Bourbon & Blood: A Crime Fiction Novel (Bill Conlin Thriller) Page 7

  They got up, shook hands, and walked past us. One tall thin guy, with a scar running down his right cheek stopped in front of me. He got up close and said, “This is your fucking fault, rookie.”

  Morgan signaled Kenny to come closer. He glanced at me. “Have a seat, Bill.”

  Mr. Sullivan poured hot water into his teacup. He slowly added a tea bag, honey, and milk. He picked up a teaspoon and mixed the tea in a swirling motion. Tapping the spoon on the edge of the cup, he sipped the steaming tea carefully.

  Then he spoke. “Some of our associates are upset. It is as I predicted, William, and there will be more fallout from your first assignment. The Feds will attempt to shut down sex club operations all over town.”

  He paused, looked at Morgan, then continued. “The loss of profit will hit many of our people hard. This will cause some bad blood, but it will pass. The Mexicans have already hired a hit team that is looking for you. My suggestion is to lay low for a while until things settle down a bit. We have tipped the balance of power. Armando dishonored our organization and has paid with his life.”

  He held out his hand. “You have something to show me?”

  I handed Mr. Sullivan my phone. Tilting his head to the side he looked down at the pictures. “This is sad, but a necessary evil.” He handed back the phone. “Congratulations, William. You’ve proved your value. Stay sharp until this blows over and we’ll be in touch soon. Morgan will settle things with you.”

  Morgan stood. “Let’s go talk,” he said. “Please follow me.”

  I turned to Mr. Sullivan, shook his hand. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “William, please be careful,” he said. “Angel won’t rest until she’s evened the score for her brother’s murder. Let her have the next move.”

  I followed Morgan to the second floor office. He closed the door and handed me an envelope. “There’s a parking garage under your apartment building. Give this to the attendant,” he said, and handed me a ticket.

  “When you get back home, ask Jackie about the armoire. Stay alive and we’ll contact you shortly,” Morgan said.

  I walked down the stairs and out into the street. Kenny was waiting outside, leaning on his car. “I’ll give you a lift back to your place,” he said.

  We drove uptown to the apartment, and before I got out of the car, Kenny said, “Listen Bill, if anything comes up, call me.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, and got out of the car.

  I decided I didn’t want to head back to the apartment yet so instead I took a walk to the west end. After a few blocks I came to the piers. I walked across the street to the terminal for the big cruise liners and stood there for a while, watching the water currents as the ships went by. As I watched, I wondered if the girls I’d freed made it home or to a safe place. I wondered how long I had before the Feds and Manny’s people came after for me.

  Back at my building, I entered the parking garage and found a booth with a parking attendant. He opened the booth door, and asked, “Can I have your ticket, sir?”

  “Here you go,” I said.

  He walked off and a few minutes later he drove up in a Lincoln Town Car. He held the door for me. I handed him five dollars. “Thanks,” I said.

  I pulled out of the garage and took the car for a ride around the city. I turned on the radio and tuned to a rock station. I started singing along to a U2 song, “New Year’s Day.”

  “I will be with you again; I will be with you again…”

  I thought about Dana and wanted to be with her, but wasn’t sure about the dangerous people that were after me. I drifted back to the car; the new car aroma was wonderful and wouldn’t last long. The Town Car was big, powerful, and bouncy. It felt like I was sitting on leather couch with wheels. The ride was as smooth as the leather. I barely felt any potholes. This car was absolutely awesome and kicked the crap out of Kenny’s Ford POS. I returned to the garage after an hour and headed back up to the apartment.

  Jackie was seated on the couch watching a reality show about rich housewives in California. I sat down next to her.

  “How can you watch this crap?”

  “Wait a sec, they’re all ganging up on Vicky,” she replied.

  I got up, went to the refrigerator, and got a Corona. I sat down next to her again and waited for a commercial so I could get Jackie’s attention. But within five minutes of watching with her, I wanted to know why these women were all being so mean.

