The Guardian (15 page)

“What the fuck’re you doing? What the hell?”

The cop car spun directly in front of them, but Ross kept his foot down, and they knocked the rear end all the way around. T.S. bounced off the steering wheel; Ross’s belt held him. Ross reached over with his left foot, stomped on the brake to kill the last bit of forward momentum, and threw the car into reverse. “Give me room, and I’ll get us out of this,” he said, quietly, to T.S.

T.S. took his hands from the wheel as the rear tires burned rubber in reverse. Ross spun the front end around and dropped the gearshift down into forward. He rammed the side doors of the squad car and shoved the gas down and let the squealing tires drive the police car sideways into the line of parked cars.

He could see the two cops inside, both looking shaken but unhurt, one fumbling for the shotgun, the other reaching down, presumably for his handgun. “Leave your door open and crouch as you run,” Ross said. “They’ll be stuck in there for a few more minutes.”

T.S. did what he was told, running surprisingly fast for his size, and keeping himself behind the Caprice as he crossed the street. Ross waved down a cab at the corner of Commonwealth Avenue. T.S. was laughing as he slid his bulk into the backseat. “You are one crazy bastard,” he said. “One crazy bastard.”

T.S. was still chuckling as he hot-wired a Lincoln Continental. “This baby has some weight. You want to drive?”

He lit another joint and cranked up the stereo on the way over the MIT Bridge. “You got to teach me that someday. What’s it called?”

“Spin and pin.”

He offered Ross a hit, but Ross shook his head.

T.S. looked at him suspiciously, and Ross snapped, “This isn’t a social call. I want some work.”

“Be cool. Come on back to my place. I’ll make some calls. You want, if we get something on, you can use this car.” He floored it and the car surged forward. “It’s got balls.”

T.S. parked in East Cambridge, and they walked a few blocks to his building, in a redbrick apartment complex that had probably been built in the early sixties: Pastel panels decorated the face of the building, covering the rusting frames of each apartment’s deck.

“Pretty as shit, huh?” T.S. said as they walked into the lobby. Brown, musty-smelling carpet and silver foil wallpaper. “But the elevator works.”

Upstairs, he scratched his gut as he listened to his answering machine. Ten calls were recorded on the dial, but no one had left a message. “I work with a lot of shy types,” he grunted.

T.S. pulled out a pair of reading glasses and began flipping through an address book. “I know two, three guys might be doing this right now that got shotguns, or at least I know I sold them shotguns.” He looked up at Ross. “So you want this guy to splatter somebody today? Show you he’s got what it takes?”

“Definitely not. Just somebody with the capability.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll see what I can do. Five hundred for the connection. Twenty percent of whatever you take. You do the bigger job, you come to me for the weapons.” T.S. walked over to the hall closet, took a key from his belt, and opened the door. Inside the cheap paneled door was a heavier steel door, which he unlocked. There were several shotguns, a couple of them sawed off, a number of handguns, an Uzi, and a combat-style machine gun. He hefted that, grinned at Ross with pride, and said, “I’m gonna go in on the right score with this thing and make my frigging fortune—or leave a stack of bodies to say why not. I’m gonna want to hear about this big job of yours after I hear how you do tonight. If it’s big enough, you might be able to sign me on, personally.”

Chapter 25

He had red hair, and he was nineteen, maybe twenty-two at the oldest. Ross picked him up in Kenmore Square, right under the big Citgo sign. It was just before ten o’clock at night. The kid wore a full-length black leather coat, jeans, and basketball sneakers, and he had a shotgun slung on a strap under his arm.

“So you’re the hotshot, huh?” the kid said. “You’re my ticket to murder and mayhem.”

He laughed at his own joke, fast and nervous. Looking to see if Ross appreciated the word
mayhem
.

“Show me the place.”

“Sure. It’s a liquor store, down on the corner of Harvard Street.”

