“How far offshore is this island?”
“About a mile northeast of City Island, in the middle of Long Island Sound opposite Sands Point. Bring a sniper rifle.”
“This is stupendous. How did you—?”
He interrupted her. “Nodding Crane will be there.”
“Oh. Jesus.”
“Remember the agreement. We run this my way. No CIA army descending on the island and scaring Nodding Crane off. Just you and me.”
He snapped the phone shut. Then he collected a piece of trash lying on the floor of the subway car and began to write on it.
Nodding Crane sat across the street from Saint Bart’s, strumming his battered guitar. The police had come and gone, the barriers had been taken down, the cleaning crews had fixed the church. Everything had returned to normal. It was a beautiful morning, just a few fluffy clouds scudding across the field of blue. Now all he had to do was wait.
I wants my lover, come and drive my fever away
He saw Crew come up from 49th Street, going against the crowds of commuters, and turn the corner onto Park. Right on time. Nodding Crane took no little satisfaction in seeing that the man looked like death warmed over: haggard, disheveled, his eyes two pools of shadow. He crossed Park Avenue and walked directly up to where Nodding Crane had laid his open guitar case collecting tips. Nodding Crane kept playing, his voice soft. Crew stood over him, on the far side of the case, as he continued to strum and sing. The morning crowds streamed past; he knew Crew wouldn’t do anything rash.
Doctor says she’ll do me more good in a day
Crew dropped a crumpled piece of paper into the case, where it joined a smattering of bills and coins. He did not move. Nodding Crane finished the song and finally raised his head, and their gazes locked. For almost a minute they stared at each other, and Nodding Crane could feel the implacable hatred in Crew’s eyes, which warmed him as well as a fire. Then the man abruptly broke eye contact, turned, and walked back the way he had come, toward Lexington Avenue.
When he was gone, Nodding Crane picked up the wadded paper and opened it, to reveal a scribbled note.
We will meet on Hart Island at midnight tonight. This is where Wu’s amputated legs are buried. The exact location of the legs will be written on a slip of paper in my pocket. To get it, or the wire, you will have to kill me. Or I will kill you. Either way, one of us will die on Hart Island.
That is the way you planned it and that is the way it must be.
G. C.
Nodding Crane slowly balled up the paper in his fist as a look of deep satisfaction settled on his face.
58
Wherever there were drug dealers there were guns. And the center of drug dealing in New York City, at least at the street level, could be found in the ironically named Mount Eden neighborhood of the South Central Bronx. Gideon sat on the D train rocketing northward from Manhattan, a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket. This was not the most intelligent way to acquire a firearm, but he was in a hurry and it had the advantage of efficiency.
As the D train pulled out of the 161st Street Yankee Stadium stop, a man who had just gotten on angled over to sit down beside him. It took Gideon a few moments to realize it was Garza, tricked out as an artist in black beret and peacoat.
“What, exactly, are you doing?” Garza asked. His tone had lost much of its initial affability.
“My job.”
“You’re out of control. You’ve got to cool it, slow down, and come in to discuss the next step with us.”
“This has nothing to do with you anymore,” said Gideon, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “It’s my gig now. It’s personal.”
“That’s just what I mean: you’re getting too close to this. I’ve never seen anything so unprofessional. Eli was wrong to trust you. You’re in danger of compromising the mission with your recklessness.”
Gideon didn’t answer.
“Going up to Throckmorton Academy, pretending to be a parent — what kind of a crazy damn move is that? From now on, we want to know what you’re doing and where you’re going. If you think you can beat Nodding Crane, you’re a fool.”
Gideon sensed Garza knew nothing of Hart Island. It gave him a certain satisfaction to be ahead of Glinn and his smooth-operating sidekick for once. “I’ll handle it myself.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll need backup. Don’t be a damn idiot.”
Gideon scoffed.
“Where are you meeting him?”
“None of your business.”
“You go rogue on us, Crew, and we’ll shut you down, I swear to God we will.”
Gideon hesitated. This was a complication he didn’t need. “Corona Park. Queens.”
A beat. “Corona Park?”
“You know. Where the old World’s Fair was. We’re meeting at the Unisphere.”
A silence. “When?”
“Midnight tonight.”
“Why there?”
“Just a place to meet.”
Garza shook his head. “A place to meet.”
“Nodding Crane murdered my friend. Now it’s either him or me. Like I said, this has nothing to do with you. When I get done with this business, I’ll take care of yours. Don’t try to stop me.”
Garza was silent for a while, then he nodded. As the train pulled into the next stop, he rose and left, a disgusted look on his face.
Crew got off at 170th and the Grand Concourse. He walked eastward toward the park, passing a row of abandoned buildings. Reaching the park — a sad affair with dirt instead of grass and trash everywhere — he slowed his walk to a loiter, glancing around, just another suburban guy looking for drugs. Almost immediately he was accosted by a dealer, who passed him murmuring smoke, smoke.
He stopped, turned. “Yeah.”
The dealer swerved and came back. He was a short, stooped kid with a comb stuck in his hair, pants hanging south of his ass. “What you need?” he asked. “Got smoke, blow, horse…”
“A pistol.”
Silence.
“I’ll pay big money,” Gideon went on. “But I need something heavy-caliber, best quality.”
The dealer didn’t seem to hear at first. Then he muttered something that sounded like “wait here” and rambled off.
Gideon waited. Twenty minutes later the kid was back. “Follow me,” he said.
Gideon followed him out of the park and into an abandoned building on Morris Avenue, an old brownstone with bashed-out windows and a dark, urine-fragrant interior. As dangerous as this was, it was better than asking Garza for another gun on bended knee. He didn’t want to be any more beholden to the man than necessary. He knew he should be nervous, even scared, and yet he felt nothing. Nothing but rage.
The dealer went to the dismal stairwell, whistled up it. A whistle returned.
“Second floor,” he said.
Gideon mounted the stairs, stepping over a scattering of used condoms, crack vials, and vomit. He reached the second floor. On the landing, two men waited, both dressed in expensive gym clothes with puffy white sneakers. They were Hispanic and well groomed. The taller one, obviously the leader, had a carefully clipped five-day stubble, plenty of rings and gold chains, and smelled strongly of Armani Attitude. The shorter one sported several cold sores.
“Let’s see the money,” said the tall one, flashing a self-assured grin.
“When I see the gun.”
The leader shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back, looking down at Gideon. He was tall and used his height to intimidate. His eyes, however, were stupid. “We got the gun.”