  “They are jealous of her success,” Jackie explained. “She has her own money making business, is sharp as a tack, and doesn't need a man to define her.”

  “Can you tell me about the armoire?”

  “Sure, what do you want to know?”

  “Fuck if I know. You’re supposed to tell me something,” I said, getting agitated.

  “All I know is that this is the key, and I’m not allowed to open it,” she said, and handed me a key.

  I headed into the bedroom and opened the armoire. I couldn’t believe how many weapons and explosives were packed in there. Shotguns, rifles, scopes and silencers hung on racks. Inside I found three drawers, each holding another grouping of weapons. One had knives, another pistols and ammo. The last had grenades and plastic explosives.

  I stepped away and sat on the bed, staring at the open armoire. My mouth was dry. This was here the whole time, and I could have used the help over the last few days.

  I knew holding on to the Glock wasn’t a good idea. I didn't want to get caught without being able to defend myself, but now that I had this armory, I needed to get rid of the weapon that tied me to the murders at the subway station in Harlem. The cops wouldn't care that it was self-defense; since there were no witnesses I’d be locked up.

  I took out a folding knife and a Beretta from the drawer. I loaded a few clips, threw the envelope in the drawer, and locked everything up. I would wait for dark then go toss the Glock in the River.

  I headed out around ten. The air smelled of low tide. I strolled to Twelfth Avenue and headed south along the River. After about twenty blocks I came to a skate park by the water. I walked up to the fence and tossed the Glock into the river, then headed back home.

  When I got back, Jackie was still sitting on the couch watching TV. A drink in her hand, she didn’t move as I walked in and went into the kitchen. Opening the cabinet over the sink, I grabbed the bourbon and took out a short glass. I poured two fingers of Knob Creek, had a big gulp, and lit a cig. After a few swigs, I headed back into the bedroom, opened the armoire, and pulled out the envelope. I looked inside to see how much Manny was worth to Mr. Sullivan. I counted ten thousand dollars and had to take a seat. I’d never seen that much money at once before.

  Being on Mr. Sullivan’s good side was gonna make me rich, if I could stay alive long enough to spend it. I had no way of knowing how difficult this was going to be.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After a few days I tried to call Jimmy to meet me at Healy’s, but he didn’t return my calls. I pulled out of the underground garage and took the Town Car over to Healy’s, hoping to find Jimmy smoking and drinking. I wanted to empty some beer bottles and knock back some whiskey with him. I grabbed a spot at the end of the bar, and then signaled to Donnie. He came over, took out a wet towel, and wiped the bar.

  “How you doin’, Donnie?” I asked.

  “Okay so far, but it’s still early. What would you like?”

  “A Guinness and a shot of Knob Creek,” I said.

  When Donnie came back with the drinks he said, “Jimmy hasn't been around. Word is he’s got Diesel issues.”

  I knocked back the shot. “What’s Diesel?”

  Wiping the bar, he leaned in, and said, “You know, heroin. I guess coke wasn't enough.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “He came in several days ago, but he can’t drink when he’s shooting his money.”

  I ordered another round, thanked Donnie, and left a twenty-dollar tip.

  I call
ed Jimmy and his phone went right to voice mail, so I drove over to his place on 42nd and Twelfth. I pressed Jimmy’s buzzer a few times, but no response. I took a deep breath and got back in the car. If he were out, he’d have to show up eventually, and if he were home, he’d have to come out. So I sat, watched, and waited.

  After a couple of hours the front door opened and Jimmy staggered out. He looked bad. Thin, pale, and sickly. I opened the car door, then called after him, “Hey Jimmy, hold up. Where you been?”

  He turned like he didn’t know me. He quickened his pace and walked off. I followed after him as he turned the corner and headed into a building. A while later he came out slowly. He could barely walk and was a wasted wreck.

  I grabbed his arm, pushed up his sleeve, and saw scabby bruises with needle marks. “Jimmy, you got a problem.”

  “Fuck you Bill. Stop hounding me. I’m just having some fun.”