Ross kept the Lincoln gliding along at the speed limit while the kid chattered away. His left foot tapped the floorboards, and he talked the whole time down. “BU girls, this is like my goddamn bedroom, this street. Chick who lives there, I nailed. And there, up in that dorm. Would’ve liked to have done the roommate, too. And there, see the roof deck up there? Got laid there.”

The kid snapped on the radio and cranked up the volume.

“OK, I go in,” the kid yelled over the music. “I go in, get the cash, you wait with the engine running, and that’s it. Stomp on any cops along the way.”

The kid’s clothes were all different from what Ross remembered of the kidnapper. And the kidnapper’s voice sounded older. When the interior lights were on, Ross had seen the kid’s wrists were highly freckled. Greg hadn’t said anything about that when he mentioned seeing the kidnapper’s wrist in the store. Ross turned the radio off and the kid looked offended. Ross asked, “How much do you expect to get?”

The kid shrugged. “Whatever’s there.”

“Do they have any security?”

The kid slapped the sawed-off. “Nothing compared to this.” It was a double-barrel gun, not a pump-action like the kidnapper had used.

“I mean do they have video cameras or a guard?”

“Yeah. Couple of cameras and a guard.”

“How’d you pick this place?”

The kid laughed. “Damn place picked me. I was in last week, guy got in my face.”

Ross looked at the kid more carefully, picking up on his last phrase. “Who?”

“Manager. Old fart. Said I was trying to steal a fifth of scotch.” The kid looked for Ross’s appreciation. “Course I
was.
Walked up there with a six-pack in my hand and the fifth under my coat. Prick had sharp eyes. He could’ve just let it go, made me pay for the scotch, but he said he was going to call the cops, make a federal case of it.”

“So he knows you?”

“Naw. I had to drop all the shit and screw out of there. The security guy almost got me, this guy on foot. I play some ball, you know; I’m pretty fast for short distances. But the cigarettes, they cut down my wind.” The kid hit Ross on the arm. “That’s why you’re here, man—I want to ride away from trouble this time, get my race car driver to take me away. T.S. tells me you do wild shit with a car, is that right?”

“If I have to.” At that point, they were passing the liquor store, and Ross was fairly certain this wasn’t the guy. The kid’s voice sounded different. He was about the right size, but maybe a little heavier. The shotgun was definitely different. And there were those basketball shoes; the kidnapper had been wearing boots.

Ross said, “Are you wearing a mask in?”

“Hell, yes.” The kid grinned as he pulled out a woman’s nylon stocking. “Damn, I think it’s still warm.”

Ross circled the block, then pulled over. He drew out a map and began to look at the exit possibilities along the way. The kid tapped his foot faster. “C’mon, you know what the ad says. Just do it.”

“Sorry, I missed that.”

“What kind of car you got?”

Ross looked up.

“I mean you being a driver and all, you could tell me some stuff. I’m doing this to save up for a Corvette.”

“Have you shot anyone for your Corvette?”

The kid grinned. “You want a demo? T.S. told me you might be setting up something big later.” It was too dark to see the kid’s eyes very well, but Ross’s impression was that he was perhaps a bit nervous, but entirely sincere.

Wacko,
Ross thought.
But not the wacko I’m looking for.
Ross said, slowly, “Absolutely not. I want you in, and out, no big deal.”

“I don’t care. Consider it a freebie.”

“I
care. I’m not looking for any heat. Just a little cash while I set up this other thing.”

“Whatever.” The kid was impatient. “So let’s do it.”

This was the awkward part Ross had anticipated, finding a way to back out of committing a robbery without ruining his connection with T.S.

“What the fuck’re we doing?” the kid snapped.

Ross sighed. Shook his head.

“What?”

“What we’ve been doing,” Ross said, “is waiting for you to calm down.”

“Huh?”

“You’re wired for sound. I told T.S. I needed a pro.”

The kid shoved the gun in Ross’s face. “Motherfucker, what is this? I’ve capped three guys. I can do you, too.”

