Urban Renewal Page 14

  “My side,” Cross whispered. “Three on the steps of the yellow house, white jackets—”

  “Acquired,” Tracker responded.

  The Escalade rolled on past, leaving one less gangstah on the steps—the one who had immediately dived inside the house when he saw the two on his right drop.

  Buddha was already back on the throttle.

  “SO WHAT did we get out of all that, boss?”

  “We’re not dealing with hard-core bangers here. Sure, they’re willing to shoot, but they’re not fighters—it’s not like we just invaded the projects.”

  “Still …”

  “All we want is to push the buffer zone back a few blocks. Shouldn’t take a whole lot more of this to persuade whoever’s left.”

  “So you want me to just circle around and—”

  “Yeah, why not? It’s not like that side is gonna warn the other side. The car’s already set for work, and we have to get it back before too much longer. So let’s get it done.”

  “PRINCESS WANTED to come,” Rhino squeaked from the back seat.

  “It’s not time for him yet.”

  “I know. But …”

  “You know the plan, brother. First, we take out a couple on each side. Whoever’s easiest. Okay, that’s done. Half done, anyway. Next, we let them get a look at the black hoods. And if that doesn’t do it, then we use Princess.”

  “Use?”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I just … I guess I just don’t like the way that sounds.”

  “That is how Cross speaks,” Tracker said. “He is only saying that each of us possesses skills which should be put to their best and highest use.”

  “As a decoy?”

  “No. You are being unreasonable, Rhino. Would you be the best among us to scale a building?”

  “I … Yeah, okay, I get it. But sometimes I just feel like we’ve all been used enough. No matter how good we might be at one thing or another.”

  “You want to—what—retire?” Cross spoke from the front seat.

  “Well, we could, right?”

  “I’m not an accountant.”

  “And you’re not married to So Long,” Buddha said, half under his breath.

  “We signed on for this one,” Cross continued. “So we have to finish it. After that, if you and Princess want to—”

  “I wasn’t saying anything like that, Cross,” Rhino interrupted, his voice more a rumble than his characteristic squeak. “You and me and Ace, we made a pact. Have I ever not kept it? And, anyway, this job got a whole lot better than just money when Ace said he wanted one of the houses for himself.”

  “I know,” Cross said, almost gently. “But I’ve got my obligations, just like you. We share those, right? And one of them is to keep Princess alive.”

  “What does that have to do with—?”

  “That maniac would probably want to jump out of the car,” Buddha cut in. “And even if he didn’t, that cannon of a pistol he carries around would empty a graveyard. Couple of dead bangers taken out with nine-mil slugs, who’s gonna investigate much past that? Occupational hazard. That’s if it even gets reported. But a .600 Nitro Express? They’d hear that all the way downtown.”

  “Princess could—”

  “Back to ‘silent approach,’ ” Buddha said, purposely mocking the fact that the police would never go into gangland without lights blazing and sirens wailing, making sure everyone had plenty of time to stop their shooting and start running.

  The Escalade entered the block in the same mask-mode it had used to slide into the territory of the other gang.

  “Four on the far-left corner,” Rhino said, peering through night-vision glasses.

  “Try counting them now,” Buddha said seconds later, putting his silenced, night-sighted pistol back on the seat as he wheeled the big Cadillac around the corner.

  Neither of the two corner boys still alive saw the car depart—they were lying prone, facedown, just like the dead youths next to them.

  “ABOUT TIME,” Tiger snarled at Cross. “If Princess wasn’t such a sweet boy, I would have had to do … I don’t know what… to keep him from going out.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure. And next time, I get to—”

  “If not, the time after. The job is to scare them off, not kill them off.”

  “Off is off.”

  “No. No, it’s not. We start filling up the streets with bodies, the cops are going to have to do something, even if it’s only to get in our way. We have a plan; we’re staying with it.”

  “You have a plan.”

  “Right. I have a plan. You want to work with this crew, my plan’s the only plan. You want to go your own way, that’s your choice. Always your choice.”