  “So now you’re a fucking junkie?” I sneered at him in disgust.

  “Bill, you don’t know shit.”

  “How long before Mr. Sullivan finds out and comes knocking?” I asked.

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  “Yeah, let’s take a ride and get something to eat,” I offered.

  “Okay,” he said, and I helped him into the car.

  I took Jimmy to a diner on 42nd and we got seated in a booth by a window. The waitress, a cute, large-breasted redhead, came to take our order.

  “Do you want to hear our specials?” she asked.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  She read us the specials, and I stared at her the whole time.

  “What, no lobster?” I joked. She didn’t think I was funny.

  “What are your boys having?” she asked.

  “Cheeseburger deluxe,” I said.

  “I’ll take some chicken soup,” Jimmy said.

  Jimmy was all itchy. He got up and went to the restroom. By the time he came back the food was on the table. He sat and stared at the chicken soup.

  I took two bites from my burger, then said, “Sullivan is gonna have a serious problem with your state.”

  “Fuck him.”

  I took another bite, and looked up to see him nodding off. The heroin was in full effect, from his trip to the bathroom. He started to say something then faded mid-sentence. He tried to speak but couldn't. His eyes wouldn’t stay open. It was a pitiful site. The old Jimmy was bad enough, snorting, smoking, and drinking, but he seemed to function. This was worse, more like the walking dead. I stared at him and wondered how long before this dose wore off. “How’s your soup?” I asked.

  He lifted his head for a second, smiled, and dropped it down again.

  “Jimmy? How’s your soup?” I asked again.

  “It’s real good,” he said, and nodded off.

  The waitress came back and put the check on the table. “Your friend doesn't look so good,” she said.

  “Yeah, he’s having a bad day.”

  We walked to the front of the diner. I paid the cashier and left a tip on the table. Jimmy had made his way outside and looked like he was trying to go somewhere, but it wasn't working. He took a few steps, and then he started to fade, sitting in an invisible chair. I helped him walk back to the car.

  When we got to his building, I helped him into the elevator and we headed up to the third floor. The apartment was a wreck, nasty half eaten bits of food, pizza boxes and garbage littered the living room. Dirty dishes filled the sink, plates were caked with food. I put Jimmy in bed and went to the bathroom. Used syringes and needles were scattered on the sink, and small empty drug bags were scattered on the floor. The toilet and bathtub had brown stains. The place hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Ashtrays loaded full with cigarette butts littered every room.

  I plopped myself down on the couch, disgusted. I needed a plan to get Jimmy back on track. Rubbing my forehead, I tried to figure out what to do with him.

  I turned the TV on and got comfortable. I decided to stay the night to keep an eye on Jimmy, and slept on the couch. When I woke up and went to the bathroom, I found Jimmy on the floor, a needle sticking out of his arm. Foam and drool dripped from his mouth, and his eyes rolled up as a seizure racked his body. “Fuck! Fuck! Jimmy hang on!” I shouted, panicking. I ran to the living room and called 911, the phone shaking in my hands. I unlocked the front door and ran back to the bathroom and held Jimmy until an ambulance arrived minutes later. The EMTs immediately rushed in, ordered me out of the room and went to work on Jimmy. They took him out on a stretcher.

  “Where are you bringing him?” I asked.

  “Saint Vincent’s,” one of the guys replied.

  I followed them out of the apartment but lost them on the way to the hospital on Seventh Avenue. When I finally got there, I headed for the reception desk, where heavyset black women sat behind a window.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, my cousin James Campbell just came into the emergency room.”

  “Please take a seat, sir. A doctor will speak to you shortly,” she said.

  The waiting room was packed with people with assorted injuries. I looked up at the TV and mindlessly stared at the news.

  When I saw the cops arrive, I realized I couldn't stick around for an interview, so I left.

  Jimmy was in the hospital for a few days. The doctors put him on Methadone and sent him to a rehab center in Harlem.

  A week later my phone buzzed. It was Jimmy from a blocked number.

