Angel Face (22 page)

The terms are fine with Bobby. The people Espinoza represents can put fifty soldiers in the field for every member of Bobby's crew. If they decide to rip him off, there's nothing he can do about it. But they won't because they're businessmen. The drug world is filled with bullshit artists who make one excuse after another. Long ago, Bobby decided not to be one of them. He shows up on time and the money is always right.

‘No problem,' he tells Elvino. ‘I'm ready.'

‘Very good.'

Espinoza unlocks a leather briefcase and removes a small lacquer box. He places the box on the desk. Inside, Bobby will discover four grams of heroin on which he can run whatever tests he desires.

Their business essentially done, Espinoza lingers for only a few moments before making an exit. For a few minutes more, Bobby gets to lean back in his chair, satisfied. He gets to think, for those few minutes, that nobody's been inside the warehouse, that the leak was a coincidence, that he's free and clear. Then the Blade's face appears in the doorway.

Even when he's happy, the Blade's lips are no more than two smudgy lines between his long thin nose and his square jaw. Now they've disappeared altogether, as if he forgot to put in his teeth this morning. The Blade's been wearing dentures since he was seventeen. That's when he made the mistake of punching a cop inside a Washington Heights precinct.

‘Bad news, boss. The Expedition's bugged.' The Blade taps his leg with his fingertips. ‘And the freak's been talkin' to Carter.'

Bobby's expecting to find Kupperman standing in a puddle of his own urine, shaking like a beaten puppy. Levi's too stoned for that. He thinks he's the hero of the story. Not that he's thrown all caution to the wind. He's arranged to make his well-edited confession before witnesses. Only fifteen feet away, two of Bobby's drivers are changing the front wheel on one of the trucks.

‘There was nothin' I could do,' he tells his boss. ‘One minute I'm walkin' down the street. The next I'm inside this van with a knife against my throat. There were two of them, a guy who had a grip like steel and some Chinese broad. I couldn't do nothin'.'

‘And you were just walkin' along, mindin' your own business when this happened?' Bobby's tone is soft, almost soothing. ‘Innocent as a newborn babe?'

‘I was on my way here, Bobby. I mean, you called and I came. How could I know there'd be somebody waitin' outside?' Kupperman stares up at his boss for a moment. ‘The woman never spoke a word. The guy did all the talkin'. He told me there were two devices in the SUV, a GPS unit under the back fender, and a bug under the front seat. He said if I told you about them, he'd kill me.'

‘But you told me anyway.'

‘Yeah, see. I'm like protectin' your interests. That's how come you pay me, right?'

‘Right.' Bobby rubs the palms of his hands against his chest. He looks at the Blade, then gestures at the workmen changing the tire.

The Blade moves off to shoo the men back into the warehouse, leaving Bobby and Kupperman alone. Levi's shaking again. When he decided to play the loyal employee, he'd assumed that Bobby would be grateful, that he might even be rewarded. But that's not the case. Eight inches taller than Levi and a good hundred and fifty pounds heavier, Bobby's leaning forward, his weight on his toes, ready to close the gap between them. Still, when he speaks, his tone remains soft.

‘So, what next, after he tells you about the bugs and threatens you?'

‘Nothin'. He just kicked me out.'

‘He didn't ask you anything about how I conduct my business?'

‘Uh-uh.'

‘Didn't ask about my office, or how I protect it?'

‘Not a word.'

‘Didn't even tell you his name?'

‘No, he didn't say his name and I didn't ask. This guy, Bobby, he woulda killed me in a minute.'

‘A real badass.'

‘Exactly. When—'

‘So what I'm wonderin', Levi, is how come you're still alive?'

Levi's mouth hangs open. Now painfully obvious, the question somehow never occurred to him, most likely because he stopped three times on the way over to fuel his determination.

‘See,' Bobby continues, ‘if it was me pulled you off the street, I woulda definitely whacked ya. That way you couldn't tell nobody nothin'. So, this guy, maybe he's not the cold-blooded killer you made him out to be. Tell me, have you pulled the bugs yet?'

