A Bomb Built in Hell (10 page)

As the big car crossed Grand Street, Chan decided he would drive down to the Bowery. The sight of dozens of pathetic humans in various states of decomposition, all running toward his car with filthy rags to “clean” his windshield in grateful exchange for whatever coins he wished to bestow, did more for him than even his occasional visits to his own merchandise.

He thought of his humble origins: the forged birth certificate that cost his father seven years of indentured servitude to enable the young Chan to enter the land of promise; the bloody-vicious mess in San Francisco; his eventual—in Chan's mind, inevitable—rise to power in his world.

As the Bentley approached Houston Street, Chan carefully slowed down. He never wanted to make the turn west on this light—it was the best corner for the display of bums. Once, he had thrown a dollar out his window after some of the lowlifes had attempted to clean his windshield, watching with fascination as they groveled in the street for the single piece of paper. Hobart Chan fancied that all the bums knew his car, and that they fought among themselves to see which of them would have the privilege of serving him each morning. Although it was difficult to imagine such human waste actually
fighting
for anything.

The bum that approached the car was younger than most, although no less degenerated. Chan mused on his theory that the entire race would someday find itself right down here on the Bowery, watching with concealed delight as the youngish bum industriously rubbed at the windshield and the side mirror with a foul rag. The bum was about thirty or thirty-five; it was hard to tell under the dark, stubbly beard and the rotted hat. This bum even carried a pint of what looked like clear vodka in his hand, holding on to it with a death grip.

Chan thought it somehow strange that a bum who
already
had
a bottle would still work to clean windshields like this. Somehow it seemed even more debasing than usual.

The bum quickly finished and looked beseechingly at Hobart Chan. The fat man's jade-ringed finger touched the power-window switch, and the glass zipped down on its greased rails. As Chan extended the crisp dollar bill, the mouth of the bum's vodka bottle seemed to fly open—the contents gushed out all over the flesh merchant's custom-made suit.

Chan's face twisted into an ugly mass. He was drawing back his left hand to slap the bum when he noticed that the vodka smelled like gasoline.

That was the last conscious thought printed on his brain as the bum tossed a flaming Zippo lighter into the front seat and was off running with the same motion.

There was a brief sound like heavily compressed air being released; then the flames enveloped the interior of the big car. Chan screamed like a mad beast and ripped at the door handle—the door was stuck. He frantically pushed against the door, but the flames held him prisoner for another second or so. Until they reached the gas tank.

The only witnesses to Wesley's departure were the bums.

The cab pulled up at the far end of the alley, and Wesley caught it at a dead run. He dived into the back seat and began wiping his hands with the damp towels there. Pet turned toward Houston and took the main
drag to Sixth Avenue. He followed Sixth Avenue north and wound his way through the Village until he got to Hudson Street.

He followed Hudson to Horatio, where he parked the cab and both men got out. They climbed into a black Ford. The kid slipped from behind the Ford's wheel and into the front of the cab. He was wearing a chauffeur's cap today, but no belt. The Ford swung uptown, Wesley in the front seat, Pet driving.

“That epoxy stuff is perfect, Pet. It sealed the door like cement.”

“I told you it would. Even with a few coats of wax on the doors, it'll always work.”

“I could have sat there and pumped slugs into him for days. Nobody sees nothing down there.”

“They paid for him to die by fire, not bullets, right?”

“Yeah,” Wesley mused. “I wonder how those kids put together all that money.”

W
esley was lying on his back on his kitchen floor, his hands working under the sink, when he heard the soft buzz from the console near the front door. The Doberman soundlessly trotted into position, left of the narrow door. Wesley flipped on the TV monitor and saw Pet coming down the long corridor. Only Pet knew how to set off the buzzer, but he wanted to make sure the old man was alone.

Satisfied, he hissed at the dog to get its attention, saying “okay” in a hard, flat, deliberate voice. The dog would tolerate Pet alone, but would attack him as
quickly as anyone else if he approached Wesley without seeing a warn-off.

