Kings of Midnight (24 page)

“The bartender there. I don't know his name. I told him I was a friend of Leo Bloomgold.”

Taliferro looked at him. Wondering if it was true, Benny thought. Maybe halfway buying it already.

Taliferro shook his head, called out, “Perry.” Footsteps on the stairs, and then Perry came into the bathroom. “Yeah, skip?”

“Take the girl in the bedroom.”

“About time.”

“Just leave her there for now. Don't touch her until I say so.”

“I can wait,” Perry said. He grabbed her by the arm, hauled her up. “Come on, sugar tits.” She groaned beneath the gag, and Benny could see the pain in her face. He closed his eyes, heard Perry walk her out, her step unsteady.

“What happens next is your choice,” Taliferro said. Benny opened his eyes. They were burning. His stomach felt hollow and empty.

“Please, Danny. I'm begging you.”

“What I don't understand, you've been a rat your whole life, why clam up now?”

“I've told you everything I know.”

Taliferro looked at his watch. “Eleven thirty. What are the chances she actually shows up?”

Benny didn't answer.

“I'd say slim to none,” Taliferro said. “She's got half the money, why would she care what happens to you? But I'll find her eventually. What else can you tell me about her?”

Benny closed his eyes again, shook his head slowly.

“Think about it,” Taliferro said. “You tell me everything you know, I make it quick for you, and we let the girl go. You don't talk, it gets ugly.”

Benny kept his eyes closed.

“Pratico,”
Taliferro said. “Like a mule you are. Your Marta know anything about this woman? Maybe she's got something to tell us?”

Benny opened his eyes. “She doesn't know anything.”

“Then you're not leaving me with much, are you?” He reached into his coat pocket, took out Benny's cell phone, squinted at it. “She was supposed to call when she came over the bridge, so I could tell her how to get here. Didn't think she'd go for it, but what the hell? Worth a shot, at least.”

He set the phone on the sink.

“So if she's not coming,” he said, “then that just leaves me and you, doesn't it?”

*   *   *

This part of Brooklyn was all dark warehouses and shuttered businesses, no houses in sight. For a while, Crissa had driven with dark water to her right, moonlight glinting off the surface, the lights of the Verrazano in her rearview. Now she passed a long stretch of wetlands, an illuminated sign that read
FOUNTAIN AVENUE RECLAMATION PROJECT.
She wore the windbreaker, a black sweater, dark sneakers. The Glock was under the seat.

Five minutes and three wrong turns later, she found one of the cross streets she'd been watching for. It took her across abandoned train tracks and deeper into an industrial area. Brake shops and tire stores, truck garages with razor-wire lots, everything shut up tight.

She'd mapped out the location of the Victory Lounge online, knew she ran a risk by not calling. Taliferro might get tired of waiting, and kill them both. But there was nothing she could do about that now.

When she was near the block, she shut off the headlights, steered the Taurus onto a side street. She parked alongside a long, windowless building, killed the engine. Scattered streetlights, no other cars around.

The moon was full and high, a white disc in the clouds. Threshold moment, she thought. Turn around now, go back and get your share of the money, head south. Or see this through, however it ends up.

She knew what Wayne would tell her.
You've got the money, Red. That's what you went into it for. That's what it's all about, why you risked your life. Nothing else matters.

But Taliferro was right. If she left, it would never be over.

She took out the Glock, eased the slide back, checked the round. The .32 was in her right front jeans pocket. In the left was the extra magazine for the Glock.

She put the Glock in her jacket pocket, pried loose the plastic cover from the overhead courtesy light, popped out the bulbs. Then she got out of the car, and moved into the shadows.

TWENTY-THREE

Benny was shaking. The chill that came up through the tile floor had settled in his muscles and joints. His hands were numb from the flex-cuffs.

Sal leaned in the doorway, and said, “How long we gonna wait?”

“A little bit longer,” Taliferro said. He looked at his watch. “Just midnight now, so we'll give it a little while. Just in case we need to put him on the phone.”

“Should I get the rest of my stuff?”

“Might as well.” Sal went out.