‘Uh-uh. First thing when we came outside, I told Marco what happened.'

‘Then maybe we're crappin' our pants over nothin'. Let's take a look.' Bobby nudges Kupperman with a fingertip. ‘You got the remote?'

Levi keys the remote as they walk the twenty feet to the SUV, unlocking the vehicle and shutting down the alarm. He opens the front door on the passenger side and leans in, laying his head on the carpet. At first, he sees nothing, the contrast between the sunlit yard and the shadows beneath the seat rendering him functionally blind. But then his pupils adjust and the bug jumps into focus, a thin black cable extending two or three inches above the floor.

‘Here it is. Right here.'

Though Levi's voice betrays a measure of triumph, these are, in fact, the last words he'll ever speak. His rage finally unleashed, Bobby's fingers wrap around Levi's skinny neck and he presses down with all his weight. Kupperman's hands rise instinctively to grab Bobby's wrists, but the fingers encircling his throat only tighten. He kicks out, scraping Bobby's knees, and tries to roll away. The results are no more encouraging. Lying half-in, half-out of the car, his shoulders wedged between the seat and the firewall, he's helpless. And Bobby's not stopping, not even slowing down. He's slamming Levi's head against the floor and he's talking out loud.

‘Hey, Carter, you listenin' to this, you cocksucker? You listenin', huh? I'm gonna run you down. I don't care where the fuck you go. I don't care if it takes me until the last day of my fuckin' life. I'm gonna cut your balls off and make you eat 'em. I'm gonna dig the eyes out of your head. I'm gonna take a baseball bat and break every bone in your body, startin' with your fuckin' toes. You listenin' to this? Huh, you piece-of-shit, fuckin' scumbag? Huh?'

‘The one good thing to come outta this bullshit is that the freak couldn't have told Carter about the money.' Bobby lays a hand on the Blade's shoulder. ‘That's because he didn't know about it.'

‘You think Carter asked him?'

‘Don't be a jerk, Marco. Carter definitely asked him about the money. Not only that, he most likely asked the freak to bug my office. That's why I'm talkin' to you out here.' They're standing in the shadow of a twenty-foot truck, their backs to any observer. ‘I want you to get someone out here tomorrow morning, a pro, to sweep the bunker. The Ford, too. If Carter's listenin', I gotta know.'

The Blade's no happier than Bobby. Now they've got a body on their hands. Given all the other details to be handled before Sunday night, this is a problem he surely doesn't need. The freak didn't know anything about their upcoming deal. Bobby should have let him go home. Instead . . .

‘Do you want my advice, Bobby?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You need to calm the fuck down.'

Bobby Ditto rises up on his toes. He doesn't care to be spoken to as if he was a child. But the Blade's grim expression stops him. ‘I hate this guy, Marco.'

‘Well, stop hating him. He's doin' what he's doin' for the same reason you do what you do. Our thing, his thing – there's no difference, Bobby. Hatin' Carter is like hatin' the weather. When it's rainin' you don't look to kill the weatherman. You carry an umbrella.'

‘I suppose you happen to have this umbrella with you.'

‘I got a plan, which puts me one step ahead of my boss.'

Bobby Ditto can no longer stand still. He turns and leads the Blade to the back of the warehouse, shoving his hands into his pockets as he rounds the corner. The day's turned cold and the wind is up. The cloudless sky is the clean blue of the coldest, midwinter days. Across the street, six men push a school bus into the bus company's dingy garage. At least three of them give orders at the same time, every other word an epithet.

‘All right, Marco, you made your point. But what's done is done. Plus, the freak had to go, sooner or later, and we both knew it. Let's move on.'

‘OK, first thing, if Carter's after anything, he's after the money. I just can't make myself believe he has a market for the product. That means, once the deal is done, he'll go away. What he has with you, it ain't personal.'

Bobby stops as they approach the far corner of the warehouse. He looks from the razor wire on the fence to the roof twenty feet above his head.

‘You're wrong, Marco. I know too much about Carter. He's not gonna leave me on the street. It's the same for me. I got his name and address. Sooner or later, I'll run him down. I don't care what it costs. I'm gonna find this prick and I'm gonna kill him unless he kills me first. But you go ahead. If I fuck up this deal and lose the front money, I'm dead anyway.'

