A Bomb Built in Hell (11 page)

Wesley turned up 46th Street and got a cab downtown on Fifth. He told the driver to take him to the Village, not knowing how far The Prince's network went. He entered the hotel on Bleecker between Sullivan and West Broadway and walked to a room he had registered the day before.

H
e telephoned Pet. The cab took him back to the Sheraton and dropped him off. He checked out the next morning, paying his bill in cash.

Pet was waiting in the garage. Neither of them liked to return in the daytime and avoided it whenever possible.

“You see him?” the old man asked.

“Yeah. How does he make a living? If he's dealing, he must have every cop in the precinct greased—you can't miss him.”

“He does the same work you do.”

“You know anything about a black guy, his boyfriend?”

“No. But I know he always marks his boyfriends with one of his diamonds. They get to wear the diamond so long as they're in with him. When they show on the street without the diamond, it means he's done with them. After that, they're nothing but a fucking piece of meat. He's got a new one every couple months or so.”

“Could the kid live down there a couple a weeks and watch the black guy?”

“I don't think so, Wes. That's a real freak show, and the kid might panic if one of them made a move on him.”

“You're right. One of them moved on me last night.”

“What happened?”

“This was on my way back to the Sheraton. I was waiting for the light to change, and this freak comes up and asks me if the CT on the ID bracelet stands for ‘cock-teaser,' right?”

“Jesus! I told you you shouldn'ta worn that.…”

“Hey, look, Pet, he just wanted to hit on me, period. No matter what fucking initials I'd've had, he would've said
something
.”

“You have to hurt him?”

“On the street? I told him I'd meet him in the last row of the Tom Kat at midnight.”

“The Tom Kat?”

“Some sleazo movie joint I saw on the way down.”

The old man laughed. “I can't see the kid doing that. Where he was raised, he'd've opened up that freak for sure.”

“You got to forget your image if you want to move out there. That's something you have to be taught, and Carmine taught me. Now … what happens if you lay up for a couple a weeks without doing anything? Will they think you lost your nerve?”

“Nah, they'll think I'm getting ready to go on in.”

“Would The Prince want to make it personal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would he have to hit you himself? Or could any of his freaks do it?”

“He'd want to hit me himself. It'd mean a lot if he did. You take a man out, you take his rep for yours.”

“What's he use?”

“Mostly his hands. He's one of those karate experts. He never carries himself, but some of his freaks are always around, and they all shoot or stab. But The Prince, he works small. They say he can kill you with anything: a rolled-up newspaper, a dog chain, you know what I mean.”

“So he'd have to be close. And we don't.”

“You could never pop him from one of the buildings. He'd know you was inside before you even got set up. Did he see your face last night?”

“So what? He didn't know who I was.”

“He will if he ever sees it again,” Pet said solemnly. “You can forget about getting close, Wes.”

“All right. Stay here for a few days—I'm going out to look at him good this time.”

W
esley spent the next six nights driving the cab in Times Square, catching only occasional glimpses of The Prince, and always at a distance. But he did locate the black man with the diamond earring, and the black man had a pattern. Too much of a pattern—whatever else he was, Wesley knew he wasn't a professional.

Every night, just before eleven, he went to Sadie's Sexational Spa (“THE BEST IN THE WESTside”), on Eighth between 44th and 45th. He stayed about a half-hour each time.

He went in different directions after that—never the same way. Wesley followed him three times, and each time he met The Prince, always on the street or at the entrance to one of the bars.

Wesley returned to the garage a little after midnight on Wednesday. Pet came out of the shadows and walked over to the cab.

“Can we do it?” the old man wanted to know.

“Yeah, but it's gonna be sticky. You're going to have to go in there with a car. Go in
fast
, and get out before he can move. We need him to know you're on the case, like you're going to drive-by him and the cruise is about setting it up.”

“Why you want him like that?”

