Reckless Endangerment (26 page)

“
Karp, you complete shit!
”

“Good morning, Roland,” said Karp brightly into the phone. He had been expecting this call since his meeting with the D.A., and while he had not looked forward to it, he was, in the event, glad that it was a telephone call and not a red-faced, jaw-tightening in-person visit.

“You bastard, how could you rat me out like that!”

“I didn’t rat you out at all, Roland, unless you’re referring to the threat letters. That’s not ratting, that’s reporting the commission of a crime, perpetrator unknown. I’m supposed to do that.” And you too, schmuck, was the implication, but Hrcany, if he caught it at all, was off on another grievance.

“And what’s all this crap about the terrorists? You’re running your own little private investigation and you don’t see fit to tell me? How the
fuck
do you think that makes me look?”

“Probably like someone who has problems listening to advice. If you recall, I discussed the possibility of a wider conspiracy in Shilkes, and you pissed all over me. So did Raney and Camera, as I recall, and you pissed on them too.”

“Oh, yeah, if I didn’t have the facts, what the fuck was I supposed to do?” was Hrcany’s response to this, inane but very loud. Karp moved the phone some inches away from his ear and let the screaming issue into the air for a moment or two. When he brought the earpiece close again, he heard, “… balls in an uproar! All of a sudden, because the great Butch Karp has fucking
concerns
about my case, Keegan thinks I don’t know what I’m doing. Well, I’ll tell you something,
buddy
—”

“What did he tell you to do?” Karp interrupted.

“Oh, like you don’t know.”

“I don’t know. Jack just said he’d talk to you, period. On a personal note, I hope he told you to take the threat business more seriously.”

“Oh, fuck that! I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, right, but are you going to get the cops in on it?”

“Yeah, shit, I’ll get Ray Netski to check it out. I’m telling you, you’re both acting like a couple of old ladies on this thing—”

“Netski?” said Karp without thinking, and then, a second later, realized why: that the very last policeman to send to investigate something Roland did not consider important was Ray Netski, who lived to confirm Roland’s suppositions.

“Yeah, Netski. Something wrong with him? Or are you taking over
all
the fucking investigations in this bureau?”

Karp sighed. “No, Roland, he’s fine, great. How are you going to proceed on the Arab thing?”

“I’ll let the district attorney know if I find anything,” snapped Hrcany, and hung up.

While Karp was mulling over this conversation, and wondering how many more friends his job was going to cost him, the phone rang again, and it was Aaron Zwiller, speaking in what seemed an unusual tone for him, nervous and confidential. He had heard some disturbing things, which he would not like to relate over the telephone. Would he like to come in to the office here? No. Karp volunteered to drive out to Williamsburg. No again. Zwiller mentioned the name of a dairy restaurant on Second: could Karp meet him there at one on Sunday afternoon? He could. After that Zwiller seemed anxious to end the call, but Karp asked, “Could you give me some idea of what this is all about, sir?”

“Terrible things, Mr. Karp. Such terrible times we live in, I would not have believed it. They have forgotten
pikua nefesh.
”

“Pardon?”

“The most important principle in the Torah, Mr. Karp:
pikua nefesh
—the preservation of human life. I’ll see you Sunday, at one on the dot.”

The Osborne Group was housed in a new building on Third, in the high Sixties, just slightly out of the posh-most district of Midtown, but still an acceptable place for a Beautiful Person to visit without losing caste. In the suite itself, of the two acceptable upwardly mobile decors, they had opted for the Starship Enterprise rather than Ye Olde Cozy English Barrister. What was not glass and chrome was matte, all in colors that ended in the letter e: taupe, mauve, beige. The magazines on the glass-chrome coffee table in the reception area were either upscale or security-trade rags. The receptionist was the usual sort of decorative young person in crisp linen (beige) who offered coffee or Coke (declined) and a seat (taken). Marlene read the company brochure and learned that the principal had guarded the president of the United States for nearly twenty-five years, and had lost only one of his clients, and that he staffed largely with ex-Secret Service. After that she amused herself with an article on the relative merits of night-vision equipment in the latest
Industrial Security
and had just about decided to go with the Meyers Dark Invader 3000 when Osborne’s secretary (non-decorative, chunky, fortyish, frosted flip, black pants suit) came out and led her to the boss’s office for her appointment.

