Finally Schaeffer understood. It was a shakedown-only this time he was on the receiving end. And he was getting scammed by Internal Affairs, no less. This was almost fucking funny, IAD on the take too.
Schaeffer gave up his gun.
“Let’s go talk in private.”
How much was this going to cost him? he wondered.
The IAD cop nodded toward the Hudson River. “That way.”
“Talk to me,” Schaeffer said. “I got a right to know what this’s all about. If somebody told you I’m on the take, that’s bullshit. Whoever said it’s working some angle.” He wasn’t as hot as he sounded; this was all part of the negotiating.
The IAD cop said only, “Keep walking. Up there.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Offered one to Schaeffer. He took it and the guy lit it for him.
Then Schaeffer froze. He blinked in shock, staring at the matches. The name on them was McDougall’s Tavern. The official name of Mack’s-T.G.’s hangout. He glanced at the guy’s eyes, which went wide at his mistake. Christ, he was no cop. The ID and badge were fake. He was a hit man, working for T.G., who was going to clip him and collect the whole hundred fifty Gs from the tourist.
“Fuck,” the phony cop muttered. He yanked a revolver out of his pocket, then shoved Schaeffer into a nearby alley.
“Listen, buddy,” Schaeffer whispered, “I’ve got some good bucks. Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll-”
“Shut up.” In his gloved hands, the guy exchanged his gun for Schaeffer’s own pistol and pushed the big chrome piece into the detective’s neck. Then the fake cop pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and stuffed it into the detective’s jacket. He leaned forward and whispered, “Here’s the message, asshole: For two years T.G.’s been setting up everything, doing all the work, and you take half the money. You’ve fucked with the wrong man.”
“That’s bullshit,” Schaeffer cried desperately. “He needs me! He couldn’t do it without a cop! Please-”
“So long-” He lifted the gun to Schaeffer’s temple.
“Don’t do it! Please, man, no!”
A scream sounded from the mouth of the alley. “Oh my god!” A middle-aged woman stood twenty feet away, staring at the man with the pistol. Her hands were to her mouth. “Somebody call the police!”
The hit man’s attention was on the woman. Schaeffer shoved him into a brick wall. Before he could recover and shoot, the detective sprinted fast down the alley.
He heard the man shout, “Goddamn it!” and start after him. But Hell’s Kitchen was Bob Schaeffer’s hunting grounds, and in five minutes the detective had raced through dozens of alleys and side streets and lost the killer.
Once again on the street, he paused and pulled his backup gun out of his ankle holster, slipped it into his pocket. He felt the crinkle of paper-what the guy had planted on him. It was a fake suicide note, Schaeffer confessing that he’d been on the take for years and he couldn’t handle the guilt anymore. He had to end it all.
Well, he thought, that was partly right.
One thing was fucking well about to end.
Smoking, staying in the shadows of an alley, Schaeffer had to wait outside Mack’s for fifteen minutes before T.G. Reilly emerged. The big man, moving like a lumbering bear, was by himself. He looked around, not seeing the cop, and turned west.
Schaeffer gave him half a block and then followed.
He kept his distance, but when the street was deserted he pulled on gloves and fished into his pocket for the pistol he’d just gotten from his desk. He’d bought it on the street years ago-a cold gun, one with no registration number stamped on the frame. Gripping the weapon, he moved up fast behind the big Irishman.
The mistake a lot of shooters make during a clip is they feel they’ve gotta talk to their vic. Schaeffer remembered some old Western where this kid tracks down the gunslinger who killed his father. The kid’s holding a gun on him and explaining why he’s about to die, you killed my father, yadda, yadda, yadda, and the gunslinger gets this bored look on his face, pulls out a hidden gun, and blows the kid away. He looks down at the body and says, “You gonna talk, talk. You gonna shoot, shoot.”
Which is just what Robert Schaeffer did now.
T.G. must’ve heard something. He started to turn. But before he even caught sight of the detective, Schaeffer parked two rounds in the back of the fat man’s head. He dropped like a bag of sand. The cop tossed the gun on the sidewalk-he’d never touched it with his bare hands-and, keeping his head down, walked right past T.G.’s body, hit Tenth Avenue, and turned north.
You gonna shoot, shoot.
Amen…
It took only one glance.
Looking into Ricky Kelleher’s eyes, Schaeffer decided he wasn’t in on the attempted hit.
The small goofy guy, with dirty hair and a cocky face, strode up to the spot where Schaeffer was leaning against a wall, hand inside his coat, near his new automatic. But the loser didn’t blink, didn’t show the least surprise that the cop was still alive. The detective had interviewed suspects for years and he now concluded that the asshole knew nothing about T.G.’s plan.
Ricky nodded, “Hey.” Looking around, asked, “So where’s T.G.? He said he’d be here early.”
Frowning, Schaeffer asked, “Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Damn, you didn’t. Somebody clipped him.”
“T.G.?”
“Yep.”
Ricky just stared and shook his head. “No fucking way. I didn’t hear shit about it.”
“Just happened.”
“Christ almighty,” the little man whispered. “Who did it?”
“Nobody knows yet.”
“Maybe that nigger.”
“Who?”
“Nigger from Buffalo. Or Albany. I don’t know.” Ricky then whispered, “Dead. I can’t believe it. Anybody else in the crew?”
“Just him, I think.”
Schaeffer studied the scrawny guy. Well, yeah, he did look like he couldn’t believe it. But, truth was, he didn’t look upset. Which made sense. T.G. was hardly Ricky’s buddy; he was a drunk loser bully.
Besides, in Hell’s Kitchen the living tended to forget about the dead before their bodies were cold.
Like he was proving this point, Ricky said, “So how’s this going to affect our, you know, arrangement?”
“Not at all, far as I’m concerned.”
“I’m going to want more.”
“I can go a third.”
“Fuck a third. I want half.”
“No can do. It’s riskier for me now.”
“Riskier? Why?”
“There’ll be an investigation. Somebody might turn up something at T.G.’s with my name on it. I’ll have to grease more palms.” Schaeffer shrugged. “Or you can find yourself another cop to work with.”
As if the Yellow Pages had a section, “Cops, Corrupt.”
The detective added, “Give it a few months. After things calm down, I can go up a few more points then.”
“To forty?”
“Yeah, to forty.”
The little man asked, “Can I have the Rolex?”
“The guy’s? Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“You really want it?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, it’s yours.”
Ricky looked out over the river. It seemed to Schaeffer that a faint smile crossed his face.
They stood in silence for a few minutes and, right on time, the tourist, Shelby, showed up. He was looking terrified and hurt and angry, which is a fucking tricky combination to get into your face all at one time.
“I’ve got it,” he whispered. There was nothing in his hands-no briefcase or bag-but Schaeffer had been taking kickbacks and bribes for so long that he knew a lot of money can fit into a very small envelope.
Which is just what Shelby now produced. The grim-faced tourist slipped it to Schaeffer, who counted the bills carefully.
“The watch too.” Ricky pointed eagerly to the man’s wrist.