Silent Prey (27 page)

Bekker awoke at noon. He wandered about the apartment, went to the bathroom, and stared at himself. Pretty. Pretty blonde. Too late for pretty blonde.

He cried, sitting on the edge of the tub, but he had to do it. He shaved his head. Hacked his fine silken hair to stubble with a pair of orange-handled scissors from Mrs. Lacey’s sewing box, lathered it with shampoo, scraped off the stubble with a safety razor. Cut himself twice, the blood pink in the lather . . .

Sigh.

He found himself in front of the mirror, dried soap around his ears, hair. Gone. The tears came again, in a rush. His head was far too small, and sickly white, like a marble. Where was Beauty?

He examined himself with the eye of an overseer, the Simon Legree of inspections. Bald. Pale. No good. Even in the Village, the scalp pallor would attract the eye, and the facial makeup would be obvious.

The scars—the scars would give him away. He touched his face, felt the furrowed, marbled flesh. A new role,
that’s what he needed. He’d thought to cut his hair, shift back to a male role, but that wouldn’t work. Besides, women were allowed a greater latitude of disguise. He’d go back to the wigs he’d worn before his own hair grew out.

Bekker strode through the apartment, headed for the stairs, stopped to touch the cloud of spiders that hung over his desk in the outer apartment. So fine, so pretty . . .

Go. Get the wig, get dressed—he hadn’t bothered to dress. Clothes seemed inconvenient and restrictive. He marched now, directed by the PCP, upright and dignified, then he was suddenly aware of his penis, bobbling along like an inconveniently large and flaccid nose, doing a color commentary on his dignity. Bekker pressed his penis to his thigh, but the rhythm of the march was broken . . . .

A new gumball dropped. From when? The fifties? A comedian on
The Ed Sullivan Show?
Yes. A small man looking into a cigar box, talking to a voice inside . . .
Okay? Okay.
Was that the line? Yes.

Bekker, passing the kitchen, swerved, went in. Opened the refrigerator and peeked inside: Have a Coke, Mr. Bekker. Thank you. I will.
Okay? Okay.
He slammed the refrigerator door like the comedian and howled with laughter.
Okay? Okay.

Really funny . . . He howled . . . .

Coke in hand, he staggered back to the television, turned to CNN, and watched for a few minutes. He’d been on one of the news shows in the morning, with the pictures of the Carson woman; they’d ridiculed him, said the halos from Carson had been finger-press points on the photo paper. What did that mean? Was that methodology? He had a hard time remembering anymore . . . .

He watched, hoping to see the report again, but they’d cut him out of the news cycle.

He went downstairs, naked and barefoot, stepped carefully through the shambles of the first-floor shop, and down into the basement. Found the dark wig, with the pixie cut. Carried it back up, to the bathroom, put it on. It was warm on his head, like a fur piece, and scratchy. But it looked good. He’d have to do something about his eyebrows, shade them, and his lashes. Maybe something to tone his face . . .

Mrs. Lacey had been too old for sophisticated makeup, had been satisfied with a pinkish rouge to make two little pink spots on her cheeks, like Ronald Reagan’s. But she had an eyebrow pencil. He found the pencil, came back to the mirror, wet it with his tongue and began feathering it through the lashes. A new face began to form in the mirror . . . .

He ventured out at five-thirty, tentative, wary, the day still bright, and turned toward Washington Square. He was unused to the sunlight, and squinted against it, his speed-hyped vision dazzled by the color and intensity. He carried his handbag and an old newsprint drawing pad he had found in one of Mrs. Lacey’s cupboards.

Not much foot traffic, not north and south. He stayed on the shadier side of the narrower streets, head down. Dark hair, dark eyebrows, dark blouse, jeans, gym shoes. A little dykey. A little too tough for a woman. An attitude.

During his early reconnaissance of the city, he’d seen some action around the square. Dealers drifting through. Baggies and cash. He felt the plastic box in his jeans pocket, the tabs rattling inside. Six left, six between himself and . . . He couldn’t think about it. He had five thousand in cash in his purse, and the pistol, just in case.

