Down in the Zero (20 page)

"The Mole showed the printout to some other people. Israelis," I said. "They got somebody they want on that list."

"Don't be downing the Mole, man. Everybody's got a button, something to push."

"I know," I said. Thinking of Charm—and her handles. "That's not the thing. I saw the list too. Here's one of the names on it," I said, pausing to give it weight, "—Angelo Mondriano."

"Damn! He's been
long
gone, youngblood. Word is he's holding up a bridge somewhere, inside a slab of concrete."

"I don't think so."

"I remember it now," the Prof mused. "He went canary, then he jumped the cage, right? Didn't some of the wiseguys ask you about running him down?"

"Yeah. He must have dropped a couple of dozen heavy hitters when he testified. He was in the Witness Protection Program, then he went over the Wall. Six–figure bounty on his ass. Open contract—the money for his head."

"That's not like the new Italians. What about all the cash he was supposed to have swiped?"

"There's Italians, and there's Italians," I said. "The guys who came to see me, they were the old guys, you understand?
Vindicata!
The money wasn't the thing for them. It was blood. You know the rules."

"Yeah. You turn, you burn. You roll, you pay the toll. But I thought…"

"No. Couldn't be. They dropped him, they'd want to make it public. Put his head on a stake, send the message."

"That's right enough," the little man agreed. "So what we got, somebody in the ID business?"

"Sure. That's where the money's coming from. It was a long list, Prof."

"And the Israelis, they're going in?"

"Yeah." I gave Randy directions, told him to cruise by Rector's. "And that's ours," I pointed.

Without being told, the kid swept into a slow series of figure 8's, passing back and forth around Rector's from different angles.

"It don't look like much—a real soft touch," the Prof said, evaluating with his eyes.

"I got a way in. Front door," I told him. "That's not the work."

"Okay, bro. Take the point—let's eyeball the joint."

"Drive over to Crystal Cove," I translated for Randy.

T
he kid drove the way a pro diver hits the water…without a splash. Fingertips light on the wheel, taking the corners just the quiet side of tire squeal, braking so smooth he wouldn't have spilled a full cup of coffee.

"My man can
drive
, can't he, Prof?" I asked.

"Fine as wine," he replied, holding out his palm for me to slap.

Clarence never said a word.

"What can you tell me about the grounds?" I asked Randy, talking over his shoulder.

"I was never inside the hospital itself," he said, not turning around. "Just inside the doctor's house, near the front. There's a stone wall all around it. Not a high one—you could jump it with a good horse."

"Any guards?"

"I never saw any."

"Okay. When we get close, let me know."

We drove in silence for a bit. Then the Prof said, "We going in?"

"If it looks right. You got your works?"

"It's in the bag, and that's no gag."

"Righteous."

The road turned narrow, trees arching over the top of the car as we drove. No houses. The car started up a grade. "It's about a half–mile up the road," Randy said.

"Find a place to pull over. Where we won't be seen from the road."

He slowed the Plymouth, watching the landscape.

"No," I told him. "Someplace with a strong sight–line. Can you do it?"

"Sure." He slowed down again for a deep J–curve, still climbing. When he finally stopped the car, we were standing on a bluff. "Down there," Randy said, pointing.

We got out of the car, walked to the edge, looked down. I could see where the hospital got its name. The cove was landlocked, nestled in a natural triangle of hills and woods, with one side open to a road below. It was a series of low, interlocking buildings, all flat–topped except for a glass spire rising several stories from the part closest to the entrance.

I popped the trunk, found the night glasses, held them to my eyes. Most of the buildings were old stone, with small multi–paned windows. Along the back part of the triangle there was a long, narrow structure, built into the rest of the hospital but obviously constructed much more recently. Gray, smooth–finish granite, with seamless slits of dark glass. Probably one–way—I couldn't see any lights behind them like I could in the rest of the place.

The stone wall was in place, just like the kid said. It didn't completely circle the grounds. Instead, it ran in a sharp V from a meeting point at the front, where a wide opening was guarded by a black metal gate, hinged in the middle. I tracked the right–hand wall to its end—it seemed to merge into the underbrush at the base of the hills behind the hospital.

