Resurrection Day (25 page)

To those who know Washington, 14th Street is the city's red-light district, a seedy boulevard of burger and pizza joints, lap-dancing bars and strip clubs. The kind of place where anything illicit can be bought for cash: sex, an ounce of Colombian cocaine, a Saturday night special.

Near the corner of 14th and K Street that Monday morning, amid the hum of traffic and the flurries of litter, two transvestite hookers wearing stiletto heels and short leather skirts stood in the freezing cold, touting for business. In a store alcove near by, a couple of stressed-out junkies slipped twenty-dollar notes to a busy crack dealer.

Five storeys up, in the warmth of a penthouse loft, behind a plate-glass window, Benny Visto stood observing the scene the way the Emperor Nero might have observed Rome, as if it were all part of his private dominion, except that Visto was wearing dark Ray-Bans, smoking a charcoal-filtered Marlboro, and letting the warm, sweet tobacco smoke drift down into his thirty-five-year-old lungs.

In his white Tommy Hilfiger dressing gown, a silk grey scarf at his throat, a solid gold chain around his neck and a diamond stud in his ear, Visto made an imposing figure: half black, half Colombian, the broken nose adding a seedy grandeur. A closer inspection revealed a not-so-flattering picture, for the fruits of crime and dissipation showed clearly on Visto's fleshy body and arrogant face. But there was more there this morning — an annoyance with the world at large — and it didn't help his mood.

At eleven the previous night, one of his business ventures, a cash-rich brothel off K Street, had been raided by the metropolitan police. Not that Visto was in danger of being arrested himself. That was what the frontman was paid for. Much more serious was the twelve grand in the office safe which had been confiscated by the cops, the loss of on-going business, and the general motherfucking hassle.

He heard rap music blare as the kitchen door swung open behind him and a girl entered, carrying a cup of steaming coffee. She was Puerto Rican, sixteen, and wore one of Visto's dressing gowns over a white suspender belt and G-string, her eyes blotched, swollen from weeping. 'Can ... can I get you anything, Benny?'

There was a nervousness in her voice, but Visto didn't look back, his attention drawn to two men he recognised as they crossed 14th, heading towards the entrance to his loft apartment in the street below. One of them was small and dangerous looking, his jet-black hair plastered back off his face. The other was well over six feet, with a hard face and big hands, his skull shaven to the bone. Without turning, Visto removed his Ray-Bans and said to the girl, 'Get me anything? Hey, that's fucking good, bitch. Seeing as you ain't fucking given me anything yet.'

The girl blushed. The truth was she had been unable to cope with some of the more bizarre demands Visto had made of her the previous night. 'I ... I'm sorry, Benny.'

'Sorry like fuck!' There was a savage glint in Visto's eyes as he turned. The girl was frightened to death, shaking with fear. A delicious feeling of power, almost sexual in its intensity, flooded through Visto as he grabbed her hair, twisted it cruelly, pulled her face towards his. 'Next time, learn to do what you're told, bitch. You fucking understand?'

The young girl whimpered. 'Yes ... yes, Benny.'

'Now haul your ass out of here, pronto.'

As the girl fled to the bedroom, Visto heard the doorbell ring. He crossed the loft to the steel-reinforced door, checked the peep-hole, unlocked the three sturdy locks, and stepped back. The two men he'd seen in the street came in. The tall, shaven-headed one was Visto's cousin, Frankie Tate, at six foot four all steroid muscle. The smaller man was Ricky Cortez, a Cuban. He had a barbed-wire tattoo around his neck and two more tattoos on his hands, a single letter on each of his fingers: LOVE on one hand, HATE on the other. His pit-bull eyes were constantly on the move, filled with a dangerous, restless energy. 'So what's the story?' Visto demanded.

'All the girls've been charged, Benny,' Cortez answered. 'And the cops got the premises boarded up. The attorney says this one's gonna cost, big time.'

'Fucking cops!' Visto snarled. 'Ain't they got nothin' better to do? Add to that, I'm down twelve grand. Ain't a good start to the fucking day, Frankie. What more good news you got?'

'There's a guy wants to see you, Benny. White dude. Came into the pool-hall down the street, said your name.'

'Cop?'

'Doesn't look like it.'

'Fuck's he want?'