He needed some luck.

• • •

Oliveo Diaz had ten hits of ex and another ten of speed, and maybe a couple of hours to sell it. Party that night; he could use the cash to pick up some coke for himself. Coke was a mellower high than the speed. With enough speed, Oliveo felt that he could go anywhere. With cocaine, he’d already arrived.

Oliveo crossed the south side of the square, saw Bekker sitting on a concrete retaining wall, sketching. Looked nice, from a distance, with the inky black hair, like maybe a PR. Closer, and he thought, maybe Irish, black Irish with the pale skin.

Bekker paid no attention to him, his face down in the sketch pad, a pencil busy in his hand. But watching . . .

“Hey, Oliveo, doood . . .”

Oliveo turned, flashed the automatic smile. Some guy named Shell. Young white guy with a battered forehead, hazy blue eyes and a Mets hat with the bill turned backward. Oliveo had a theory that a guy’s intelligence could be determined by how far around his head the bill was turned. Backward was a complete fool, unless he was a baseball catcher. Shell’s hat was backward, and he said again, “Hey, doood,” and he lifted a hand for a cool five.

“Shell, my man, what’s happenin’ . . . ?” Oliveo said. Shell worked in a tire-recap place, had cash sometimes.

“You servin’?” A quick look left and right.

“Man, what you need?” The smile clickin’ on again. Oliveo thought of himself as a pro, a street Mick Jagger, smile every ten seconds, part of the act.

“Gotta get up, man . . .”

“I got ten hits of really smooth shit straight from Miami, man . . . .”

• • •

Bekker sat on the wall and drew the fire hydrant; drew it well, he thought. He’d learned drawing techniques in medical school, found them useful as a pathologist. They made structure clear, simple. He struggled to keep the drawing going as he watched Oliveo chatting with the white kid, watched them circle each other, checking for cops, and finally a flash of plastic.

Bekker looked around. There
were
cops in the square, but on the other side, near the arch. Three blue Plymouths parked side by side, the cops sitting on the hoods or leaning on the fenders, talking. Bekker picked up his purse and, as the white guy peeled away from Oliveo, sauntered over.

“Servin’?” he squeaked.

Oliveo jumped. The woman with the art pad, her head down. He couldn’t see her face very well, but he knew he’d never dealt to her. She was wrong, something wrong. A cop?

“Get the fuck off me, man,” he said.

“I’ve got a lot of cash,” Bekker said, still squeaking. He sounded like a mouse in his own ears. “And I’m desperate. I’m not a cop . . . .”

The word “cash” stopped Oliveo. He
knew
he should walk away. He knew it, had told himself, don’t sell to no strangers. But he said, “How much?”

“A lot. I’m looking for speed or angels or both . . . .”

“Fuckin’ cop . . .”

“Not a cop . . .” Bekker glanced up the street, over at the cop cars, then put his hand in the bag and lifted out an envelope full of cash. “I can pay. Right here.”

Oliveo looked around, licked his lips, then said, “What you look like, mama?” He reached out, grabbed Bekker under the chin and tried to lift his face. Bekker grabbed his arm at the wrist and twisted. There was muscle there,
testosterone muscle. As he pushed Oliveo away, his head came up, his teeth bared, eyes wide.

“Motherfucker . . .” Oliveo said, backing away, sputtering. “You’re that dude.”

Bekker turned away, started across the street, half running, mind twisting, searching for help, for an answer, for anything.

Behind him, Oliveo had turned toward the cop cars across the square. “Hey,” he screamed. He looked from the cops to Bekker, then at the cops again, then dashed toward them, yelling, waving his arms. “Hey, hey, that’s him, that’s him . . . .”

Bekker ran. He could run in the gym shoes, but there were a lot of cops, and if they came quickly enough, and if they asked about a woman running . . .

A bum stood at the mouth of an alley, picking through a garbage can. He wore a crumbled hat and a stained army coat, ankle length.

A half-brick sat on the sidewalk, a remnant of concrete lapped over it like frosting on a piece of carrot cake.

It was a narrow street, the closest people a block away, not looking.

