Angel shakes her head in wonder. Vincent Graham’s given his love nest a makeover since she last visited. He’s shifted his porn collection from the drawers of a triple-dresser to a cabinet that runs along the wall closest to the bed, a cabinet that must have been custom designed. He’s also broken his collection into categories, from BDSM and BBW to Gang-bang and Swingers. Common to thousands of Internet porn sites, the list goes on and on, leaving Angel to wonder if Vincent believes they excite the women he brings here. In truth, she finds the display pathetic, as she finds Vincent Graham pathetic, as she finds most of her clients (former clients, she reminds herself) pathetic.
Angel glances at a giant TV screen lying flat against the ceiling just beyond the mirror above the bed. At the push of a button, she knows, the screen will descend, at the push of another button, the hi-def show will begin. Angel can’t help but contrast Vincent’s sex life to the one she and Carter share. Talk about losers.
But Angel’s not here to critique Vincent Graham’s sexual predilections. Angel wants to make sure the keys work and that Graham hasn’t installed a security guard in the lobby, or a camera above the lobby door. He hasn’t – probably because he doesn’t want his trysts recorded – and the keys do work. That’s enough for now.
Angel reaches into her purse, sliding her hand through layers of detritus, old letters, crumpled tissues, two wallets, a lipstick and a compact, three combs and a small brush, dozens of store receipts, a mini-umbrella and a pair of scratched, multi-tone sunglasses. At the very bottom, her fingers curl around a small automatic, the one no longer in the toe of a boot at the back of her closet.
Angel replaces the little automatic, sliding the pistol beneath a folded dish towel at the very bottom of the bag. She withdraws her hand, gives the bag a shake, then jabs her hand into the depths, burrowing past the mess, using the towel as a guide, until her fingers once again cradle the weapon and her thumb slides up to engage the safety. How long? Two seconds? Three? Not fast, not by Carter’s standards. She’ll just have to practice.
Back on the street, Angel decides to walk the mile back to the apartment she and Carter share. The air is cool and damp, but it’s finally stopped raining. Angel’s wearing jeans and a scoop-necked top, a cotton pullover, the jeans tight enough and the top low enough to attract the attention of three males in a jumped-up Toyota SUV. Angel’s used to every kind of intrusion, from catcalls to polite good-evenings, but this gang’s persistence digs beneath her skin. The Toyota’s slowed down to match her pace, a bad sign.
‘Get in the car, baby. We’ll give you what you really want. I promise.’
Their crew-cuts, pimples and sleeveless muscleman T-shirts, not to mention the Jersey license plate, mark them as terminal hicks. Their slurred voices mark them as drunk.
‘We’ll use a lubricant,’ the one in the back seat declares. ‘It won’t hurt a bit.’
Angel slides her hand into her bag, slides it through and between the many objects between her fingers and ... and her equalizer. That’s what guns were called in the Old West, equalizers, because they made a little man the equal of a big man. Or a little woman, for that matter.
Angel doesn’t acknowledge the comments. She continues on, placing one foot in front of the other, eyes forward, as though walking on empty streets in one of those post-apocalypse movies, the only human being left on Earth. But her thoughts move in another direction. Angel’s thinking how easy it would be to pull the little automatic, to place it against each of their skulls, to pull the trigger. Bang, bang, bang. In fact, Angel’s hoping they get out of the car.
TWENTY-FOUR
It’s not a happy morning, not for Bobby Ditto. The Blade’s telling him the warehouse, which just happens to be his home base, isn’t secure. Somebody might have been inside and who knows where they went, and maybe his world’s coming to a fucking end. Meanwhile, Elvino Espinoza’s scheduled to arrive in a couple of hours to make final arrangements for the biggest deal of Bobby’s young career. Espinoza’s even more paranoid than Bobby. At the first hint of a problem, he’ll vanish.
Bobby’s thinking how it’s not fair, how he’s worked his butt off these last few years, never asking for a single special favor. He’s thinking he deserves better than a run of bad luck that won’t come to an end no matter what he does.
‘Tell me again how you came to this conclusion, Marco? I gotta hear this again. Enlighten me.’
The Blade shifts from one foot to the other, but he doesn’t back off. Messenger is one of his jobs, good news or bad. ‘There’s this puddle of water under one of the skylights, thank God it didn’t spoil any carpet.’
‘So what? It rained all day yesterday.’
‘True enough, Bobby, only we been here for two years and the skylight never leaked before.’
Bobby shakes his head. ‘Tires don’t go flat until they go flat. Your heart keeps beatin’ until it stops.’
‘OK, I get the point. Maybe it’s nothin’. Maybe I’m gettin’ paranoid in my old age. But I still hadda check it out, which I did. I went up on the roof myself, boss. That skylight, it ain’t locked down.’
‘Which means what?’
‘Which means somebody coulda got in.’ The Blade takes a step back. ‘How ’bout,’ he suggests, ‘you come up on the roof and take a look for yourself. This is not somethin’ we could ignore.’
‘I haven’t had coffee yet and you want me to climb up to the roof?’ Bobby fixes his second-in-command with his most ferocious glare, but the Blade doesn’t react. Now Bobby has to vent on the only game in town, the three kids in the outer basement.
‘You hear the news?’ he asks Donny Thorn.
‘What news?’
‘We had somebody in here last night.’
Donny Thorn’s a handsome kid. He’s got those Irish good looks, the clear eye, the square jaw, the spray of freckles. Now his head swivels back and forth, as if he’s seeing the basement for the first time, which irritates Bobby all the more. That’s not Donny’s intention and he says, ‘Nobody’s been in here.’
‘I’m not talkin’ about here, ya dumb fuck. I’m talkin’ about upstairs.’
The words are on the tip of Donny’s tongue: But you told us to stay in the basement. You said for us to keep the door locked no matter what. Somehow, he manages to hold them back.
‘They musta been real quiet, Bobby.’ He looks to his companions, Al Zeffri and Nino Ferrulo. ‘You guys hear anything?’ When both shake their heads, Donny spreads his hands apart, ‘But one thing I can say definitely. No one – and I mean nobody – came down those stairs.’
‘How do ya know that, Donny? Did you open the door like I told you under no fucking circumstances not to do?’
‘No, boss, we didn’t.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely one hundred percent. We didn’t go nowhere.’
‘And you didn’t invite a couple of broads in for a little party?’
Donny Thorn makes the Sign of the Cross on his breast. ‘Catholic honor, Bobby.’
Bobby Ditto finally turns away. He feels better now. Donny’s not lying. The boys stayed in the basement and the money in the bunker was protected at all times. Bobby follows the Blade through the warehouse and out to the yard where he finds an extension ladder propped against the wall.
‘Ya know, Bobby, what you told Donny and them, about someone breaking in last night? That’s not the way it happened. If it happened at all.’
‘How so?’
‘If somebody broke in, they woulda had to do it before it started raining. Otherwise they would’ve left footprints.’
‘So, you’re talkin’ Wednesday night?’