Ear to the ground. Boots spent the final hours of his tour putting the word out to his snitches. If his assumptions were correct, he’d be cuffing the perp within a week. Or so he was vain enough to believe.
Thursday was devoted to interviewing burglary victims. Though Boots couldn’t do much for these folk, he maintained a properly sympathetic demeanor as he took their complaints, even when they berated him for the NYPD’s failure to protect their property. He stopped by the local shops in Greenpoint and Williamsburg, too, the ones that provided him with a professional discount from time to time. These were stores owned by people Boots knew well and he put his request boldly.
‘If anybody should come by askin’ questions about me, especially if those anybodies are cops, give me a call.’
‘You in trouble?’
‘Not yet.’
It was that ‘not yet’ that stuck in Detective Littlewood’s craw as the week drew to a close. He’d not only been looking over his shoulder and to both sides, he’d been looking straight up in the air. Just in case the other shoe was dropping.
Too much. That’s what he tried to tell himself. He just wasn’t that important to men like Chief of Detectives Michael Shaw and Inspector Mack Corcoran. The problem was that he couldn’t make himself believe it.
On Friday, as Boots was about to call it a week, his cellphone rang. He answered on the third ring.
‘Detective Littlewood.’
‘Yo, detective, it’s Flint Page.’
Boots nodded to himself, the wheels already turning. A small-time crook, Jimmy ‘Flint’ Page was a legendary snitch. He snitched for money, for a competitive advantage, to stay out of jail, for revenge. He snitched so much, and to so many cops, that Boots had come to wonder if the man didn’t have a rare psychological disorder that compelled him to snitch. Like Vinnie Palermo was compelled to steal cars.
‘What’s up, Flint?’ Boots’s tone was businesslike. Flint Page was a self-styled actor. If you didn’t keep him on track, he’d go on forever.
‘Man, you don’t sound too happy to hear my voice. And me, I have some excellent news for you.’
‘Like what?’
Flint’s voice grew sly. ‘You remember last Wednesday, all that crazy knife shit up on Bushwick Avenue?’
‘Yeah, I—’
‘Yo, detective, I gotta book. Call you later.’
Boots spent the last hour of his tour waiting for Page’s call. When it didn’t come, he silently cursed himself for not running Page down while he was on the clock. Now he would have to do it over the weekend. Nevertheless, Page was not first on his Saturday morning schedule. In fact, as Boots rang Frankie Drago’s bell at ten o’clock in the morning, his anticipation of the next few minutes was so keen that he forgot Page altogether. And not even when Mama Drago opened the door was he distracted.
‘Boots.’
‘My condolences about Angie,’ Boots said. ‘Is Frankie in?’
‘You, you, you
mascalzone
, you traitor, you dare to come my house?
Tu puzzi
.’
Boots nodded agreeably. Mama Drago was old school when it came to family. She’d defend her son if he was a serial killer.
‘I need to see Frankie, Mrs Drago,’ he repeated. ‘It’s business.’
Frankie Drago chose that moment to make an appearance. Though not a tall man, he towered over his diminutive mother. ‘Ma, why don’t you go upstairs?’
Before complying, Mama Drago assaulted her son with a burst of Italian that reddened his ears. Frankie watched her climb to the second floor, then released an involuntary sigh. His life had turned into a horror show, no doubt about it. The monsters just kept coming.
Frankie led Boots into the kitchen. Even taking the short odds, Boots was up more than five hundred dollars. And it would have been a lot worse if the Yankees’ relievers hadn’t blown last night’s game. Reluctantly, Frankie opened a small tin box next to the sugar bowl and counted out Boots’s winnings.
Boots took the wad of bills Drago offered, recounted it, then shoved it into his pocket. ‘So, how’s it goin’, Frankie? You holdin’ up?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice. I had to give my fuckin’ lawyer ten grand up front and he’s lookin’ for another twenty-five. When I mortgaged the house, Ma went nuts.’
Frankie opened the refrigerator and took out a quart of orange juice. ‘You want?’
‘No, thanks.’
Drago filled his glass and carried it over to the kitchen table. ‘I shoulda called you right away, Boots, right when it happened. Before I did anything else. I shoulda trusted you.’
Boots shuddered. Where had he heard that before?
