Hell of a Mess, page 8
part #4 of A Love & Bullets Hookup Series
“More or less,” Fiona said.
“How’d you find us now?” Fireball asked me. “We only left that penthouse, like, an hour ago.”
“Like I said, when it comes to tracking people, the only thing better’s a hound dog,” I said. “We need to go.”
“We were already heading somewhere,” Fiona said.
“Yeah, you were making real good progress, too, right up until I found you,” I said.
“Bill’s there,” she said. “He might actually like to see you.”
I’d liked Bill for the brief time I’d known him. If he could refrain from pickpocketing me, I felt we’d get along well. “Where?” I asked.
“Townhouse, twenty-third,” she said. “Easy walk from here in normal conditions.” Her eyes flicked to the ceiling.
“This is the same station I came in,” I said, ejecting the half-full magazine from my rifle and reloading with a full one. “I got a truck right across the street. Unless Manhattan’s under four feet of water, we’ll make it. Let’s go.”
“Thank you,” Jen said.
“You’re very welcome, little lady,” I said, offering my sunniest smile. “Always happy to help out a friend.”
“Do you actually have a name?” she asked.
“Whatever he tells you, it’ll be a lie,” Fiona said.
“I’ve evolved past names, anyway,” I offered, ignoring how Fiona rolled her eyes.
The wind roared down the short hallway connecting the station to the surface, toying with our hair. It sounded less like weather than an animal, a huge wolf threatening bloody doom. We exited through the emergency door and took a left beyond the stationmaster’s kiosk, where we had a better view of the subway entrance. A waterfall poured down the steps into the bubbling gutter-strip that ran along the gate.
The rain had picked up since I went underground. If you went outside and lay on your back, you’d drown in a few seconds. I shrugged off my black nylon shell and draped it over Jen’s shoulders. “It probably won’t help,” I said, “but it’s better than nothing.”
“Thanks,” she said.
Slinging the submachine gun over my shoulder, I walked to the gate, which I’d pushed closed after snipping the lock. I forced it open again, the wind snapping at my ears, the rain needling my eyes. My shoes instantly soaked again.
“We might want to run,” I told them, and, gripping the railing, pushed my way up the stairs. It was like fording whitewater, exhausting after even a few steps. At the top, I crouched and extended my hand to Fiona, who took it and pulled herself to the final step, then spun to help me with the kids.
Once everyone was topside, we paused to breathe. A crumpled highway sign bounced like razor-sharp tumbleweed down the middle of the street, denting a car door as it passed.
“Not something you see every day,” Fiona said.
“My ride’s there,” I said, pointing across the street to the white blur of a truck parked at the corner. “We can make it, right? We’re not wimps about a little weather?”
“Let’s go,” Fiona said, shoving past me. She had Jen tucked under her shoulder like a mama bird, trying to shield her from the storm, but her body proved as effective against the elements as a screen door on a submarine. Despite her warmth and my jacket, the kid was already shivering again. At least the city’s electricity was still on, so I could fumble out my keys by the streetlights’ sickly yellow glow.
I unlocked the truck, and we wrestled the doors open. In the back seat, Fiona and Jen slammed atop a geologic layer of burger wrappers and junk mail. Fireball plopped into the front passenger seat and, after shaking himself like a dog, opened his waterproof backpack and pulled out a laptop. Flipping the computer open, he stabbed the power button.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked him. “Sending an email?”
“Gotta check if it still works,” he said, breathless.
“Not our biggest problem,” I said, twisting the engine to life while smacking buttons on the ancient dashboard until heat blasted from the vents.
“There a blanket or something back here?” Fiona asked.
“Sure, but you might have to excavate,” I said, wiping the thin layer of condensation from the driver’s side window so I could check the subway entrance. The was zero chance our pursuers could have tracked us to the subway station so quickly, but this was a night for odd events.
“Got it,” Fiona said, yanking a ratty woolen blanket from beneath a stack of books in the footwell. “God, you ever think about cleaning this thing up?”
