Run (10 page)

Look at that face, Two Hand says. She looks so sweet. Not in some movie way, you know, but—

He doesn’t finish, because CK, who cuts down the volume on the tape player and turns back on us like an exasperated parent, finishes for him.

Cute, ain’t she? Real cute. Button cute.

He smirks and it’s a smirk pulled from way down inside his bag of tricks.

You like her, Two Hand? Bet you like her a lot. Bet you think about her sometimes, right? That way. You know what I mean, right? You think about her that way. Am I right? So tell me, kid, what do you think? Really, now?

CK swivels back around and looks out the front windshield.

I mean, you think she likes it up the ass or what?

Renny looks at the back of CK’s head, then at his eyes in the rearview. He starts folding the paper back together. Something about late-night talk shows hides the picture. Renny’s hands shake and the paper starts to wrinkle as he squeezes.

CK’s laugh sounds like poison. When Mackie the Lackey joins in, CK cuts him off, turning to Renny with more words:

I got only one problem with you, Reynolds James.

A lick and a smile.

And the problem is that I don’t fucking like you.

Mackie snorts.

You got a problem with that?

Renny just scrunches the newspaper in his hands until at last he says:

No, Mr. Kruikshank. No problem. I don’t have a problem at all. Because you know what? I don’t fucking like you either.

CK wants to smile again and it’s like he can’t, nothing will work until a laugh comes out, a little at first and then a lot, and then Mackie the Lackey is joining in, and then what do I know but Two Hand is laughing too, and I must be the only guy in the car who isn’t crazy. I need some more sleep.

We take the lead somewhere above the Staten Island exits, and the convoy, scatter-pathed, slithers out of New Jersey and rises from the Lincoln Tunnel and into Manhattan at dusk. This city is like an anthill, never stops being alive with traffic, every third car is a cab, and there’s nothing to see but people and lights, people and lights, and grey buildings so thick and tall you can’t even see the sky. Mackie turns us north up Tenth Avenue and all I can see are people walking and rectangles of light that are storefronts and bars and hotels. In the rearview I see the endless gridlock of cars and cabs and trucks and the FedEx van is back there somewhere, or it’s that one ahead on the left, or the one parked over there at the curb. At the next stoplight two kids argue in Spanish, arms waving, and as they cross the street, one of them shoves the other and both of them curse. Stop and start, stop and start, all along Tenth Avenue, past the bodegas and the peep shows and the delis and the parking lots and the cars and the people, most of all the people.

Sooner or later, we reach the City Centre Garage. Pass it and stop next to a fire hydrant. We wait in the car, wait and watch while the others arrive and one by one descend into the bowels of the garage. On the sidewalk, CK’s people check things out. Lots of faces. Looks like CK’s brought his whole fucking crew: Rudy Martinez, Crimso, Toons, and
Fryer. Too many faces. Dawkins, Quillen, Wood Williams. I start counting and stop when I reach twelve guys. Twelve of our guys, and then me, that’s thirteen.

Christ, I tell CK. Is this a money-for-guns deal, or are we gonna hop a C-130 and take another shot at Hué?

CK’s talking to Crimso, something about the cars, and after he takes a briefcase from Wood Williams he decides to answer me.

The more the merrier, he says. Then: Look at things my way. Mr. Berenger wants this one done right. Dealing with the 9 Bravos is like dealing with a rabid version of U Street. We got to keep them on the leash. Things could be fine. I think they’re gonna be fine. But hey, you want to run with an optimist? I don’t know what else to tell you, Burdon. Maybe this isn’t your style, but you know what? This isn’t your call, either. It’s my run. You’re a good gun, and it’s a double drop, so—

I know, I know, I tell him. The FedEx van rumbles by, twists down the ramp and into the garage. We follow on foot. It’s a four-story blockhouse with three levels underground. The air inside is chilly and thick with the stench of exhaust. I take short breaths; the stuff will kill you. Things start shaking as soon as we hit bottom.

Yo, CK yells out, and the garage goes quiet. Quillen, he says. You and your boys go do what you got to do.

Which is probably the job of setting up a perimeter. This drop point is a good one, midtown garage that’s closed for construction. One way in, but since we’re clever boys, two ways out. CK takes me down to the second level and shows me: In the shadows is a heating duct, a little tunnel, really, in case we have to boogie. So Quillen’s going to go to the roof with a few good guns, Crimso’s probably working the cars outside, two guys parked at each end of the block, and Wood Williams is going to have a very slow night walking the levels beneath us. Nice work if you can get it.