'Man wouldn't say. Just that you might be able to help.' Frankie grinned, took a fold of banknotes from his pocket, handed them across. 'Said to give you this. Sign of his good faith. Five hundred bucks.'

Visto plucked the notes greedily from his cousin's hand, studied the ten fifty-dollar bills, and for the first time that morning he beamed, as he always did when money came his way. 'They look good, my man. I like it. Suggests there might be more where this came from. Get his ass up here and see what this motherfucker wants.'

Visto crossed to a drinks cabinet in a corner after Frankie and Ricky went out. Pouring a splash of bourbon into a cut-crystal glass, he suddenly felt in better mood. The prospect of money had made the dark clouds lift just a little. Maybe the morning wouldn't turn out so bad after all. Throwing five hundred bucks around, the dude had to have more. Might even provide him with a little diversion. He turned to some metal shelves lined with books, plucked out one with
Understanding Greek Philosophy
on the spine, settled himself into a leather chair by the window and replaced his Ray-Bans.

The door opened. Frankie and Ricky ushered Nikolai Gorev into the room, over to where Visto sat. 'This the dude, Benny.'

Visto looked up from his book. 'You got a name, mister?'

'Does it matter?'

Visto smiled, white teeth flashing. 'All right, honey. My time's limited, so let's get to it.'

'They tell me you're in the supply business.'

'Who tells you?'

'A friend.'

'Maybe this friend heard wrong.'

Gorev glanced at Frankie and Ricky. 'Could we talk in private?'

Visto grinned. 'Obvious the man here don't know the rules. You got something to say to me, you say it in the company of these brothers. Ain't no secret society here. Understood?'

'I need some equipment. Untraceable.'

'You don't say? What you got in mind?'

'For a start, I need a metropolitan police van. You know the type, I'm sure. The box shape the police bomb squad uses, complete with all the necessary police radio equipment. Also, I'll need three metropolitan police uniforms, with standard-issue sidearms. Nine-millimetre Glock pistols with regulation holsters, as well as two pump-action Browning shotguns.'

Visto peered over his Ray-Bans at his visitor and suddenly laughed out loud. 'Well stab me to death. The fuck you going to do, man? Start your own fucking police force?'

'Can you supply them?' Gorev asked flatly.

'Man walks in off the street, man I never saw before. Coulda walked straight out of a funny farm. Could even be an undercover cop for all I know.'

'Perhaps I made a mistake.'

Gorev turned to go, but Visto said, 'Hey, no need to get all upset. Chill, my man. Like, we got to establish some rapport here. See if we can work this out together.'

'Can you help me or not?'

'Maybe I can, maybe I can't. Visto's got friends who can get anything a man's heart desires, so long as he's got the cash. Uniforms and weapons, ain't no big problem. But if they got to steal a cop van, 'cause you need the genuine article, now that's something else. Stuff like that can draw some heavy flak. Every cop in town's gonna be sticking his nose up suspect ass. Visto's included.'

'I don't want you to steal a police van,' Gorev suggested. 'The last thing I need is for the police to be on the lookout for one of their stolen vehicles. But I'd like you to get me the same type model, and have it painted to look identical. Can you do that?'

Visto grinned over at Ricky and Frankie. 'The man's got his head screwed on. Van could be sprayed up to look just like the real thing, but with the actual real equipment inside. Radio and stuff. Less flak stealing those from the cops instead of the whole fucking van.'

'Can you do it?'

'Don't get into spray jobs personally, but I got associates who can maybe do that. Do it discreetly.'

'The van has to be painted regulation white. But with no markings, understand? Those must be supplied separately. I need the stick-on type.'

'Get your drift. You want the markings already made up and ready to stick on the van, whenever you want.'

'Exactly. Can it be done?'

'Don't see why not.'

'There can be no room for shoddy work or any error, Mr Visto. The job will need to be professional.'

'Wouldn't worry about that. The man I got in mind to do the work, he's the best. Guarantee you'll be pleased.'

'How much?'

'In total? A lot more than five hundred bucks. When you need all this stuff?'

'Within two days.'

'That's a rush job, man.' Visto puckered his lips, did some quick mental arithmetic. 'Job like that, having it done right, a man could be looking at the bones of twenty grand. You ain't got that kind of cash, or a substantial deposit, say ten grand, may as well walk back out the door and down those stairs.'

