Parker 04.5 - The Hunters (2 page)

“We’re gonna be late,” the blond man said. His manner conveyed a slight annoyance, even a sense of frustration, but he never would have let his emotions cross the line. The woman he was speaking to deserved more respect than that, and he considered any lack of patience on his part a reflection of his own personality defects, not of her tardiness.

He was a solid six foot two, and though he was wearing a bulky coat it was clear that beneath the fabric was a well-oiled machine. It was easy to tell from the way he walked, the way he carried himself, like a leopard that might move gracefully but could strike at any moment.

His hair was so blond it was nearly translucent, the dark roots only visible if you got close enough to look. And very few people got that close.

Everything she had worked for and planned for until now had come together perfectly. This was not the time to second-guess anything. When she needed to be on time, she was. When she wanted something to happen at her convenience, she made sure it did. So the fact that they were half an hour late to the meeting, and doing nothing but standing a block away killing time, may have made him anxious, but he knew there was a reason for it.

The woman standing next to him was tall and lithe, nearly six feet herself and possibly even more athletic. She was of Latin descent, and her dark skin brought out her emerald-green eyes. Those eyes rarely showed any outward signs of emotion. But on this night, those eyes were just a little wider, a little warier. They both knew how much was at stake, how much they’d worked twenty years for.

“Should we go in yet?” he asked, making sure the words came out as pure question. No insinuations whatsoever.

She checked her watch. Her long, black hair was tied into a tight braid that flipped around like a scythe. She portrayed no hurry, and very few emotions at all. She had filled him in on her reasons for this meeting and what they hoped to achieve from it.

A rapper, she’d said. Li’l Leroy, or something like that. So many rappers had Li’l attached to their name, as though they wanted to make you think they spent their nights swinging on jungle gyms or bouncing on trampolines.

Not this Li’l, however. What he was going to do tonight would most certainly get his Li’l card revoked.

“It’s time,” the woman said. The blond man began walking. No time wasted with a nod or salute or even a word. If it was time, every second mattered. And then she spoke, as if she’d read his mind. “I want him to be anxious,” she said. “He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He doesn’t know what he thinks he’s buying. I want him flustered and on edge.”

“Why?” the blond man asked. He felt that was a fair question. He wasn’t imposing, just asking her to elaborate.

“Because once he tries the product and thinks back to this meeting, he’ll know that we came late for a reason. We’re doing him a favor by even being here. So the next time we come he’ll be sweating like a junkie. He’ll eat out of our hands if we want him to.”

The blond man nodded. Despite his shortcomings—and the man knew he had many—he had remarkable self-awareness. He did not have the calculating mind that she did, but he had enough confidence to admit it. He had the utmost respect for the woman, and if she was sure about what she was doing, so was he. So while this rationale did not completely make sense to him, he knew it did to her. And that mattered more.

His mind may not be as sharp as the edge of a knife, but it was as powerful as a sledgehammer. He may not have been subtle, but he got the job done.

The woman said, “Let’s go.”

They approached the building, located in uptown Manhattan on 135th Street off Adam Clayton Boulevard—right near the neighborhood YMCA. The building was completely devoid of tenants. Well, that was the technical truth, as there were no tenants who lived there on a permanent basis. The owner of the complex was named Leroy Culvert. Leroy Culvert was worth well over thirty million dollars.

While there were no permanent tenants, the building was not kept in a state of disrepair. It was not an eyesore like so many other unoccupied projects in uptown New York, but rather, Culvert kept it in good enough shape that it was never approached by squatters, never frequented by junkies and never attracted the homeless population who assumed that a building in total disrepair was one where not too many people asked questions.

Culvert kept it in just good enough shape that it went unnoticed in the neighborhood. It wasn’t nice enough that it would stick in peoples’ minds, but not dilapidated enough that it would pique their interest for other reasons.

In fact, the dark-haired woman was moderately impressed by the security system. A reinforced steel door and roving camera setup that was partially obscured by tree branches. Just enough to keep the bad guys out without alerting pedestrians as to what—or who—was being guarded.

