The Blade Itself
The Blade Itself
MARCUS SAKEY
MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
MICHAEL JOSEPH
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road,
Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre,
Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1310, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
First published in the United States of America by Minotaur Books 2007
First published in Great Britain 2007
1
Copyright © by Marcus Sakey, 2007
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations,
and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously.
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior
written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book
EISBN: 978–0–141–90231–9
For Mom and Dad, who said the stars were in reach;
and for g.g., who wished on one as it fell
No book belongs to just one person. My deepest thanks to:
Scott Miller, my extraordinary agent, who believed in the novel from first reading – and who promptly told me how to make it better. Here’s to a long partnership, my friend.
My remarkable editor, Ben Sevier, who asked questions that were so good that I had to make the answers live up to them, who tirelessly shepherded the story from manuscript to book, and who is a hell of a guy to boot.
All the amazing folks at St Martin’s, especially Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, George Witte, Matt Baldacci, Christina Harcar, Kerry Nordling, Dori Weintraub, Rachel Ekstrom, and Jenness Crawford. Thanks also to the art and production teams, who turned a stack of scrubby pages into a beautiful book.
This novel would not have been written were it not for the generous nudging of Patricia Pinianski and Joe Konrath, two of the most giving folks in the biz. Thank you both.
Authors need experts. For questions about dead people, I turned to Dr Vince Tranchida, New York City Medical Examiner, who eagerly provided wonderfully gruesome details. I also owe a special thanks to the Chicago Police Department, who are good people doing a hard job. Assistant Director Patrick Camden and Detective Kenneth Wiggins put up with many stupid questions, and I’m grateful for it. Any errors are mine, not theirs.
Books grow just like people, and I’m fortunate to have friends who were willing to deal with this one during its
pimply adolescence. Big thanks to Jenny Carney, Brad Boivin, and Michael Cook for their early feedback.
Thanks to the members of my writing group, whose suggestions were never short of stellar, and whose names you’ll soon be seeing on bestseller charts.
To my friends, who kept me going with a steady diet of beer and laughter. You know who you are.
To my loving and supportive family, Mom, Dad, and Matthew, who read the manuscript more times than anyone should and who propped me up more times than I ever thought I’d need. Authors are supposed to have miserable family lives, guys. Get with the program.
And lastly, to g.g., my wife and my smile. Living with a novelist can’t be easy, but you always manage to slip a pillow between my head and the walls I tend to hit with it. Thank you, baby.
The blade itself incites to violence.
– Homer
The alley wasn’t as dark as Danny would’ve liked, and Evan was driving him crazy, spinning the snub-nose like a cowboy in some Sunday matinee. ‘Would you put that away?’
‘Keeps me cool.’ Evan smiled the bar-fight grin that showed his chipped tooth.
‘I don’t care if it makes you feel like Rick James. You shouldn’t have brought it.’ Danny stared until his partner sighed and tucked the pistol into the back of his belt. Evan had always lived for the thrill of the job, all the way back to when they had stolen forties of Mickeys from the 7-Eleven. But the addition of the gun made Danny uneasy. Made him wonder if Karen was right to suggest he start thinking long-term. Reconsider his options.
He shook his head and stared out the window. Earlier, munching greasy chips in a taco bar across the street, they’d watched the owner of the pawnshop lock up. The dashboard clock now read just after eleven, and the alley was stone quiet. Chicago life centered on the neighborhoods; once night fell, the downtown area died. Twenty minutes ago they’d cut the phone lines without a show from the cops, which meant no cellular alarm. Everything looked good.
Until something moved.
Fifteen yards away, in a pocket of black. There, then gone again. Like someone stepping carefully. Like someone hiding. Danny leaned forward, one hand covering the glowing radio to sharpen his night vision. Shadows painted dingy brick walls with a black brush. A breeze sent a newspaper
tumbling by the passenger side window. Maybe he’d just seen blowing trash and his mind had filled in the rest of the picture. The tension could get to you.
Then he saw it again. A slight motion. Someone getting closer to the wall, deeper in the shadow. His pulse banged in his throat.
Beat cops didn’t sneak around that way. They just rolled up with their lights spinning. Unless the police hoped to catch them actually robbing the place. Danny pictured Terry, that weasel mustache, the moist stink of a habitual farter. He’d told them about the job – had he sold them out?
Out of the darkness stumbled a stooped man with greasy hair. He ran one hand along the wall to steady his cautious shuffle. A pint bottle nosed out of a frayed pocket. Reaching the trash bin, he glanced in either direction and unzipped his fly. Took a piss with one hand in his pocket like he was in the men’s room of his country club.
Danny breathed again, then chuckled at his nerves. When the bum finished, he crossed to the other side of the alley and leaned against the wall. He slid down to a squat and closed his eyes. Danny said, ‘He’s camping.’
Evan nodded, rubbed one hand across his chin, the stubble making a grating sound. ‘Now what?’
‘Guess we could give him a minute.’
‘He looks pretty tucked in.’ Evan paused, then looked over. ‘Should I shoot him?’
Danny shrugged. ‘Sure.’
Evan drew the gun, sighted through the windshield. He closed one eye. ‘Bang.’ He spun the gun to his lips and blew imaginary smoke.
