Dirt

Chapter 54

Tommy and Charlie Bruce spent the afternoon and evening in the movies, seeing four features in three theaters, their luggage on the seats beside them, not venturing onto the streets until after dark. They ate a late dinner at the back of a Chinese restaurant, lingering until long after midnight, then found a cab and got out a block from their destination.

“How are we going to get in?” Charlie asked as they walked quickly down the street.

“I’ve got a key to the apartment, but it’s a doorman building, and we have to get in the back way. Stop a minute.”

They put down their bags and looked up and down the block. It was after one o’clock, and there was no traffic.

“Down here,” Tommy said, trotting down a flight of dark stairs to a door. He switched on a penlight, clenched it between his teeth, and from his wallet took a set of lock picks. In less than thirty seconds they were inside. “We can’t use the elevator,” he said. “The doorman will know if we do. We’ll have to walk up.”

“How many floors?”

“Nine.”

“Shit.”

“Shut up, and let’s get moving.” They stopped twice to rest and finally stepped into the ninth-floor hallway. They tiptoed to the door, and Tommy let them in and switched on a light.

“Not bad,” Charlie said.

“There’s only one bed; one of us will have to sleep on the sofa.”

“Toss you for it.”

“Fuck you. And keep the noise down; we don’t want to attract attention from the neighbors.” They busied themselves with getting settled, and Tommy plugged in his laptop computer, connecting it to the laser printer already on a desk in the apartment.

“I’m whipped,” Charlie said, flopping down on the sofa.

“Let’s get some sleep, then. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

The following morning Stone walked stiffly out of the hospital and rode home in a cab with Arrington.

“You need some help with the steps?” she asked.

“I’ll manage,” he said. but the climbing made his ribs hurt. While Arrington went to consult Helene about lunch, he took the elevator upstairs and went to the safe in his dressing room. He took out a German.765 caliber automatic pistol, a small but damaging weapon, then he dressed in pajamas and a robe and put the pistol into a robe pocket. Finally, and with some difficulty, he knelt next to his bed, retrieved the shotgun from its hiding place under the bed. and set it where he could easily reach it. Only then did he prop himself up in bed. When he next met the Messrs. Bruce, he intended to be ready.

Enrico Bianchi got out of his car on a narrow street in Little Italy and walked into the La Boheme Coffee House. He nodded to several people at tables, then went straight through to a rear room, where a nattily dressed young man awaited him.

“Good morning, padrone,” the young man said.

Bianchi tapped his ear with a finger and made a circular motion in the air.

“It was swept ten minutes ago,” the young man said. “We’re all right.”

“What happened yesterday?” Bianchi asked, taking a chair.

“A waiter who runs numbers spotted them on West Forty-fourth Street. He got excited and took their photograph, and they ran. He tried to follow them, but they were gone. We checked the block and found out they had checked in at the Mansfield Hotel less than half an hour before. They returned there, got their bags, and left in a hurry.”

“And now?”

“They’ve gone to ground. As soon as they hit the streets, we’ll have them.”

“Let me see the photograph,” Bianchi said.

The young man handed him a snapshot.

“Yes, that’s our boys.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”

“We have a new problem. I had a call this morning; the police are now looking for them, and they’ve got photographs, too, although we managed to slow the prints down a little.”

“That’s not good.”

“It means that we will just have to find them first, and if we do, we won’t have as much time as I’d hoped to fake a crime. The important thing, though, is that they are dead.”

“I understand.”

“I want a dozen men on the streets on the Upper East Side, ready to do the work at a moment’s notice. Give them stolen cellular telephones, and tell them to be brief when they use them.”

“No problem.”

“Be sure each man has a silenced weapon, too, and tell them to use knives if at all possible. This will have to be done quickly and with little fuss.”

“What about bystanders?”

“Leave no one alive who could identify our people. I don’t want this to come back to us.”

“Yes, padrone.”

“Get to me the minute you have news.” Bianchi left the coffeehouse and went back to his car.

Dino stood in the squad room handing out photographs. “Sorry these took so long, but we had problems with the photo lab. We’re looking for these two for aggravated battery, but the thing is, we think one or both of them may have capped Arnie Millman, so this is an all-out push. Those of you on a beat, I want every doorman in a hotel or apartment building to see these pictures. If you glom onto these guys, don’t try to take them; call for backup. I don’t want no dead heroes. Got that?”

There was a murmur of assent from the gathering.

“Okay, get on it,” Dino said, then went back to his office and called Stone. “How you feeling, pal?”

“A lot better, thanks.”

“The pictures of the Bruces are on the street; we’re doing a full-court press.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Stone, I hope you won’t go looking for these guys.”

“You can always hope.”

“It’s better to let us find them. You can be the star witness at the trial. Stay home and get well.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You got a piece?”

“I have.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I never fail to take your advice twice, Dino.”

Stone hung up the phone, got undressed, shaved, and showered. Arrington rewound the Ace bandage around his sore ribs.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“It’s okay; I’m really feeling a lot better.”

“I’m going out for a while; will you be okay?”

“Sure. Where you going?”

“I’ve got to see somebody at The New Yorker, and then I want to run by my place for a minute. In my rush to get to you I forgot half my makeup.”

“You wear makeup?”

“You’re sweet.”