Wesley pushed the toggle switch forward, and the door slid away, leaving an opening large enough for a man to get through sideways. Pet came in, and the door closed tightly behind him. The old man looked at the assorted tools spread over the kitchen floor.

“What you up to?”

“I'm fixing the dog's food. He gets it by pushing this lever; gets water by pushing the other one. I got about a fifty-day supply, and I'm going to fix it so's he gets a dose of sleep-forever on the last one.”

“What the hell for?”

“If I don't come back one time, he'll run out of food sooner or later and he'll starve to death. He don't deserve to go out like that.”

“I could come in here and feed him for you.”

“That's what you
will
do before the last day, if you're around then.”

“Maybe you can read minds.”

“What's that mean?”

“There's a job order out with my name on it.”

“The same people?”

“Yeah. That's their way. I've done too much work for them, and now I get thrown in against another organization, like they think I got. The winner gets to keep working for them; the loser don't. They don't trust nobody. The last thing they want is for the top independents to get together, you know?”

“That's what Carmine said it would be like. He said if I got real good that's what they'd do.”

“Yeah, only Carmine
knows
these weasels. He's way ahead of them. Even if they get me, you're still on the street and they'll never see you coming.”

“Why you making out a will, old man?”

“You ever hear of The Prince?”

“Yeah. I have. So?”

“That's their man for this one. He'd never come in here after me, even if he knew where I was. But if I want to work, I have to go where they send me. So they'll give me a job in the cesspool, and he's like a fish in the water there.”

“You're not supposed to know about the order out for you?”

“No.”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody. But I put it together easy enough. All of a sudden, they got a job for me in Times Square. Only one thing that can mean—they got The Prince on the case. They never told me
where
to hit a mark before, but they got some bullshit story about only being able to get this guy when he comes outta one of them massage parlors. They must think I'm a Hoosier.”

“And you're not?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Carmine always said if you're
ready
to die you're dangerous, but if you're
looking
to die you're nothing to worry about.”

“I ain't looking to die, but that fucking pit is impossible to work in. And if I turn down this job, they'll just hit me when I show my face on the street anytime after that. I can't stay in here forever.”

“You ever think about just retiring or something?”

“And do what? Go fishing in fucking Miami? I'll retire the same way Carmine did—the same way you're going to—but I'd like to fucking retire this Prince cocksucker before I do. Then they'll never forget my name.”

“What's he look like?”

“I only saw him once. He's a fucking giant stick. About six-four, maybe a hundred-twenty pounds, with hair like that Prince Valiant in the comics. That's where he got the name. Diamonds all over him—wristwatch, ID bracelet, cufflinks, belt buckle, everything. He's got monster hands, about twice as big as mine. Skin's dead white, like yours was when you got out. Like he's never
been
out. In the daytime, he probably hasn't.”

“Can you get close?”

“No way. He's got that cesspool wired. Nothing goes down from Port Authority to Forty-ninth, Broadway to the Hudson, that he don't know about. Every fucking freak on the street reports to him.”

“He should be easy to spot, right?”

“Sure. But he'd have me spotted first.”

“He don't know me.”

“No, but so what? You want to hit him alone?”

“He's just a man.”

“If that's all he was, I wouldn't be worried about this. He's a fucking
freak
, I told you. Only a freak could live down there like he does.”

“Where down there?”

“I don't know. He keeps different boys all the time, but he always sticks them in some fleabag flophouse. There's a hundred ways outta those rat-traps … if you know about them.”

“I know about them. I was staying in one when I got popped for the last bit.”

“Okay. But he knows
all
of them, Wes, every fucking one.”

“Stay inside tonight. I'm gonna go in there and look. Get me some upstate plates for the Caddy.”