I handed the glasses to Randy. "Can you get the car close to the rear…where the wall comes against those hills?"

"I think so."

"Okay, let's get it ready," I said to the Prof, turning back to the trunk. I took out a pair of Connecticut plates, special–made for me at the Mole's. Handed them to Randy. "Put these on, front and rear," I told him. "It's just wing nuts—you can do it with your fingers." He held the plates in his hands, tracing the heavy seam on the reverse side of the embossed numbers, looking a question at me.

"You take two plates, cut them down the middle with a torch, then you weld the two halves together. It gives you a cold plate—won't bounce any of the Law's computers."

He nodded, went to work. I took a wide roll of tape, Day–Glo orange, peeled it open, and handed one end to the Prof. We taped a line across the back bumper—headlights would pick it up hundreds of yards away. We left a big piece loose and dangling. When we were done, I handed the Prof a big orange circle of plastic with a peel–off back, took one for myself. We pasted one on each of the back doors. The Prof took off his long duster—underneath he was wearing black jeans, a black sweatshirt, black sneakers on his feet. When my jacket came off, I looked the same. Added a navy watch cap for my head. We each slipped on a pair of thin black kid gloves. The Prof took a flat leather case from his duffel, slipped it into a side pocket.

Clarence got in the front seat—I took the back with the Prof. Randy started the car, then he motored slowly down the rise, nosing around until he found the right spot. We were maybe twenty yards from the end of the stone wall.

"You want to run the jungle?" the Prof asked.

"I don't think so. Don't know what's back there. Maybe a trip–wire…"

"So let's do the wall, Paul."

"Hold up a few minutes," I said. "See if there's a guard on the circuit."

Nobody spoke for a while.

We gave it fifteen minutes or so.

Nothing.

"You ready, Clarence?"

"You're covered, mahn," he said, pulling a long black tube from under the seat, holding it pointing down.

"Randy," I said quietly, leaning forward. "We're gonna commit a crime here. All of us. Prof and I are going in, Clarence's gonna hold our place, understand? Your job, you start the engine, leave it running. The back doors stay open. Don't worry, no light will show. If we come back walking, you move off slow, okay? But if we come back smoking, you have to
go
, understand?"

"Yes."

"You up for it?"

"Yes."

"Randy, you don't have to do this, okay? We can drop you off somewhere, pick you up when it's done. Reason we need you, it's for the driving."

"Count me in," he said, voice steady, looking me in the face.

T
he Prof and I walked off, Clarence right behind us. "No shooting," I told the young man. "No matter what."

Clarence ignored me, his handsome West Indian face totally trained on the Prof. The little man nodded. "Your play, your way," is all he said. Clarence walked back toward the car. The Prof and I strolled toward the wall, stepping carefully, eyes on full sweep.

"You strapped down, schoolboy?"

"I'm empty."

"So what's the game, son? This ain't no B&E we doing, is it?"

"No. What we're gonna do, we're gonna go over the wall, look around a little bit. Worst that happens, we get busted, it's a trespass, that's all."

"Say why, Sly."

"We wait a bit, okay? Then we come busting out, tell the kid to fly. I gotta see what he's made of…give him a chance to stand up without us taking a risk on a fall."

"He's a little tight, but he'll be all right."

The wall was not quite chest–high, but wide across the top. I couldn't see any sensors. Would they have cameras this far out?

I went over first. Waited on the ground, listening. The quiet was thick, like it had been around a long while, settling in.

The Prof came next. With our backs against the wall, it was more than a football field's run to the nearest building.

"Too easy," the Prof whispered.

He was right. I could feel the buildings standing across the broad expanse of neatly trimmed lawn, bristling with…what?

"This is enough," I whispered back. "Give it another five minutes and we're off."

We settled back against the wall, watching, nerve endings throbbing, fully extended.

It was quiet as a congressman's conscience.

I threw a hand signal at the Prof. We climbed over the wall, him first. When we got to the other side, we took off running.

The Plymouth was standing, ready to roll, the back doors open, Clarence down on one knee by the front wheel.