“Misdirection. Like with the backfiring car you told me about.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“The rest is mine. You just wait with the car. No, bump that—how many cars can you plant in different spots around the cesspool?”

“If I started now, I could probably get about six, 'specially if the kid helps.”

“Okay, we'll use under the West Side Highway Bridge by the river. On Fortieth, and Thirty-third, and Twenty-third. And Forty-second and Fifth, and anyplace else you think is good. Get the list where you got them stashed, and get ready to go out in the cab by eight-thirty tomorrow night. I'm going to sleep.”

“Wesley …”

“What?”

“We give the kid a key, then he could take care of the dog if—”

“The dog would kill him.”

T
he yellow cab rolled up Eighth Avenue, Pet driving, Wesley the back-seat passenger, dressed in a khaki fatigue jacket and heavy twill cargo pants, tucked into soft-soled field boots. Under the jacket, he wore a black Ban-Lon pullover with long raglan sleeves.

In the side pocket of the pants he carried two identical knives; the blades extended back through the handles and were anchored by a tiny metal bead. Zipped into the inside pocket of the field jacket was a .25 Beretta. One outside pocket held a screw-on silencer. Another held two full clips of custom rounds: hardballs with sealed iodine tips.

Swinging from the thin webbing belt was a pair of baseball-sized fragmentation grenades. The front pocket of the pants held a Colt Cobra .38 with a two-inch barrel.

Wesley was additionally equipped with a small plastic bottle of talcum powder, four pairs of rubber surgeon's gloves, and a black silk handkerchief. Clipped to the back of the webbing belt was a pair of regulation police handcuffs. Also on board was a thousand dollars in bills, from singles to centuries, a soft pack of Marlboros, a disposable butane lighter, and a miniature propane torch.

Sewn into Wesley's left sleeve were registrations for the six cars, as well as a valid FS-1 for each. He carried only a single key, which would start any of the vehicles. He also carried a driver's license, a Social Security card, an Army DD 214 form, a membership card in Local 1199 of the Hospital Workers Union, and a clinic card showing that his next appointment was for Monday at the VA Hospital on 24th and First.

He had spent twenty-four hours a day for three weeks dressed exactly the same way, and knew he could move without giving the slightest hint of all the extra weight.

The cab stopped on 44th, and Wesley got out. It was ten-fifteen.

Wesley entered Sadie's. A red light glowed against the far wall. Beneath it, a fat man with a menacing face sat behind a scarred wooden desk. The fat man's face lit up with what was supposed to be both a smile of welcome and a warning.

“Can I help you, buddy?”

“I want a massage.”

“Twenty-five bucks in front. You pay
me
for the massage—that buys you twenty minutes. Anything
extra—more time, whatever—you settle with the girl, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, take a look in this here book and tell me whicha the girls you want.”

He showed Wesley the kind of album proud mothers keep of weddings. There were about forty pages, with two devoted to each girl. Wesley watched as the man thumbed through it. They all looked alike. Wesley's finger stabbed at random.

“How about that one?”

“Sorry, buddy, this is Margo's night off. But if you like blondes, how about
this
?” He displayed a well-worn eight-by-ten glossy with obvious pride. The merchandise was lying down on a couch, nude, and looking straight into the camera's eye. She looked about sixteen.

“Yeah, okay. Is she ready now?”

“Sure, just hold on a minute.
Joanne!
” he bellowed. A girl who vaguely resembled the picture in the album came into the front area to escort Wesley back to a booth. He couldn't see her face, but he saw she moved like she was thirty-five and tired. She ushered Wesley into what looked like a large closet: plasterboard walls, an Army cot with folded sheets, a pillow without a case, a tiny lamp with a pink low-watt bulb, a cracked porcelain bowl half full of tepid water. The girl pulled her shift over her head. She was wearing what looked like the bottom half of a bikini and several pounds of flesh-colored powder.

“Why don't you just lie down on the bed there and tell me what you'd like, honey?”

Wesley's watch said 10:28.

