A Bomb Built in Hell (19 page)

There weren't many. The brunette hostess swayed over to the space Wesley was occupying. She looked like a high-class version of the Times Square hustler, and Wesley tried hard not to catch her eye. She tried just as hard to catch his … and succeeded. Her smile was bright and professional, and her appraisal of his clothing was so quick as to seem instinctive. Pet had told him that the best knife-men were a combination of breeding and practice—he guessed her skill was acquired the same way. She took his order, brought his rye and ginger to him quickly: “Would you like this mixed, sir?”

“No, thanks.”

Wesley didn't pick up any fear reaction from her at all. He suddenly realized that he must be as foreign to these people as a man from Venus. They weren't looking for a shark in their swimming pool, so they didn't see one. Wesley relaxed and smiled, and the hostess flashed him a genuine-looking smile in return.
That must take a
lot of practice
, he thought admiringly. He watched her as she glided away, her hips gently swaying, not wiggling the way Wesley had expected.
Very good
, he thought, wondering where she'd learned.

Wesley had the Norden candidates narrowed down to a field of three, but Pet's written description could have fit any of them. They all looked alike to Wesley anyway. He was about to find a pay phone when he noticed the hostess bringing a phone with a short cord to another patron at the far end of the bar. She smiled and plugged it in somewhere behind the bar. The man immediately picked up the receiver and started talking.

Wesley had left the change from a twenty on the bar. He didn't want the liquor, but he needed to get the hostess's attention. So he threw back the rye, hardening his throat—it slipped down so smoothly he felt it must have been watered.

The hostess caught his eye before he could raise his hand or his voice. She was in front of him in a flash.

“Could you refill this?” Wesley asked her. “And get me a phone, please?”

“Certainly, sir.”

She was back with both, reduced Wesley's seventeen dollars down to fourteen, and was gone again, leaving another smile trailing behind before Wesley could even crank up his face to respond.

He noted that there was no number on the phone's dial. Wesley dialed the Sequoia Club direct, and told the professionally nice voice that answered that he would like to have Mr. Norden paged.

“It'll be just a moment, sir,” the voice told him, and then he heard the mechanism telling him he was on hold. Wesley signaled the hostess. She signaled back “just a minute,” and went out from behind the bar to carry a phone over to a beefy-looking man sitting at a small round table alone in the back.

She bent over farther than seemed absolutely necessary to plug in the instrument, but the man was too distracted to notice. Wesley watched him pick up the receiver, then he heard “Yes?” in his ear.

“I'll be there in a minute,” Wesley responded.

“Who is this?”

Wesley hung up. He saw Norden speaking into a dead phone for a couple of seconds, then watched as the man gently replaced the receiver. Wesley walked over to Norden's table. He could get no real sense of the depth of the room, and he had to decide between watching the wall behind them or the entrance. He took the second choice and sat down.

Norden looked intently at Wesley: “You're …?”

“The man on the telephone,” Wesley answered.

“How do I know who you really are?”

“Mr. P. gave me your name and number, that should be enough. And it's all you're going to get.”

“Okay, okay. Look, I don't want to talk in here.”

“The parking lot?”

“I'll meet you out there in five minutes.”

“Forget that. We walk out together, or you won't see me again.”

“You don't think I'd …”

Wesley didn't answer. He kept both hands flat on top of the little round table, a gesture as incomprehensible to Norden as Wesley's earlier threat had been. Norden signaled to the hostess, who immediately came over. She gave Wesley an extra-bright smile and took the twenty Norden handed her. She didn't pretend she was going to make change. Wesley wished he was negotiating with her instead of this weasel.

They hit the outside door, copping a “Goodnight, sir!” to each of them from several different flunkies, and then they were in the lot. When the attendant left with their tickets and Norden's five-dollar bill, Wesley couldn't tell if this was meant to cover both of them, so he paid nothing.

