Devils in Exile (20 page)

Maven had a clogged feeling in his chest. “No. Not the same guy. Different Brad Royce.”

“You fucking hope so. Fucking Roycey. I think about him sometimes, wonder where he’s at. Guy like that. I wonder about a lot of guys. But not Cipher. Not no more.”

Maven stared at his drink, then swallowed it, grimacing through the hurt.

“One more,” said Clearwater.

“No,” said Maven, putting out his hand.

Samara arrived with a Barneys New York shopping bag. “I’ve been calling you.”

“Uh-oh,” said Clearwater.

Maven fumbled out his phone. “I had it set to vibrate.”

“You didn’t feel it?”

“Not really feeling much of anything right now.”

“Blame me,” said Clearwater, trying to pay.

Maven refused, laying out the cash himself.

“Look at you,” said Clearwater.

Outside, at the escalator leading down, Clearwater had a big hug for both Maven and Samara. His jacket was crumpled over his arm and his shirt was puffed out of the waist of his pants. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said to Samara, then punched Maven in the chest. “You too.”

Clearwater stepped onto the escalator, riding it down to street level.

Samara turned to Maven, more scandalized than angry. “Are you drunk?”

Maven shook his head. “Just out of practice.”

“Still up for the movie?”

“Absolutely.”

He didn’t stop thinking about Clearwater’s Royce until ten minutes after the opening credits, when he fell asleep.

M
AVEN RODE OUT TO
Q
UINCY FOLLOWING THE SAME ROUTE HE USED
to jog on his runs home from the parking lot. Now he was on a Harley Softail, the late-night air rippling his leather jacket.

He cut the engine at the pumps outside City Oasis, rolling silently to the front window. Through the phone-plan ads and milk prices stuck to the glass, he saw Ricky slumped on a stool behind the counter, patrol cap atop his head. Maven watched him for a long minute, Ricky kind of staring off, mumbling to himself.

Ricky saw him then, and his smile went ear-wide before he could contain it. He came around the counter, out through the bell-rigged doors.

Ricky was skinnier and shorter than Maven recalled, or maybe it was Maven’s bootheels.

“I told you I’d be by.”

Ricky wiped his dry mouth with the back of his hand, trying to squash his giddy grin. He was taking a good look at the bike. “Holy shit.”

“Take her for a spin.”

Ricky shook his head. “I don’t want to ride it. I want to make out with it.”

Maven got him to sit on the seat. Ricky tried out the handlebars, then shook his head, giggling a little. “Fuck you.”

“I know it.”

“You fuckin’ dick.”

They were both all smiles.

Ricky said, “Check out my ride.”

Parked near the 75-cent air dispenser was a twenty-year-old, pea green Pontiac Parisienne. “Seriously?” said Maven.

Ricky stood by it with pride. It was a sweet sled in its own retro way: gas tank cap behind the pull-down rear license plate; original velour upholstery; original radio. The kind of lean four-door sedan an undercover 1980s TV detective would drive.

“This is the tits,” said Maven, relieved not to have to bullshit him.

“Needs some transmission work. Suspension. Brakes. But I like it.”

Inside, Ricky treated Maven to a blue raspberry Slush, poured with a shaky hand. “Store’s the same, huh? I tried to pick up some day shifts, but the sun fucks with me. Needling headaches.”

They caught up a bit, interrupted by two paramedics coming in for cigarettes and junk food, who failed to see the irony. Ricky was brisk with them, borderline rude, throwing their change so he could get back to Maven, as though he were afraid Maven would disappear again.

“How’s your thing?” Ricky asked. “Going good?”

“It’s going. You know.”

“If it doesn’t work out, you can always …”

“Yeah. Good to know.” They smiled.

“I’m checking in the newspapers now. He’s got me doing the candy order once a week, though I always screw it up.” Ricky pulled off his cap, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand, swiping sweat off his brow. Giving Maven a good look at the ding in his head, where his hair would never grow back.

The door chimed, a transvestite walking in with his head held high. Maven remembered the guy. He went straight to the customer bathroom, as always.

“Nothing really changes in my world,” said Ricky.

They talked more about his car until the tranny came out of the bathroom and brought some Schick Quattro blades to the counter.

“Fuck,” sighed Ricky.

“It’s cool,” said Maven, settling him down. He pointed to the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
door. “I’m gonna …”

“Sure.”

