Like having a fucking job, though. Up at goddamn seven in the fucking morning.
But Seephus was cool with it. Meant the crew boss thought he was a player. Meant he got to meet the out-of-town crews, build out his network. Might even mean Hernandez knew his name.
Seephus knew one way to get on Hernandez’s screen for sure – find this Hardin fuck.
Crew boss, he’d passed the picture around, let everybody know this was a major fucking deal. Didn’t say what it was about, just that Hernandez wanted this fucker bad, and that any brother played a part in that, he gonna be one happy nigger. So Seephus had studied the picture good. He was good with faces. Little game he played on the train, watching the people get on and off, trying to remember who goes where. Like the guy up two seat on his right? Guy with that buzz cut white guys like when they start going bald, always got the iPod buds in his ears, always got the laptop open? Got on every morning in LaGrange. Got off at Route 59. Always had a Starbucks cup.
Little tired for it today, though, just leaning on the window, watching the word slide by. Wished he could sleep on the train like he seen so many people do, but he figured he nods off, somebody pinches his bag, he’d end up sleeping on a slab down at the ME’s for good.
And then he saw Hardin.
Hardin was going stir crazy. Spent all the previous day in the damn condo. Him and Wilson eating all their meals take out, couldn’t even get out, take a run, nothing. Made sense, all the people looking for him, but it was sawing on his nerves. Switched on the TV, switched it off again. Did another hundred pushups. Had to get out tonight, make his deal with Lafitpour. That should be scaring the shit out of him; instead, he was looking forward to it.
She had a lot of books, at least. He flipped the coffee maker on, checked out the shelves; saw
The Mosquito Coast
by Paul Theroux. He’d read a couple of his travel books and liked them, figured he might as well see what the guy could do with a novel. Coffee maker dinged. He poured a cup, walked out on Wilson’s small balcony, sat at the little café table she had out there, watched the train pull in to the station.
CHAPTER 42
Seephus looked up again from the
Sun-Times
he’d picked up off an empty train seat when he jumped off. Proud of that move. Gave him something to do ’stead of just standing on the platform. Had the disguise on, he knew, but he still felt like the only brother at a Klan rally. Nobody seemed to be paying him no mind, though.
Been like half an hour now. He’d called in. Boss man told him just sit tight, he’d get a call. Couple of trains had come and gone, one going each way, him still on the bench on the platform. Fucker was still up there, though – second floor, second balcony in from the corner.
Seephus’ cell went off: Tupac tone he’d downloaded. Seephus slapping at the phone, trying to shut that shit off, kinda thing get the whiteys looking at you.
“Yo?” He answered.
“Mr Jones, this is Jamie Hernandez…”
Seephus trying to listen through the cha-ching sounds in his head.
CHAPTER 43
Lynch, Bernstein, and Starshak walked into the room full of suits in the Federal Building on Adams. At the front of the room, the new US Attorney, Alex Hickman, was backslapping a handful of brass. Hickman was political as hell, always looking for a camera.
Hickman did the introductions.
Brad Jablonski from the DEA was there, gave Lynch a nod. Hickman’s replacement at the Bureau, little guy named Tate, one of Hickman’s coattail riders. Handful of other suits, just introduced as “out of DC.” Could mean anything. Some gangs-and-drugs guys in from a couple of the larger suburban PDs; Perez, guy from Aurora that Lynch knew; guys from Joliet, Elgin. Wilson, the DEA agent from the last meeting, was in the back.
Hickman hit a switch, dimming the lights, and brought up a PowerPoint show on the screen. It was the same split screen shot Lynch had used, Hardin in his Marine Blues and the cop cam grab.
“Gentlemen, meet Nick Hardin…”
Hickman made his spiel, his DC suits chiming in to back him on a couple points. The diamonds, Hezbollah, the Al Qaeda connection. They threw some kisses out to Starshak and Lynch, blew a little smoke up their asses – kudos for spotting Hardin, running all this shit down in just a few days.
A new shot popped up on the screen. A grainy blow-up picture of some guy taken from a long ways off. Olive-skin, dark hair, on the slight side, a little Omar Sharif vibe to him. He was in a sport coat, open shirt, at an outdoor café somewhere, chatting up a looker in a sundress. Lynch noticed one of the suits, one Bernstein had been eyeballing, tightening up just a touch.
