Angel Face (21 page)

‘How can this happen? I thought the building was secure.'

‘Secure against theft,' the Blade responds.

The skylight is approximately four feet square, way too small to allow the gigantic rolls of carpet in the warehouse to pass through, even if they could be raised the twenty feet between the floor and the ceiling. So what if the skyline offers access? You can't open any of the doors from the inside without setting off an alarm. There's nothing to steal.

Bobby looks around, as he did while standing at the foot of the ladder. The view over the low-rise buildings in the neighborhood is spectacular. He can see downtown Manhattan and the sparkling waters of the harbor and the massive cranes on the docks in Bayonne. Clouds roll overhead, driven by a stiff breeze that riffles through Bobby's hair. From this very spot a decade earlier, Bobby had watched the towers of the World Trade Center burn and collapse. But he's not thinking about the past. He's looking for proof, any proof, that somebody used the skylight to gain access. Proof that isn't there to find.

‘This Carter, this prick,' Bobby observes. ‘He's got us runnin' around in circles. This is not the way I wanna live, Marco.'

This is another of the Blade's jobs. As Bobby's advisor, he's expected to offer a plan of action, especially when problems arise. Meanwhile, he hasn't got a clue.

‘All right, let's suppose somebody got inside. Let's even suppose they got into your office. What did they actually accomplish? The money wasn't even there, right? And if they installed bugs, the cokehead will find them. Hear what I'm sayin', Bobby? Let's not freak out.'

If Levi Kupperman nearly jumps out of his skin when Carter takes him by the arm, his eyes virtually explode when Carter flashes the gold shield of a New York City Detective in his face. He's thinking how it's funny that you know something will happen, absolutely, without doubt, yet you're still unprepared when a cop shoves your hundred and thirty pounds against the side door of a van. And you're even more unprepared when that door suddenly opens and you're tossed inside, when you're on your back looking up at the face of the woman you've been imagining ever since you started jerking off fifteen years ago.

Levi's glimpse of paradise is short-lived. Carter flips him on to his stomach and rummages through his pockets, turning up a packet of cocaine tucked behind an expired credit card in his wallet.

‘Look at me,' Carter says.

Kupperman complies – he has no choice – but he doesn't like what he sees, not at all. He might as well be looking into the eyes of a dead man. Levi's hands were already trembling, a by-product of terminal cocaine addiction. Now his entire body quakes. Carter's witnessed this effect before, so often that he now counts on it.

‘Tell me what you do for Bobby Ditto? Are you on the way to his warehouse?'

Levi glances at Angel, but somehow those beautiful teardrop eyes have lost their seductive luster, if they had any to begin with. The woman's not sympathetic, not at all. She's excited.

‘Please, I'm not a . . . a gangster. I'm a—'

Carter interrupts the little man's plea by slapping him across the face, a hard crack that spins him into the side of the van. ‘Do yourself a big favor, answer the questions I ask.'

‘OK, yes. I'm on my way to Bobby's and what I do is sweep his place for bugs. But that's all I do. I'm a businessman, not a gangster. Swear to God, I don't deal drugs.'

‘You're right on part one. You're not a gangster.' Carter examines Kupperman's driver's license for a moment, then slips it into his pocket. ‘You're a drug addict, Levi, and you're in over your head. Way over your head. Do you disagree?'

Levi gulps down a breath. His mind is working a little better, true enough, but the messages tossed up by his coke-fried brain do not encourage him. First, this guy is not a cop. This is the guy Bobby Ditto's been worrying about for the last week, the guy Levi heard Bobby and the Blade talking about when he swept Bobby's home.

‘I won't argue the point,' he tells Carter.

‘Smart move. Now tell me what you do for Bobby. Tell me exactly and don't leave anything out.'

‘Like I said, I sweep the place . . .'

Carter leans forward. ‘I asked you to be exact. I'm not gonna ask you again.'

‘OK, OK. Bobby's has an office in the basement of his warehouse. He calls it his bunker and what I do is sweep the bunker every couple of days. Any kind of recording device, video or audio, digital or analog, I'm supposed to find it. Not that I ever have. I mean, found anything.'

‘And that's it?'

‘I swept Bobby's home a few days ago. It's the first time he asked me.'