Bekker snatched the brick off the street, still running. The bum looked up, straightened, leaned away, astonished when Bekker hit him squarely in the chest. The bum pitched over the garbage can and went down into the alley, on his back. “Hey,” he groaned.

Bekker hit him between the eyes with the brick, then hit him again. Hovered over him, growling like a pit bull, feeling his blood rising . . .

A siren, and another.

He stripped the hat and trench coat from the bum, pulled the trench coat over the purse, stripped off the wig, pulled the hat down low on his head. The bum blew a
bubble of blood. Still alive. Bekker lurched back to the mouth of the alley, trying on the new persona, the mask of beggary . . . .

Behind him, a gargling sound. He half turned; the bum was looking at him, one good eye peering brightly out of a ruined face. The bum was dying. Bekker recognized the gargle. Something cold, distant and academic spoke into his mind: cerebral hemorrhage, massive parietal fracture. And that eye, looking at him. The bum would die, and then he’d be back, watching . . . . Bekker looked both ways, then hurried back to the bum. Pocketknife out, quick jabs; eyes gone. The bum moaned, but he was going anyway.

The brick was by the bum’s head, and Bekker picked it up and jammed it in his pocket. Good weapon. A gun was too noisy. But he groped for the gun inside the bag and transferred it to the pocket.

Into the street. Six blocks. He saw a cop car go by, screech to a stop at the intersection, the cops looking both ways out the windows, then go on. The coat stunk: dried urine. The smell clogged his throat, and he imagined fleas crawling onto him. More sirens, cops flooding the neighborhood. Bekker hurried . . .

Turned onto Greene, tottering, a drunk, his shabby coat dragging on the pavement. A woman coming. Closer, same side. Bekker changed to the other side of the street. His vision wavered, changed tenses: Approaching Lacey building. Sirens in the distance, but fading. Woman goes to Lacey building door . . .

What
 . . .

The panic gripped him for a moment. Confused. What did she want? Blank-faced buildings looking down. Gumball drops. Red one, loading anger. They would do this to him, a man of talent. The woman was half turned toward him, head cocked.

A distant voice, in the back of his head: Bridget. Bridget Land. Come to visit . . .

He straightened, walked back across the street, away from her, and she put a key in the front-door lock and turned it, pushing the door open. Bridget Land, he’d forgotten about her . . . . She must not know.

She pushed the door open, her shoulders rounded, aged, straining with the effort, then stepped up and inside. Bekker, caught by anger and opportunity, began moving. There was no space or time, it seemed, and he hit the door, smashed inside, and hit her.

He was fast, angel-dust fast, quicker than a linebacker, smacking her with the brick full in the face. She went down with a strange, harsh croak, like a wing-shot raven.

Bekker, indiscreet, beyond caring, slammed the door, grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the stairs, and down.

He forgot the bum’s clothes, and paid no attention to the woman, yipping like a chihuahua with a bone in its throat. He dragged her to the room, strapped her down. Her legs started to work now, twitching. He wired the silencer into her mouth, working like a dervish, hovering . . . .

Buonocare, the banker, ran the photo tape through two more withdrawals. Bekker posed in all three, a startling feminine beauty coming through despite the rough quality of the tape.

“Jesus, I wish I looked that good,” Buonocare said. “I wonder who does his hair.”

“Gotta call Kennett,” Fell said, reaching across the desk to pick up a phone.

“No.” Lucas looked into her eyes, shook his head. “No.”

“We’ve gotta . . .”

“Talk to me outside,” Lucas said, voice low.

“What?”

“Outside.” Lucas looked at Buonocare and said, “There’s a security thing here, I’m sorry I can’t tell you . . . .”

Fell got her purse, Lucas his coat, and they half ran to the door. “Will I see it on the news?” Buonocare asked as she escorted them past a security guard to the front door.

“You’ll probably be
on
the news, if this is him,” Fell said as the guard let them out.

“Good luck, then. And see you on TV,” Buonocare said. “I wish I could come . . .”

Outside, it had begun to rain, a warm, nasty mist. Lucas waved at a taxi, but it rolled by. Another ignored him.

