The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (25 page)

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Authors: John R. Maxim

BOOK: The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)
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“Forget it,” he said, embarrassed. “It's okay.”

He was standing within a rack of finished dry cleaning, watching through plastic bags. Bannerman was five feet away, also hidden.

Lesko had played the tape for him, over the telephone, three times. Bannerman listened, then said he'd meet him in two hours. Lesko heard reluctance, resignation, in his voice.
Well, sorry to ruin your Saturday morning,
he thought,
but
tough shit.
Lesko could see the back of Wesley Covington's head and the front window beyond. St. Nicholas Avenue was almost dark. Covington's delivery truck sat at the curb. Greenwald was in it. Covington had sent his pressers home. One clerk remained, at Lesko's insistence. The place should look normal.
There was no way to be sure that Hector Manley would come. Except the man said Saturday. It didn't figure he'd show up on 153rd Street, not with all those bullhorns, so if he was coming at all it would have to be at the store, most likely at closing time.
“Lesko?” Greenwald's voice. ”I see him.”
“Where?”
“Across the street . . . watching. He's got a leg breaker with him. The Dandy Man's no midget but this guy's a house.”
“Just don't let him see you. Let me know when he moves.”
“He's moving. Here he comes.”
Lesko could see them now. They appeared on the sidewalk, framed against the truck. The smaller one moved closer to the window. He stopped there in its light, staring through it. The big one, the house, caught the eye of a customer who was about to enter. He glared at her with bar-bully eyes. Stupid eyes. She turned away. Now his eyes met those of the girl at the counter. He motioned again with his head. “I'm not going,” she said quietly to Covington.
“Please.” He reached behind a partition and produced her coat. ”I won't be long.” He placed it over her shoulders.
“I'll go because you say,” she told him. “Not pig face out there.”
Gently, firmly, Covington guided her to the door. He kissed her hair, then eased her through it. He watched as she passed between the two men outside, wincing as she mouthed an obscenity toward the big one. He waited. Her footsteps receded. He turned the sign on his door so that the word
Closed
faced outward. He returned to his place behind the counter.
“Bannerman?” Lesko whispered loudly. “I'll handle this. Stay out of it.”
“Fine with me,” came the muffled answer.
“Mr. Covington?”
”I hear you.”
“You okay?”
”A little nervous. I'm fine.”

Lesko had already told him: “You see a gun, you drop. They just want to talk, you listen, but stay behind the counter with your back close to the conveyer. They say things to scare you, be scared. We don't want them wondering what makes you brave.”

The door opened.
Hector Manley entered first, then the other. There was no question which was which. The leg breaker, close to 300 pounds of him, was dressed in a hooded sweatshirt of olive drab. Thick black boots laced over army fatigues. An inch-thick chain around his neck, not gold, stainless steel. He wore wraparound sunglasses with black plastic frames. Hector wore a trench coat of black leather, cut extralong in the style of Eastern Europe, a turtleneck sweater, white, the same voodoo sunglasses. Boots were gray. Cowboy boots. Looked like snake. Probably his mother, Lesko thought. But not a bad looking guy. Lesko could see where he got his name.
The man in leather did not speak. He waited, hands clasped in front of him, his eyes locked on those of Wesley Covington. The hooded one approached the counter, peering beyond it. Searching. Listening. The fingers of one huge hand brushed lightly over the top of the cash register. He looked at Hector. Hector nodded.
The cash register moved. It began to tilt. Very gradually. The big man added pressure. It crashed to the floor. Change rolled across linoleum. Still no one spoke.
The big man found the hook on which outgoing garments were hung. He ran his fingers along it. It began to bend. He tore it from the counter. Screws and splintered wood came with it. In a lazy, contemptuous backhand motion, he flung this hook toward Wesley Covington. It missed. It vanished into the hanging garments a foot away from Raymond Lesko. The screws, the torn wood, caught the plastic. It stayed there.
Hector Manley raised a hand, then lowered it slowly toward the pocket of his coat. He interrupted this motion to make a gesture that, it seemed, was intended to reassure the man behind the counter. He continued, into his pocket, and produced what appeared to be a small group of photographs. With these, he approached the counter. There he laid them out, one by one, facing Wesley Covington. There were four. He touched a finger to the first one. The touch was light, almost gentle.
“Your wife?” he asked.
Covington did not answer.
“It will happen on the street,” Manley told him.
Covington stared.
“The streets are dangerous. It will happen in full view of her friends. They will not save her.” His voice was soft, his diction precise, his manner sorrowful. “There are some,” he continued, “who will blame me for this sadness. They will say, ‘Covington challenged the Dandy Man. He paid the price.’ But in truth, Mr. Covington, you will have yourself to blame.”
He pointed to the second photograph.
“Your little girl?”
Lesko should have seen it coming. He saw the muscles growing in Covington's back. He saw the hands balling into fists. But he had told Covington to do nothing. Say nothing. Make them push a little. Make them want to step behind the counter, put their hands on you, get them within reach. But the picture of his daughter was not a little push. Lesko heard what sounded like a dog. He almost looked around. But then he realized that the long low growl was coming from Covington. By the time he knew that, Covington's hands were across the counter. They were clawing at Manley. One found his lapel. The other his throat.
“Shit!” Lesko muttered. He braced himself.
Manley fought off Covington's lunge. A forearm knocked one hand away, an elbow the other, and with it he smashed the side of Covington's head. But Covington had gripped his coat again. With a great heave he pulled him forward, over the counter. Manley rolled and twisted free. The bigger man moved in.
“Heads up, asshole.” Lesko tore through the plastic. One stride, one kick, caught Hector Manley in the throat. Manley rolled over, wide-eyed and gasping. Covington leapt on him. The clothing hook appeared in Lesko's right hand. He swung it from the floor toward the big man's crotch. It sank in there. He ripped it loose. The big man tried to scream but could not.