“Husam al Din,” said Hickman. “Translates to the Sword of Faith. Intel we’ve got says he’s freelance, pretty much the go-to shooter for fundamentalist Islam.” Hickman looked at the Chicago PD contingent. “Lynch, we’re pretty sure this is your .22 guy.”
“When did you get this?” Starshak said, little edge in his voice.
“Relax, Captain,” said Hickman. “This is brand new. We have a dossier for you guys. We’re sharing everything we’ve got.”
“Where’d you get it?” asked Lynch.
“Except that,” said one of the suits. “We aren’t sharing that.
Hickman made his case on Hernandez, claiming he was after Hardin not for personal payback but because Hernandez was playing ball with the Al Qaeda and Hardin had queered their deal.
“We’ve got two huge criminal organizations, one with substantial amounts of cash that it needs to launder, one with significant non-cash assets it wants to get liquid.” said Hickman. “Fred, you want to give them a quick brief from the Treasury perspective?”
A short, heavyset woman got up, took over the laptop, bounced through a few spreadsheets, banks where they’d found overlap, transaction dates that tied together.
Starshak looked at the woman, then turned to Lynch. “Fred?”
“Probably lying about their names, too,” Lynch said.
Lynch heard a soft snort out of Bernstein. “Smell a rat?” Lynch asked.
“It’s BS. That much money moving around the system, the story would be if it hadn’t crossed trails at one institution or another. Of course there’s overlap. This isn’t proof, it’s spin.”
When Hickman was done, Jablonski piped up. “Feels kind of out there, Hickman. We’ve been working Hernandez forever. Never caught a whiff of anything like this.”
Tate, Hickman’s new Bureau boy, cut him off. “There are other elements of this we can’t share. But if we can put Hernandez and this al Din together, then we can throw the War on Terror net over the whole lot of them.”
Jablonski shrugged. “Good by me. I’ve lost enough people to this asshole. You guys want to take him off and waterboard him for a few days, I’m not crying over it.”
“Anybody else have questions?” Hickman asked in a tone that suggested no would be the appropriate answer.
“Yeah,” Starshak said. “You got a reason I’m not supposed to be worried about some terrorist running around town? Shutting down this money laundry of yours is fine, but I’m kinda wondering about, oh, I dunno, shit blowing up.”
“Our intel is that al Din is here strictly as security, protecting the diamonds on the way in and the cash on the way out.” Hickman didn’t look pleased.
“This the intel we get to know about or more of these other elements you can’t share?” Starshak asked.
“The latter.” Tate again, the head Feeb.
“We’re gonna get something nice and official on that, right?” Starshak pushing it. “Something big enough to cover my ass with if something in town goes boom?”
Hickman smiled. “You’re concerns are duly noted, Captain. And unwarranted.” Little pause for effect. “Hardin is the key, gentlemen,” said Hickman. “The good news is we should have him in the bag tonight.”
Meeting wrapped up, a little milling around, Starshak, Lynch, and Bernstein edging out. Near the door, they were next to the Washington suits. Bernstein said something to one of them in Hebrew. The man turned, opened his mouth like he was going to answer, then just smiled and shook his finger at Bernstein.
“What was that all about?” asked Starshak.
“I used to do the Israel thing with the family every summer. Spent enough time over there to pick up that IDF feel on somebody. I told him to say hi to Pardo for me.”
“Who’s Pardo?” asked Lynch.
“Head of Mossad.”
CHAPTER 44
Seephus Jones’ stomach was twisting on him. After a while, it seemed like he shouldn’t just sit at the station anymore, so he walked across to a coffee shop. He still had an angle on the condo. The yuppies ahead of him were ordering this shit in French or whatever, something-chinos, half this, dusting of that. Fucking coffee. Seephus needed a bump, he got a Red Bull maybe. Got to the front of the line, ponytailed white chick in the apron looking at him.