Maven saw his blue tongue and lips in the lopsided mirror over the employee toilet. He was a different guy from the one who used to stand here taking a leak. He flushed, splashed some water on his hands, looked around for a roll of paper towels. He didn’t find any, instead seeing a leather pouch tucked up on the sill of the high, frosted window.

He dried his hands on the thighs of his jeans, staring at this thing. He reached up and pulled it down. He unzipped it.

Inside was a glass-barreled needle and a length of rubber tubing, and a glass ampoule of clear fluid. The white manufacturer’s label read, “2 ml Fentanyl Citrate—WARNING: May Be Habit Forming.”

Maven knew fentanyl. A prescription drug for cancer patients or long-term pain management. Like OxyContin but more powerful. Something like eighty times more potent than heroin.

Maven went cool and shaky, as though he’d hit up on the stuff just by holding the kit in his hands. He zipped it shut and set it back on the sill. He stood there a long time, immobilized, until he realized that the longer he waited, the better the chance Ricky would know he’d been found out.

Ricky was tearing open a pack of Sour Patch Kids when Maven returned. Ricky was smiling, but everything had slowed down for Maven. He fixed on Ricky’s froth-white skin and raccoon-mask eyes. The sweat stain around his collar.

“Tyra’s coming on soon,” said Ricky. “You gonna hang out, watch with me?”

Maven couldn’t remember what he said, or how he did it, but he got away soon after that and took the long way home.

L
ASH MET
T
RICKY AT DAWN ON THE BEACH AT
C
OLUMBIA
POINT
. They crossed Day Boulevard into the park, walking wide around some citizens doing a daybreak boot-camp exercise class, running up bleachers and frog-walking across the field while instructors barked at them.

“Here’s two hundred bones, please kick my ass,” said Trick, the scar on his neck tightening as he chuckled within his hoodie. He had been about Rosey’s age when Lash saved his life on that Mattapan sidewalk. Rosey was still laid out in bed, snoring like a bear when Lash decamped, having stumbled in a few hours earlier. He’d been going with a girl recently. He had a lot of friends.

They crossed Old Colony near the JFK/UMass station, staying wide of the commuters, drifting underneath a bridge.

“Fuckers staying busy,” said Tricky. “I ain’t heard all that much, past couple a weeks, but I don’t hear everything neither.”

Lash said, “Street prices going up.”

“Up, up, up. Cost of doing business. Supply drying up all over. Seller’s market out here.”

No economic system was as pure and elastic as street economy. Tricky showed Lash what he had brought him here for, the tag on the stanchion beneath the bridge, painted red and fresh:
BANDITS 25/PER D-O-A.

“A street bounty,” said Tricky. “Twenty-five g’s each. Dead or alive.”

“That’s a lot of bones.”

“Four bandits is six figs. Tol’ you this serious. Somebody gonna get
popped
.”

Lash foresaw dead-enders banding together, bandits hunting the Bandits, turning Boston into the Wild West. “Who put it out?”

“We in Broadhouse turf, but I’d put it on L or C.” Lockerty or Crassion, the other two Pins. “Probably Lockerty. It’s his house getting hurt the most.”

“You know this?”

“Who knows anything? It’s what I hear.”

“You wouldn’t just be protecting your own boss?”

“My boss of bosses. That’d be like you hustling to protect your top man in D.C. Broads can take care hisself.”

Lash unfolded the ATM surveillance photo, another copy, this one without Maven’s vitals on the back. Showed it to Tricky.

Tricky pointed to Vasco. “That Bob?”

“Who’s Bob?”

“What you call a guy, cut off his arms and legs, throw him in the river.”

Lash nodded. “That’s Bob. Vasco, the Venezuelan. What about the woman?”

“Shit. I remember blondes much better.” An ambulance siren went screaming past them, down the Southeast Expressway. “You got my attention though.”

“It could be coincidence, a blind alley, nothing.”

“Not if you’re showing it to me.” Tricky one-eyed the photo, working through it. “A girl, huh? Part of the outfit? What you think?”

Lash didn’t tell Tricky about the phantom minutes on Vasco’s mobile, and the bum numbers to a temp phone. Or what Schramm said about needing somebody close to get access to Vasco’s phone. The Venezuelan’s credit card indicated a bunch of restaurant charges in the weeks leading up to his death, the amounts indicating dinners for two.