‘See,’ Frankie continued, ‘it’s the part about Angie bein’ alive for two hours after she fell that’s killin’ me. My lawyer claims it shows evidence of intent. I told him a hundred times that I thought she was dead, but it doesn’t cut any ice, even if it’s true, even if I testify. The jury’s not gonna believe me.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about that.’ Boots tried to smile, but never quite got there. ‘Angie didn’t live for two hours. She most likely didn’t live for two minutes. Your lawyer will know that as soon as she gets the autopsy report.’
Frankie Drago observed a moment of stunned silence as he juggled a pair of conflicting emotions. He was definitely pissed-off, and rightly so, but there was this little drop of hope that kept expanding. Maybe this time the clutched straw would keep him afloat.
‘Are you sayin’ you lied to me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Cops always lie, Frankie. We’re encouraged to lie. We get rewarded for lyin’.’
Drago considered this for a moment, then said, ‘If you have to testify at my trial, what then? You gonna play it straight?’
‘What I oughta do is hang you by your balls. Not for what you did to Angie. No, I should hang you for what you did to Vinnie Palermo. The way it looks now, Vinnie’s gonna die in prison.’ Boots stood up. ‘Put me down for a two bills a game until I let you know otherwise. As for Angie, I haven’t made up my mind yet. The way it is, I’m already givin’ you a break. I could have told Connie Palermo that you were the one who ratted on her nephew.’
Boots was in the Key Food supermarket on McGuinness Boulevard, comparing heads of romaine lettuce and escarole, when his cellphone rang. Across the way, her cart halted beside a table loaded with plum tomatoes, Rose Orlac fiddled with a plastic bag, trying to separate the ends. She glanced over at Boots and smiled.
‘Littlewood,’ Boots said into the phone as he returned her smile.
‘Yo, detective, wassup?’
‘You tell me, Flint. It’s your dime.’
‘Yours too, my man. You’re on a cellphone. You pay comin’ and goin’.’
‘Right, and I’m also busy. So let’s get to it.’
‘Man, what is it with you today?’
‘Come to the point, Flint. You’re callin’ on my day off.’
‘Your dime, your day off. What I should do is hang up.’
‘Yeah, but then I’d have to look for you, which would piss me off more than I’m already pissed off.’
Page cleared his throat. Reared in a Bed-Stuy housing project, he’d come up the hard way, yet had acquired enough sophistication to mingle with the bohemians and the yuppies in their little enclave along Bedford Avenue. He used his panache to market drugs to these end-users, mainly powder cocaine and marijuana.
‘For a fact, I know the brother pulled those rip-offs on Wednesday.’
‘The brother?’
‘A Dominican brother, OK? I mean, ain’t we all brothers?’
‘And sisters,’ Boots responded. ‘So, what’s your interest, Flint?’
‘Money. Otherwise, I got no dog in this fight.’
Boots smiled. ‘Fifty bucks. That’s what the name’s worth to me.’
‘How do ya know that? If you ain’t heard it yet?’ Page went on before Boots could respond. ‘Lemme tell ya, this player I’m gamin’ here? He’s crazy evil. Attica? Clinton? Greenhaven? He’s done time in every one of ’em. Slice up your face soon as look at it.’
‘Is that the real reason you want him off the street? Is he lookin’ to slice up
your
face?’
Flint chose not to answer the question. ‘Three bills,’ he said. ‘And you doggin’ me at the price.’
Eventually, Boots and Flint settled on a figure, $150, a place, Flint’s girlfriend’s apartment on Richardson Street, and a time, ten o’clock that night. Though Boots made a valiant attempt, he was unable to persuade Flint to talk now and let him pay later.
Boots shut the phone down. Rose Orlac was on the checkout line and there were several customers standing behind her. As Boots watched, she shook out her blond hair, then bent forward to empty her cart. Instantly, as though someone had thrown a switch, a guy one line over riveted his eyes to her ass, his evaluating gaze so direct as to border on the socially unacceptable. Boots was hoping the man would say something rude so he could intervene, but the man looked away when Rose straightened.
Boots turned away as well, headed for the dairy counter. He would see Rose Orlac at church tomorrow, at which time he would make his interest known. Unless, of course, through some miracle, he ran into Jill Kelly first. According to Sergeant Gantier, Jill had once been on the SWAT team. Maybe she still had her equipment.
