CHAPTER 27

Goddamn amateur.

Anthony grit his teeth, the line of his jaw hard, that muscle jumping. He had the windows half-open, and a warm breeze blew through the car, tugging at his tie, rifling the Sun-Times on the passenger seat. He'd brought it thinking he might read a little to calm down, but the paper lay untouched. His SIG sat on top of it, an ugly suppressor screwed onto the barrel. In the movies everybody had a suppressor, like you could buy one at the corner store, but he'd never had any luck getting a line on them, even with his contacts. Had to build his himself: Steel tube, drill-pressed holes, springs and washers. Used a metal lathe to machine a threaded bit that matched the SIG, then silver-soldered the pieces together. He'd heard you could buy suppressors over the counter in Finland, have to get there someday.

But tonight the SIG was just in case there were any more surprises.

The thought set his jaw jumping again. Galway. Amateur. First he wouldn't acknowledge what had to be done to silence the Billy Palmer brat. Anthony had been forced to plead the case like a first-time trigger-man, and Galway had still found a way to screw that up, using gangbangers to do the deed. And tonight, when Jason Palmer delivered himself up dead to rights, Galway managed to let him get away.

So now here Anthony was, two in the fucking morning, sitting in this fucking jig neighborhood like he had nothing better to fucking do. A fucking custodian, just mopping up the fucking mess.

Headlights glowed in his rearview. About fucking time. He wriggled low in the seat, took up the SIG, held it close to his chest, barrel up, just in case. But the Jaguar passed, the engine smooth and soft as it paused outside a garage, the door rolling up. The garage was surprisingly orderly, no clutter, clean swept, even a pegboard with tools neatly hung. The guy had probably never used them, bought them out of a catalog 'cause that's what you were supposed to have in your garage.

Anthony smiled. Felt that tingle in his bladder that meant play time.

He counted one hundred, then got out of the car, leaving behind his SIG in favor of the cop's Smith. He'd busted the porch lights when he first arrived – it took three shots for two lights, which pissed him off a little, but the suppressor threw off accuracy – and so he walked tall to the front door. He wondered idly if the guy would have company tonight. Galway wouldn't like that. Weakling amateur, no stomach for the work at hand.

Two locks, one an up-model Schlage that cost an extra twenty seconds, and he was inside, mouth open, listening. A hunter. Let his mind feel his way through the dark as his eyes adjusted. Sleek furniture coming into focus, a black leather couch, a low glass coffee table, a painting of an African woman fighting a tiger, only her head tilted back and her tits exposed, like maybe they weren't actually fighting, maybe the tiger was tearing off a piece. It wasn't clear, let you decide. He kind of liked it.

Thick white carpeting covered the floor, and he moved easy, his passage barely a rustle. Eased up the steps as music started above, something softer than Anthony would have expected. Brown sugar beats and a woman's voice, singing how when she first met him, he was the sweetest thing, a Sade tape in the cold of spring, and then Anthony kicked the door open, the wood swinging fast to crack off the opposite wall, Dion Wallace frozen in tableaux in the middle of his bedroom, perfect, no cover, no weapons, a snifter in one hand, a bottle of Courvoisier in the other, paisley silk robe open and his junk exposed.

"Hiya, C-Note. I'd ask how it's hanging, but I can see for myself." Anthony smiled, stepped in. "You know, I'd always heard you boys packed extra weight. Must be cold in here, huh?"

Dion had the panicked look of an animal surprised, eyes darting left and right, like he wanted to dive back in his hole. "Man, what you about?"

"Figured I'd drop by, see how things were going. You know, shoot the shit. See if you'd finished the assignment I gave your black ass."

The gangbanger straightened, narrowed his eyes. He poured cognac into the snifter, threw it back, poured another. "You want one?"

"Sure."

Dion turned the bottle upside down so the brown liquor poured out in a ropy stream, glug glug. Smiled. "Just ran out."

Anthony shook his head. "See, that's what's wrong with you people. Trying to come off hard, but all you did, you poured booze on your nice white carpet."

"Carpet don't mean shit to me," tossing the empty bottle aside. "I got the bank, have new stuff down before I'm even home tomorrow."

"Yeah, but see, it didn't do any good. You ruined your carpet for nothing. I mean, if wanted to use the bottle as a weapon, that I could understand. Of course," gesturing with his left hand while his right jerked the Smith, like a magician distracting his audience, "a bottle would be a little outclassed. But at least it would suggest some, what do you call it, proactivity."

Dion glanced at the pistol, then into Anthony's eyes. "What you want?"

"I want you to close your damn robe."

The man moved slow, insolent, his eyes heavy-lidded, showing this weren't nothing but a minor annoyance. Anthony waited till he had the sash tied, then holstered the Smith, smiled like they were buddies. "Now, tell me what's happened with Jason Palmer."

"I got crews out all over the place. His crib, his brother's, even watching the bar y'all burned down. He pops his head out anywhere, I got a hard-eyed brother ready to take care of business. Boy's a corpse, he just don't realize it yet."

"That so?"

Dion nodded, took a sip of cognac.

"So then, I gotta ask, how did he and his little cop girlfriend show up at Lower Wacker, screw up a deal I was making?"

Dion coughed, lowered his drink fast. "What?"

"All of a sudden, there he is, like he don't have a care in the world. Not acting like a man got a hundred angry niggers on his tail."

"Lower Wacker." The drink slipped, spilling a few drops before he caught it. "You're shitting me."

Anthony felt his eyes narrowing. This wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated. Something unexpected was going on here. "That ring a bell?"

"Motherfucker." Dion drank the rest of the cognac. Shook his head. "Martinez."

"Martinez?" What was this? DiRisio replayed the conversation in his head. Lower Wacker. The jig had reacted to Lower Wacker. Now why would that be?

It hit. "Oh, you stupid monkey. You made a deal."

"Shit no." The words coming too fast.

"Yes, you did." Pussy-assed amateurs. "You talked to Palmer, didn't you? He offer you money or something?"

"Nah, man, I ain't seen him." His eyes edgy, glancing at the night table. That would be where he had a weapon.

"So who's Martinez?"

"Just some cop, white dude. Came into my crib running game, you know? Said it was like cowboys and Indians."

Anthony stared at him. "I don't speak Ebonics."

"This Martinez said the cavalry was waiting, gonna roll us all up unless I gave him something. I didn't have no choice. But I didn't give up shit he could use, no names or nothing. I figured you're a man who can take care of business. Handle hisself, you know?"

Who was this Martinez? He could be a friend of the woman cop's. But why bring Palmer? And why hadn't Galway heard about it? It didn't make any sense. If the police had known about the buy, they wouldn't have sent just Cruz and Palmer. It would have been a circus of red and blue lights. But if Martinez hadn't told them, how else could Palmer have gotten there? Unless… "You said this cop was white?"

"Yeah, just had a Latin name."

"Was he by any chance about six foot? Built, surfer hair, drove a Caddy?"