‘And what else?'

‘Nothin' else. I don't have anything to do with his operation, whatever it is. I do my thing and Bobby pays me off . . .'

‘How much does he pay you?'

Kupperman sweeps his hand across his nose. His nostrils are closing fast, a sure sign he needs another hit. ‘Bobby pays me off in powder. That's the whole story, OK? I sweep his office. He feeds me. I'm a dog on a leash.'

Levi's thinking that his little speech was eloquent, but Carter spins him on to his stomach and drives a fist into his left kidney. The resulting pain has him flopping on the floor of the van like a hooked fish.

‘I've got a big decision to make, Levi. I've got to decide whether or not to let you live. Trust me on this. You don't advance your case when you lie to me.'

‘I didn't. I swear . . . No, wait. I forgot. Every once and awhile, I sweep the armored car.'

‘What armored car?'

‘Bobby's got this Ford SUV. It's armored up somehow. The door's gotta weigh a hundred pounds.' Kupperman presses his hand to his back. ‘Bobby keeps the SUV parked in the yard, but he doesn't use it very often because it burns too much gas. Every coupla months, he tells me to check it out.'

Carter took a chance snatching Kupperman, a chance that's paid off. With a possible deal coming up and Carter the ultimate wild card, Bobby's certain to check the vehicle. Better to know in advance.

‘Tell me about the bunker, Levi. Describe it to me.'

‘The bunker's where Bobby takes his . . . I don't know what to call 'em. Business associates? Co-conspirators? Customers? See, what with the sweeps and how hard it is to get in there, Bobby figures he can talk business and not worry the cops are listening to every word. The door, I swear it's as heavy as the doors on the SUV.'

Carter's smile is encouraging. ‘Go on.'

‘OK, let's see. Bobby's computer's in there, the company computer, but it isn't attached to the Internet. He's got two phones, one for the carpet business and another one he never answers. When it rings, he goes outside to call back.' Kupperman sits up and wraps his hands around his knees. ‘The phones are on his desk and there are three filing cabinets against the wall. Also a card table where Bobby plays rummy and poker with the guys.'

‘What else? Think hard.'

‘Shelves on the wall with office supplies, a liquor cabinet, a bathroom with a shower, a couple of closets.'

‘Do you sweep inside the closets?'

‘Yeah. I especially sweep in the closets.'

‘What's in them?'

‘One is for clothes, the other for cleaning supplies. There's a set of golf clubs in the clothes closet.'

‘What else?' Carter taps Levi's knee. ‘Think, Levi.'

‘The rug? I can't think of anything else.'

‘Nothing? Nothing at all?'

‘Fluorescent lights overhead? The pictures on the walls? Wait, one more thing. Bobby keeps tropical fish. The tank's on one of the filing cabinets. And that's it. I swear.'

Carter responds to Kupperman's oath by pulling a K-Bar knife from its scabbard and laying the blade alongside the man's head so that the point rests alongside his right eye. Carter doesn't intend to kill a hapless cocaine addict. Levi's not a gangster and he's not a threat. If worse comes to worse, Carter will call off the operation and Bobby Ditto's big deal will go forward. But Levi Kupperman doesn't know that and his suddenly diminished prospects have induced a state of near paralysis.

‘There are two surveillance devices in the Ford,' Carter explains, ‘a bug installed through the floorboard and a GPS unit attached to the right rear fender. Are you listening?'

‘Yeah, two devices, one on the floor, one beneath the fender.'

‘You're not gonna find either one of 'em.'

‘Bobby'll kill me.'

‘Bobby's day is done, Levi. And here's something else to think about. If you cross Bobby, there's a chance he won't find out. If you cross me, I'll know it by the end of the day. Unless you think I'm bluffing.'

Carter lays the edge of the knife across Levi's throat and pulls the man's head back. ‘Do you think I'm bluffing, Levi?'

With his head yanked back and his throat stretched, Kupperman finds it difficult to speak. He glances to his left and happens to meet Angel's gaze. Her mouth is open, the look in her eyes wilder than ever.

‘No, no. I don't. I swear.'