“Come here.”

“Sure, honey, but you know that'll cost you extra, right?”

“Right.” Wesley motioned for the girl to sit beside him on the cot; he took out two hundred-dollar bills and folded them flat across her knee.

The girl nervously licked her lips and gave him a half-smile. “Honey, I know this is Times Square and all … and I can show you a real nice time … but for that kind of money maybe you want one of the other girls here, I don't—”

“You can earn this, and another two hundred on top, just for being quiet and helping me a little bit.”

“What do you mean? Listen, I don't go—”

“Just take the money and keep quiet. I need some answers and some help. I can pay you for that … or I can cut your fucking throat.”

The razor-edged knife was nestled against the girl's carotid artery before Wesley finished the sentence. He watched her eyes to make sure she wasn't going to panic or scream.

“No noise, okay?” he said quietly. “Just no noise and some answers. Then I'm gone and you scored the four hundred.”

The woman said nothing.

“Every night, just before eleven, a short, husky black guy comes in here. He's got a big Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear and—”

“I know who he is, that sicko.”

“Yeah. Okay, who's he go with?”

“
Anyone
, man. For what he does, he can't be choosy. You know what he wants to—”

“I don't care what he wants. I want
him
. I want to
talk
to him, you understand? Alone. Just for five minutes.”

“What do you want
me
to do?”

“You got two choices. I could cut you real quiet and just wait for him back here … or you could go out front and bring him back here with you.”

“I'll bring him back. He'd like to go with me. He asked me before. I could—”

“Just relax. Look at this: you know what it is?”

He held the Beretta in one hand, the knife still at her throat with the other.

“I know what it is.”

“Do the other girls get angry if you take a customer?”

“Nobody would get mad if I took
him
. They only take him in here at all because he's got a real strong friend in the Square.”

“I know all about his friend—that's who I work for. I'm here to take the diamond outta that nigger's ear, you understand?”

“Why didn't you just say so, man? I know the score. You don't need the knife, I'll—”

“You wait in the doorway,” Wesley cut her off, pointing. “Right there. When he comes in, you bring him back here with you. You say anything to the fat man, you scream, you throw a signal—
anything
—and I'll put a bullet in your spine before you finish.”

“Okay, okay, stop
talking
like that. Give me another twenty-five.”

“For what?”

“So's I can go out and tell Harry that you're paying for another session—that way he won't bother you. Then I'll tell him you're getting cleaned up, so he won't wonder about you being back here, okay?”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

Wesley's alternative plan was to shoot both the girl and the manager and be waiting at the desk when the black man came in. If she did anything bogus, he'd have the decision made for him. He screwed in the silencer, making sure the girl saw it, gave her another twenty-five dollars, and watched from the doorway as she walked to the desk.

“Here's another payment, Harry. Client wants another session.”

“Good. Make this one shorter, understand?”

“Sure, Harry, but I want to work him for a tip, too.”

“Bitch, you work for
me
, not the fucking customers, understand?”

“Okay, Harry, sure. I'll get him out soon.”

The manager went back to his newspaper. Wesley thought he must have incredible eyesight to read in that dim light. Joanne returned to the room, walking past Wesley, who was still in the doorway.

“I did it.”

“I heard. Is he going to get weird if the black guy comes back here with you without me leaving yet?”

“Man, I thought you knew what that guy's scene was. Harry wouldn't
expect
you to come out.”

“Okay. Now just be quiet, and wait.”

T
hey sat in silence as the front door opened. It wasn't the black guy. The new customer seemed to know who he wanted and sat down to wait. In a couple of minutes, a tall, rail-thin girl came out of one of the other rooms, and he followed her back. It was 10:48.

The door opened again. It was the black man, wearing a red velour jumpsuit and red shoes with four-inch platform heels. Joanne slipped past Wesley and switched her hips into the front room. The black man looked up as she entered. Joanne smiled and motioned with her hand.