The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (24 page)

“They're taking on the Jamaicans with bullhorns?”

“And Buster Bang wants Covington hit.”

“Who's this ‘Arab’?”

“No idea. Unless the DEA knows. And if they'll tell us.”

“Why shouldn't they?”

“They don't even know we have this tape. We asked for something else. They sent this with it by mistake.”

Wiggins shook his head.

“Who did Buster? You heard any talk?”

“No, but it didn't seem to scare Hector. This morning, he's out making his rounds like nothing happened.”

“This Arab,” Greenwald returned to his pad. “That's another street name, right? We should have it in the computer.”

“Or a real Arab. Lots of them around. They bring in most of the heroin and hash. Ask me, Hector got offered a supply deal, cut rates, in return for a favor.”

“Which has to be a hit on Bannerman.”

Wiggins spread his hands.

“But Lesko says Bannerman doesn't know from drugs. What would Hector have against him?”

“The question is what the Arab has against him. Hector might not know he exists. All Hector wants is to get rich and go back to Kingston. Hector, by the way, sees himself running for prime minister some day and being loved by all the people. That's after he kills everybody who remembers he used to crack skulls.”

“Can I keep this?” Greenwald tapped his machine.

“Like I said, we got it by accident. I've never heard of it.”

“You better go.” Greenwald looked around. “Just bust out of the car. I'll chase you for half a block.”

“No more than that. You'll come back, you won't have a radio. Anyway, then what?”

“You want to know?”

“Shit, yes. This is interesting.”

“I'll talk to Lesko. In the meantime, don't walk with your head down. You never know who else is going to fall off a roof.”

Friday. Half-past noon,

Molly picked up a menu and walked to Susan's table. She pulled out a chair and sat.

“Susan. This is getting a little dumb,” Molly said, not unkindly.

”I know it is,” she nodded.

“Why don't you go to his office and get it over with?”

“He knows I've been coming here, doesn't he?”

“Except for today, yes.”

”I keep hoping he'll come and have this out. If I go over there I'll get mad, or say something stupid, or I'll start crying in front of his travel agents. I do better in restaurants.”

“Speaking of which, what can I get you?”

“Just a salad, I guess.” She took a breadstick from the basket and bit off an end. “Can I ask you something personal, Molly?”

“Sure.”

“I've heard things about you. About all of you. Are they true?”

Molly looked into her eyes. She did not see a reporter there. Only a hurt young girl trying to understand Paul Bannerman through her. ”I guess,” she answered. “Probably.”

“Then how do you stay like you are? I mean, with all of that.”

“You grew up with policemen,” Molly told her. “They start out being like anyone else. Some get mean. Some don't. We're not all that different.”

“And like policemen, you're only comfortable with your own kind?”

“As a rule, that's true. Sad, sometimes. But true.”

“You've never seen an exception.”

”I could see it,” Molly nodded. “He's struggling with it, just as you are.”

“And as Paul is?”

”I think so.”

“Then why doesn't he have the guts to come here and talk it through?”

“You said it. He's afraid to.”

“Then, damn it”—Susan folded her arms—“I'm going to keep coming here until he does or until I've lost so much respect for him that I don't care whether he comes or not.”

Molly rose to her feet. ”I have to make a phone call,” she said.

All women, Bannerman had long suspected, are crazy.

First there was Molly, on the phone, agreeing for the sake of argument that he was doing the right thing. Staying away. Making a clean break. Then in the same breath saying there's right and there's right. “Get over here,” she said. “Talk to Susan. If you don't come settle this,
now,
I'll send Billy to drag you over.” Bannerman could only sigh. He's right, but he's wrong. Women.

Then there was Susan.

She was hurt. And confused. He understood that. But she, if not Molly, had always been sensible. Once he explained, gently, but firmly, she would have to understand. Then he would walk her to the train, and that would be that.

“You're a pain in the ass, Bannerman. You know that?”

“Um . . . hello, Susan.”

“It's about time. Sit.”

He took a breath, struggling to recall what he'd intended to say. It did not help that Molly lurked within earshot, pretending not to listen, but exchanging smug little grins with Billy.
Glad you're having a nice time,
he growled inwardly.

He sat. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace, cleared his throat, and began the explanation, rehearsed in his mind, of why this could not possibly . . .

Look, Bannerman,” she said through her teeth, “I've been
explained to
up, down, and sideways. My father says a nice girl like me doesn't belong with killers but he couldn't tell me why I belong with him. Molly likes us together but she's afraid I think you're Robin Hood. Carla Benedict says a candy ass like me would only be a distraction who would mope and moan every time you're ten minutes late for dinner and, besides, I'm probably not even a good lay.”

“Carla said that?” Bannerman blinked.

”I read between the lines.”

He tried regaining control. He tried taking her remarks, one at a time, and addressing them sensibly. At this, he thought he heard a moan from Molly.

“I've made a decision,” Susan announced, interrupting his explanation of the difference between being a cop's daughter, well removed from the things he did on the job, and being in a relationship where there could be no such distance.

“I'm going to shoot somebody tonight,” she told him.

Bannerman blinked.

“And then another one tomorrow night,” she said. “Someone with six kids. And then a couple more every week after that until I get used to it. Until you say, ‘Hey, maybe this kid's my kind of woman.’ ”

“Susan—”

“And you'll take me on that ski trip you still owe me, where you'll fall in love with me because I am, by God, a pretty damned good woman and then—”

He raised a hand. She took it and slammed it to the table.

Paul glanced toward Molly as if for help. She had turned her back. Her shoulders were shaking. He would get her for this, he thought darkly.

But now his eyes were back on Susan. They rested on her cheek, still bruised. He wanted to reach across the table and touch it. To feel the long brown hair that flowed over her shoulders. To smell its freshness. To kiss the healing wound above her eye. It wasn't so bad. It made her, somehow, even more attractive than before. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was her lack of self-consciousness about it. The way she carried her head. Chin high. I am who I am. A scar doesn't matter.

“Let's get out of here,” he said. “Let's go someplace where we can talk.”

“About how it can't work?”

“About how to keep your father from beating up on me if he hears we're even thinking about it.”

“Thinking about it can't hurt.”

“No. Maybe it can't.”

He drove her to the town beach. They had it almost to themselves. Just a few people walking their dogs. They talked, haltingly at first, and then somewhat more easily as the short winter day turned into evening. Together, they watched the sun go down. The temperature dropped. She shivered. He put an arm around her to keep her warm, then said he'd better take her to the train. “I'm not going home tonight,” she said.

She stayed at his apartment. He made a light supper. They did not make love. They barely touched except for a single light kiss to her forehead after she fell asleep on his couch and he carried her to his bedroom. He took the couch for himself. He slept in his clothing. In the morning he found that she had covered him.

He prepared breakfast. They talked some more. Nothing of substance. Neither seemed willing to risk the fragile illusion that they were simply two ordinary people, having breakfast in their robes, enjoying an ordinary, lazy Saturday morning.

His first thought was that Lesko had learned that his daughter was there. He listened to the next message. Lesko again.

“
Bannerman? Not that I want to ruin your weekend or
anything but how about this? How about it looks like some
one wants to drive forty carloads of explosives into your happy
little dreamworld up there and blow it all to shit? Does that
get your attention?
^”

“
Hey David.”

No answer.

“About what?” came the response. “Lesko?”