The blond man punched out a number on his cell phone. After two rings, a man with a deep, baritone voice answered.

“Whozis?”

“Mr. Malloy and a guest. We’re here to see Mr. Culvert.”

“We ain’t hear nobody buzz upstairs.”

“We don’t ‘buzz.’ And we both know that your buzzer system also records fingerprints. I’m mildly impressed with your security, but Mr. Culvert knows how we do business.”

“Hang on a sec.”

Malloy smiled. He could hear mumbling on the other end. The man with the deep voice clearly said “Whatchoo want me to do?” several times. He didn’t bother to put the phone on hold, just covered it with his palm.

Amateur hour.

Finally the man got back on the line.

“A’right. You can come through. Eighth floor. And you better not be packin’.”

“Don’t worry,” Malloy said. “We’re simply here to do business.”

The buzzer sounded, and the blond man pushed open the door with his elbow. He held it as the dark-haired woman entered. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder to let him know he’d done well. The blond man nodded his acceptance.

The corridors were well lit, but the apartment doors looked like they hadn’t been opened in years. Culvert clearly had his command center and had no use for the other apartments in the building. Yet there were cameras everywhere. The blond man made a note of them. Cameras meant a security log. A security log meant there was a recording station somewhere inside the building. He would have to find it before they came back.

“Cameras,” the woman said.

“I’m on it.”

“We’re not leaving without the tapes.”

“Today?” the blond man said. If that was the case, their whole plan would change.

“Don’t worry about today. But be ready for next time.”

The blond man said he would be.

The elevator took them to the eighth floor. A white guard a shade under six-five and 280 pounds greeted them. He had a layer of peach fuzz for hair, and a semiautomatic strapped over his shoulder. His mouth nearly sank into his several layers of chins, but despite the man’s loutish appearance, he didn’t need much dexterity to aim and pull the trigger. The rifle’s safety was still on, but the muzzle was pointed at the two visitors. It wavered between them as though playing
eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

“M4, .22 caliber semiautomatic,” the woman said, gesturing at the gun. “A fine rifle.”

“Glad you like it,” the guard said. He had a massive chest but a doughy face, and was already breathing hard. So far neither guest was impressed with Culvert’s choice in security. “Just follow me, keep your mouths shut and your hands where I can see them, or this baby here will do all the talking,”

“Fair enough,” the woman said with a smile.

“What did I tell you?” Doughy said, his eyes wide. “You told us to shut up,” the blond man said, playing along.

“Okay, that’s the last thing I’d better hear out of you. Come on, you freaking wiseasses. Mr. Culvert wants to see you.”

They followed Doughy down the corridor. When he approached the end, he banged loudly on a metal door. Then he looked up at a camera stationed above it.

With a click the door unlocked and someone inside opened it for them. Doughy waited until the door was wide open, and then led them into the command center.

Sitting on a large, plush sofa was a black man, late thirties, thin but with the muscle tone of someone who spent their whole life jittery, on edge. His bald head shone under the soft lighting, and his goatee was trimmed to a fine layer of stubble. He was wearing a pair of dark blue track pants and a white, wife-beater undershirt. Thick gold chains that must have weighed in the neighborhood of five pounds were draped over the undershirt. He had a drink in one hand and a gun in the other.

The blond man wondered whether he thought the gun was really necessary, considering the half-dozen other men in the room, all armed with rifles and bulletproof vests. They all watched the two guests like they were gazelles wandering into a lion’s den. Easy meals on the surface, but they had to have something up their sleeves to enter such a dangerous place with such little regard for their own safety.

The gun in Li’l Leroy’s hand, the blond man thought, laughing to himself, was overkill.

Two large guards came over. Doughy said, “Spread ’em, hands behind your heads” with a little too much zeal.

Both spread their legs shoulder-width apart. They placed their hands behind their heads. The guards then spent several minutes patting the guests down, looking for weapons, large and small. The blond man noticed one guard was taking his time searching the dark-haired woman.