  Tiger glanced from Tracker’s flat eyes to Buddha’s uninterested ones. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders. But even that move didn’t change a single man’s facial expression.

  Maybe I’m losing my touch, Tiger thought, laughing inside herself as she contemplated such an impossibility.

  “NOT A sound from my side,” Ace said.

  “Nothing in the news, either,” Rhino added.

  “News? Means what, bro? Newspapers, radio, TV …?”

  “All of that,” Rhino explained, tapping his laptop. The custom-made job was scaled to the monster, weighing in at a svelte fifteen kilos. “Newspapers are disappearing. Even the ones that still publish, they all have online editions, too … which is probably what started them disappearing. Radio stations broadcast over the Net, and you can watch every TV channel there, too.”

  “Maybe they bury their dead?” Cross wondered aloud.

  “Can’t say for the Latinos, but a name crew would do that for sure. Only not like you mean.”

  Cross looked a question at Ace.

  “If you in a gang with a name, they got to maintain their name. So, sure, they bury their dead, but not by dropping them in unmarked ground and pouring lime over the bodies before they kick dirt over them. No face in that. You expect, you’re with a real crew, you get taken out, there’s gonna be some … ceremony, like. Two, really. One for show: nice casket, speeches, flowers, invite his mother, limo to the cemetery. Hell, I’ve seen some so nice that it was enough to make a few of those stupid youngbloods in a hurry to get their own. The other is just for members—you know, pour out the ‘X’ on the cement with some wine, say a goodbye.

  “Yeah. Only you’re talking about a club with some history behind it. A name people recognize when they hear it—Vice Lords, Disciples, Stones, right? All the black crews, they pretty much do it the same way.

  “Same for the Latinos. Don’t know about the wine on the sidewalk, but they really go all-out on the ceremony … maybe even more elaborate than the Sicilians.

  “But they don’t recognize across the lines. The Puerto Ricans and the Mexicans don’t mix. They’ll try and one-up each other when it comes to show. The Marielitos, they seem to fit in anywhere if there’s a need for enforcers. MS-13, they always leave their trademark—and it’s pretty hard to haul a body away if it’s been hacked into pieces. But none of that’s on point here. The little crews we’re dealing with, they got no name, and they’re not about to challenge for one.”

  “What does that mean for us?” Rhino asked, genuinely curious. Although he’d done more time than either Cross or Ace—neither man had ever returned to more than temporary custody since they left so many years ago—he was the one of them who had never committed a crime prior to his first and meant-to-be-permanent incarceration. He had no concept of “gang” other than running with Cross ever since the master of subzero logic had kept him safe inside that last prison … and kept his promise to come back for him.

  “If your whole crew is, I don’t know, maybe a dozen members, tops, how are you going to bury two of them without advertising that you’re down in strength?”

  “True on that, my brother,” Ace added. “That’s why the real clubs are always bringing in new recruits. W
hy they start them off so young, too.”

  “And they’ve got all kinds of incentives to put on the table—cash money, that’s only part of it. What they put out there is the chance to snatch some respect. You can be ten years old, but if you’re wearing the right jacket, nobody’s gonna slap you around, take your lunch money.”

  “Uh-huh. But you got to put in work.”

  “So what’s that gonna get you? Juvie?”

  “Oh yes. That’s the beauty of the system—you empty your clip, then you hand the piece off to one of the kids. Murder One, that’s a couple of years for a peewee, but it’s The Book for a teenager; all the jury has to hear is ‘gang-related.’ Could even buy you the needle, if one of your stray rounds hits a baby in a carriage.”

  “Most of their rounds are strays,” Buddha said, disparagingly. “That’s why they’re all about the AK now. You don’t have to be no marksman to hose down a block.”

  Rhino said nothing, but Ace caught his meaningful look and lobbed it back. “Don’t be looking at me, now. ’Cause you missing the key point.”

  Rhino still did not speak, obviously waiting for the rest of the explanation.

