and she has no intention of letting you leave without your care package locked in her jaw. The G-Men, on the other hand, won’t know you dropped a dime for a while still, and there’s a chance—not a good chance, I’ll give you, but a slight one—that they may never find out. I were you, other than wanting to put a bullet in my forehead I would never turn my back on that little bird in the fist.”

“You don’t know them, man,” Jack said, his voice cracking from the strain. “You did, you wouldn’t be talking the way you are.”

“That may well be so,” Rev. Jim said, stepping out from behind the bar and heading for the front door, easing past Buttercup and Jack. “But I do know that dog. All the drugs went up her nose, God only knows what she
thinks
she’s got her teeth wrapped around.”

“Where the fuck you think you going?” Jack asked, practically shouting out the question.

“Thought I’d go and wait outside,” Rev. Jim said. “My lead partner here seems to have it all well in hand. Besides, I’m not the kind of somebody you want around when there’s lots of blood flow going on. You toss in a heavy handful of screaming, and all that goes with it, and I’m like an old lady at her son’s funeral. I know my place, and it’s for sure not here. You need anything, just give a shout-out.”

Rev. Jim opened the door and walked out into the harsh sun and cool breeze of a late New York City morning. He stepped across the empty avenue and stopped in front of the driver’s side of the dark sedan, engine running, front and rear windows all down.

“How much longer?” Boomer asked, sitting behind the wheel, sipping from a takeout cup of cold coffee.

“Any minute now, be my guess,” Rev. Jim said. “Have to hand it to that dog—she held her position and didn’t move for as long as I was in there. I’ve had partners with two legs I couldn’t count on to do the same.”

“Buttercup’s a pro,” Dead-Eye said from the passenger side. “I don’t give a shit how much dope went up her nose, she’s still prime-beef cop.”

“Let’s hope the same is true for us,” Rev. Jim said.

The scream that came out of the shuttered bar was loud enough to shatter glass.

It echoed off the slits of the abandoned buildings where windows once stood and roared with the strength of a winter storm down the wide avenue. Rev. Jim looked at Boomer and Dead-Eye and then did a slow nod. “If Little Jack’s ever in the mood to talk, I figure now’s the time,” Rev. Jim said.

“He’s going to be giving out information he didn’t even know he had,” Dead-Eye said. “Unless he goes into shock and bleeds to death first. That would be the only luck he’s going to catch on this day.”

“Just in time, too,” Rev. Jim said, turning away from the car and walking back toward the bar. “I’m ready for another root beer.”

Boomer and Dead-Eye watched Rev. Jim dodge a passing van and do a short run into the bar, slowly opening and then closing the front door. “He going to be okay, you think?” Dead-Eye asked.

“Okay enough to tell us what we came here looking to know,” Boomer said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Not talking about the dealer,” Dead-Eye said. “I meant Rev. Jim.”

Boomer turned his head away from the street and gazed across the front seat at Dead-Eye, making sure that the concern in his words matched the look on his face. “You have a reason why he wouldn’t be okay?”

“Nothing I would pin down as solid evidence,” Dead-Eye said. “It’s just a stomach feel, is all.”

“Tell me, anyway,” Boomer said. “Since right now a stomach feel is the best we have to work on.”

“I don’t think he’s up for another round,” Dead-Eye said. “He seems slower, and off his game. Now, it could be because we’ve been away for a few years and he’s still in spring-training mode. He’ll kick it soon as the first bullets land across his bow. That the case, then I just wasted nothing more than a few hours of worry time.”

“And if it’s more than that?” Boomer asked.

“Then we have ourselves one serious problem,” Dead-Eye said. “We both know this current team is nowhere near as good as the last one we put together, at least on the paper side of it. Ash is a solid cop, courage with a capital
K,
but she didn’t log a lot of hours cracking heads and doesn’t sniff out problems before they hit. Quincy is a plus at least until his mind steps up and starts to betray his ass, and then he turns into a liability. And it’s no secret Buttercup is one cool breeze away from a cocaine flashback, and who the fuck knows where that shit leads once it hits the roof?”

“Which leaves you and me,” Boomer said.

“Yes, it does, old friend,” Dead-Eye said with a smile. “Now, we both still have the taste and the stomach for the fight, but we always had that and probably will until we take the dirt nap. Truth is, though, we’re not close to being as good as we were three years ago and, shit, we weren’t all that good even then. We just don’t have any quit in us, and that often can make up for a lot of other negatives.”

“Rev. Jim’s always played it close,” Boomer said. “Even when he was on the job and at full strength, he always stood out as a loner, kept it low-key until the heat got up to a boil and then he went off. He was there for us packed and heavy when we needed him the last time, and if there was anyone back then who had the doubts about him it was me, as you might recall.”

“He’s missing that look,” Dead-Eye said. “I know he likes to go his own way—that’s his style and it suits him, even helps make him the great cop. But that hard-ass look brings with it the hunger for a fight, the need to be found dead rather than get the taste of being on the losing side of the field. And that’s not there now, least not so as I can see.”

“He could have said no, Dead-Eye, without any worries about being judged,” Boomer said, looking back out across the avenue toward the bar. “I didn’t pull a gun on him or kidnap his cat, force him to sign up for the second tour. He came in feetfirst and hands raised high. Nobody pushed him in the pool—he jumped.”