Osborne had gone for oak, red leather, and the oriental rug as a way of differentiating the captain’s quarters from the rest of the interstellar vessel. Both he and Harry Bello rose when she entered, and she shook Osborne’s hand. Osborne was a tall, well-set-up man with a rugged pink face, blue eyes sharp and cool, and a remarkable thick crop of snow-white hair, which he wore
en brosse
in the manner once favored by Chancellor Bismarck. He was wearing navy blue suit trousers, white shirt, blue and gold rep tie, and dark blue suspenders, which she was glad to see were unadorned by any cute little devices indicating his profession, tiny eyes perhaps. This disposed her well toward him.

Marlene was ushered to a comfortable red leather Windsor chair, the two men sitting in similar chairs across a low table, coffee was offered again and declined, pleasantries were exchanged, and then, smoothly, Osborne began his pitch. The Group (as he called it) worked mainly for corporations and non-governmental organizations of a certain size, specializing in large-meeting security. They offered a complete package, including venue inspection, travel arrangements for the officers, and operations during the event, whether convention or corporate annual meeting. In this work they often used local security firms—Osborne believed in keeping a small central staff and contracting out much of the grunt work. The system had worked well, and he expected major growth in the next few years, but he also wanted to extend his business into celebrity personal security, which was why he had contacted Harry. Bello & Ciampi would, if they agreed, become a subsidiary of the Osborne Group. The parent firm would handle the business paperwork, billing, bonding, personnel, record keeping, and supply expertise and hardware for specific jobs. Osborne had the numbers prepared on paper, in slick plastic binders, which he presented to both of them.

Marlene flipped through the pages, not really reading. She understood that the deal was a good one, with many advantages for both her and Harry, but she was starting to resent the smooth tone of the pitch, as if it was already a done deal. She cleared her throat and said, “Mr. Osborne, one thing I didn’t hear you mention is what Osborne gets out of the association. I mean, why us?”

“Oh, I would’ve thought that it was obvious,” he said, smiling. “You’re good, we’re buying your rep on stalking cases, and, frankly, it doesn’t hurt with female clients. I mean you personally.”

“Uh-huh. And this is notwithstanding my approach to stalking cases?”

Osborne cocked his head slightly in inquiry. “Your approach?”

“Yeah. You know the standard security book says, harden the target. Throw up a screen, use the courts, report the perp to the cops, and so on. In heavy cases, where you don’t have a public figure, you move the client, make her vanish, and so on. I have problems with that approach.”

“Oh?”

Marlene spared a glance for Harry, whose face was unreadable; at least he was not rolling his eyes and squirming. “Yes, my position is that after you’ve done the legal, and the client is still being harassed, you have to go after the stalker, the harasser. You have to make them cut it out.”

“And how do you do that?”

Marlene shrugged. “Harsh words. Powerful arguments …”

“She beats them up,” said Harry. Osborne started to grin, believing this to be a light remark, but then he saw that Harry was not joking.

“That’s right, I do,” said Marlene. “I do what I can to make their lives more hell than they’ve made their victims’, and when that doesn’t work and they use deadly force, then I take them out, or I make it possible for my clients to do so. Let me be straight with you, Mr. Osborne—”

“Please, it’s Lou.”

“… Lou, frankly, I tend to pinch the law a good deal. I take the risks when I think it’s right to. You may not, your bonding and insurance people may not, be comfortable with that. But I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and so let me make this counter proposal. You go absorb Bello & Ciampi and cut me in for a piece. I’ll meanwhile set up a separate d.b.a. for the work I want to do on my own. I’ll make myself available on an as-needed basis, consulting, individual contracts, showing my lovely face to the famous clients, whatever. Strictly cash and carry, and when I work for the Group, I’ll play it your way straight up, no horsing around. Harry will supervise me; he’s been dying to do that for years anyway. So—that’s the best I can do. That do you any good?”

Osborne pursed his lips and stared at nothing for about ten seconds. Gradually, he started nodding his head and then said, “Okay, okay. It could work. I’ll have to let the legal eagles mess with it, but we can at least start moving forward under the setup you described. In fact, I sort of like it. Harry?”

