Читать книгу Blast - Andrew Kim - Страница 4

In the evening, Brown and Chambers met at a bar two blocks from police headquarters on Main Street – a favored watering hole where cops often gathered in the evenings to quaff a few beers or maybe something stronger. Chambers grinned, pulling out some papers from his bag and watching Brown put two mugs of lager on their table:

“What’s up, Troy, don’t feel like going home?”

“Drop dead!” said Brown half-heartedly, lighting up a cigarette.

“Shelley?”

“She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.” “She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“Of course not. I’ve had it up to here with our hot weather.”

“Does Shelley have relatives in Perte?”

“Yeah, they helped her find a job,” Brown nodded. “An aunt or a cousin, God knows who. It’s all very complicated. Anyway, to hell with it. What have you dug up?”

“There’s nothing on Deuce. We’ve never arrested a man by that nickname on weapons charges. Just in case, I sent an inquiry to the state police, but I doubt they’ll have anything. It seems he is really a very cautious fellow.”

“If he exists.”

“Oh yes he does, Troy. Look here.”

Chambers opened a folder and handed Brown a police file. Brown looked at a photo of a dark-haired, grim-looking fellow.

“Peter Adamidi,” he read. “And who’s that?”

“His nickname is “Greek.’ He’s in jail now. The guys from the 13th Precinct brought him in a month ago. Do you remember the shooting on Ross Avenue?”

Brown remembered. About three months ago, several guys got into a fight at night at a gas station. One started threatening another with a pistol. His opponent, in a rage, snatched an AK-47 from the trunk and went postal.

“Smashed up the gas station,” Brown recalled. “The bozo opened fire with a Kalashnikov and wounded two people.”

While the guys from the 13th Precinct were looking for the shooter, they squeezed his broad to find Greek, who had sold him the gun. Under the guise of being customers, they met Greek and nabbed him when he tried to sell them three banana clips for a Kalashnikov.”

“And what does Deuce have to do with all this?”

“I called the guys at the 13th Precinct. They recorded all their conversations with Greek. He boasted that he works for Deuce. And since he works for Deuce, that means his goods are top quality.”

“Really?” Brown was surprised. “How is it that Deuce’s weapons are now a top brand on the street, and we know nothing about it?

Well, better late than never. So on Wednesday morning, Brown went straight to the city jail. He turned in his pistol and knife at the entrance and was led to the interrogation room. The guard brought in Greek, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The prisoner gave Brown a long, penetrating look.

“What do you want?”

“I am Lieutenant Brown, homicide division.”

“And?”

Greek was clearly not eager to cooperate and tried to take the initiative in the conversation. Brown offered him a cigarette to loosen him up, even though smoking was forbidden within these walls. He looked Greek in the eye, but the con man didn’t flinch, answering with a calm and composed demeanor.

“Greek, who’s Deuce?”

“A card. Lower than a three. Anything else?”

“Very funny,” Brown snorted. “Several times you’ve mentioned a man named Deuce. We’ve got it on tape.”

“Listen to the recording again, carefully. Maybe I also mentioned little green men. So what?”

Brown paused. “Could Deuce get C—4?” He kept watching Greek closely and saw him tense up. Smiling at his own thoughts, Greek drawled: “I heard the news. Some guy got his head blown off. That’s what we’re talking about, right?”

“Do you know anything about it?”

Greek put out his cigarette. Apparently, he was not inclined to beat around the bush. “Maybe, lieutenant, and maybe not. Why should I talk to you? What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“Deuce might be able to get C—4,” said Greek, after a pause. “He knows a lot of important people in different states. Do you need him? Fine, I’ll give him to you. No problem. But only if you get me out of here.”

Brown frowned. “We can discuss it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” said Greek firmly, seeing his opportunity. “I’ll get you Deuce, and you get out me out of here. They’ve got me in here for arms trading. That’s not a serious crime, and I know that you can spring me out. I want a deal, and that’s all there is to it. I’m not interested in anything else.”

Negotiations with the 13th Precinct and the prosecutor’s office presented no problems, and after dinner, accompanied by detectives Gilan and Porras, Brown returned to the jail with signed papers which stated that Greek would be set free until his trial. On the way out, Brown watched Greek collect his belongings with obvious satisfaction – keys, watch, wallet. He led him to the parking lot. Then all of them, including the other two detectives, got into two cars for the ride back to the city.

“I’ve done my part,” Brown began. “Now it’s your turn, Greek. Who is he?”

“Where are we going?”

“To a motel. Until we get Deuce, you’ll be staying with my detectives.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” said Greek apprehensively.

Brown cut him off: “I’m not going to risk you suddenly backing out. Or warning your buddy that the cops are hunting for him. I will only let you go when I have Deuce. Then you can go do what you want. But for the time being, I too need guarantees. If you’re not happy with it, you can go back where you came from.”

This was clearly not what Greek had in mind, but he just nodded sullenly. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“Great. Who is he?”

“His name is Matt Highley.”

“How do we contact him?”

“You don’t. I know his phone number, but he will only speak on the phone to people he knows personally.”

