Gatekeeper (21 page)

"Don't move, George," came the authoritative but almost friendly voice of Peter Bullis. "You are officially busted. Keep your hands where we can see them."

* * *

Sammie Martens stumbled and dropped the bag of fast food she was carrying next to the trash can by the edge of the parking lot. Swearing audibly, she stooped to retrieve it, collected a small cell phone from behind the can as well—deposited there minutes earlier by Lester Spinney—and hid it in her palm. She then moved to her car, slid in behind the wheel, pretended to reach into her jacket pocket, and flipped the cell open.

It was the same make and model as the one she regularly carried, and the one both Rivera and Manuel knew she used to make business calls. Except that since it was a different phone altogether, there would be no record of the call she was about to make.

Gunther picked up on the first ring.

"It's me," she said.

"Who's this?" was all he said, which was their code for her to confirm she was safe and alone.

"Gatekeeper."

"How're you doing, Sam?" His voice was concerned but relaxed. This was one of their scheduled calls, attempted daily unless circumstances ruled otherwise.

"Good. Our first shipment'll arrive in a few hours. The driveway camera should catch the couriers in case they don't come inside, but I'll try to be the affable hostess. Won't be much—a bundle or two. Rivera's making it a test run. They're optimistic, though. Manuel's digging a cache in the cellar so we can build a stockpile and streamline the supply-and-demand surges. That'll probably be our maximal way to knock out the competition."

Joe smiled at the terminology. She was so much in character, she wasn't distinguishing between him and the people she was conning. He wondered if someone who was truly in legitimate sales wouldn't laugh at her jargon.

No matter—it only needed to work on a select few.

"Too bad we didn't put a camera down there," he said.

She was nonchalant. "That's why you have me. Too dark, anyhow."

"You having any luck identifying who's playing what side of the fence in the Rutland trade?" Gunther asked.

Here she was more equivocal. "Some. Manuel owned up to Hollowell being more than just a local rep—he was their main man, meaning his death caused more damage than I thought. Rivera's so full of bluster, I figured he had a deeper network locally, like he has elsewhere. Still, I'm keying in on some of the obvious movers. Everyone's lying low right now—lot of hinkiness left over from the murder, nobody knowing who did it. Should make our entrance into the market good, though, since that also means people're hungry. Still, bullshitting Rivera and making this happen as advertised might be tough."

"Maybe not," Joe told her. "Peter Bullis just busted a kid—George Backer, calls himself the Schemer, like out of a Batman movie. He's a B-and-E expert—has probably knocked off a couple of hundred homes—but he claims he only goes after bad guys, or at least people who won't report they've been ripped off. Bullis caught him last night with some coke he'd lifted from somebody's freezer in less time than it would take you to unload groceries. The thing is, he's supposedly a walking telephone book—names, addresses. Knows who's buying what from whom, where, and when, all so he can rip them off when they're not at home. Bullis busted him to see if he could help you out. The kid's not especially into heroin—Ecstasy floats his boat—but he trades and sells everything he doesn't use himself. Anyhow, we thought you'd like his mental black book, since he seems so keen to cooperate."

"The Schemer, huh?" Sam reacted. "Sounds like that's what we should call Peter from now on. Tell him thanks from me."

"Will do. I'll get something to you as soon as we strike a deal and he coughs it up. How're you getting along with Manuel?"

"So far, so good."

Gunther paused, a warning to watch herself there on the tip of his tongue, but then he thought better of it. "All right. Good luck tonight."

"Roger that, boss," she said, and hung up, snapping the cell phone closed. She then ate her hamburger, put the phone into the crumpled bag, walked back to the trash can, and dropped the wadded ball not into, but next to, the can, as if missing by mistake.

Sliding in behind the wheel again, all her cautions notwithstanding, she was caught totally by surprise. As her hand touched the ignition key, a voice from the back seat ordered, "Don't do it, Sam."

She jumped as if electrified but kept staring straight ahead. "Willy, what the hell're you doing here? You'll blow my cover."