Harry said, “I told you she was smart.”

By the time El Chivato got down to his car, his anger had largely dissipated; this was how he was, his emotions, even the most violent ones, no more than squalls on a very shallow sea. He drove in his usual careful fashion down the FDR and across the Brooklyn Bridge to Atlantic Avenue. There he resumed his watch on the Palm. He parked around the corner on Tompkins and walked past the café several times on the opposite side of the street. Lucky was in there, with his associates and guards. There were two more of the guards on foot, and there was the ever-present ready car, a blue Ford LTD, double-parked. At a little past five, a white Mercury Montego pulled up in front of the ready car and waited there, its motor running. El Chivato walked quickly to his Firebird, cranked it up, and raced around the block, coming out on Atlantic in time to see his man enter the Mercury with another man and the driver, and pull away, followed closely by the LTD. El Chivato followed both cars west on Atlantic and over the Brooklyn Bridge, up the Bowery to Canal, left on Canal and down to the waterfront. The traffic was fairly heavy, but El Chivato had no trouble keeping a few car lengths behind the white car and its companion. At Varick Street, to his surprise, the LTD cut away and vanished, leaving the Mercury alone. That was all right. He had actually seen the man get into the white Mercury. That meant that when they got to where they were going, he would only have to get rid of two men to be at last alone with the bastard.

They turned left on Washington Street and wove in and out among a maze of narrow streets among low-built brick buildings, the remains of the old meat-packing district, deserted this late in the day. El Chivato moved his car closer; he no longer cared whether they saw him or not—ah, they
had
seen him. The Mercury roared and sped away, tires screeching, and cut right down a narrow street. El Chivato tromped on his own gas pedal and followed the turn. To his surprise, the white car had vanished. He slowed to a crawl, peering down each of the many service alleys that led off the street.

Suddenly, he heard the roar of several engines and the squeal of accelerating tires. In the street in front of him a Buick sedan and a gray van with Jersey plates had appeared, running side by side, blocking the street. He instantly threw the Firebird into reverse, but when he checked the rearview, there was the LTD slewing across the roadway to block his path. Men boiled out of all three vehicles and closed in on his car, pointing a variety of firearms at his head. Ahmed, a big, flat-faced man with a shaved skull, yanked the Firebird’s door open and dragged him out.

Two men threw him up against the car and stripped the weapons from his coat, exclaiming in a tongue he didn’t understand. Ahmed knocked him to the ground with a blow from the flat of his pistol. The hail of blows and kicks that followed was interrupted by the blare of a car horn. They dragged El Chivato to his feet, and he found himself looking at the man he knew as Lucky through a haze of blood and pain.

The big man looked at him curiously and without apparent anger. He said something to the men around him and got a laugh.

“Who are you and why are you following me?” Khalid asked in English, still smiling.

“I am Fernando Zedillo,” said El Chivato. “I was hired to find you.”

“And you are a Mexican, yes? So you were hired by those Mexicans, the … what were their names?”

“The Obregons,” said El Chivato.

“Yes. The Obregons. And what were you going to do once you found me, little man?”

“I was to get you to confess to the killing of the policeman, and also to give the Obregons back the drugs that you stole from them, or the money.”

This information and the calm, matter-of-fact way in which it was delivered brought forth more and heartier laughter from the Arabs.

“And why,” Khalid asked, “would I do something like that?”

El Chivato shrugged. “Perhaps I would make you see that it was the smart thing to do.”

“How, by the offer of your sweet little ass?” More laughter. Khalid resumed on a more serious note: “So where are the others?”

“There are no others,” said El Chivato. He seemed bored with the conversation. “I work alone.”

Khalid smacked him across the face, leaving a livid mark on the smooth tan cheek.

“Don’t lie to me, little girl! You see this big man who’s got you? He’s going to ask you some questions, and if you lie to him you’ll get worse than a smack on the face.”

Khalid beckoned to Bashar and drew him away from the others. “Listen,” he said, “this boy is clearly nothing but a throwaway, testing our security. He probably knows nothing, but get as much out of him as he has and then get rid of him.”