“Bring it up with the guy I stole it from,” I said, twisting the wheel so I could edge us from the curb. The tires skidded against the rushing water. I was just as concerned about flying debris shattering the windshield.
Fiona wrapped the blanket around Jen, turning her into a wool burrito, before pulling her phone from her pocket and dialing.
“Who you calling?” I asked.
“Bill,” she said, holding the phone to her ear.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“Still Bill, and he’s not picking up.” Pulling the phone from her ear, she typed out a text.
“I’m sure he’s okay,” I said. “You mind telling me where we’re going?”
“Head east,” she said. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”
She dialed a number and placed the phone to her ear again.
“I’m sure he’s okay,” I said again.
“He’s supposed to leave his phone on,” she said. “And if I have signal, he probably has signal.”
I almost told her it wasn’t true. On a night like this, the usual rules never applied. Something in her face persuaded me to shut my mouth. Knowing Bill, he would have kept his phone on for Fiona. If he wasn’t picking up, he might have become another problem for us to solve.
THIRTEEN
Bill tapped his pinkie fingers along the edges of the handcuffs. Easy to pick, if only he had the proper tools and a little privacy. The storm was making these cops nervous, and a nervous cop was like a wounded animal—quick to snap.
His wrist buzzed.
As someone who considered himself a connoisseur of fine timepieces—he’d stolen his first iced-out Rolex at nineteen—he had despised the idea of a computer on his wrist. I’m not a nerd, he told Fiona when she first mentioned buying one. A real watch was a useful tool of his trade. A chump, observing the equivalent of a new sports car on your left wrist, would assume you had a great deal of money, and trust you faster.
Oh, come on, Fiona retorted. It’s sleek, and you can get all kinds of shiny accessories for it. A week later, she presented a smartwatch as a gift, along with a few straps in patent leather with gold buckles, sold not by the company that made the watch but a small leather shop down in the Village.
Of course, he knew why she wanted him to wear it. Fiona, who enjoyed starting her day with a hundred push-ups and sit-ups, who ran ten miles at a stretch to clear her head, wanted him to be healthier. In addition to telling time, the watch had health apps tracking everything from your heart rate to how many steps you took in a day. It had a cellular connection, so even if you left your phone at home, you could still take walks and record your route and even make a phone call—not that he would be caught dead shouting into his wrist in the middle of the street.
Well, someone was calling him now.
He should have tried dialing Fiona from the cops’ car trunk. In his fear and confusion, he’d forgotten all about the feature. Anyway, what would he have told her? I’m in a car but I don’t know where? He didn’t even know where he was right now.
The cops had retreated to the table in the middle of the space, their heads bent together as they muttered through logistics. They would take the watch if they realized he could call or text with it. He needed some space.
“Hey,” he called out.
The cops raised their heads as one. No sympathy in those gazes.
“I need to piss,” he said.
His wrist buzzed twice: incoming text.
“Should let you go in your pants, sweetheart,” said Tattoo.
“Come on,” Bill said. “Just a bucket and thirty seconds.”
The cops looked at Katzen.
“What?” Katzen said. “I’m not doing it.”
“You brought him here,” Crew Cut said, “which means you’re the one pulling out his dick, okay? Small price to pay for how badly you fucked up.”
“I didn’t fuck up,” Katzen said, his cheeks reddening. “We agreed to the plan. We carried out the plan. How was I supposed to know the guy was out of town?”
“You’re the fancy homicide detective,” Tattoo snorted. “That’s your job, to find out.”
Katzen looked at Hardaway, his eyes begging for backup, but she only shrugged. “Just do it,” she said. “We don’t have time for this shit.”
Katzen made a show of slapping the table and puffing out his cheeks. It didn’t matter. The other cops had him pegged. Bill had him pegged, too. Katzen was the chump.
“Fine,” Katzen said, retrieving an empty five-gallon bucket from the corner and marching over to Bill.
“I appreciate it,” Bill said. “You’re a great guy.”
“Shut up,” Katzen said, dumping the bucket on the floor between Bill’s spread legs.
