The lobby smelled of lemon cleaning fluid and dope. She subdued a sneeze and headed upstairs, her sneakers making no sound on the carpeted steps. Jimmy Vlastos’s apartment was on the third floor. He had made a lot of money from a coke deal and had bought the whole building without a mortgage-officially with money given by his father, a ship owner. When she got to his door, the woman slid her right hand under her belt and took out the custom-made switchblade. The blade glinted in the light from the cupola.
It took slightly longer to open these locks. The question was, had the target applied the chain? Negative. Either he wasn’t in after all or he’d forgotten after a long night in his cousin’s club. She slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind her.
The apartment was a blaze of glass and stainless steel, the drapes open to admit the sun. There were magazines all over the place, women in minimal clothing displaying their charms in positions that must have been agony for more than a few seconds. The musty smell from an ashtray full of roaches was cut by something sweet and mildly rotten. A bottle of Southern Comfort had spilled its contents onto an ugly purple rug.
The woman headed for the bedroom, extending the hand that held the well-honed plastic blade. She knew which door it was from the plan Havi had sent. Although it was closed, the sound of snoring announced that the resident was, indeed, present. She gripped the handle and turned it, her shoulder against the paneling. Then she was betrayed.
As the door opened, the hinges let out a loud screech. The woman moved forward quickly, but the man in the bed was instantly alert. He leveled a snub-nosed revolver at her before she was halfway across the varnished wood floor.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Vlastos demanded, his gun hand steady.
The woman slowly lowered the knife to her hip. ‘I’m dropping this, okay?’
‘You do that, bitch,’ Vlastos said, his eyes boring into hers. ‘That’s better. Now answer the fucking question. Who are you?’ Keeping the gun aimed at her chest, he pulled aside the quilt and stood up. He was naked.
‘Nice weapon,’ the woman said, flicking her eyes toward his groin.
‘Quit playing around. Take off that cap. Slowly.’
She complied, letting it fall to the floor beside the switchblade.
‘Now take your top off.’
So much for not getting distracted, the woman thought. She raised her hands to her neck and pulled the zipper down. Then she shucked the tracksuit jacket off.
Jimmy Vlastos eyed her breasts, which were accentuated by a tight white T-shirt. ‘Who are you working for?’
The woman smiled. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, bitch!’
The smile widened. ‘I didn’t come here to fuck with you, Jimmy,’ she said, though her sultry gaze suggested the verb had some relevance.
‘You were going to gut me with that blade, poutana.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t. Honestly.’ Suddenly she was pleading, her right hand raised toward him. ‘Please, I’m not a killer. I’m a-’
Vlastos’s eyes had followed the hand, which meant that he didn’t see the Ruger semiautomatic that she’d pulled from behind her back until it was too late. The silencer swallowed the sound of the shot. The spit was immediately followed by a loud crack as the 7.65 millimeter Parabellum bullet ricocheted off the barrel of Vlastos’s revolver and ripped it from his grasp.
‘Shit!’ he gasped, as his hand flew back.
The woman was holding the pistol in both hands now, the muzzle trained on his chest. ‘On your knees!’ She kicked the revolver under the bed. ‘Now!’
Jimmy Vlastos did as he was told, his eyes locked on the Ruger. ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that? You had the blade in your right hand.’
‘So I’m a woman and I’m ambidextrous. Get over it, asshole.’
He stared up at her. ‘So finish it,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘But before you do it, tell me who’s paying you.’
‘I told you, that’s not for you to know.’ She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. ‘If you find out, I’ll have to kill you.’
Furrows appeared on Vlastos’s brow.
‘That’s right.’ The woman trained the pistol on the center of his face. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’
‘So what the hell are you here for?’
The woman stepped backward, holding her aim, and picked up the knife. ‘I’ve got some information for you. If you hadn’t pulled that gun on me, we’d have got along fine.’
‘Gimme a break. You came in packing.’
‘How was I to know if you were on your own or not?’
He looked dubious. ‘What good would a knife have been if there were two of us?’
She laughed. ‘Do you want to see how good I am with it?’
Jimmy Vlastos sat back on his heels and tried out a grin. ‘Not right now.’
‘Smart decision. All right, listen up. Your cousin Eleftheria.’
Vlastos tensed immediately. ‘What about her? Do you know something?’
‘I know that she’s eleven and she was raped last summer.’
He stared at her morosely. ‘So?’
‘I know who did it.’
There was a snort of disbelief. ‘How the fuck would you know anything? It was dark-even Ria didn’t see him.’
‘But he boasted about it later.’
‘What?’ Vlastos’s expression was a mixture of disgust and rage. ‘Tell me his name.’
‘Alonso Larengo.’
‘Fuck! Alonso? He’s my business partner, he’s a friend of the family.’
‘The kind of partner and friend nobody needs.’ The woman reached the door and lowered her pistol. ‘We’re done.’
‘Wait! That’s it? You don’t want nothing in return?’
She shook her head. ‘Even drug dealers are entitled to deal with child abusers.’
‘How do I know you’re on the level and this isn’t some play to screw with my Colombian connection?’
‘Well, I suggest you take Mr. Larengo to a darkened room and ask him if what I told you is true. I find pincers and wire cutters useful in such cases.’
‘I’ll bet you do, lady. Can I give you something for your trouble?’
The woman turned away. ‘Just stay off my tail. If I hear you behind me, I’ll empty my clip into your Roadster.’ She glanced back. ‘I’ve got another one for you, if necessary.’
Back on Ditmars Boulevard, the woman headed for the subway. Seagulls were shrieking above the buildings, flying in from Rikers Island, with its teeming prison, and the strait between Queens and Manhattan that was called Hell Gate. Her broker Havi wouldn’t be impressed by what she’d done-she’d been contracted to kill Vlastos, but she had decided that the rapist Larengo should be punished. The Colombians would give Havi a hard time, but she thought Vlastos would survive. Larengo had crossed a line.
She felt an unusual lightness of spirit, although that did nothing to alleviate the ache in her upper back that had appeared a few weeks back. She had painkillers at home. What would her ex-lover Matt Wells think if he heard the dreaded Soul Collector had just righted a wrong that was beyond the normal reach of justice, and that she was pleased she’d done it?
Sometimes the line between good and evil was as blurred as a charcoal drawing in the rain.
Six
A week passed and we started gearing up for the birth. Karen seemed fine, though she got tired very quickly. She looked magnificent, like a galleon with the wind in every sail, as she moved around our rooms. Judging by the size of her bulge, my son was going to live up to his name. I was still having daily sessions with Quincy Jerome and, when pressed, he agreed that I was making progress. My body disagreed. I had more bruises than a linebacker-American football was the only sport I could get on the TV set we’d been provided with-but my fitness was definitely improving. I spent a lot of time on the internet, catching up with old contacts and, as much to see if there was any censorship going on, searching for traces of Heinz Rothmann and my lethal ex-lover Sara Robbins. None of the sites I logged on to were blocked by the Feds, nor did I find anything about the pair except out-of-date media reports.