Gorev took an envelope from his pocket, removed a wad of five-hundred-dollar bills, splayed ten on Visto's coffee table. 'Five thousand on account. I can have another five thousand for you tomorrow. You get the rest when the equipment's delivered.'

The grin suddenly vanished from Visto's face, replaced by a look of pure greed. He plucked up the bills, studied them like a bank teller examining for counterfeit, then stuffed them in his dressing gown as the grin returned. 'Sounds good. I take it you won't get offended I don't offer you no receipt?'

'Just make sure you deliver. And on time.'

'Man pays cash up front, always gets his goods delivered on schedule. Visto takes great pride in that fact. But there are some things ought to be explained. Rules to keep you and me sweet. It turns out you're working for the cops on some undercover thing, or the cops ever come back on me, certain associates of mine would probably think your life wouldn't be worth a piece of shit. Understood, my man?'

'Understood.' Gorev handed across another envelope. 'Inside, you'll find exact details for the van's markings, their size, and all the paint colours. Please make sure your man follows my instructions exactly.'

'You're the boss.' Visto took the envelope. 'Seems like you've got everything pretty well planned. How'd you want to take delivery?'

'Somewhere outside Washington. But we can arrange that closer to the time.'

'No problem.'

Gorev turned to go, then hesitated, an infinitely threatening look on his face that Visto couldn't fail to register. 'One more thing. I keep my word, Mr Visto. Make sure you keep yours.'

Visto looked offended. 'Hey, really no need for that kind of attitude, man. Everything's cool. Visto always keeps to his word.'

Gorev held Visto's stare. 'The day after tomorrow, I'll expect the van, uniforms and weapons. Tomorrow evening, about six, I'll call here with the other five thousand, and to make certain there are no problems.'

'You got my personal guarantee there won't be, for sure, long as you make the rest of the deposit.' Visto thrust out a hand. 'Pleasure doing business. Frankie here will take you downstairs. God go with you, my man.'

Visto stood at the window, watching Frankie down in the street with the guy who'd left five grand deposit. 'Fucking dude threatened me, Ricky. You hear that?'

'Yeah.'

'Subtle, but still a threat nonetheless. Don't like that. Don't like that at all. Want you to do something for me, brother. Go out the back way. See where the dude goes when he leaves Frankie. Be quick about it, too. Ain't much time.'

'Sure, man.'

Ricky darted out the door and clattered down the back stairs. When he'd gone, Visto picked up his book again, riffled through the pages. He was still riffling through them five minutes later when Ricky came back, running up the stairs, almost out of breath. 'The dude got into a green Jap car, half a block away. Couldn't get the number, he left straight off.'

'On his lonesome?'

'Naw. Looked to me like there was a bitch at the wheel'

Visto's brow creased in thought, and then he tapped the book in his hand. 'You ever hear of a man called Sclotus, Ricky?'

'Naw.'

'Sclotus, now he was a perceptive man. Lived way back, over in Greece, second century bc. Down in Lorton, serving my five, came across Sclotus in the library one day. Man's so wise he does my fucking head in. Know one of the things he said?'

'Naw.'

'Adversity never comes to a man without the promise of opportunity. Know what that means?'

'Naw.'

'Take this morning. I'm down twelve grand. Now I'm up five, with another fifteen on its tail. Maybe even the promise of more to come. With me, Ricky?'

Ricky shook his head.

'Man looking for ordnance like that, prepared to invest twenty grand, he's gotta be planning something heavy, something with a big fucking return. Now to me, guns and cops' uniforms suggests some serious business. Lots of possibilities there. A bank job maybe, or payroll heist, or some such form of liquid cash endeavour. Know what that means?'

'Naw.'

'Means maybe we got us a motherfucking golden opportunity here. Opportunity to grasp a piece of the action, so to speak. But first, we got to find out a little more about this dude and his bitch. Which is why I want you waiting across the street from the pool-hall when the man comes back tomorrow. See where he goes afterwards, find out what exactly we're dealing with here. But do it nice and discreet. You with me now, Ricky?'

Cortez grinned. 'I like it, Benny.'

Visto slipped on his Ray-Bans, grinned back. 'Thought you would, brother.'

Washington, DC 12 November 5.05 a.m.

'First of all, I'd like to thank you all for coming.'