“Drive up the road about a half-mile and pull over,” he told Norden. “I'll be right behind you and we'll talk.”

Norden started to answer, then apparently thought better of it. His white Cadillac Coupe de Ville was easy to follow; Wesley counted six-tenths of a mile on his odometer before the Caddy pulled off to the side. It was a wide field that Wesley thought was a farm until he spotted the stone gate, set in about fifty yards from the road.

Wesley pulled the Firebird just in front of Norden's car, then backed up so that the Caddy couldn't leave first without reversing.

“Pull up your hood so it looks like I'm helping you with the engine. In case somebody stops,” Wesley told him, opening his own trunk.

“Who would stop?”

“The cops, right?”

“Not around here, they wouldn't. Anyway, that's not important. It's my wife, she—” Wesley started to say it didn't matter, but some almost dormant instinct told him that this rich man needed to talk or there'd be no contract—“she has all the money, really. It used to be all right, but now she's getting older and crazier and I can't … look, will you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you make it look like an accident?”

“No. I'm no mechanic—you're going to be someplace else at the time. It'll look like a robbery or”—watching Norden's face—“a rape that went wrong.… Something.”

“It won't be painful? I wouldn't want—”

“She won't feel a thing. For a hundred thousand dollars.”

“That's ridiculous!”

“That's what it costs for a perfect job. She goes, and I say nothing if I'm caught … ever.”

“Oh, I know the code. Mr. Petraglia told me how you all—”

“Then you know how things work,” Wesley cut him off. “Good. I need half up front, in cash. You know what to do: nothing bigger than fifties, no serial numbers in sequence, no new bills. And don't fuck with powders or anything; we got the same lights as the feds.”

“I wouldn't do anything like that.… But it'll be hard to raise that kind of cash without making her suspicious.”

The woman was no longer “my wife,” Wesley noticed. “So what? She won't be around long enough to do anything about it.”

“I need a week. Can I meet you right here next Tuesday night?”

“No. I'll wait a week. Stay by your phone; I'll call between nine and nine-thirty one night, tell you where to come.”

“But … I guess that's the way you—”

Wesley cut him off by walking away. He closed the Firebird's trunk and drove off. On the way back, he thought the whole thing over. Maybe Norden's car was wired; maybe they were picking up his conversation with a shotgun mike from behind that stone fence; maybe …

But they'd never play even
that
square with him. Wesley knew he'd never die in prison, because he'd never come to trial. He thought about the mark's “code” and wondered where Pet had gotten the stones to shovel that much crap. He remembered Carmine telling him about the “code.”

“What fucking ‘code,' kid? Here in prison? Shit! The ‘code' that says skinners can't walk the Yard? You know DeMayo? That miserable slime fucked a four-year-old girl until she died from being ripped open. He walks the Yard and nobody says nothing. Why? Because he carries and he kills. That much for the fucking ‘code'! You know why cons always target baby-rapers? Because they're usually such sorry bastards—old, sick, weak, with no crew Outside. Or young and fucked up in the brain, you know? The kind that can't protect themselves. And this bullshit that the cons fuck them up because they love kids, or 'cause they ‘got kids of their own'? Crap! They kill them and they rip them off because they are fucking
weak.… That's the only rule in here. There's no ‘code.' There's no fucking nothing … except this”—a tightly balled fist—“this”—a fiat-edged hand—“this”—the first two fingers rubbed against the thumb in the universal symbol for money. “And you handle it all with this!”—tapping his temple
.

“What about this?” Wesley had asked, smacking his fist against his chest.

“Kid, all the heart does is pump blood,” Carmine told him. “Listen, take this racial shit, all right? A nigger can't walk certain places, right? So how come Lee, he walks where he wants?”

“I don't know.”

“Because he won't be fucked with, that's why. He don't mind dying. That's the only thing they respect, kid … in here and out there.”

“You said a few things with your hands.”

“They're all the same thing: power. You got it and you don't use it, it goes away. You
do
use it, it grows. And if you don't have it, you better get some.”