“Fine. Clear your throat before you dial the number. Is Deuce connected or something? I mean, if they learn you sold them down the river, would it come back to you?”

“I’ll take care of my own business, thank you,” Greek said drily, and turned away, looking out the window as the suburbs flew by.

Brown didn’t like him. There was something not quite kosher about him, but what exactly it was, Brown didn’t know. Anyway every criminal had his own fish to fry. Brown was interested in only one thing: that the conversation with Deuce would be a slam dunk. On the Department’s tab, they checked in to a room at the back of a quiet motel on the outskirts of town. They decided to use the phone in the room to make the call. A technician came down from the Department with the recording equipment they needed. When everything was ready, Brown instructed Greek how to behave, and handed him the phone.

After three rings, Brown heard, through the headphones, a cautious male voice:

“Yeah.”

“Deuce, it’s me.”

There was a pause. “Where are you?” the voice asked.

“They let me out. I was lucky with my lawyer. It’s a long story, I can tell you when we meet.”

“How long ago?”

“A couple of days.”

“Why are you calling?” Deuce clearly was not dying to buy his good friend a brewskie.

“Deuce, I’ve got a buddy,” Greek said, exchanging glances with Brown, who nodded to him, “go ahead.” “He needs some wheels.”

“Who is he?”

“A good buddy. You know, we got it all figured, but then the cops grabbed me, and the deal fell through. Yesterday I saw the guy, and he still needs the cars.”

“Why don’t you get them yourself?” There was a hint of malice in Deuce’s voice. “You’re a real bad-ass businessman. You’ve got everything under control.”

“I just got out of the slammer,” Greek blurted out. “I haven’t even washed off the prison stink yet! I’m not such a moron as to draw attention to myself right away. I don’t want to go back there. But I don’t want to lose a client either. Deuce, it’s a piece of cake, I tell you.”

Deuce paused, as if listening to his instincts. Brown also sensed, judging from the silence, that Deuce was gauging the chances that this was a setup.

“I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

“I’m telling you, his creds are rock solid. I’ve known him for a couple of years, and I did business with him twice. High-end wheels both times. Spare parts too. Deuce, have I ever let you down?”

The code they used was simple. “Cars” were weapons, and “spare parts” parts were ammunition. Not the most powerful cryptography, but criminals always feel more comfortable talking in code. Over the years, Brown had heard many epithets used by crooks over the telephone to refer to their goods: weapons, drugs, whatever. Anything from “cactuses” to “workers.”

“What kind of cars are you talking about?” asked Deuce, after another pause. Brown exchanged glances with DiMaggio: Looks like he’s rising to the bait.

“Ten sedans. Not used; nice and clean, you got it? If it comes together, my buddy will be ready to talk trucks.”

Trucks were full auto rifles.

“Where is he going to drive them?”

“Not here,” Greek hastened to reply, taking the hint. “He needs them to work in another state. No sweat.”

Another pause. Then Deuce finally said what they had been waiting for: “Write down this number. He should call at exactly 2:00. Exactly. If he calls earlier or later, no deal.”

Brown was standing at the curb in front of the supermarket. The large parking lot in front of the building was full, with cars pulling in and out all the time, parading before Brown’s eyes in one incessant flow. Deuce had picked a good meeting place: It’s a simple matter to lose oneself in a crowd here. Brown was holding an ice cream cone, the signal that Deuce had chosen during their conversation, which took place at exactly 2:00 p.m.

One of the cars crawling past, a used and battered Toyota, suddenly stopped, and the rear door swung open. A tough-looking guy barked from the back seat: “Get in.”

Glancing around, Brown dropped his ice cream and climbed in. The car instantly took off, drove past the parking lot, and headed for the street. Picking up speed, the Toyota sped toward the city center.

Behind the wheel was a scrawny, middle-aged fellow with a sharp, piercing look about him. He glanced at the rearview mirror every other second. Making sure there’s no tail, thought Brown. The goon cornered Brown on the far right of the seat and began to quickly and professionally search his pockets and tap his clothes, feeling for a wire.

“Take it easy,” Brown growled.

“Gotta check you out, bud. We don’t know you.”

“Are you Deuce?”

“No, “said the goon tersely, fishing out the knife mounted on Brown’s belt. Turning it over, he handed it to Brown, then curtly told the driver, “Clean.”

“I don’t know you either,” Brown remarked. “I agreed to meet with Deuce.”

“You’ll meet him,” said the goon, and gave Brown a tablet computer.

“What’s this for?”

“What guns do you need? Take your pick.”

Brown was amazed, the more so when he turned on the tablet. Before him was an already opened photo gallery, showing dozens of photographs of pistols, which could be enlarged for close inspection.

“A catalog? What’s on sale today? Any house specials?”

The goon grimaced and said nothing. The driver kept looking in the rearview mirror. The car raced along the busy street at high speed, weaving from lane to lane.

They did not realize that all the available cops in the city police force were taking part in the operation. Five carloads of detectives were following right behind them, switching every half mile. Ten more cars had scattered throughout the area at the start of the operation and were listening in on the police wave. As soon as the Toyota left the supermarket, unmarked police cars started moving on parallel streets, so they could all converge at the right moment. A police helicopter coordinated the surveillance, with a cop on board carefully watching through binoculars as the subject sped along the streets.

