Chasers (36 page)

11

Hector Gonzalez came out the back door of the Spanish Harlem funeral home and walked down a short flight of steps, two heavily armed G-Men fast on his tail. He stepped into the dark hallway of the tenement next door, navigating his way to a ground-floor apartment just off the foyer. “You sure it’s him?” he asked one of the men at his back.

“Hands-down certain,” the man said, struggling to keep to the strides. “He matches the photos we got and the background checks that were done. Anything you can name points a finger his fine way.”

“And you sure he came in alone?” Hector asked.

“I had the street scanned four times since he walked in,” the man said. “He’s as alone as a kid on his first day at a new school, nobody out there ready to give him cover.”

“He give you any hint as to what he wanted?” Hector asked, his hand reaching for the handle to the wood door of apartment 1-B.

“It was a lot stronger than a hint,” the man said. “He told us straight and true why it was he came here.”

Hector held the door half open, one foot in the apartment, the other still in the hall. “And that was what?”

“To kill you,” the man said.

Hector stood in a small, sparsely decorated living room, a two-seater couch at his back, his reflection playing off an old nineteen-inch Zenith black-and-white on a shaky nightstand. “I have to be truthful,” he said. “You got some pair of balls to come in here and ask to see me. A lot more than I would ever give you credit for, even though it don’t mean shit so far as where you and me stand.”

“You lost your brother and I lost a friend,” Quincy said. “That, so far as I can tell, is the only common ground between the two of us.”

“So what happens now?” Hector asked. “You want to exchange sympathy cards? I know the intentions you came in with, but you have to know you’re standing on my ground. There’s no way I ever let you walk out of here. So make your move, player, and make it fast. Because as bad as you want me dead, that’s how hungry I am to carve you up for making my brother die.”

“You’re full of shit,” Quincy said. “You didn’t care about your brother when he was alive. I don’t really see why you would give any care to him now that you need to put him back together with tweezers.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, cop?” Hector said. “I
loved
my brother. We started this outfit alone, me and him, and built it up, just the two of us. Who the fuck are you to come in here and sell a line of shit like that?”

“Is that why you sold him out and set him up?” Quincy asked. “There wasn’t any need for Freddie to risk being at that drop. You have enough manpower to handle an exchange, especially a mid-tier one. Plus, you had a tip-off that me and Rev. Jim were going to find a way to hit that conference room.”

“Where the fuck do you hear shit like that?” Hector asked, flustered. “Your street info is way off target, not that it’s any of your fuckin’ business. Freddie went to the deal drop because he wanted to make sure this one went down without any hitches. It’s no more complicated than that.”

“He asked you to go with him, though, didn’t he?” Quincy said. “But you begged off, told him you had another meeting to be at—one that was crucial for the two of you and for the G-Men. He bought it, both the lie and then what went down at the site, never once even thinking that his brother was the one sent him in there to die.”

“I’m going to fuckin’ put you down right here,” Hector said, reaching into his waistband and pulling out a .44 semi with a full load. “Make you beg off every one of those words, until you piss blood and die.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks it’s true,” Quincy said. “Word is out, spreading like a California brushfire. The G-Men are working for a traitor, a rat, a man who gives up his own flesh to keep playing his game. You might kill me. Shit, somebody is going to sooner or later—may as well be a banger like you. But how long you think they’ll let you keep taking deep breaths knowing what they’re thinking?”

Hector looked around the room and then turned to gaze out into the hall. “If you’re looking for your men, none of them are here,” Quincy said. “They’re either in the home next door praying over your brother’s body or they’re gone—off to work for a new boss, someone they think they can trust more than you.”

“Who the fuck has been talking to you?” Hector asked.

“Same person you were talking to,” Quincy said. “The only difference is I know enough not to trust the Russian. But I don’t have greed in my eyes, just revenge.”

“I don’t need any men around me to take out a fag cop,” Hector said. “That I can do on my own, and with great pleasure.”

“Let’s forget the guns, then,” Quincy said. “You’re supposed to be the best in the drug trade with a blade. Prove it.”

Hector whipped off his leather jacket and pulled a switchblade from the rear pocket of his jeans. He snapped it open and crouched down, his left hand held out for body balance.