“Who’ve you capped?”

“What are you, my father confessor? Or a cop?”

Ross deadpanned it, though his heart was pounding. “I told T.S. I wanted somebody who had the experience. I figured that he realized I meant someone who wasn’t going to land me in prison.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“How old are you?”

“What’s that got to do with it? I capped three store owners, one in Revere, two in Medford.”

“I’d say eighteen or nineteen. Right?”

“Twenty-one. So what?”

“So when you went up to the counter with that fifth under your jacket, he asked you for an ID, didn’t he?”

“Big deal. I’m legal.”

“You showed him your ID, right?”

“So? He’s not going to remember. He didn’t come after me for stealing the fifth, did he?”

“You’re going into the same store, probably against the same guy behind the counter and the same security guard, and you’ve got bright red hair, and you’re wearing a woman’s stocking. People can see through that, kid. And you showed the guy your name just a week ago.” Ross shook his head disgustedly. “Tell me you didn’t wear the same coat and shoes.”

The kid faltered and looked down at his coat quickly. “No way.”

“Uh-huh. That sounded convincing. How many kids with red hair, black full-length leather coats do you think they have on the video cameras stealing from the store? Maybe he wasn’t going to make a federal case out of your pissant shoplifting before, but this is armed robbery.”

The young man looked confused, and he let the gun barrel drop from Ross’s face. “Well, shit, I can change the coat and shoes—”

Ross snatched the shotgun away with his left hand and popped the kid with a short, hard right. He turned the gun back on the kid. “Get out.”

“What the hell’s your problem?”

The guy had an adolescent whine to his voice that would’ve been amusing to Ross under the circumstances, except for the thought of those three store owners. He jabbed the kid with the gun. “If I had to share a prison cell with you, I’d kill you before the week was out. And that’s where we were headed with this job of yours. Now, move it.”

The kid got out of the car reluctantly, but once he did, he seemed to gain some of his cockiness back. “You’re dead, fucker.”

Ross answered him by tossing out a handful of change from the coin tray. “Next time, take the subway to murder and mayhem.”

Chapter 26

Crockett would’ve laughed if Beth hadn’t been within earshot in the living room. He shook his head, marveling. “You won’t get that lucky again. Red hair and stocking. What a nitwit.”

“I called T.S. right after I dumped the gun. Blasted him for sending me such an idiot.”

“Good offense and all that, huh? Did he go for it?”

“Oh, yeah. Apologized.”

Ross told Crockett what he had in mind, and Crockett nodded.

“Yeah, we could do that. Do some active recruiting, use my place. Your tab’s going up with me, though.”

Later that night, Ross saw the light on underneath Beth’s door. He realized he thought of it that way, too, that it was her room now, not his brother’s, and the realization was like a blow to his chest.

He knocked, and after a moment, she said to come in.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was holding a brush, and tears were running down her cheeks. “Pretty pathetic, huh?” she said. “Sitting here like a faithful dog with his brush. Trying to pull out enough strands to make a lock of hair I guess… .”

She rubbed the tears from her face and tapped out a cigarette from the pack on the night table. “Guess I’m trying to kill myself with these. Doing it the slow way.” She lit the cigarette and put the lighter in her pocket. “I always was a chicken.”

“You’ll have to sell me harder on that one.”

The cigarette seemed to give her a small purpose, and she gestured for him to come in. “Please, sit with me. Tell me what you’ve been doing, and how it’s helping us get Janine back.”

Ross hesitated, then said, “If anyone has a right to know, you do. Just keep it to yourself. I’m worried about Allie going to the police.” He picked up a blanket on the chair beside the bed and threw it over her shoulders. The window was open and the night air was cool, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was still wearing jeans and a tee shirt and he could see the goose bumps on her arms. He told her about his conversation with the witness of the Cambridge robbery and that he’d been trying to trace the kidnapper through Datano’s contacts—leaving out that he’d almost participated in a holdup himself that night.