Bill offered the cop a look of wide-eyed innocence. “If you unzip me, I can kind of bump my hips, let it flop out. You won’t even have to touch it. Will that work for you?”
Muffled chuckling from the table. “Yeah, Katzen,” Crew Cut shouted. “Will that work for you?”
“I’ll just uncuff you,” Katzen said. “You try anything, I’ll kill you. Understood?”
“You’re the boss,” Bill said.
Katzen moved behind Bill’s chair. Bill felt the cop’s hands brush his wrists, pull at the chain connecting the handcuffs.
Bill’s watch buzzed again.
Katzen paused. Had he felt the vibration?
“Bladder’s full,” Bill almost shouted.
“What was that?” Katzen asked.
“What was what?”
“That sound.”
“Your phone?” Bill said. “Come on, man.”
Katzen patted his jacket. “Not my phone.”
“Well, you took mine.” Bill’s heart pounded against his sternum.
Katzen paused for what felt like an infinity. If he saw the smartwatch, would he know it came with a cellular connection? You could tell it had the feature because of the red dot on the bezel, but Katzen didn’t strike Bill as the type who paid much attention to technology.
Click, click, and the metal bracelets snapped open. Bill rubbed his wrists and stood on cracking knees. With his right foot, he pushed the bucket away from the chair, then pivoted so he stood above it, his back to the table and its assembled cops. Katzen was still in front of him, posing a problem.
“You want to compare sizes?” Bill asked, unzipping his pants.
“You ever been to jail?” Katzen smirked. “I bet you have. No privacy.”
Bill shrugged, unzipped, and pulled out what the most immature part of his brain still referred to as the one-eyed love worm. After drinking so much wine earlier, he really did need to piss enough to refill a reservoir. He felt blessed relief as his stream splashed into the bottom of the bucket.
Katzen shifted his gaze.
Bill swiveled on his heel, arcing his piss beyond the bucket and onto the cop’s shoes. Katzen yelped and jumped back. Bill grinned and swiveled again, chasing him with his yellow stream. Behind them, the other cops roared laugher.
“Privacy,” Bill said.
“Fuck you,” Katzen snapped, shaking the urine from his shoes as he hopped out of Bill’s sight. An hour ago, Bill might have feared Katzen shooting him the back of the head, but he had the cop’s number now. The guy was a beta dog.
Bill aimed at the bucket again. Trying to move as quickly but subtly as he could, he used his right thumb to push back his left sleeve, exposing his fancy smartwatch. Touching the bezel brought the device to life, and he tapped the screen until the app icons popped into view. Tapped the message icon. Fiona had texted him: Where U?
She was alive and hunting for him. Excellent. Best news of a crappy night. His bladder was almost empty, his flow slackening, but he only needed another few seconds. He tapped the microphone icon below Fiona’s last message, and a gray line wiggled across the screen as the smartwatch’s microphone snapped to life.
“You done, prick?” Katzen asked.
“You speaking to my disco stick, or to me?” Bill said, shaking out the last drops, which had the nice side effect of dropping his left sleeve over his wrist again. He shoved himself into his pants and zipped up.
“I’m not even dignifying that with a response,” Katzen said. “Sit back down and put your hands behind your back, perp.”
“Oh, perp. You know how to really hurt a guy’s feelings.” Bill sat, using his right foot to push the piss bucket a few inches further away from him.
As Katzen knelt behind him with the handcuffs, Bill said, “So, you’ve kidnapped me, dragged me to this police garage or whatever it is on the West Side, somewhere near Midtown, and next we’re going to North Brother Island? Quite an adventure.”
“Shut up,” Katzen said, snapping the handcuffs onto Bill’s wrists, the metal biting into his skin. “I don’t care.”
“You ought to. You’re a cop,” Bill said. “You’re all cops. You took an oath to uphold the law, right?”
“Shut up,” Katzen said, walking away. “It’ll go easier on you if you shut the fuck up.”