"Not likely," he sneered. "Your cover's so pathetic, there's nothing left to blow."

"What's that mean?" she asked, feeling suddenly hotter than was comfortable.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Her tension eased a notch. "That's not proof of anything. You know who Greta Novak is, for Christ's sake, and you know who all the cops are. You probably tailed Spinney here and saw him drop off the cell."

He ignored her. "You're in danger, Sam. This was set up too fast and without enough safeties in place. One wrong twitch by anybody and you're dead."

"What kind of twitch?" she asked, trying not to move her lips in case anyone was watching. "Like some idiot crawling into my back seat just to see the mess he can put me in? Get out of the car, Willy, and get out of Rutland. You're the one who's going to screw me up here."

"You need to quit this," he said again, but they both understood there was nothing he could do that wouldn't also jeopardize her career, something for which he knew she'd never forgive him.

"Get out. Now."

Without a word further, he slipped out the door facing the battered shrubbery alongside the car, closing it behind him with barely a click.

Sam took a deep breath, turned the key, and drove back to the house, parking in the garage beside the Hulk. As she emerged from the car, she saw Manuel standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

"What took you?" he asked.

She held up another bag with a burger in it. "I got hungry, so I ate mine in the parking lot."

He took the bag from her and peered at its contents as they entered the house. "This stuff is shit. We're not going to do this forever, right?"

She cut him a quick look, her Greta Novak character back in place more slowly than usual after her encounter with Willy. "I'm not cooking, if that's what you mean."

But he stopped her. "I'll do the cooking. We just need some groceries."

She stared at him. "You're a cook? What? Mac and cheese? This crap at least has meat in it." She pointed at the bag in his hand.

He laughed. "No. Not mac and cheese. Maybe 
chicharrones de polio
 or 
habichuelas rositas
. You like beans and rice? Good for the system."

"I like tuna from a can."

He shook his head and reached inside the bag, removing the wrapped burger and gazing at it a moment as though it were a fallen meteorite, which in a day it would probably resemble.

"You don't want it, I'll eat it," she offered.

He shifted it beyond her reach, although she'd made no move for it. "I don't like it, but I gotta live. Besides, you already had yours. My God, you eat a lot for a little one."

She'd bolted her meal right out of the bag in the car, as she tended to in any case, but Manuel rummaged around the kitchen cabinets—the place had come furnished after a fashion, including some bulletproof china—and found a plate onto which he almost delicately arranged his burger before moving it and himself to the battered wooden table by the window

Sam sat opposite him, caught up in the ritual, thinking of how little she knew about this careful, quiet, dangerous man.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" she asked him.

He studied the burger before taking a bite, pausing to swallow before answering her. "My mama." He put the emphasis on the last syllable, although she'd noticed that he spoke English better than most of her colleagues.

"Big family?" Sam guessed.

"Five kids."

"You had to be the youngest."

"Why do you think that?"

She shrugged, but she chose her words cautiously, not wanting to offend. "I was thinking maybe the youngest might see his mom cooking for a lot of people—get interested in it."

He nodded, chewing again, before finally saying, "You sound like a cop."

That came as a surprise. She laughed. "Right. Next I'll sound like a priest. Just as likely."

But he stayed relaxed, smiling back at her. "No. I meant that was right out of a TV show or something—detective thinking, you know? You're right. I was the youngest."

"Sounds nice—family meals."

Neither his expression nor his voice changed as he asked, "You ever see any home movies?"

She hesitated a moment, wondering where he was going. "You mean like videos? Family-at-the-beach things? Sure, everyone's seen those. Awful."

"But happy, right? Everybody smiling, waving at the camera."

He seemed to be awaiting a response. "Yeah," she finally said.

"Yeah," he repeated meditatively. "Always happy, and always called home movies."

She got the point. "So maybe your family meals weren't all that great, or learning to cook from your mom."

He smiled wistfully before admitting, "Right."