Fell grabbed his elbow and said urgently, “What’re you doing, Lucas? We’ve gotta call now . . . .”

“No.”

“Look: I want to be there too, but we don’t have time. With this traffic . . .”

“What? Fifteen minutes? Fuck it, I want him,” Lucas said.

“Lucas . . .” she wailed.

A cab pulled to the curb and Lucas hurried over, three seconds ahead of a woman who sprinted from a door farther up the street. He hopped in, leaving the door open. Fell was behind him, still in the street. “Get in.”

“We gotta call . . .”

“There’s more going on here than you know about,” Lucas said. “I’m
not
Internal Affairs, but there’s more going on.”

Fell looked at him for a long beat, then said, “I knew it,” and climbed in the cab. As the cab pulled away, the woman who’d run for it, back in the doorway, gave them the finger.

They inched silently uptown through the nightmare traffic, the rain growing heavier. Fell was tight-lipped, agitated. The cab dropped them on Houston, Lucas paid. A squad car rolled by, the cops looking carefully at Lucas before going on. They dodged into a convenience store, damp from the misty summer rain.

“All right,” said Fell, fists on her hips. “Let’s have it.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it could be weird,” he said. “I’m trying to catch Robin Hood. That’s why they brought me here, from Minneapolis.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you nuts?”

“No. You can either come along or you can take a hike, but I don’t want you fuckin’ this up,” Lucas said.

“Well, I’ll come,” she said. “But Robin Hood? Tell me.”

“Some other time. I gotta make a call of my own . . . .”

Lily was with O’Dell, just coming off the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, ten minutes from Police Plaza.

“Have you heard?” she asked.

“What?”

“Bekker was spotted at Washington Square, but took off. This was around three o’clock. We’ve got people all over the place, but nothing since . . . .”

“That sounds right, because I think we know where he is. Fell and me. And it’s up in SoHo.”

“What?” And he heard her say, “Lucas says he’s got Bekker.”

O’Dell’s voice replaced Lily’s. “Where are you?”

“We’re at Citibank and we’re stuck here. I think Bekker’s holed up with an old lady in SoHo, but I’m not sure. I’m going up there to take a quick informal look around before I call in the troops. I just wanted Lily to know, in case something misfires . . . .”

“Besides, if you called now and you’re stuck downtown, Kennett would get all the credit for the bust,” O’Dell said with his wet chuckle. “Is there any possibility that what you’ve done, whatever it is, has tipped off Bekker?”

“No. But it’ll take us a while to get up there; it’s raining here, and cabs are impossible.”

“Yeah, it’s raining here, too . . . . Okay, go ahead. But
take care. Just in case there’s a problem, why don’t you give me the address, and I’ll get Lily to start a search warrant. That’ll help explain the delay, why you didn’t call it in.”

“All right . . .” Lucas gave him the address, and Lily came on the line. “Careful,” she said. “After your . . . look around . . . give us a ring. We’ll have the backup waiting.”

Lucas hung up, and Fell asked, “All right—what’s going on?”

“We’re gonna surveil for a while . . . .”

“Surveil what?” Another cop car rolled by, and again they got the look.

“This Lacey woman’s building, for a start. Bekker knows me, I don’t want to go right up front . . .”

“I know where we can get a hat,” Fell said. “And it’s on the way . . . .”

They dodged from doorway to canopy, staying out of the rain as much as they could. Fell finally led Lucas into a clothing store that apparently hadn’t changed either stock or customers since ’69. Every male customer other than Lucas was bearded, and three of the four women customers wore tie-dye. Lucas bought an ill-fitting leather porkpie hat. In the mirror, he looked like a hippie designer’s idea of an Amazon explorer.

“Quit grumbling, you’d look cute in the right light,” Fell said, hurrying him along.

“I look like an asshole,” Lucas said. “In any light.”