Back upstairs, CK barks things to order: We’re gonna get settled in here, CK says, so y’all can get some sleep. Do what you want, but I’m calling it a night.

The U Streeters, the others, shuffle into vague groups, some black, some white, nothing in between. Sleeping bags get tossed. Card games,
war stories, maybe even some sleep will follow. The usual. Meantime, CK gathers the chosen few in a circle: Mackie the Lackey next to him, then me, Juan E, and the Yellow Nigger, plus Toons and Fryer and Dawkins.

Okay, he says. Listen up. Here’s what we got. Seven in the morning we go by car and cab to the Excelsior Hotel, up across 110th Street. That’s your folks’ country, Juan E.

Juan E gives up a smile.

The van stays here. Lane, you’re staying with it.

All heads turn to me. I can hear the voice of some little kid saying, Tag, you’re it! But what the hell, this is what I’m getting paid for.

Two Hand stays with you, CK says. And Jeffers and Rose for the perimeter.

Before I can say spit about being left shorthanded, he’s on me.

You got only one entrance to cover here. And you know what, Lane? I got faith in those Glocks of yours. The hotel’s another matter. That’s where we get paid. This is why we need you there, Juan E. You and your crew. To make sure the 9 Bravos don’t want to play
GoodFellas
.

Juan E snorts, says, Yo, man, let em. Don’t mean shit to me, you know what I’m sayin? Nobody comin in or out of there without me and my set sayin so.

What I like to hear, CK says. Now my boys are gonna handle the lobby, the roof, the street, it’s all gonna be tied up nice and neat but I want your people for the inside stuff. For dealing with the Bravos. Keep the fingers off the triggers, right? This is friendly, and it’s gonna stay friendly. You and me, Mackie here, couple of my best shooters, we do the meet. Tenth floor. Two Bravos in the room. Only two, that’s the rules. Two of them, two of you. The rest of them, and I been told it’s six or seven more, we let them onto the floor and—well, like you say, you’re the one who’s gonna let them in there and out of there.

Aw’ight, Juan E says.

Now this is gonna be fine, CK says. Fine as wine. Something we’re gonna take to the bank for a long, long time. Check this out.

CK unfolds a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and it’s a photocopy of some official-looking documents, they look like licenses or diplomas,
engraved and fancy-edged certificates that say lots and lots of things but mean: payday.

You’re looking at a pair of ones and lots and lots of zeroes, CK says. Two million dollars.

Murmurs all around. Juan E shakes his head like he’s hearing an old joke. Then CK says:

That’s a picture of what they call bearer bonds. And these bearer bonds are legit, like cold hard cash. Word is these things aren’t around much anymore, because they’re nonregistered, meaning they’re off the books of the company, the city, whoever issued them. Which means nobody knows who owns them. You with me so far? What I’m saying is that if you have the paper, you own the money. And this thing is what they call a negotiable instrument, it’s like a big check you don’t have to sign. I mean, it’s not even like a check, it’s like a big piece of cash. They aren’t made out to anyone in particular, they’re made out to the fucking
bearer
. Meaning the guy who’s carrying them around. Can you believe that? So whoever’s carrying them around can just … cash them. No questions asked.

So here’s the story on these bearer bonds. We’re getting paid on the installment plan. Four parts, a half million each. We got the first part as down payment. When we sit down with the Bravos, we get payment number two and their lives in our itchy-fingered hands, and they get the location of the iron. They bring Mr. Lane here payment number three. He gives them the keys to the van and we give them their guys back, which is when we get payment number four. Then we all go home and congratulate ourselves on being alive. And rich.

Now, we got the tenth floor of the hotel. Perfection. The building’s eighteen, twenty stories tops and nobody lives much over the fifth floor. It’s gone to shit, and what’s left is a homeless shelter. We’ll sweep the place and then my guys are gonna hold all the entrances.

He turns back to Juan E: I want one of your guys, a shooter, the next strongest after what you got right here—

Juan E glances past the Yellow Nigger. That’s Lil Ace, he says.