The sun was coming up over the first buildings, oranging the bridge. Lash folded up the photo printout. “Let me hear from you. Anything. I want to be the one to settle this, not leave it to the streets. And, hey—if I hear you cashing in these mo-mos yourself, we don’t have a pleasant relationship no more, you feel me?”

Tricky flat-smiled him from within his heavyweight hoodie cowl. “I’ll take that under consideration.”

T
ERMINO MUST HAVE TIPPED
R
OYCE, BECAUSE
R
OYCE WAS IN THE
kitchen pouring himself a glass of FIJI water when they got back from the surveillance.

Glade started speaking as soon as the door was closed. “So now there’s a fucking price on our heads.”

They had overheard their name during a ghost-phone snoop. Bad guys talking about a bounty on the Sugar Bandits, making plans accordingly.

Royce said, “That scares you.”

Glade rocked back as though Royce had swung a pillow at him. “It doesn’t make me feel good.”

“It’s a mark of honor. A sign of respect.”

Glade smiled sideways, looking at Royce as if he were being put on. “Okay, I gotta call bullshit on that one.”

Termino, laying his keys on the counter, said, “What’d you expect? We’d steal from these kingpins, and they’d like it?”

Royce said, “We stay tight, stay alert—we’re solid. Nothing has changed.”

Suarez said, “Nobody expected us before. We swooped in like ghosts. Now they’re looking for us. Waiting for us—expecting us.”

Maven said, “These guys are hiring cops now. That’s right—real cops. Dirty cops.”

Royce keyed in on that. “More.”

Maven said, “They got on to a BPD cop out of Hyde Park, and his partner.”

“You get names?”

Maven nodded.

“They’re paying protection?”

“For an escort. Sellers and buyers going in fifty-fifty.”

“How much?”

“Five hundy a key.”

Royce nodded, wheels turning. “That’s a good piece. What’s the load?”

“Between eighty and a hundred twenty keys.”

Royce smiled after a moment. “The tougher it gets to move the goods, the more they have to try to shove through at once. The more we take down, the bigger the scores that come to us.”

Glade said, “Did you miss the part about the cops?”

“So what?” said Royce. “As long as it’s not a surprise. We still have all the advantages. Anything we see coming we can neutralize.”

Suarez sat down on one of the padded stools, taking weight off his healing leg. “People coming at us now, instead of the other way around—that changes the game.”

“So we change with it. Come on. You’ve all dealt with insurgents before. This is the fun part. Unless you guys want to tail off, feel you have enough money …”

Maven grinned. Royce challenging them and enticing them at the same time. Playing Glade and Suarez like puppies.

Royce said, “How much you all worth anyway? Maybe I’ll turn you in myself.”

Begrudging smiles. Termino went to get himself a beer.

Royce said, “Step back and see this for what it is. This says we are making a significant impact. It says we are now the Man in town. Not the fuzz. Not the kingpins. Us, right here. And nobody knows anything about us, and nobody’s gonna know anything about us. So long as we stay razor sharp, as always.”

After silent nods, Glade said, “So, what, do we drop these guys? Wait for the next gig?”

“Are you high? Eighty to one hundred twenty keys?”

Termino returned with his beer. “Hell, fifty keys would be a major score.”

“But,” said Glade, “how’re we gonna work around cops?”

Royce looked at Termino. A thinking look, not a knowing look. Maven was still trying to read Royce. This turn of events had the side effect of revealing Royce and Termino’s partnership within the crew. Termino was Royce’s eyes and ears with the rest of them—which meant what? Was Royce being careful? Or concerned about something else?

Roycey.

Maven had all but ruled out Clearwater’s characterization. There had to be many Brad Royces out there. Plus, Clearwater’s memory had been a little squishy about other things.

Royce said, “All we’ve been through, and sometimes I think you haven’t learned a goddamn thing. Who’s got the most to lose in this whole thing? Not us, no. Hiding behind a badge—that makes a dirty cop supervulnerable. If we play it right.”

Suarez sat forward. “And how is that?”

Royce started to speak as the door opened. Danielle stepped inside, the five of them clustered around the granite countertop like players over a Stratego board. She wore tight jeans and a long, hippie-type blouse of thin, white linen, cinched up and bow-tied halfway down her waist, making a shelf for her chest.