Quincy let the knife slide gently down from his shirtsleeve to his palm. It was a stiletto with a hand-carved white handle, a gift from an old forensics mentor.

The two men circled each other in the center of the tight quarters, shaded light flashing their shadows across a bare wall. Hector swung first, a controlled jab that barely missed Quincy’s chest, forcing him to back away slightly, so that he bumped into a small table lamp and a pot filled with artificial flowers. “You going to dance the night away?” Hector asked. “Or did you come here to fight?”

Quincy snapped open the black belt wrapped around his jeans and pulled it out of its loops. He held the belt, buckle wrapped around his left knuckles, in his left hand, letting it hang low, ready to snap when the need arose. “Where did you pick up that pussy shit?” Hector asked. “From watching
Zorro
movies?”

“Zorro didn’t wear a belt, moron,” Quincy said.

Hector leaped off his feet and jumped out at Quincy, catching him at chest level, both men spiraling against a far wall, knocking down the television and sending it smashing to the linoleum floor. Hector’s blade slashed across Quincy’s right arm, cutting through jacket and shirt and deep into skin, drawing a heavy flow of blood. A second vicious backs-swing swiped across Quincy’s neck, the sharp cut sending a long spurt of blood over the faded wallpaper and onto Hector’s shirt and face.

Quincy’s knees buckled and his eyes were moist with tears, the small room around him doing a rinse-and-spin dizzy swirl. Hector’s hulking body had closed in and was pounding out a mad series of powerful closed fists across Quincy’s waist and chest, weakening him even further. He lowered his head and braced himself against a greasy wall, grappling to catch his breath and ignore the massive flow of blood.

“It’s coming, cop,” Hector said, huffing. “And I’ll do you a big solid. I’ll make it happen real quick for you. Save you a handful of pain.”

Quincy glanced up at the ceiling and took in a breath. He gathered what was left of his strength and swung the belt up and around Hector’s neck, using it as a noose and gripping it tighter as he lifted the stronger man to eye level. He turned away from the wall and shoved Hector against it. The tight belt turned his face crimson red. Quincy then gripped the stiletto’s white handle and jammed it deep under the drug dealer’s chin. He pushed it in, slashing aside fat, skin, and bone, going through the inside of the mouth and jamming the blade as far up as it would go. He stopped only when the handle wouldn’t allow him to go any farther.

Quincy took a step back. He looked at Hector and got only a dead man’s stare in return.

The onetime head of the G-Men stood up, his feet wedged against the side of the small couch, his head backed to the wall, his mouth open dentist-visit wide, the thin blade inside, a well of blood pouring out.

Quincy turned out of the room, clutching the walls and the furniture for support and leaving streaks of blood in his wake. He turned right as soon as he hit the foyer, slammed through the entry door, and made his way to the street outside. He leaned against a parked white Ford Tempo and rested his head on the hood, his eyes closed, his body prepared to give up the ghost.

A police car, red lights blaring, streaked to a stop alongside the Tempo. “Hang on, buddy,” the young cop on the passenger side said, jumping out of the black-and-white. “I put in a call for an ambulance soon as I saw you come stumbling out of the building. It should be here any second.”

“I’m on the job,” Quincy said to him.

“We know, sir,” the officer said. “Call came into the house about five minutes ago.”

“Who?” Quincy asked.

“I didn’t get a name, sir,” the officer said. “All I know is it was a woman that phoned and gave the heads-up.”

Quincy nodded and then let out a low chuckle.

“What’s funny, sir?” the officer asked.

“You’re too young to know,” Quincy said to the young officer. “But you’ll pick it up in time.”

“Know what, sir?” the officer asked.

“That you should never be around when you’re really needed,” Quincy said.

12

Boomer checked his rearview mirror and looked across at Buttercup, sitting up in the front seat. “I suppose it would be a waste of time to ask you to buckle up,” he said. Buttercup opened her mouth wide and yawned, then curled her girth into a semicircle and rested her head on her paws and closed her eyes.