"Go!" I barked at Randy as the Prof and I piled into the back seat with Clarence a step ahead of us in front.

The kid came out of the chute like a rocket sled, straight and true, making the adjustment from grass to pavement perfectly. The Plymouth's monster motor was wound tight in seconds, holding in low gear with a baritone scream. Randy felt his way into the J–curve, running without lights, working the big car into a controlled skid, goosing it through with the throttle.

"They're coming," I said into his ear, leaning over the back seat. "Let it out."

The Plymouth gobbled the straightaway in humongous gulps, the engine singing a different harmonic as Randy upshifted. We came to a switchback—the kid braked and downshifted in one motion, staying on the gas with his other foot, keeping the spring coiled. He was a skater on black ice, leaning into the curves with the Plymouth,
being
the car. We hit another straight stretch and I looked over his shoulder—the tach was at five grand and climbing, way over a hundred miles an hour.

"You bought us some time, kid," I told him. "Quick—find a place to pull over."

He hit the brakes, snapped the Plymouth into a turnoff as neatly as a tongue–in–groove carpenter, stayed alert at the wheel as we all jumped out. The Prof and I each pulled one of the Day–Glo circles off the black doors, Clarence stripped the tape from the bumper. The license plates took only another minute…and we were legit.

"Speed limit now, Randy," I said, getting back into the car. "Lights on.

He drove the rest of the way like he was taking the final in Driver's Ed.

"F
ollow us," I told Clarence through the window. His Rover was standing next to the Plymouth, motors running, side by side, like getting set for a drag race.

"This is not no race car, mahn."

"We'll do it slow and easy," I assured him. "If we get stopped, just roll on home—I'll call."

He threw me a half–salute. I nodded to Randy and he dropped the Plymouth into gear.

The kid watched the rearview mirror for a minute, making sure Clarence was in position. I lit a smoke, leaned back.

"You did good," I told him. "Drove like a veteran."

"Thanks. I know about the plates…but how come you put those orange stickers on the car?"

"It changes the appearance. It's the one thing anyone chasing you remembers. Like when you do a stickup—a fake scar on your face or a phony tattoo on your hand, that's what the mark will fix on. If we had to, you could reach out and pull off the tape even with the car going, see?"

"Yeah. That's why the brake lights don't go on? And why there's no light when you open the door?"

"Sure. But I didn't expect you could drive that fast without headlights."

"Well, I knew the road pretty good. And I can see in the dark fine."

"Had a lot of practice, haven't you?"

He didn't answer. Concentrated on his driving, like he hadn't heard me.

C
larence was right on our rear bumper in the driveway. When the headlights went off, we were in darkness, the only light coming from the kitchen window of the big house.

"You leave the light on?" I asked the kid.

"Yes. I always do."

"Okay. Let's go someplace where we can talk."

"Can't we just go upstairs?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction of my apartment.

"Better not. Somebody's been playing with microphones."

"The…intercom. From my mother's—"

"I don't know. Somebody. Can't take chances," I told him, opening the trunk. I took out a couple of heavy army blankets.

"We going to have a picnic, mahn?" Clarence wanted to know.

"Close enough."

"Then I got some stuff too," he said, going into the Rover's trunk and pulling out something that looked like a small toolbox. The Prof stood in one spot, turning a full 360, smelling the ground.

I opened the garage, pointed. Clarence got behind the wheel of his Rover, drove it inside. I pulled the Plymouth in too.

"You know a decent spot?" I asked Randy.

"I…guess so. The back pasture, okay? I mean, there's no more horses there or anything."

"No bulls either, mahn?" Clarence said, looking around suspiciously.

"No."

We walked a short distance past the wood fence, found a spot on a grassy slope, spread out the blankets, sat down.

I lit a smoke. Clarence unsnapped the top of the box he was carrying, took out a dark bottle, offered it to Randy.

"You have a beer with us, mahn? To celebrate success. You sure earned it."

"I…"

"Go on, mahn. This is Red Stripe. Best beer in the world. From the Islands, where the air is sweet and the women are sweeter."