“Who do you get it from?”

“Power in America is money. You can steal money, all the money in the world, but you'll never be able to join their fucking rich-man's club. You could steal a billion fucking dollars and not run for office … but you can
buy
a senator, you see?”

“So what kind of power could I get? My freedom?”

“Not freedom, Wes, free
doom
. People like us are never free to say how we live; but some of us can say how we die. And when. That's the only thing really free for us.
Out there, or in here. And those are the only two places in the world—out there or in here.”

“Is the whole ‘code' really fucked up that bad? When I was in the reform school, we—”

“It's
all
gone now. Look around the Yard, what do you see? Me, I see maggots—garbage that would sell your life for a carton, never mind a parole. I see junkies, walking around dead. I see colored guys in here for
being
colored, and little kids in here for bullshit beefs, just because they had no coin. The only real criminals are Outside anyway. Things have changed. You don't see the man who steals anymore, the good clean thief, the professional. No, it's all ragged out, Wes. It's all gone sick, and it's not gonna ever get better.”

Wesley realized that Norden didn't know any of this—to a mark, the movie mythology was gospel truth.

W
hen Wesley pressed the horn ring and slid inside the garage, the kid was waiting for him. He had the grease gun leveled—it didn't flicker until Wesley stepped out into the soft glow of the diffused spots.

“Okay?” the kid asked.

“Only thing may be a make on the plates and the car color. We can't use those plates again, but otherwise …”

“I'll take care of it.”

It took Wesley only fifteen minutes to reach his own place, shower, dispose of the clothing, snap a leash on the dog, and return to the garage. He led the dog to a
spot right in front of the garage door, unsnapped the leash, said “Watch!”

“You got the right kind of clothes for the roof?” he asked the kid.

“This time of night?”

Wesley nodded.

“Yeah. In the chest of drawers over there.”

“Get dressed and meet me up there, okay?”

The kid walked over to the chest, still carrying the grease gun in one hand.

“I'
m going to meet a guy from Pet's old client book,” Wesley told the kid. “About a week from tonight. He wants me to hit his wife. I told him fifty K up front. I'll call and tell him where to bring it. I figure he'll be looking for the same car. You follow me with the Caddy. I'll have him meet me in a field somewhere out there. You bring the nightscope and a quiet rifle. Anything happens, you hit him and split … okay?”

“Why we going to hit his wife?”

“For the money.”

“There's a risk, right?”

“Always a risk.”

“So why risk? I could just as easy pop him soon as he gets out of his car. Then we got fifty thousand and no risk.”

“That's good thinking, kid. There's no code, we don't owe the sucker nothing. But if he's bought himself some cover and you hit him, we're in a firefight. And that's a
bigger
risk, right?”

“Yeah,” the kid said. “I see.”

“So what we do is take the weasel's money and just don't make the hit. We just disappear.”

“And we get the fifty thousand.”

“Yeah.”

“Somehow it don't seem right.”

“Not to hit the wife?”

“Not to hit
him
. It don't seem safe to leave him around.”

“Don't think like a sucker. This is no hit on a mob guy. What's he gonna do, fucking
sue
us? He wouldn't
begin
to know where to look for me. A trail of bodies is easier to follow than a trail of rumors.”

“But he's seen your face.”

“Kid, he never saw my face.”

A
fter the kid went back downstairs, Wesley stayed on the roof to focus on the choices he had.

If he took the money from Norden and just walked away without fulfilling the contract, the overwhelming odds were that Norden would never be in a position to retaliate. He would never see Wesley again, or even hear of him.

But Pet's established business had been based upon two foundations: regular employment by the conservative old men who formed an ever-loosening and sloppy fraternity, and occasional jobs from an even sloppier and far hungrier group of wealthy humans … his client list.

Maybe that group depended on their own telegraph for information? Wesley's failure to carry out a contract might curtail future employment.