“Neither of us has any weapons,” the blond man said.

Doughy laughed and said, “Maybe, maybe not. But we also want to be sure this bitch’s snatch isn’t going to cut my boy’s fingers off. You ready to get a cavity search, honey?”

The woman did not move. The bodyguard searching her knelt down and put his hand on her inner thigh.

“That’s enough, Fatty!” Culvert shouted. The three guards whipped around. “These folks are our guests. Now move out the way before I stick my boot up your crevice.”

“Yes, sir,” Doughy said. He motioned for the other guards to move away.

“Sit down there,” Culvert said. He was pointing to another section of the couch. In front of the section was a small coffee table. On the table was a pitcher of water, several glasses, a liter of Grey Goose vodka, several carafes of mixers, a bowl of pretzels and a dish with what looked like several grams of cocaine. “I’m sorry for my idiot brigade there. At least I know how to entertain my guests properly,” Culvert said, smiling through gold-plated teeth.

The woman and the blond man sat down. The blond man took a pretzel and ate it. The woman poured herself a glass of water and sipped from it. Then they sat back.

The blond man was reasonably sure Culvert had told the guards to make a move on the woman. That way he could stop them himself before they got physical. Come off like he was the good guy, protecting them. The blond man was not fooled.

“That’s it?” Culvert said, holding up his gun hand, surprised. “Man, most people dive right for the nose candy, or at least wet their whistle with some of the Goose.”

“We’re here for business, Leroy,” the woman said. “Playtime happens when our deal is done.”

“I can respect that,” Culvert said. “See, I’m like you. I got me a drink here, but it’s a weak-ass one. Maybe one part gin, two parts tonic. Most nights I go half and half, but I want to keep my mind sharp.”

“We have something in common then,” the woman said.

Culvert sipped his drink. Then he held it out. One of the bodyguards came over and took the drink from him. It disappeared into the guard’s massive hand like a quarter.

“You’re here for business,” Culvert said. “So let’s talk business.”

“Absolutely,” the dark-haired woman said. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small plastic bag. She looked at it briefly, then tossed it to Culvert. It landed on his lap, where he looked at it. He did not seem impressed.

“What the hell is this? Gravel? Shit you pave your driveway with?”

“That, Mr. Culvert, is our product,” the woman said. “And I think once you try it you’ll be absolutely certain that you will not want to line your driveway with it.”

Culvert picked up the plastic bag. It was filled with small black rocks. Culvert jiggled the bag, holding his ear to it.

“It does not play music, Mr. Culvert.”

“What do you call this shit again?”

“It’s called the Darkness, Mr. Culvert.”

“Why you call it that?”

The woman grinned. “Because when the world tries to beat you down, everyone could use the peace of Darkness.”

Culvert’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward,

“Yeah,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I can dig that. I can see consumers going for that. See, when it comes to the consumer, you need a tag line. Something to remember. Everyone got shit going on in their lives, and you’re right—everyone needs the peace of Darkness to make it all go away.”

“I think your consumers will agree that our product does just that.”

Culvert said nothing. Then he stood up, placed his gun on the table. The small bag filled with black rocks fell onto the floor.

He walked over to where the two guests sat. He knelt in front of them, placed one hand on each of their knees. Neither of them budged.

“The reason you’re here,” Culvert explained, his eyes wide and soft, “is because you’ve promised me a product that will increase my earnings. Your words. Increase my earnings. I don’t take shit like that lightly. I’m a businessman. You might have heard me on the radio, seen one of them kids playing my music on their iPods. That’s just part of what I do. The other part is moving product. People buy my product because they trust me, and ergo they trust my products. Like that word? Ergo?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

“So when somebody tells me they have a product that will increase my earnings, I think two things: first, this person is who they say they are. The second is that this person might be full of bull. And you know what happens when someone asks me to trust them and they turn out to be full of bull?”

Culvert stopped talking. It was clear he was waiting for one of them to reply. Finally the blond man said, “What happens?”