“What can I tell you?” she said. “You ain’t posing for
Esquire.
”

The rain had slowed further, but the streets were wet and slick, stinking of two centuries of grime emulsified by the quick shower. They found Lacey’s building, cruised
it front and back. The back wall was windowless brick. A weathered shed, or lean-to, folded against the lower wall. The gate in the chain-link fence had been recently opened, and car tracks cut through the low spotty weeds to the shed.

Lucas walked to the edge of the lot, where he had the sharpest angle on the shed. “Look at this,” he said.

Fell peered through the fence. The back end of a rounded chrome bumper was just visible inside the shed. “Sonofabitch, it’s a Bug,” she breathed. She grabbed his arm. “Lucas, we gotta call.”

“Lily and O’Dell are taking care of it,” he said.

“I mean Kennett. He’s our supervisor. Christ, we’re cutting out the boss . . . .”

“Soon,” Lucas promised. “I want to sit and watch for a few more minutes.”

They walked around front, and Lucas picked out a store a hundred feet up the street from Lacey’s, on the opposite side, an African rug-and-artifact gallery. The owner was a deep-breasted Lebanese woman in a black turtlenecked silk dress. She nodded, nervous, and said, “Of course,” when they showed their badges. She brought chairs and they sat at an angle to the window, among draperies and wicker bookcases, watching the street.

“What if he goes out the back?” asked Fell.

“He won’t. There’re cops all over the place. He’s holed up.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“For some guys. Robin Hood and his merry men. If nothing happens in a half-hour, we go in . . . .”

“Would you like some cookies?” the Lebanese store owner asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice. She was twisting her hands, and looked, Lucas thought, remarkably like the wicked-witch stepmother in
Snow White,
if
he had his Disney movies right. “Baklava, maybe . . . ?”

“No, thanks, really,” Lucas said. “We’re fine. We might want to use your phone.”

“Yes, surely . . .” The woman gestured at a black telephone next to the cash register and retired to the rear of the shop, where she perched on a high stool and continued to rub her hands.

“Eat her goddamn baklava and your nuts’d probably wind up sealed in a bottle with a genie,” Lucas muttered.

Fell glanced back and said, “Shh,” but smiled and shook her head. “Fuckin’ midwestern white guys, it must be something out there, wall-to-wall Wasps . . . .”

“Look,” Lucas said.

Two men in sport coats and slacks were walking up the street, not looking at Lacey’s building. One was beefy, the other rail-thin. Their sport coats were too heavy for a New York summer, the kind of coat called “year-round” by the department stores, too hot in summer, not warm enough in winter. The beefy one walked stiffly, as though something were wrong with his back; the thin one showed a cast on his left arm.

“Cops,” Fell said. She stood up. “They look like cops.”

“The sonofabitch with the cast is the guy who whacked me, I think,” Lucas said. Fell took a step toward the door, but Lucas caught her by the arm and said, “Wait, wait, wait . . .” and backed toward the counter and picked up the phone, still watching the two cops. They passed Lacey’s building, strolling, talking too animatedly, phony, walked on until they were in front of the next building, then stopped.

Lucas punched Lily’s office number into the telephone. She picked it up on the second ring. “I’m at Lacey’s place . . . .”

“How’d you get . . . ?”

“I lied. And the Robin Hoods just walked in, we’re watching them across the street. So it’s O’Dell . . . .”

“Can’t be. He hasn’t touched a phone.”

“What?”

“I’m with him now. In his office.”

“Shit . . .”

Across the street, the Robin Hoods had turned and had started back toward Lacey’s. One drew a pistol while the other dropped a long-handled sledge from beneath his jacket.

“Get me backup . . .” Lucas said. “Jesus—they’re going in. Get me backup
now.
”

Lucas dropped the phone back on the hook. “Let’s go,” he said. “Get on my arm, really drag on it, like we had a few too many.”

They went out the door and Lucas, hat tipped down, wrapped an arm around Fell’s shoulder and put his face close to hers. The two cops paused just before they passed the windows in front of Lacey’s, looked around one more time, saw Lucas and Fell fifty feet away. Lucas pushed Fell into a building front with one hip, groped at a breast with his free hand. She pushed him away, and the two cops went to the door.

They were running now.