“You like to break things, fuck face?” Lesko hissed. ‘I’ll show you breaking things.”

“
Lesko? What's happening in there? Lesko?
Greenwald's voice.
Lesko was too busy. Gripping the broken steel shaft, he rammed the clothing hook between the big man's teeth, snapping some. His cheek swelled impossibly. Lesko twisted the hook, setting it. The big man flailed at him with his legs and, with his hands, tried to seize the shaft. With a roar, Lesko hauled him to his feet, then, as with a gaffed tuna, swung him over his shoulder and sent him sprawling, gagging, into an open space between the racks of finished clothing. He tried to rise, reaching for the heavy chain he wore around his neck. Lesko moved toward him. His foot struck the broken cash register. He picked it up, grunting, and, from a shot-putter's stance, sent it crashing against the hooded head and shoulders. The big man fell as if axed.
Dimly, from the street outside, he heard the horn of a car. A long blast. Not far away. It was not stopping.
“
Lesko?
I
think there are more out here. I think that's
Hector's car.
”
Lesko found the radio where he dropped it.
“Tell him to ignore the horn.” Bannerman's voice. Calm, quiet.
“What?” He was breathing heavily.
“It's not a problem. Tell him to ignore it. Then drag the other one back here.”
Confused, Lesko blinked, but he obeyed. He seized both Covington and Manley by their collars, pulled them apart, and threw Manley, bodily, into the pressing station behind the conveyers.
“
Lesko? I think there was a hit I think there's a dead man
across that horn.”
“Tell him you know,” said Bannerman.
”I know what?”
“That their driver is dead.” Bannerman gestured toward one of the figures writhing on the floor. “He said it. The streets are dangerous.”
The horn still blared. Another sound. Gunfire. From another direction.
“
Lesko? There's shooting out here. Automatic weapons, I see people diving into doorways.”
“Tell him you know that too.”
Lesko stared at Bannerman. But he pressed the button. “Harry?” he shouted. “It's okay.”
“How long before a police response?” Bannerman asked.
”I don't know. Around here? Ten minutes.”
“Then that's how much time we have.”
The big man, his body twitching feebly, was tied wrists to ankles. A bloody foam bubbled from his nose and mouth. There was no need to gag him. Next, Bannerman tied the Jamaican known as Dandy. He, too, was bleeding from the mouth and wretching to clear his injured throat but he was conscious. His sunglasses clung crookedly to his face revealing one eye, moist with pain, fearful yet defiant. Bannerman forced a cloth between his teeth. Wesley Covington appeared with two canvas laundry bins, one inside the other. He separated them, lined them with plastic. With Lesko's help he lifted the big man into one of them, Hector Manley into the other.
Bannerman stepped back. He shook his head at the damage Lesko had done to two large men in so short a time.
“Any chance,” he asked idly, “that you and Billy McHugh were separated at birth?”
“What?” Lesko gave Manley's bin a final kick.
“Never mind.”
“Just hold the door, okay?” He seized the bin containing the big man and spun it toward the front.
Wesley Covington unlocked the rear of his delivery truck. With Lesko, he lifted one bin inside, then the other. He moved briskly, although unnerved by the horn that still blared up the street. Farther down, where the gunfire had been, sparks from a ruined electric sign spat eerily into the night. There were no pedestrians in view. Lesko looked at Bannerman, his expression a blend of awe and irritation.
“You did all this? Out here?”
Bannerman ignored the question. “Lesko, you ride up front with Mr. Greenwald. Mr. Covington? Please ride in the back with me.”
The black man hesitated. “You men aren't cops, are you. This is no bust.”
“It's better than that. Please get in, sir.”

They were two blocks to the south, Harry Greenwald driving, when a flash of brilliant light seared through the glass of the rear door. Covington jumped. Ðannerman put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy,” he said. “It's not your store.”

The horn, Covington realized, had gone silent. “It's that car?”
Bannerman nodded.
“Phosphorus, right?”
“You know it?”
”I was in Nam. Marine lieutenant.”
Bannerman nodded again. He had assumed something like that.
Covington gestured toward the bins. “What are you going to do with these two?”
“They won't bother you again. Can you live with that?”
Covington understood. ”I guess. Easy.”
“The girl who wanted to stay with you . . . I'm sorry, I forgot her name.”
“Lucy. She's family. She'll be home by now.”
“She was very brave. It will be hard for her to wait. We'll take you there now.”
“How much can I talk about this?”

“The story for the police is that these two came to see you. They heard their car horn. They ran out. You heard gunfire. You closed up shop and left. Otherwise, tell your own people whatever you like.”

Lesko rapped on the paneling. “Here's One hundred fifty-third.”
Covington moved toward the door. “Do I get my truck back?” he asked Bannerman.
“Tomorrow morning. You'll find it. Do you have an extra set of keys?”
“Yes.”
“Be alone when you open it. I'll leave you a present.”

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