“That sounded good,” Jones said, trying to blend, figuring he’d never get this cap-a-presso-chino shit the guy in front of him had just ordered straight. “Have me one of those.” The chick putting this and that in a cup, running it through a blender, spraying shit on top. Stuck some kind of plastic dome thing on top of a big-ass cup, set it, down in front of him.
“That will be $6.50,” she said.
Seephus knew places on the West Side he could get his hose drained for $6.50.But he just handed over the coin, got a seat outside, took a sip. Fucking coffee milkshake or something. Weird shit these fuckers do out here.
Hardin guy still on the deck, reading his damn book.
Another hour until Hernandez was supposed to show. Supposed to watch for a black Escalade. Hernandez said he would come down Warren, turn off on Main, park out of sight of the condo. Meet up with them there. Meanwhile, Seephus was just supposed to keep an eye out.
After a bit, he was done with his drink, already read what he could out of the paper, reading not being a big thing with him. He was starting to get looks from the ponytail chick, it coming up on lunch, people waiting for tables. So he went across to this pizza place, got a slice. Couldn’t see the condo from there, so he took it back over by the station, found another bench, ate it there.
Then that Hardin fuck went back inside the condo. The door on the side of the building, on Main, Seephus could see that. But a big-ass building like that, there must be a lot of doors. Couldn’t watch them all. So he started walking around, watching the front, watching the side. The cha-ching sounds in his head were gone now, replaced with thoughts about what Hernandez was gonna do to his ass, he shows up and this Hardin had booked on him. The pizza and the damn coffee shake were rolling around in his gut now, on top of the malt he’d throated last night.
Wilson raced back to her condo after the meeting, unlocked the door and walked in; saw Hardin standing by the sliding door to the patio, looking out across the tracks.
“How well do you know this Lafitpour guy?” she asked.
“I don’t,” said Hardin.
“Somebody sold you out. We’re going to grab you tonight, at your meet.”
“We?”
“Interagency deal, us and the Feebs. Some kind of War on Terror bullshit, the cartels and Al Qaeda cozying up to launder money or some shit.”
Hardin nodded, still looking out the sliding door. Black guy in the red shirt was still out there, wandering around, kept looking at the condo, getting real twitchy. “We might have a more immediate problem,” he said.
Hardin told her what he’d seen, the black kid hanging around, watching the condo. Wilson opened her closet, reached up on the top shelf. She came out with a couple spare clips for her S&W and dropped them in her pocket.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“You’re not in this yet,” said Hardin. “Not to where you can’t back out.”
She froze. Then she turned and looked at him, her face set hard. “You son of a bitch. After eighteen years, you come back, I bring you home, I spread my legs for you and you say that to me?”
“I just don’t want to assume–”
“Fuck assume. We’re together or we aren’t,” she said. “I thought you understood that.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither moving.
“We’re together,” he said.
She nodded, reached up and touched his cheek, then turned for the door.
He grabbed his duffle and they left through the garage. Didn’t see the guy in the red shirt.
CHAPTER 45
Hernandez sat in the passenger seat of the Escalade. Julio was driving, Miko, Gomez, and Roberto in the back. They were dressed to mix, but Hernandez worried a little about them all being in long sleeves, it being pretty warm. But the ink the rest of them had up and down their arms, anybody knew how to decode that, they’d have Five-O up their asses in a heartbeat.
He had a picture of Jones from the guy who ran his West Side crew. Julio was cruising down Warren, a little under the limit, starting to back traffic up behind them. Hernandez saw Jones, off to the right. Told Julio to turn down Main. Saw Jones get up, start to follow. Julio cut into a little alley on the left. Hernandez and the three in the back got out, and Julio got ready to drive on, start circling, wait for Hernandez’s call. Jones turned the corner, jogged up.
“I’m Jamie,” Hernandez said, putting out his hand. Seephus reached out and Hernandez took his hand, grabbing Seephus’ forearm with his other hand. “I owe you, brother. You ready to do this?”
Seephus nodded. “Got my nine in the bag here. Thought maybe I should toss the bag in the car, though. Got that brick in it still and all.”
Hernandez nodded. Seephus shucked off the backpack, dropped it on the passenger seat, unzipped the top, pulled out his Browning Hi-Power, and shut the door. Julio took off.