Ten hours later, Boots parked his Chevy on Richardson Street, several doors away from the address supplied by Flint Page. Unlike its closest neighbors, the building in question was not a tenement. Boots knew its six stories to house thirty-seven apartments, counting the super’s in the basement, knew there would be a lobby on the first floor instead of a narrow corridor leading to the stairs. He knew because, just a few years before, he’d had a girlfriend named Monica Charon who lived in the building.
Down the block, a group of teenagers danced to the Boricua rap pouring from a boombox. The boys were decked out in the latest hip-hop fashions, the girls in jeans tight enough to be a second skin. Across the street, four older men sat around a folding table, enjoying the warm weather and a spirited game of dominoes. When Boots pulled to the curb, the old men checked him out, instantly made him for what he was, then returned to their game.
Boots settled back on the seat. He was in no hurry. The Yankees and the Orioles were playing out the ninth inning and he was ten minutes early. If the Yanks won – which they were very likely to do, being up six runs – the week would be off to a good start.
The game concluded a few minutes later with a soft line drive to Alex Rodriguez at third base. Boots shut down the engine, then swung the door open. Out of uniform, he wore khakis and a sweatshirt in lieu of a three-piece suit, running shoes instead of boots. His off-duty weapon, a .32 caliber Seecamp, was tucked into a holster on his right ankle.
Eyes flicked to him as walked along the sidewalk, the dominoes players, the kids, faces in the windows, a man walking a pitbull on the other side of the street. Though Boots did not pass within fifty feet of any of these individuals, he could smell their collective relief when he turned left, pulled open the door to Page’s building and stepped into a small foyer. Ahead of him, the interior lobby was well lit and clean.
Boots rang the buzzer for 5D and got an immediate response.
‘Yo.’
‘Open up, Flint.’
‘Yowzah, boss.’
Inside, Boots crossed the lobby to the elevator. As he waited for it to descend, the front door opened and a man walked inside. The man was in his twenties, wearing a wife-beater t-shirt. He looked at Boots, repressed a double-take, finally decided to use the stairs.
Boots was still chuckling as he came out of the elevator to discover Page standing in the hallway, a door open behind him. Page wore a silky, hot-orange basketball uniform, the top large enough to fit a man twice his size, the shorts descending to mid-calf. A spider’s web of delicate chains, which might or might not be gold, encircled his throat.
‘Somethin’ funny?’ he asked.
Now that he had the man cornered, Boots wasn’t above slipping in a casual zinger as he walked into the apartment. ‘You joinin’ the circus, Flint?’
But Jimmy ‘Flint’ Page didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he closed the door behind Boots an instant before the overhead light went out.
Boots reached automatically for the nine-millimeter normally holstered behind his right hip. He was momentarily confused when his hand came up empty, but then remembered the Seecamp strapped to his ankle. An instant later, something hard and unyielding crashed into his forehead.
He hit the floor, barely conscious, blood already pouring into his eyes. The beam of a flashlight thrust out at him. It moved along his body from his feet to his head, then back to his chest. A kick followed, to the side of his face, then another to his hip, then another and another. Instinctively, he began to crawl on all fours, scuttling along like a crab. The flashlight moved with him, the feet, too. How many feet? How many attackers? With his eyes now filled with blood, he had no idea. Nor did he think he could get to the Seecamp. But submission wasn’t an option, either.
Boots turned suddenly and lunged backward. Purely by luck, the fingers of his left hand caught a hunk of fabric. He clamped down hard, locking his hand into a fist, then levered himself to his knees and drew his attacker toward him, all those years in the weight room finally paying off.
A pair of fists hammered at the back of his head, but he ignored them, as he ignored a kick to his ribs. Blindly, relentlessly, he swept the area in front of him with his free hand, back and forth, until his arm finally encircled a leg. Then he brought his left hand down to meet his right and twisted with all his strength.
The scream that followed was very loud, very shrill, and Boots drank it in as he spun in a half-circle to face the flashlight beam. His face was covered in blood now, blood soaked his eyebrows and eyelashes, blood filmed his eyes each time he blinked. But there had to be a hand attached to that flashlight, and if he could reach that hand, take the flashlight away, use it for a weapon . . .
Boots was so lost in his calculations that he never felt the gun when it was pressed to the back of his head. He heard it, though, heard the hammer ratchet back, and he froze. A second later, through a haze of red, he saw something long and black whip across the flashlight’s beam. Instinctively, he made an attempt to raise his shoulder, but it was too late. The club hit him on the side of the head just above his ear and he dropped to the floor, face first, unable even to break his fall.