Boomer swung his car onto the Seventy-ninth Street entrance to the West Side Highway and eased into the far-left lane. The black shaded-window four-door sedan behind him pulled the same maneuver, its front bumper right up against the rear taillights of the rusty unmarked Chevy. Boomer kicked his engine into high gear, zooming past the Ninety-sixth Street entrance, his speedometer hitting the mid-eighties, the front end shaking, the hood doing a rapid-fire tremble. The northbound traffic around the two cars was midafternoon light, with a heavy spring rain landing hard on the damaged roadway, making the numerous potholes more treacherous to navigate. Boomer kicked his wipers into high gear and gave his side mirror a long look, trying to make out the faces inside the vehicle riding hard on his tail. “Let’s take them up to the Bronx,” he said to the sleeping Buttercup. “See how they handle those streets. But don’t let it worry you none. I think I got it under control.”

Boomer went through the winding and curving roads of Riverdale as if he were on the last lap of a NASCAR run, the sedan keeping pace no more than a dozen feet behind. He veered to the left and motored up the two lanes of the Henry Hudson Parkway, a pair of low-riding rails on both sides, heavy tree coverage eating up the view on his right. He drove like a cop, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping the gun in his waistband, swinging the car from one lane to the next, taking full advantage of the lack of traffic, his front end doing a hard bump and scrape over the edge of a small crater, sparks flying off both fender and bumper. The blow lifted Buttercup off her seat, the dog shooting Boomer a tired look. “Don’t throw the blame my way,” Boomer said. “Toss it to the four shooters on our ass.”

Boomer moved the car to the right and then sharp hard to the left, the Benz slow to react to the move. He then slammed on his brakes and brought the car to a bracing and violent halt. Thick puffs of smoke and shards of tire treads quickly filled the air, and the smell of burning rubber and shocks scorched Boomer’s nostrils.

The Benz slowed its pace, but not before Boomer had swung his unmarked behind it, his window down, his gun drawn, rapid-firing a series of rounds into the darkened rear windshield. The Benz swung wildly to the right and left, skidding against the railing, a few feet removed from a fatal fall, one of its rear tires blown. Boomer tossed his gun onto the front seat, eased the unmarked alongside the Benz, and jammed it in tight, banging door against door, the tires of the two cars rubbing hard one against the other, sparks and a thin line of flames shooting out from under the Benz.

The sharp turn that led into the entrance to Exit 4 and the Cross County Parkway was now less than a quarter of a mile away. “Hang on,” Boomer said to the dog. “And if you want, wave goodbye to our new friends while you still have the chance.”

Boomer clicked the unmarked into overdrive, squeezing the hood of his car in front of the Benz, the two tops bending from the speed and pressure, tires smoking and tearing, thick rubber peeling off the wheels like skin off fruit. Boomer swung the steering wheel as far to the right as it would go, only five hundred feet away from the slick curve leading into the exit. “C’mon,” he said, his upper body straining as much as his battered car, the sweat running down hard off his chest and arms. “Flip, you bastards, flip.”

Boomer was positioned in front of the Benz, still pressing it heavy, the older unmarked chugging hard against the newer and better built model. He tapped on his brakes several times, allowing the back end of the car to swing out and putting it parallel against the Benz, then he slammed his foot hard on the gas. The Benz did a double flip over the low rail and out onto the heavily wooded terrain. It shot like an unguided rocket down the sloping hill, banging against trees and low-hanging limbs until it came to a fiery and smoke-filled stall by the edge of the Bronx River.

Boomer frantically turned his steering wheel to the left, hitting the gas and skimming against the side of the rail, the car shooting into the sharp curve of Exit 4, thick lines of smoke, sparks, and fumes in its wake. He came out of the curve and slowed the car down, easing onto an off-ramp and shoving the gear shift into neutral. He stepped out of the car, the cool breeze feeling good against his sweat-soaked body, leaving the passenger door open for Buttercup to follow. The dog jumped out, waded past the thick clouds of smoke, and stood next to Boomer, who was leaning now against the back end of the damaged vehicle. She rested her front paws on his legs and curled her head against his chest, drool running off her mouth. Boomer reached down and gently patted her thick hide. “I know,” he said to her. “I’m glad we made it, too.”

Boomer took one last look at his car, and then he and Buttercup turned and sprinted across the highway, going up a short hill and out onto the streets of the nearest exit.