Taliferro looked down at Benny. “You remember this place? You know what it is?”

“I know.”

“I shut it down a few years ago. Now it's like a private club. I use it for shape-ups, keep everybody in line. Everything's still here, though—jukebox, pool table. I keep the bar stocked. Gives the guys a place to socialize, stay out of trouble. And there's a bedroom up here if they need one. That's where your girlfriend is.”

Benny opened and closed his hands, felt pin and needles in his fingers, the blood starting to flow back into them.

“Patsy bought this place back in the seventies,” Taliferro said. “It used to be full of wiseguys all the time. All the crews came here to drink, to bullshit. Jimmy the Gent, everybody. Never Joey D, though. He was too good for us, didn't want to mix with the help, you know? You were around back then, Benny. You remember what it was like.”

Benny's mouth was dry. “I remember.”

“We used to run this city. You wanted to get anything done, especially in Brooklyn or Queens, you came to us. We owned the politicians. The cops, too. You didn't have to worry about anything. The niggers, the spic gangs, they all respected us, knew who was boss. Nobody fucked with us. It's not like that anymore, let me tell you. Everything's gone to hell.”

“What are you going to do? If she doesn't call?”

“You in a rush to find out?”

Benny didn't answer.

“Aren't many of us old-timers left,” Taliferro said. “You and me, we got that in common, even if you did turn out to be a rat. These young guys, they're good, but you can't explain it to them, the way it was. Sal was around then, so he knows. He was just a kid, but he could get things done.”

Taliferro took out a pack of Marlboros and the silver lighter, lit a cigarette. “If these walls could talk, right?” He blew smoke out. “Some shit took place in here, let me tell you. You got invited up here, there was no telling what was going to happen. Made guys—tough guys—they'd be shaking in their boots, crapping themselves, if they thought Patsy was mad at them. Sometimes we'd be downstairs, drinking, playing the jukebox, and some poor bastard would be up here getting his balls cut off. We never heard a thing.”

Sal came in, dropped a bundle on the floor, flipped it open with his foot. Green plastic sheeting.

Sal looked at Benny, then at the tub. “I may need a hand getting him over there.”

In the doorway, Perry said, “Frankie just called from outside. Says no sign of anybody. No cars driving by, nothing.”

“Then that's that,” Taliferro said. He looked at his watch again. “Almost twelve thirty. No reason to keep waiting, I guess.”

Sal took the straight razor from his pocket, set it on the sink. He opened the toolbox.

Benny twisted to look behind him. The cracked mirror reflected the contents of the box—a hacksaw with a plastic handle, two butcher knives, garden shears.

He felt his bladder weaken. A warm wetness crept down his right thigh.

Taliferro looked at the toolbox, and said, “Haven't seen those in a while.”

“All new,” Sal said. “Sharp. Shouldn't be a problem.”

Perry swallowed. “I don't know if I'm down with this.”

“You don't have to be,” Sal said. “I got it. I just need you to help me get him over there, then hold him still while I cut him. Then we just let him drain out.”

“How long's that take?”

Sal shrugged. “Forty-five minutes maybe. An hour, if we want to be sure.”

Perry looked at Taliferro. “What about the girl?”

“We'll hold off a little bit on that,” Taliferro said. “We may need her. Don't worry. You'll get your shot before we're done with her.”

He turned back to Benny. “Sounds like your partner abandoned you. No need to protect her anymore then, is there? It's not too late to make this thing easier, you know. For you and the girl both.”

Benny closed his eyes. He could give them the name she'd used, but knew it wouldn't change what was going to happen. They wouldn't let Marta go, no matter what he told them.

This is what it's all come to, he thought. After all this time, all his running, this was the way it had ended up, for both of them. Hot tears came to his eyes.

*   *   *

She stood on the flat roof of a truck garage, looked at the building across the street. Two stories, redbrick. The second-floor windows were plywooded over, but edges of light shone around three of them.

The street entrance was a black door, dark windows on either side. Through the glass, she could see the faint glow of light inside. A torn awning read
ORY LOUN E
, the letters faded.