Leaning back in his seat, Bill bent his wrists so the fingers of his right hand slipped beneath his left sleeve. Whenever you composed a message on the smartwatch, you finished by tapping the Send icon in the screen’s upper-right corner, correct?
He tapped that area repeatedly, hoping the message sent—
And now what?
He hadn’t offered up an exact address. And even if he could—what did he expect Fiona to do, crash through the hurricane to rescue him? The roof banged like Thor himself was slamming his hammer into the metal. Moving more than a few blocks was suicidal.
At least she would know he was kidnapped.
The lights flickered.
Crew Cut retrieved a paper from Bill’s folder and walked over. Standing over Bill, he rolled the paper into a tube, crinkling it in his grip. A nervous gesture. His eyes cold and unblinking.
“You’re not bullshitting us about this island?” Crew Cut asked.
Bill shook his head. “No.”
“Good. We’re not bad guys. We’re going to cut you in. It’s in your interest to tell us everything you know.”
“Just to make sure everything runs smoothly?”
“Correct.” Crew Cut offered him a tight-lipped smile. “Now you’re getting it.”
“You know what I know,” Bill said, nodding at the paper. “It’s all in there.”
“There’s nothing you’re holding back, just in case?”
“Look, I don’t know what that could be. We might have to dig in a few places.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.” Crew Cut snapped.
“Sorry.” Bill made a show of averting his gaze, every inch the cowed criminal. “I’ll follow your lead.”
“Good. We’re not bad guys. Everyone’s getting well at the end of this.” Crew Cut turned away, about to return to the table.
“Why are you doing this?” Bill said. “The hedge fund guy was your original plan. Now the island. Not without risk. I thought you cops had good pensions.”
“Oh, the pension’s fine.” Crew Cut regarded the other cops, who were doing a great job of not looking up from whatever occupied them around the table. No doubt they were listening. “But you always need something more. You know how it goes.”
“Sure,” Bill said. “Sure, I do.”
“Besides, being a cop isn’t what it used to be. When I first started out, cops got respect. Even the worst criminals, the true thugs, they gave it to us, because they knew the consequences if they didn’t. Now it’s all changed. You can’t even search someone without a bunch of progressive vegans trying to shove a bunch of lawyers right up your ass. We’re trying to do our jobs, keep the streets safe, and they’re protesting us.”
Oh no, Bill thought. He’s on a roll.
Crew Cut’s cheeks reddened. “Imagine putting your life on the line every day to protect this city, and all you get for it is people spitting in your face. Even my daughter, she’s walking around the house shouting things like, ‘Defund the police.’ Excuse me, but if we walked off the job, it’d just be chaos. Everything would shut down.”
“Sure,” Bill said. “The blood-dimmed tide down Fifth Avenue.”
“You can joke all you want, but you know it’s true. We’re the only line of defense against the animals. But if people can’t appreciate that, I’m fine with taking my money and walking away from it all.” His voice rose. “Isn’t that right, everyone?”
Grunts of agreement from around the table.
“Thank you for illuminating me,” Bill said. “I mean it. I might be a criminal, but I’ve always had respect for cops. You’re just trying to do your job.”
“Thank you,” Crew Cut said, his tone flat. “I appreciate it. Even if I do have you cuffed up in a shithole on Tenth.”
Crew Cut returned to the table. The garage doors rattled, the wind whistling through the joints and cracks. As Bill imagined cars spinning down the streets like poker chips, he ran his fingers over the edges of the smartwatch. Thanks to Crew Cut’s slip of the tongue, he knew a little more about his location. Another text to Fiona, and she might have enough data to save his ass after all.
FOURTEEN
The truck rumbled down 23rd Street. At least, Fiona hoped they were on 23rd Street. The water smashing into the windshield reduced visibility to squat. The assassin hunched over the wheel, squinting into the blur, barely fluttering the gas as they crept forward.
At least the street was narrow, lined with secondhand jewelry stores and seedy bodegas shuttered against the storm. It blocked some of the wind slicing from the south. Hopefully protected them from some of the debris, too. Fiona feared a crashed or double-parked car in their way.