‘I hear you, Bobby.' The Blade raises a hand. ‘Put another man in the basement right away. If the Expedition comes up clean, leave it inside tomorrow night. We'll load it on Sunday, a half-hour before pickup. Espinoza doesn't want to see more than three men, but there are no rules about the ride over. I want to use at least two cars and I want to put our best men in them. You, me and Donny will be in the Expedition – remember, it's armored – so the money will never be out of sight. Afterward, we take the product to the Queens Village apartment and leave enough men there to protect it.'

Bobby nods along when the Blade makes his final points. Carter wouldn't have bugged the Expedition if he knew when and where the deal would go down. And even if he's within sight of the warehouse when they set out for Greenpoint, what can he do to stop them? Bring in a tank? Fire rocket-propelled grenades? No, in order to stop the Expedition, he'd have to destroy the money, which he'd never do. That's the underlying truth, according to the Blade. Carter's not crazy. He doesn't kill for the fun of it. Present him with an obstacle he can't overcome and he'll back off.

‘I don't have a problem with any of it,' Bobby says. ‘Just make sure nobody leaves that basement before Sunday.'

‘Consider it done.' The Blade lights a cigarette. ‘What about the freak? Whatta you wanna do with him?'

‘Bring him to the house tonight. I see an ocean voyage in his future.'

TWENTY-SIX

A
ngel's leaning so far forward that her chin almost touches the steering wheel. She's driving on Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, weaving through traffic, her breath coming in short heaves. Carter lets her go, at least for the present. He's remembering a night he spent at a forward base camp in Afghanistan with two CIA spooks and a merc from Blackwater. Earlier that day, a twenty-year-old Marine had somehow wandered off the base and been captured. Now they can hear his screams in the distance, carried to them on a light breeze, faint enough to be the cries of a night bird.

Carter had wanted to do something – darkness, after all, is the covert operator's friend – but he was quickly overruled. The team had a mission to perform and the base was only a way station. So, he sat up and listened, along with every other soldier on the post, to the slow, painful death of a brother.

Levi Kupperman's death, by Carter's standards, was neither horrific, nor especially painful. Not even as painful as Angel's naiveté. She wants to do something, anything, to alter a past that can't be altered. She wants to shed the burden. Kupperman's death rattle had echoed in the van long after Bobby Ditto yanked the bug.

‘Did we kill him?' Angel asks.

‘No, we didn't. But you're gonna kill us if you don't stop for this light.'

Angel slams on the brakes and the van fishtails for a moment before coming to a stop. ‘I need to slow down,' she admits.

‘You're taking this too hard, Angel.' Carter lays a hand on Angel's shoulder. ‘Montgomery Thorpe once told me that human history is a voyage over a river of blood. Blood makes the trip possible, human blood. Thorpe considered himself a deep thinker.'

‘What happened to him?'

‘First I killed him, then I cut off his head and presented it to an Italian gangster from Queens. A gift of sorts.'

Angel finally takes a deep breath. ‘Get serious, Carter. I'm not in the mood for jokes.'

Carter smiles. ‘Kupperman took his chances when he chose Bobby over us. That doesn't come as any surprise, by the way, an addict siding with his dealer.'

‘But why did Bobby kill him if he was loyal?'

‘Bobby needed to hurt somebody and I wasn't available. But that's the difference, Angel, between thugs and professionals. Bobby indulged an impulse that only placed him in greater danger.'

Angel shudders, imagining, for just an instant, what the gangster will do to her if she falls into his hands. ‘Does Bobby worry you?' she asks.

‘Given the information Bobby already has, he'll probably find me if he works at it long enough. I intend to handle that problem by killing him. But I'm seriously pissed off, too. Bobby had no reason to harm Levi Kupperman, no reason at all.'

Angel guides the van on to a ramp for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, only to find traffic at a near stop. Sighing, she works the van on to the roadway, then into the left lane where she watches traffic moving in the opposite direction zip past.