It’s early evening by the time I finally get where I’m going in Farmington. This is not the sort of place doormen are usually required. The entire avenue is so wholesome and autumnal that it reminds me of Ireland. Even in these circumstances I can feel the first lilting twinges of the immigrant gene kicking in.
Farmington is even nicer than Cloisters; far too nice, you would think, to have a criminal underbelly, but as I found out only hours ago, the Farmington criminal underbelly is doing quite well. On this avenue especially.
I do the last mile from the bus stop on foot, humping the weapons bag, and find a bench to rest my weary frame while I finish off my Big Bell Box meal.
The spicy food reminds me of Monterrey, and I can’t help wondering how fast I could get there.
Yeah, that’s right, amigo. Pack up and leave me to rot.
Calm down. I called Tommy, didn’t I? Wheels are in motion. Now piss off and let me think.
You think too much. You need to get out of your head and into the real world.
Irony. Must be.
So I sit on the bench, reining in my aura, trying to look like a member of the community and not an ex-army doorman sent to rip off a steroid lab. I chew my burrito awhile and grudgingly admit that Faber and Goran had a sweet deal figured.
Back in Cloisters, Faber got a little teary spelling it out.
‘As an attorney in the city, I represent a lot of drug people. I get to know them, they fill me in on every detail of their operation, and armed with this information, I get them off most of the time.’
I remember making myself pay attention, even though half my brain cells were fried from the anklet jolt and the rest were threatening to break apart and liquefy.
‘So a year goes by, maybe eighteen months, these guys have forgotten all about their natty attorney, when one of their labs gets busted by the cops. First through the door is my dead friend, Detective Goran, followed closely by a few of my own humps all rigged out in DEA armour and helmets. They secure the bad guys, load the drugs into the van and that’s all she wrote. Our fake police squad drives away, leaving the ripped-off drug merchants hog-tied with PlastiCuffs. Sometimes we load a couple in the van for show, then toss ’em a few blocks later.’
He leaned back on his heels, waiting for me to think it through, appreciate his genius. Which I did.
‘So the theft is never reported.’
‘What are they gonna say? Is that the police? I’d like to report that you people stole my drugs? Don’t think so.’
‘And you got a buyer?’
‘I represent a lot of drug guys. They figure I’m brokering for another client.’
That was pretty good, so I said: ‘That’s pretty goddamn good, Jaryd.’
Faber couldn’t help preening. ‘Why thank you, Daniel.’
‘But now you’re screwed because your pet detective is dead.’
Pet detective, says GZ. Nice.
‘And I’m guessing Goran wasn’t stupid enough to let you keep the riot gear.’
‘Correct. Goran headed up operations in the field; I did the planning.’
‘It’s a good plan. Sweet, the kids might say.’
‘Again, thank you. But much as I appreciate your appreciation, I need more than that before I let you go after my package.’
In Ireland, going after a guy’s package means grabbing him by the balls. I think Faber is talking about his drugs again.
‘You read my file?’
‘No. Any good bits?’
‘I have a special skill set.’
‘Any of those skills relevant?’
‘Shit, Faber, if your package was in Fallujah I could extract it.’
Faber licked his lips. Extract. He liked that bit of military.
‘It begins with an F, but it ain’t Fallujah.’
Ten minutes later, Faber had Deacon’s computer on his knee and was scrolling my file.
‘Kee-rist almighty, Daniel. This reads good. You kill anyone over there?’
‘Only the ones that died. What’s in this for me, Faber? If I’m gonna be a criminal, I might as well get paid.’
I figured if anyone could understand greed, it would be a lawyer.
‘You get my package and I’ll give you fifty grand plus your life back.’
He was lying and we both knew it; what we didn’t know was if the other person knew we knew it.
What are you, six?
‘Okay, Faber. You got a deal. Cut me loose and give me the details.’
Faber called one of his boys over, gave him a set of keys and a few whispered instructions.
‘Not just yet, Daniel. I need to make an impression on you first. Show you what a dead serious kinda guy I am. One more taste of electromuscular disruption should do it.’
The house I’m watching is straight out of the opening credits of a suburban sitcom. According to what TV tells us, there should be an overweight dad, a foxy mom, couple of smartarse kids and maybe an in-law down the basement. Work in a couple of catchphrases, like sheesh, Ma or none of you people get me and next thing you know it’s season nine and DVD box sets are topping the charts.
This is the last place you’d expect to find a steroid lab. Nevertheless, according to Faber, this is exactly where I will find one.
‘And a lotta security,’ he said. ‘State of the art. These guys don’t skimp.’
Faber is not risking any of his guys on this run, so I’m on my own. No fake police backup. A pity, as according to Faber, Goran had put together quite the strike force. Pro-bars, oneman battering rams, the whole kit and caboodle.
‘Think of it as a test, Daniel. You bring home the goods and maybe next time I let you take out some of the boys.’
I should call the FBI, that’s what I should do. But once the Feds become involved, the best-case scenario is I live out my days in witness protection; the worst-case is Deacon freezes and I get life without parole. So maybe I put Newark on speed dial, but I don’t push the button just yet.
Newark on speed dial? Your thoughts are beginning to sound American.
Zeb is right. I’ve been here too long. I need a pint of Guinness that’s taken five minutes to pour, and a date with a freckled redhead.
The house looks normal, but I squint into the shadows and see camera domes suckered to the eaves. Laser eyes too, on stalks in the garden. The windows are small, with decorative cast-iron bars, and the door is painted to look wooden, but I’m betting on steel. Spotlights on the lawn and roof complete the package. This place is a subtle fortress. There’s no chance I’m fighting my way inside.
I circle around back, which is not as easy as it sounds. In modern America’s paranoid suburbia, the tendency is to shoot strangers first and ask questions later, if at all. There are stories on the news every day about garbage men getting plugged by panicked housewives just because they were speaking in some language that was not English. Sometimes that’s their actual court defence.
He was round back of my house, messing with my trash, speaking terrorist talk. What does he ’spect?
But I politicise.
Luckily, shadows are lengthening, I’m wearing black and I have done this kind of thing before. I nip through the adjoining yard, all ready to lay someone out if I have to. I’m hoping for a male. I could live with socking some stocky gardener, but a slip of a girl might be more than my beleaguered psyche will allow.
Pull yourself together or you’ll start making mistakes.
Yeah. That’s rich coming from a guy who once tossed back three shots of furniture polish after the club one night. Three shots before he noticed something wrong.