It was a corner building. On the left side, a fire escape ran up to the roof. On the right, an empty lot—overgrown grass, broken cinder blocks, a shopping cart on its side. The rest of the block was dark and silent. Storefronts with metal gates, graffiti scrawled across them. Low-roofed garages and warehouses. A single street lamp lit half the block. Two others were dark, burned out.

Two vehicles were parked on the side street. A dark blue Ford Explorer, and the Lincoln Town Car she'd seen in Staten Island. There would be no way to tell how many men were inside the building, until it was too late.

She looked at the boarded-up windows, remembered what Benny had told her. People went in there, but never came out.

In the distance, the lights of the Verrazano. The moon hung above it, illuminating the clouds.

They don't know you're here, she thought. You could go back to the car, leave now. What Benny would do if the situation were reversed.

A burning knot seemed to grow in her stomach. She looked at her watch: twelve thirty. He and the girl might be dead inside there already, probably were. If they were ever there in the first place.

*   *   *

Taliferro stood, stretched and yawned, hands in the small of his back. He flicked the cigarette into the sink. It landed hissing.

Sal was leaning against the wall, arms folded, Perry in the doorway behind him.

“What's going on out there?” Taliferro said.

“Nothing,” Perry said.

“Okay, tell Frankie to bring the money up. We'll count it a final time, do the split here. Get it over with.”

When he left, Taliferro looked at Sal. “You ready for this?”

“I'm ready.”

“Gonna be a long night.”

Sal shrugged.

*   *   *

Crissa crossed the street a block away, staying close to the buildings. On the opposite corner, she waited in a doorway, watching.

Faint light under the awning, someone opening a cell phone, a bandage over his eye. Frankie Longo. She hadn't seen him, hadn't known anyone was there.

Careless. She should have known they'd post someone outside. She'd almost blundered into his sightline, raised the alarm before she was ready.

She waited. He spoke into the phone, then closed it, opened the black door, went inside.

She counted off three minutes, and when no one came back out, she crossed the street in shadow.

*   *   *

Benny watched as Perry and Longo carried the duffel in between them. They dropped it near his legs.

“He piss himself?” Longo said.

“Can you blame him?” Taliferro said.

“Guess not.”

“Dominic still downstairs?”

“Yeah,” Longo said. “He's keeping an eye on the street.”

“Good. The money from the bag, that go back in with the rest?”

“It's all in there,” Perry said.

“Let's count it out one last time,” Taliferro said. “Then divide it up.”

“You don't have to tell me twice,” Longo said. He knelt, unzipped the duffel.

“You've got the money,” Benny said. “What good is killing us going to do?”

“This guy never gives up,” Sal said.

“Don't do this,” Benny said. “Please don't.”

“You had your chance to talk,” Taliferro said. “That time's over. Don't beg. Don't demean yourself. It won't change anything.”

“Danny, I'm sorry. The shit I did, that was me. It had nothing to do with Marta.”

“Bad luck for her then, isn't it? Getting mixed up with you.”

“This isn't right.”

“‘Right,'” Taliferro said, “has got nothing to do with anything.”

TWENTY-FOUR

There was a metal trash can near the rear of the building. She dragged it over to the fire escape, overturned it, climbed up. From there, she could reach the bottom rung of the ladder.

The can started to buckle under her, but she had a good grip now. She stepped off, dragged the last section of fire escape down with her, hinges creaking. Flakes of rust rained down.

She went up slowly. The second-floor window was boarded. She could hear muffled voices inside, but couldn't make out the words. She moved on up to the roof.

The surface here was tar and tin flashing, spotted with pigeon droppings. It creaked under her. In the moonlight, she could see the roof door, the padlock there. She could hear the distant hum of traffic on the Belt Parkway.

She stepped carefully, testing for weak spots. When she reached the door, she got out the penlight, shone it on the latch. It was an elongated padlock, but an old one. She looked around, saw a discarded bit of flashing a few feet away. She carried it over, took out her pocket knife, and used the tip of the blade to carve a ragged
M
shape in the thin metal, an inch across.