There was nothing remotely romantic about the office, barely room for two on the narrow rollaway. It didn’t matter. In the fumbling haste of abandon, blankets on the floor served as well as a bed of roses.
Their first encounter finished quickly; they’d both been alone too long. The second time continued for hours, or so it seemed, and was far more deeply satisfying.
And there was a moment in the midst of their fevered fumbling when she lifted his face from her throat, and her eyes met his, and held.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
Something snapped him awake. Wasn’t sure what. Realized they were still tangled in the blankets on the floor of the office, their bodies spooned together, still naked, a perfect fit, warm, and very natural.
“Awake?” she whispered into the nape of his neck.
“Thought I heard something.”
“An old building, settling. Or the bats. Or ghosts walking, take your pick.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’ve never met one,” she said. “Never met anybody from Uruguay either. Which doesn’t mean no one lives there. I have to leave soon.”
“Why?”
“You know why. If there’s any talk about us, I’ll lose all credibility. We’ll be a job-site joke.”
“I guess you’re right. How soon?”
“Not that soon,” she murmured, snuggling closer. He started to turn, then froze. This time they both heard it clearly, a scraping sound from somewhere overhead. Her nails bit into his shoulder. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, sitting up, pulling on his jeans. “But I don’t think it was somebody from Uruguay.”
Barefoot, shirtless, clutching an unlit flashlight and a length of two-by-four for a weapon, Shea crept up the bell tower’s narrow spiral staircase. Slowing near the top, he saw a figure outlined against the starlight through the louvers. He switched on his flashlight.
The boy whirled. The fireplug teen, one of the basketball players from the lot. Dressed in a black Raiders T-shirt, his black jeans tucked into combat boots. Wearing a cellphone headset, camouflage binoculars slung from his neck.
“What are you doing up here?” Shea asked.
“Same as you, my damn job. What you gonna do with that board, white boy? Clock me? I don’t think so.” Sweeping his palm across his boot top with a single fluid motion, the kid came up with an Arkansas pigsticker, eight-incher, the blade flickering like heat lightning as he shifted it from hand to hand.
If Shea was impressed, he managed to conceal it. “So what are you, some kind of a lookout? For what?”
“The Man, white bread, what you think? You can spot cops soon as they cross the river from up here.”
“Not anymore. This church is a construction zone and you’re leavin’, sport. Now. We can go a round if you want, and maybe you’ll cut me up or I’ll bust you up, but it won’t change anything. This gig’s over. For good.”
“Razor won’t think so.”
“It doesn’t matter what he thinks. Find another lookout. How’d you get up here, anyway?”
“Same way I’m goin’.” The kid grinned. Sheathing the blade in his boot, he grabbed a rope, scrambled through the louver, and rappelled down the line to the roof at the rear of the belfry.
“Razor ain’t gonna like this,” the kid yelled up at him as he trotted across the rooftop to a second rope lashed to a vent pipe. “Y’all better finish this place in a hurry. You gon’ need a church for ya funeral!”
Shea was waiting in Paddy Ryan’s parking lot at seven when Sam and Morrie pulled in to open up.
“Mr. Shea,” Sam said, climbing out of his ageing Mercedes. “You’re up early.”
“I need some information, guys. The black dude who gave me static the first day I was in your place? Razor? I need to talk to him.”
“What about?” Sam asked, helping Morrie out of the car, handing him his cane.
“Keeping his people out of my building. Caught a kid up in the bell tower last night. A lookout.”
“No big surprise. Razor’s pretty much the man in this neighborhood.”
“Times are changing.”
“You plan on telling Razor that?”
“Somebody has to.”
“Look, Mr. Shea, Razor stops by our place most afternoons. How about I give you a call when he shows, you can talk to him here. Might be safer.”
“That’s a kind offer, Sam, but you’ve got a nice cafe. I’d hate to see it get busted up. Just tell me where to find him.”
“I can do a little better than that.” He sighed. “Get in. We’ll take you there.”
“Bad idea. There may be trouble. You don’t want to be in the middle of it.”
“No offense, Mr. Shea, but me and Morrie were dealin’ with trouble in this ’hood before you were born. And if you get crossways of Razor, we may be doin’ it after you’re gone. Get in.”
“In the old days, this side of Saginaw was like the Wild West. Auto plants right across the river, three, four thousand men every shift. And when those boys got outta work, they were ready to party. Cathouses, dope houses, blind pigs. Every block had ’em. All organized. The Five Families ran things then. Sicilians. Everybody paid them.”
“Including you?”
“You bet. Anybody who didn’t would just... disappear. No muss, no fuss. Not like now, with crazy gangbangers shootin’ up the streets. This is the place,” he said, easing the old Benz to the curb. “Most of these boys know me, so let me do the talking, okay?”
“Sam, I’d rather you didn’t—” His voice died as Morrie popped open the glove box and handed Sam a battered Army .45 automatic. Jacking a round in the chamber, Sam shoved the gun under his shirt.
“Feels like old times,” the old Irishman grinned, climbing out. “Can’t afford to lose you, Mr. Shea. You folks are the best customers we’ve had in years. Wait here, Morrie. Too many steps.” Morrie nodded, but said nothing. As usual.
The crack house looked ordinary, a run-down three-story tenement backed up to the river. But if you looked closer, the first two floors were completely closed off, windows boarded up, doors reinforced with metal plates. A single outside stairway was the only access to the top floor, and as Shea followed Sam up the steps, he realized the top riser was hinged, held in place by a steel rod that disappeared into the wall. A single tug would drop the flight like the drawbridge to an ancient castle. And anybody on it would plunge thirty feet to the concrete below. Crude, but damned effective.
Didn’t have to knock. A door opened when they reached the top and a giant stepped out on the landing, six-six, probably four hundred pounds, wearing black camouflage. An AK-47 assault rifle cradled in his arms.
Didn’t say a word. Nodded at Sam, patted Shea down for weapons, then waved them by.
Dark as a saloon inside, all business. Armed man in the shadows of each corner. Desk against one wall, small bar at the other. Razor was behind the bar, arms folded, wearing his black pirate bandanna, wraparound shades despite the dimness of the room.
“Wanna drink, gents?” he asked. “Might be your last.”
“No drinks, just talk,” Sam said. “Mr. Shea here caught a kid in the Chapel bell tower last night. He could have been hurt up there. It’s got to stop.”
“Maybe I should just stop the construction instead. Right now.”
“Wouldn’t work. It’s a big project, Razor, they’d just send a replacement for Shea and my people would come for you. They know I’m here.”
“Your people.” Razor snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. Any hard guys you used to know are either dead or usin’ walkers like Morrie.”
“Not all of us,” Sam said. “I’m still here.”
“Not for long, you keep pushin’ your luck, Sam. But seems to me Shea here is the one with the problem. Considerin’ what happened to the last guy wanted to remodel that church.”