“Attention everybody, subject is merging into the far left lane. Turning onto Duval Street.”

“Car 10—15. Copy that.”

“11—8 and 10—12, proceed along Junior Street.”

“Subject is moving east toward Walton Street. Over.”

“10—16, don’t get so close to him, move over one lane.”

And in the Toyota, which dozens of policemen were following in person and via the airwaves, Brown handed the tablet back to the goon. The screen had a Sig P210 on it, magnified to the actual size.

“Here! This!”

“Ten?”

“Ammo too. Two boxes apiece, so twenty boxes.”

“We can do it today. You got the money?”

“Not on me, of course. I’ll bring it once I see the goods.”

“You can transfer the money using Ray Pay,” said the goon, giving Brown a piece of paper with numbers scribbled on it. “Here’s the number. When we see the money in the account, we’ll deliver the guns.”

“Yeah, right,” Brown exclaimed. “I wasn’t born yesterday, man. When I see the guns, I’ll give you the money.”

“We don’t do business face to face, get it?” the goon growled in annoyance. “Delivery only. You got a problem with that?”

“Take it easy, okay?” Brown’s mind was racing. “How about this? You show me the guns. If everything is in order, I’ll call my man, and he’ll deposit the money into your account.”

The goon glanced at the driver, who, seeing him in the rearview mirror, gave a barely perceptible nod. The goon relaxed. “Yeah, that should work. We’ll call you.”

The car pulled over to the curb. The goon gestured at the door, indicating that Brown should get out.

“When?”

“We’ll call you.”

Brown got out and the Toyota raced off. Behind it, driving at high speed, was a nondescript sedan; Brown caught a glimpse of a familiar detective behind the wheel. The man was speaking into the walkie-talkie: “They’ve split up; subject is heading north along Cross Road.”

Following a jeep there were a couple more cars, and in one of them, Brown saw another policeman in plain clothes. Then Chambers” car pulled up alongside Brown, and the passenger door opened. Sitting down beside him, Brown said, “It wasn’t Deuce. One of his people, but not him.”

As the car pulled off, Chambers handed Brown a thin folder that was lying on the dashboard.

“Is Deuce’s real name Matt Highley? We found his file, here it is.”

Now Brown was really puzzled: The goon’s driver was looking at him from the mug shot in the police file.

After that, everything went haywire.

The police kept following Deuce and the goon’s car, which seemed to be circling around aimlessly. The helicopter kept on coordinating the detectives, maintaining its distance and a good height, with a running narrative by walkie-talkie: “Subject is turning right on Heuman Street. 9—17, take a left. Over.”

The Toyota kept driving along. Deuce scowled into the rearview mirror. He felt something was up, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His intuition had never deceived him, so Deuce had learned to trust it, always and everywhere – that’s why he was still in business, rather than rotting away in prison. One of the cars behind him aroused his suspicion. But, casting another glance in the mirror, Deuce saw it turn left.

“What’s wrong?” growled the goon, looking back.

“I don’t know yet. It doesn’t seem like we’ve got a tail, but… I don’t know,” Deuce replied sourly. “I think something’s wrong.”

Chambers and Brown listened carefully to the radio chatter.

“Why they are they running in circles? Chambers wondered nervously.

“They’re checking.”

“Everything go okay?”

“I did everything as we agreed. They didn’t have any reason to suspect anything,” Brown replied, trying to think whether he had slipped up somewhere. It didn’t seem so. Yes, he had been unyielding, but that was rule number one in undercover work. There is nothing more suspicious than a buyer who agrees to everything immediately just to make the deal happen.

Voices kept chirping out of the walkie-talkie: “They’re turning toward Kirby Street. Heading down toward Mason.”

“9—8, take them starting at Mason.”

“Rodger.”

“10—13, take a left.”

Brown quickly looked through Deuce’s file. “Two arrests and a year in prison for possession. No operational information about where he fits into the business. This guy is really good.”

“There’s a highway patrol car on Kinsey Street,” the radio croaked. “Tell them to leave the buggers alone.”

His eyes still on the rearview mirror, Deuce turned onto Kinsey. Just ahead, at the next intersection, was a police cruiser lying in ambush. Diddling his radar gun, perhaps, Deuce sneered under his breath. The second patrolman was walking around the car. They were still 100 yards away when the patrolman on the outside mumbled something into his walkie-talkie and hurried back into the car. But before that, he managed to cast a quick glance in the direction of Deuce’s Toyota.

Deuce caught his breath and squinted. There was something wrong, right now. And there was a way to check.

“The main thing now is not to lose my nerve,” he muttered, and stepped on the gas.

Accelerating quickly, the Toyota whizzed and roared past the patrol car. The policeman at the wheel was looking straight at it, and his radar was pointing that way too.

Crossing the intersection, Deuce looked carefully in the rearview mirror. If everything was normal, the patrol car would now turn on its flashers and go after them.