W
esley returned to working under the sink, and Pet left him alone to go prepare the car. Just past midnight, Wesley wheeled the Caddy up Water Street and turned left onto Pike. He traveled crosstown until he crossed Broadway, connected with the West Side Highway, and rolled uptown. He exited at 23rd Street and followed Twelfth Avenue north to 42nd. There, he left the Caddy with the attendant at the Sheraton; he already had a late-arriving reservation … and a light suitcase.

In his room, Wesley changed into wine-red knit slacks and a flaming Hawaiian-print shirt worn loose outside the pants. He added a pair of genuine alligator loafers and an ID bracelet on a thick sterling chain. The initials were “CT.” He left his pistol in the Caddy and the flick knife in his suitcase.

At one-fifteen, he started his walk. He strolled past Dyer, trying to get a fix on the territory. Neon smashed at him with every step.

The street was alive the way a can of worms is alive: greasy and twisty-turning, but not going anywhere, comfortable only in the dark. As he crossed Tenth Avenue, Wesley noticed that the West Side Airlines Terminal was closed. A closer look told him that it was closed for good. Wesley looked up at the fifth floor; it would give a commanding view of the ugly scene below. For a flash-second, he thought about Korea.

Wesley crossed Ninth Avenue and headed down toward Eighth. He noticed five phone booths on the south side of the street and the Roxy Hotel on the north side. It was the Roxy where he got busted years ago, and he had to fight down the urge to see if the same clerk was still on duty … hands always ready to call the cops. Some other time.

As he crossed Eighth, Wesley reflected that the Parole Board was just a couple of blocks away, right near the Port Authority. They never closed. He could have just walked in there and asked a question like any other citizen, but that thought never occurred to him.

He could tell a cop at a glance, and he assumed that reaction was reversible. He noted the big Childs Restaurant on Eighth and 42nd, but didn't stop in. He counted thirteen movie houses between Eighth and Seventh. Thousands of people were on the street. Wesley wasn't even picking up second glances from the traffic flow.

“When I'm on the street, how do I make sure the
hustlers don't make me?” Wesley had asked Lester years ago. The answer was simple: “Just
stare
a lot. Squares can't
stop
staring at us, even when they know they shouldn't.”

Crossing Broadway, Wesley almost walked right into The Prince, who was coming out of Rexall's. The Prince wasn't alone. His huge right hand was resting possessively on the back of his companion's neck—a short, powerfully built black guy with a monster Afro and a diamond earring in his right ear.

Wesley followed them down Broadway. The Prince was continually being stopped, and his progress was slow. Wesley watched closely, but all The Prince did was occasionally lay money on people who apparently asked for some—nothing else.

But then he suddenly stopped a fat woman, and Wesley halted about a half-block behind them. They held a quick, whispered conversation, making no attempt to hide the fact that their communication wasn't meant for bystanders, The Prince still holding the back of the black guy's neck. The woman nodded vigorously as though she understood, and then continued up the block in Wesley's direction.

As she approached, she focused her eyes directly on Wesley and picked up speed. He could have avoided her rush but made no attempt to—it would have been out of character to even have noticed.

The fat woman body-slammed Wesley, knocking him back against a mailbox. She gasped, grabbing huge handfuls of Wesley's Hawaiian shirt to steady herself. As she attempted to rise, she pulled the shirt up almost
to his neck and then slapped her hands against his chest for a second before she quickly ran them along his body, across his groin, and down almost to his knees. Wesley struggled to get free, felt his pants lift over his socks, saving her that trouble. He cursed vehemently, and the fat woman backed off with some mumbled drunken apologies.

It had been a lovely, professional frisk. She'd be able to tell The Prince he wasn't heeled, wired, or dangerous.

Wesley brushed himself off and hurried up the block. He passed by The Prince and threw him a frankly curious glance, like any tourist would. The Prince continued down the block. Using a store window for a mirror, Wesley saw the giant step into a phone booth. He didn't see The Prince deposit any money, so he assumed it was the fat woman calling in to report.