  “I’m no sniper. My kind of work, it takes one thing those long-distance guys ain’t about to do. Get close. That’s what I do. That’s what I been doing. Ain’t a fool out there don’t know the Ace of Spades. Or how I come by that name. That’s why I’m still in business. Most reliable game in town. You pay me, you know you’re gonna get a body—the target’s, or mine.”

  “You still hate them?” Cross asked the giant.

  Rhino nodded.

  “You still hate them all?”

  “Yes,” Rhino said, very softly.

  “So what’s changed?” Ace asked.

  “Nothing,” Rhino answered. “Nothing ever will.”

  THREE NIGHTS later, Cross entered Red 71 through the back entrance, working the rolling algorithm that changed the keypad sequence every twenty-four on auto-pilot. He walked into the back room soundlessly, but this was strictly from habit—if he wasn’t stepping into safe ground there, no such ground existed in his world.

  A low snarl so vicious that it would have turned a normal man’s blood to ice and frozen him in place was just enough warning for Cross to dive, roll, and come up with his reworked 1911 Colt .45 pointed. But before he could squeeze the trigger, he heard Princess scream, “No!” as the muscle-armored child tackled the kill-crazy Akita and took them both to the ground.

  “You stop that, Sweetie! That’s Cross. You know him. He’s my friend. You can’t bite my friends!”

  The struggle was over in seconds. Princess kissed the beast on top of his head. “That’s my good boy! That’s my Sweetie.”

  Suddenly he noticed Cross had been ready to shoot. To Princess, there wasn’t a lot of difference in the two possible outcomes. “You can’t shoot my dog!” he warned.

  “Yeah, I can. And if you’d been a second slower, I would have.”

  “If that’s the way you’re going to be, I won’t bring Sweetie around here anymore!”

  “Good.”

  The door between the beaded curtain and the back room slammed open as Rhino charged … then pulled up short when he realized the situation was, if not anyone’s definition of “normal,” at least quiet.

  “Princess …”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I only wanted to watch Buffy on the DVD. And Sweetie came with me. So when Cross just walked in—”

  “You can’t bring him back here.”

  “Don’t worry,” Princess sulked. “But I promised Sweetie I wouldn’t leave him alone, so I guess I won’t be coming back here at all.”

  “Nobody said that,” Rhino told him firmly. “We’ll fix something up so that anyone coming in the back will know if you’re here. You and Sweetie, okay?”

  “He’s a real good dog, Rhino.”

  “Yeah, he’s a prize and a half,” Buddha said, his own pistol still in his hand.

  Princess stood up, hugging the crazed Akita to his chest.

  “Stop!” Cross snapped.

  Even the dog was quiet.

  “We can’t keep this up, understand? We spent years building this place. It’s our last-stand spot, remember? We have rules and regs. Nobody gets to change them.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know you didn’t,” he said to Princess. “But I’d be just as dead as if you did, right?”

  “No! I’d never let Sweetie—”

  “Can you put the dog down, Princess?”

  “Nobody’s ever going to—”

  “Put him down on the damn floor,” Cross said, in a tone that would have done credit to Job. “Can you do that without him trying to kill any of us?”

  “Sure! Just watch,” the half-petulant child said, gently placing the Akita down. “Sweetie, stay!”

  And the Akita did.

  “I train him every day. He loves it. We have fun. I just … forgot about the back door. I’ll never do it again. And he likes you, Cross. He really does.”

  “You know this how, exactly?”

  “Sweetie told me. He likes everyone, especially you and Rhino and Ace and …”

  “I didn’t hear my name in there,” the crew’s driver said.

  “Well, you’re not as nice as the rest, Buddha. I mean, you’re a swell guy and all. It’ll just take Sweetie longer, that’s all. I mean, he already likes Tiger.”

  “Yeah, well, he is a dog, right?”

  AS THEY spoke, four men were navigating their way through the scrap yard surrounding Red 71, each dressed in some form of track suit, all carrying semi-autos at their sides, having been warned by their boss about the great variety of animals roaming at will.

  “I don’t see no dogs,” one said.