Carter pulls the knife away and sits back, the show definitely being over. From the look of things, Angel's been royally entertained. Carter drops the little packet of foil-wrapped cocaine in front of Kupperman, who's lying on his side, crying.

‘Do some of this,' Carter says. ‘You've got to go to work.'

Drugs are nothing new to Carter. While still in Iraq, he'd entertained two offers, one to raid the coast of Africa in search of diamonds, the other to smuggle morphine through India to the port of Mumbai. He doesn't flinch when Levi unfolds the packet and shovels cocaine into both nostrils. He's not even put off when snot begins to run from those nostrils. He opens the door, half-tosses Levi Kupperman outside and signals Angel to pull away. Another job well done.

Carter slides into the front seat alongside Angel, who's staring straight ahead, her expression grim. ‘Why'd you let him go?' she asks, her tone blunt. ‘What if he spills his guts to Bobby?'

‘For one thing, if Kupperman doesn't show up, Bobby will just hire someone else. There are hundreds of private security firms in New York with the expertise to sweep an office and a car.'

Angel turns from Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn on to Ninth Street and crosses the Gowanus Canal, an open-air sewer that passes for an industrial waterway. A moment later, they pass a complex of stumpy brick apartment buildings, The Red Hook Houses, that once sheltered the stevedores who unloaded ships docked at the nearby piers. The jobs are gone now, along with the ships, but the destitute endure.

‘Also,' Carter continues, ‘you have to consider the risk you take when you transport a dead body. This neighborhood?' He gestures to a wall covered with gang tags. ‘An undercover unit could easily mistake us for suburbanites on a drug run and decide to search the van. A body would be really hard to explain.'

Angel finds a halal food truck parked on Columbia Street a few blocks from the Benedetti warehouse. With the Expedition bugged, they no longer have to keep the vehicle in sight. Carter contents himself with an orange soda, but Angel loads up on the calories, ordering a deep-fried falafel platter with rice, salad and extra white sauce.

‘We're going to know soon,' she tells Carter as they return to the van. ‘One way or the other, we're going to know.'

‘Are you worried?'

Angel doesn't answer right away. She slides across the van's back seat and stares for a moment at the equipment, the two receivers, one for the bug and one for the GPS unit, installed by Solly Epstein.

‘If we don't pull this off,' she finally says, ‘you'll just go on doing what you've been doing. But me? I have nothing to go back to. When Bobby killed Pierre, he wiped out my past.'

TWENTY-FIVE

B
obby Ditto gets lucky. Elvino Espinoza shows up a few minutes after Levi Kupperman pronounces the bunker free of surveillance devices. Bobby's skin has been crawling for hours, as if the imagined bugs in the wall were bedbugs out to feast on his blood.

Bobby serves the older man Cuban espresso in a demitasse cup imported from Italy, a matter of respect. Espinoza claims to be Cuban, though he represents a Mexican smuggling operation with outlets in a dozen American cities. He even dresses the part: off-white linen suit, skinny black tie, narrow-brimmed straw hat, brown sandals.

‘So, Bobby, how have you been?' Elvino asks, his voice carrying the merest trace of a Spanish accent.

‘Except for the ex-wife and the kids makin' my life miserable, I can't complain. And you?'

‘My health is good. At my age, I ask for no more.' Espinosa takes a photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket. He lays the photo on Bobby's desk. ‘My latest granddaughter.'

Bobby picks up the photo and nods, though as far as he's concerned, the infant with the scrunched-up eyes and nut-brown skin looks like just another wetback. ‘How many does that make?'

‘Eighteen.'

‘Nine children and eighteen grandchildren? Must be fun at Christmas.'

‘I have only begun,
amigo
. My two youngest girls are at university and still unmarried. But I have no complaints.
La familia
. It's the reason we live.'

It's not the reason Bobby Ditto lives, but he keeps his thoughts to himself while Espinoza replaces the photo with a slip of paper. Bobby unfolds the paper and reads the day, time and address listed. Essentially, he and Espinoza have identical aims – they want to hold product for as short a time as possible. Bobby is to appear, money in hand, at a trucker's garage in Greenpoint at nine o'clock on Sunday night. He can bring two associates with him and they can be armed, but displays of firepower are unacceptable. That means no shotguns, no assault rifles.