Okay, well, I want Lil Ace to go with one of my boys—that’s Meehan, he says to Mackie—and check all the upper floors, then hang on the roof as lookouts. You with me?

Nods all around.

We’ll have eyes on the roof, on the street, in the lobby, and when the 9 Bravos show, we’ll know pretty much if it’s problems or payday. If it’s payday, well, Juan E here is gonna have his brothers break bread—

Juan E snorts back a laugh.

—with the 9 Bravos.

You tell your people they need to keep cool. One of these Bravos disses you, you got to accept the disrespect. You want, you can mess with these people later, on your own time. But not on mine. On my time, this is the fucking
Love Boat
. You got that?

Juan E nods. No problem, he says. You know what I’m sayin? No problem. Unless they want to get themselves dead.

One little thing, boss, the Yellow Nigger says, and whether it’s the voice or the hiss of derision inside it, CK’s head snaps up in his direction. I’m stayin here, you know. With the guns.

He’s not asking, he’s telling, and you don’t tell CK what to do. But maybe if you’re this guy, well, you do. And maybe you get away with it.

CK looks at me, and I give him a poker face and a shrug; I’m the good soldier, right?

But CK wants to play, because with CK it’s always hardball, so he says to the Yellow Nigger: Yeah?

Yeah, he says. That hotel ain’t got no monopoly on 9 Bravos. You up there playin bearer bonds, we down here sittin on the real deal. And it ain’t over till they come on down here and make it be over. They gonna play games with y’all, well this is the place, not no fuckin hotel. So I stay, and maybe if them 9 Bravos get greedy, they’ll learn they picked the wrong nigga to fuck with.

Juan E finishes it: My man’s talkin truth. I want my nigga here.

End of story. As if it isn’t exactly what we wanted: To keep the baddest of the bad, the Yellow Nigger, out of the face-off at the hotel.

So our little summit meeting starts to break apart and it’s time for me to haul CK aside.

One thing, CK, I tell him.

Yeah? he says.

When the Bravos come, how do I know that they’re giving me the right paper? I mean, what’s to keep them from giving me some engraved
something or other that looks official, feels official, but isn’t five hundred large of bearer bonds?

CK sighs and says, You know something, Lane? You really need to go a little bit easier on yourself. Sometimes you think too much and it don’t do anybody any good. I got a word for you, Lane: Trust. Or how about: Faith. Belief.

Yeah, I say. But you know what Charlie Manson used to say: Total paranoia is total awareness. At least let me take another look at that photocopy. I want to see my pieces of paper. I don’t want to go home and hand Jules a bunch of VCR warranties.

CK laughs and says: Sure. Hey, listen, anyway, they got these things they call CUSIP numbers, matches right up and you know you’re good to go. See, right there. You got to worry, then write those numbers down. See if they match.

He hands me the photocopy and while I’m looking at these funny pieces of paper, trying to memorize the CUSIP numbers, I ask him: Oh, yeah. One other thing. Maybe I missed something, but where’s the alternate rendezvous?

CK looks away and he says: For this run, there’s only one stop on the way home, and that’s Morristown. But between you and me … listen, do you remember the south Jersey warehouses?

I nod, though I don’t look up from the photocopy. What I’m staring at is paper, a picture of paper, and the paper has emblems and numbers but it can’t possibly be worth two thousand large. Two million dollars.

Well, he says, you didn’t remember from me. Just don’t go telling the dinges, okay? South Jersey’s what you might call the white man’s rendezvous. Now give me that thing and take a load off your feet. Time’s gonna fly tonight.

Which brings us, with enough waiting, to the hour before dawn, when CK and I shake the night from our bones and wander the garage floor, waking the guys who aren’t standing guard or sleeping in a decent bed at one of the hotels. After a night like this one, nobody ought to wonder why I slept so much on the ride north. I can never sleep the night before a major meet, and even if I could I’d be a fool to try.

Instead I spent the night behind the driver’s wheel of the van, watching and waiting and worrying. What a way to lose eight hours: sitting on top of enough contraband to start a civil war or earn about a thousand concurrent felony sentences. It all depends on your point of view. And sitting next to me is the Yellow Nigger, with a spurless Ruger .38 and a bag of pork rinds in his lap.

Through the night, CK’s guys have been dropping cars at different locations in the city. Renny and I win the Olds for the return trip. The valet stub says it’s parked at the Warwick Hotel.