  I answered the phone, and he said,

  “Hey Bill, it’s Jimmy.”

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah, better now. I owe you big time for saving my life.”

  I heard him crying on the phone.

  “I know it was a mistake. I know it’s all fucked up now.” He said.

  “You gotta fix your life. Sullivan isn't gonna let you back in until you do.”

  “I’ll fix things, you’ll see. I promise.”

  A few days later, I was at Healy’s, passing time drinking and talking with Donnie. Kenny came in and took a seat next to me.

  “I’ll have a Bass Ale,” he said to Donnie.

  “Your cousin is out of the crew until he gets cleaned up,” Kenny said to me. “Mr. Sullivan doesn't trust junkies.”

  I drank the rest of my beer, and gave Kenny a dead stare.

  “I’m not sure he’ll ever be completely reliable,” he said. Kenny put down an empty glass, and leaned in. “They want you to stay out of trouble for a while longer. Morgan said he wants us to partner up on a job, but not just yet.”

  “Let me know when and I’ll be ready,” I said.

  He put a twenty on the bar and left.

  Something didn't seem right. I didn’t trust Kenny, so I decided to follow him. I waited a minute or two and walked out after him. I drove around the block until I spotted Kenny, sitting in his Ford and talking on his cell phone. When he pulled out, I followed him to an Argentinean steak house on the Lower East Side. This wasn’t our territory; it was where the Columbian gangs sold heroin to rich kids from the suburbs. It occurred to me that Kenny had probably gotten Jimmy started on heroin to get him out of the way. That motherfucker could’ve killed Jimmy and what the fuck was he doing here?

  Kenny headed into the steak house. A few minutes later, Angel sauntered by, wearing dark sunglasses and carrying a briefcase. She opened the door and went into the restaurant.

  Why would Kenny be meeting with Angel? Kenny had to be a rat, and if Sullivan found out, he would end up like Rudy. The Mexicans were being tipped off about Sullivan’s brothels. They terrorized customers, killed some staff, and busted it up. Now they were the only game on the West Side. I might have slowed them down a little, but the club was probably cranking again.

  Why didn't Kenny kill Paco? The whole thing with Paco taped up in Kenny’s trunk. It just didn't make any sense. Was Kenny an agent, a rat, or just an informant? Was he playing every angle? I needed to find out what was going on without tipping them
off.

  I turned off the car and headed toward the steak house just as a siren went off and two cars pulled up. I felt cold metal against my neck

  “Get on the floor now and don’t you fucking move.”

  I didn't resist. An agent handcuffed my hands and loaded me into the back of a black sedan. I was taken to a precinct and locked in a cell.

  After a few hours, I was moved to an interrogation room. The room was small, with a large two-way mirror, and a desk, with two chairs on either side.

  Two suits came in. One guy was tall and thin with bad skin. His wrinkled suit was dark blue, and he sipped coffee from a paper cup. He eyeballed me for a few minutes before speaking.

  “I’m Agent Clark and this is Agent Burns,” he said. “Do you know anything about the subway station shootings in Harlem? Two people died and a building was set on fire.”

  “I don’t know anything,” I said.

  Agent Burns stood behind me. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “So you’re some kind of vigilante? Shooting up Harlem, setting fires and saving kidnap victims.”

  “Oh yeah, we know all about you, William Conlin,” said Clark. “Big war hero, back in the states. Bored out of your mind. You should have signed up for the Police Academy when you came back.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I hedged. “Am I being charged with something?”

  “We want you to help us nail Angel Sanchez,” said Burns.

  “Who’s Angel Sanchez?” I said.

  There was a knock at the door and both suits walked out of the room. A few minutes later another guy came in. Fat Paco.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Paco took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and fired one up. “You fucked things up, Holmes,” he said, blowing smoke in my face.

  “Is Kenny on your payroll?”

  “Good question, but I’m not gonna answer that,” he said.

  “He got my cousin hooked on heroin, and it almost killed him.”