The cop with the hammer stopped, pivoted, swinging his hip like a golfer. Backswing and drive, the hammer flashing overhead.

The hammerhead hit the door just at the handle and it exploded inward, glass breaking, wood splintering.

The cop with the gun and the cast went through; the other dropped the hammer and drew his pistol. Then he went in, crouched, focused, straight ahead.

“Go,” said Lucas. His .45 was in his hand, and he was at the door in three seconds. Through the door. The two
cops were inside, their pistols pointing up an open stairway, and Lucas dropped in the doorway, screaming, “Police, freeze.”

“We’re cops, we’re cops . . . .” The cop nearest Lucas kept his gun pointed at the stairs.

“Drop the piece, drop, drop it, God damn it, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ ass off, drop it . . . .”

“We’re cops, you asshole . . . .” The heavyset cop was half turned toward him, his gun still pointed up the stairs. The pistol was black with a smooth, plastic look about it, a high-capacity Glock 9mm. This guy wasn’t using the issue crap from the department.

“Drop it . . .”

Fell came in behind, her gun out, searching for a target, Lucas feeling the black barrel of the cut-off Colt .38 next to his ear.

“Drop it,” Lucas screamed again.

The slat-thin cop, who was closest to the door, dropped his weapon, and Lucas focused on the other, who was still looking uncertainly up the stairs. The disarmed cop said, “Jesus, you asshole, we’re plainclothes for Bekker . . . .”

Lucas ignored him, focused on the other gun: “Said drop the fuckin’ weapon, jerkweed; you assholes beat the shit out of me, and I’m not in the mood to argue. I’ll fuckin’ pull the trigger on you right now . . . .”

The cop stooped and laid his gun on the floor, glanced at his partner. “Listen . . .”

“Shut up.” Lucas looked at Fell. “Keep your gun up, Bekker’s here somewhere.”

“Lucas, Jesus . . .” Fell said, but she kept the gun up.

Lucas motioned the two cops to a steam radiator, tossed them a set of handcuffs. “I want to hear them click,” he said.

“You motherfucker, I oughta fuckin’ pull your face off,” the heavy one said.

“I’d kill you if you tried,” Lucas said simply. “Cuffs.”

“Motherfucker . . .” But the two cuffed themselves to the radiator pipe. Lucas looked up the stairs.

“Now what?” asked Fell.

“Backup’s on the way, should be here.” He kept the .45 pointed at the chained cops.

“You’re fuckin’ up,” said the thick cop.

“Tell that to O’Dell,” Lucas said.

“What?” the cop said. He frowned, puzzled.

Lucas shifted around behind him, his .45 pointed at the guy’s ear. “I’m going for your ID, don’t fuckin’ move . . . .” He slipped his hand inside the cop’s coat pocket and came out with a badge case. “Now you,” he said to the other one.

When he had both IDs, he stepped back and flipped them open. “Clemson,” he said. “A sergeant, and Jeese . . .” Lucas looked at the man with the cast, Clemson, and said, “That’s what you yelled—you yelled ‘Jeese.’ You thought he left you behind, running off like that. I thought you yelled ‘Jesus’ . . .”

“Here comes the cavalry,” Fell said. A blue Plymouth jerked to a stop at the door, and they heard screeching tires from up the block. A uniform came through the door, his gun out.

“Davenport and Fell,” Lucas said to them, holding up his badge case. “Working for Kennett with the Bekker team. These guys are cops too, but they’re cuffed for a good reason. I want them left like that, okay?”

“What’s going on?” the uniform asked. He was a sergeant, older, a little too heavy, uneasy about what he’d walked into. Another car screeched to a stop outside.

“Politics,” Lucas said. “Somebody’s got their tit in a
wringer and the top guys are going to have to sort it out later. But these guys will shoot you if they have a chance. They already shot one cop . . .”

“Bullshit, motherfucker,” said one of the cuffed cops.

“ . . . So stay cool. Their weapons are on the floor, but I haven’t checked them for backup pieces, which they’ve probably got.”

“I don’t know . . .”

Two more uniforms squeezed in, their pistols in their hands.