Danny laughed, then turned back to the problem at hand. The drunk sat directly across from the pawnshop door. With his head resting on his knees, he looked almost peaceful.
‘Chase him off?’
‘No. He might yell,’ Danny said. ‘Might run into a cop, who knows.’
‘So I’ll knock him down.’ Evan smiled. ‘You know they don’t get up after I knock ’em down.’
The idea wasn’t totally without merit, but lacked elegance. Too much noise, and it wasn’t like the bum had done anything to deserve a beating. Besides, Evan was Golden Gloves. Probably end up killing the poor bastard. Danny squinted, trying to think of a way to get rid of the guy without complicating the job. Then smiled. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ He reached for the door handle.
‘He looks dangerous. Don’t forget the pistola.’ Evan held it out, a mocking smile on his lips.
‘Fuck you.’ Danny stepped out of the car.
At the sound of the door, the bum scrambled to his feet, holding his hands in front of him. The sleeves of his suit jacket were three inches too short. Beneath it he wore several sweatshirts. ‘I got nothing.’ Drink rounded the edges of his words, and he reeked of urine and panic. ‘Don’t hurt me.’
Danny shook his head. But for the grace. ‘Relax, old man.’
The man peered at him suspiciously, ready to run. ‘You got a cigarette?’
‘Don’t smoke. My friend,’ jerking a thumb toward the car, ‘he smokes. But he
will
hurt you.’
The man stiffened, yellowed eyes darting. ‘Listen, mister –’
‘Shut up.’ Danny reached in his pocket, took out his wallet. ‘See this? Twenty bucks.’
The bum froze, eyes locked on the bill. ‘I – I don’t do that stuff, the faggot stuff…’
Danny couldn’t help chuckling. The guy clearly had no idea what he smelled like. ‘Take this money and go up to Grand and LaSalle. There’s a liquor store there. Buy a bottle,
take a seat in the parking lot.’ Danny stepped closer, his voice conspiratorial. ‘In about half an hour, a friend of mine will come by. I need to tell him something, but I don’t want to say it on the phone, know what I mean? My friend, he’ll be wearing a tan raincoat. You tell him – you listening? – you tell him the birds have flown the cage. You do that, he’ll give you another twenty.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Easiest money you ever made.’ He proffered the bill, trying to keep the laugh from his eyes. The bum reached, hesitated, took it. ‘Good man. Don’t let me down.’
The guy turned, started east down the alley, the wrong direction. Danny almost called him back, figured what the hell, stood in the shadows until he was out of sight. The car door opened. ‘How much you give him?’
‘Ten.’
Evan snorted, shook his head. ‘Let’s work.’ He popped the trunk, light flooding across his black T-shirt, dug around and came up with a fistful of thick chain. Danny took one end and walked to the door, playing it out slow, the rattle loud in the close confines of the alley. The bum had gotten his blood up, and he let the rush take him, everything clear and sharp, his movements precise. A heavy steel cage sealed the rear door of the pawnshop, the metal discolored with age. Danny hooked the chain to the bars, thinking of the movies, the way thieves always tunneled up through the streets with plastic explosives or cracked safes with diamond-tipped drills. Eight bucks at Home Depot had bought them all the supplies they needed.
Robbing pawnshops was generally a dicey proposition. Because they kept cash on hand, security could be a hassle. According to Terry, this guy sold more than old TVs and secondhand bling. He also dealt weed in weight. That meant extra cash – more than enough to make up for the trouble.
Sure. Easy money. Same line you just sold the bum
.
No time. Danny double-checked the chain, then turned and nodded. Evan inched the Mustang forward, headlights off, the car a black shark. As the links grew taut, Danny stepped behind the shelter of the rust-stained Dumpster. He cocked his head to listen, one hand up.
A long minute passed before he heard it. Slow at first, just a distant rattle, but it swiftly grew to a full clattering roar. From the elevated tracks, sparks blew sideways into the night, heralding the passing of the Orange Line El.
Danny dropped his hand. Evan gunned the engine quick and hard. With a screech – tortured, but barely audible over the train – the metal latch gave. The gate ripped open, chain still attached, hinges straining from the pull of the car. For a second Danny thought Evan might tear it right off the wall. But brake lights washed red across him, then the white of reverse, and finally the engine fell to silence.
The chain felt warm as Danny detached it and crouched to check the revealed door. Twin Schlages. He slid the Crown Royal bag from his inside pocket. Some guys cut down hacksaw blades, some liked the professional kits. Personally, he’d always found the bristles of a street sweeper made the best lock picks, hard but flexible. He’d popped both deadbolts by the time Evan had stowed the chain.
The rattle of the El faded as they stepped into the cramped pawnshop office. Danny generally liked to take a moment inside to listen to the darkness, but Evan already had the flashlight out. As it glared to life, Danny caught a glint off the gun in Evan’s other hand. Showboating, chasing the thrill. He thought about saying something, decided against it.
‘There.’ A battered metal desk winked in the flashlight beam, below a calendar with a swimsuit model cozying up to a carburetor. He could make out a rumpled mattress on the
floor beside it. ‘Terry said the bag would be in the manager’s desk.’
‘Not in a safe?’
‘Owner’s a gun nut, apparently. Figures no one will mess with him.’