She watched him chewing slowly, and thought of them both sitting here, thrown together in an illegal enterprise, from totally different worlds, neither one of them knowing the slightest thing about the other. She knew what her role was, and she knew of her own duplicity. What about him, aside from the criminal record Joe had told her about? What was he, truly? Certainly more than any run-of-the-mill deadbeat thug.

A pair of headlights flashed against the window. Smoothly, quickly, and without a sound, Manuel was on his feet, heading toward the door to the garage, the half-eaten meal abandoned on its plate. "Meet them at the front," was all he said.

His speed and sudden sense of purpose caught her unaware, reminding her abruptly of the man who was no longer the philosophical youngest of five, learning to cook at his mother's side, but instead someone with a distinctly practical view of the value of life and death.

She walked to the entryway and opened the front door, turning on the porch light so the camera could better pick out the license plate of the two men walking toward her from the car in the driveway.

"Hey" one of the men called out. "Kill the lights, bitch."

She waited a couple of seconds before complying. "Up yours, asshole. I wanna see who I'm dealing with."

The second man laughed. "Dealing with. That's good. Real funny. Where's Manuel?"

"Behind you," came a quiet voice from the darkness.

Both men swung around, their hands diving under their clothes for weapons.

Manuel emerged into the light coming from the window "Don't bother. You'd both be dead."

"Jesus, man. What the fuck you doin'?"

Manuel gestured to both of them to go into the house ahead of him. "Protecting myself. You got the stuff?"

"Sure."

Sam stepped back to let them in, studying their faces as they passed by. One of them she recognized from Holyoke as a man nicknamed Flaco. The other was new to her.

"How're you doin'?" she asked. "I'm Greta."

Flaco, the one with the mouth, stared at her contemptuously. "We know who you are, bitch."

Without pause, she slapped him across the face, causing his hands to fly up, and then kneed him in the groin, dropping him flat to the ground, where he rolled around swearing. By the time he reached for his gun, barely two seconds later, Sam had already yanked it from his belt and was pointing it at his head.

"Say my name," she ordered him.

His companion was frozen in place, scared and confused, his eyes wide with surprise. Manuel was leaning against the wall, smiling, keeping everyone in view.

"Say my name," Sam repeated.

"What the hell?" complained Flaco. "Shit."

She stepped on his knee, making him cry out.

"You that stupid?" she asked.

"Greta. Damn."

Sam twirled the gun around and dropped it in Flaco's lap, making him jump one last time. "Just 'Greta' is fine."

He stared at her, amazed, the gun now in his hand, but not pointed at her, fully aware of Manuel's presence and realizing the encounter was over whether he liked it or not. "You are one crazy fucker, you know that?"

She smiled down at him. "Yeah, and now you do, too. You got the stuff?"

Wincing, Flaco pulled himself into a sitting position, his back against the wall. He tucked the gun away and removed a large, flat, plastic bag from under his oversized shirt, where he'd taped it to his bare chest. Almost reluctantly, he extended it to her.

Sam didn't move. Flaco looked at her, confused, until Manuel stepped forward, slowly bent over, and took it from him. "
Gracias
."

The two mules didn't stay the night, although Sam extended the offer. Still limping, Flaco said he'd sooner sleep in the street than under the same roof with her—something about Sam strangling him as he slept for the hell of it. It was an image she was happy to have reported back to Holyoke.

"Was that fun?" Manuel asked later as they were burying the bulk of the shipment in the basement.

"What? Knocking him around? I didn't hurt him."

"That's not what I asked."

She was sitting on a cardboard box, her back against the wall, as he smoothed over the hiding spot so that it blended with the rest of the dirt floor. "I don't like it when people talk to me like that. If I deserve it, I don't mind so much, but that asshole doesn't even know me."

Manuel straightened and dusted off his hands against one another. "He does now. That was part of the point, right?"

As before at the kitchen table, she was caught off guard by his insight. "Can't hurt. I'm trying to build something here. I can't do that unless I get respect. Being a woman is hardly my strong suit with guys like that."

He extended his hands to her, which she instinctively grasped. He pulled her gently to a standing position so close to him, they were almost touching.