  “That ain’t necessarily a good thing,” another answered.

  “What?”

  “How you gonna shoot what you can’t see?”

  “What are they, invisible dogs?”

  “Rocco, you’ll never learn.”

  “I learned enough to make Captain.”

  “Yeah?” a third man said. “So how come you’re still walking around with us?”

  “I’ll get it,” Rocco said, grimly. “I’ll get it soon enough.”

  “Then we’ll be your crew, right?”

  “Better hope you’re not.”

  “There’s the arrow,” the shortest man said. His track suit was the most subdued of them all, navy blue, without a logo.

  All eyes were drawn to the “1” in the “71” sloppily sprayed in red on the front of the concrete bunker. The “71” itself looked like the work of a palsied graffiti artist, the “1” trailing off to become an arrow. Pointing down.

  “No guns,” the shortest man said.

  “We’re supposed to walk in that place without—?”

  “We’re supposed to do what we’re told,” the shortest man snapped. “And Dominic was real clear—we walk in there with steel in our hands, we’re not walking out.”

  The men started down the first flight of stone steps, as wet and damp as dungeon walls. There was no landing, just a turn into a second set of steps, which ended in the poolroom.

  The tables were seriously old-old-fashioned: green felt, lit by individually hanging fluorescent lights. Wires ran across the top of each, piercing wooden disks that could be moved by a cue stick to keep track of the score for each player. The disks were natural-color oak, with every tenth one painted black.

  Most of the tables were in use, but only a couple for shooting pool. The occupants ranged through every color, but no Rainbow Coalition symbols graced walls already covered with professionally lettered signs:

  NO GAMBLING

  NO SMOKING

  NO FOUL LANGUAGE

  An elderly man at the front desk was watching a small television, his chair tilted back and his feet up on an old milk crate. In that position, the green eyeshade he wore obscured his features.

  “Hey!” Rocco said.


  The elderly man gave no sign that he heard anything.

  “Look, pal—” Rocco began, before the shortest man of the four pulled him away and took his place.

  “What the hell are you—?”

  The short man whispered, “The boss said no disrespect, remember? He said something else, too. You remember that?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Okay, fair enough. You want to get tough with anybody down here, you’re on your own. The boss said, anyone does that, they’re not leaving. Me, I’m planning on leaving.”

  Rocco opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and stood off to the side.

  “Pardon me,” the short man said to the man behind the counter. “We’d like to speak to Cross.”

  “Cross?” the old man answered. “This place look like a church to you?”

  “No. I mean, we need Cross—”

  “You got vampires in your cellar?”

  “You know what we mean, Pop. We’re here on behalf of Mr. Costanza.”

  The man behind the counter adjusted his eyeshade to make it clear he was pointedly watching his little TV, no longer tuned to their station.

  “Hey!” Rocco growled. “You hard of hearing, old man? We’re from Mr. Costanza, okay? You tell this Cross that—”

  “Maybe you should tell him yourself,” Rhino squeaked, dropping a hand on Rocco’s shoulder. His hand draped from Rocco’s right pectoral, over his collarbone, and extended down to cover the trapezius muscle.

  Three men turned around at the sound of Rhino’s voice. Rocco didn’t.

  “No disrespect,” the shortest man said, quickly. “Mr. Costanza said that Cross will know why we’re here. If you could take us to see him, we’d appreciate it.”

  “Follow me,” Rhino squeaked, as he snatched the top of Rocco’s track suit and effortlessly pulled him off his feet, propelling the Captain-to-be forward. The poolroom went quiet, as all the men concentrated intensely on whatever they’d been doing, keeping their eyes down.

  Rhino shoved Rocco through the ball-bearing curtain face-first. The others followed, parting the curtain carefully—the sound of metal on flesh was familiar to all of them.

  They found themselves facing a table with two chairs that were both occupied. The backs of four empty chairs awaited. At a nod from a man on the other side of the table, three of them sat. None of them so much as glanced toward the corner where Rhino stationed himself, still holding Rocco.