”But, Detective…” Smithers began.
Schaefer taped a wire to his chest, holding a tiny microphone in place. “No,” he said.
”I’m sure that if…”
Schaefer continued to install the surveillance equipment as he said, “What part of ‘no’ didn’t you understand?”
”Damn it, Detective, will you let me finish a sentence?” Smithers shouted.
”Why should I?” Schaefer asked. “Besides, I just did.” With the wires securely in place, he reached in the locker and pulled out a gaudy pink-and-green shirt, the sort of thing the tackier pimps on Seventh Avenue wore.
Smithers fumed for a moment, then said, “I’d think you’d want a chance to get involved in this.”
Schaefer started buttoning the shirt, then looked at Smithers. “Why? Are they in New York again?”
”Well, no,” Smithers admitted.
”I knew it,” Schaefer said, looking back down at the buttons. “I’d have smelled them if they were here.” He finished buttoning the shirt, pulled a brown leather coat out of the locker, then turned to Smithers and said, “Listen up, army boy. If they aren’t in New York, I’m not interested. I don’t like those sons of bitches, but there are a lot of people in this world I don’t like, including you.” He tugged on one sleeve. “I’ve done my time, Smithers. So did my brother. He lost his entire squad to them; I got my city shot up and lost my partner. We took down a few of those ugly bastards along the way, we did our best, and I’m willing to call it even if they stay off my turf. You tell me they’re not on my turf, so you can just go to hell, and take General Philips with you.” He pulled on the other sleeve.
”Your ‘turf’ is just New York?”
”Damn right.” He straightened the coat. “I may think I’m pretty hot shit, but I’m not up to playing cop for the whole goddamned world. New York’s big enough for anyone.”
”So you won’t consider helping us?”
”I told you ‘no’ once already.”
”That’s your final word?”
”My real ‘final word’ would probably get me arrested,” Schaefer said, giving Smithers a shove toward the door. “Now get out of my office before I sprinkle you with salt and watch you melt on the sidewalk like the slug you are.” He pushed Smithers out and closed the door.
That done, he glanced at the clock. Despite that little chat he still had a few minutes to spare before he had to be in position.
He looked at the closed door. The man in the suit was making no effort to get back in, which was good-but that didn’t mean it was the end of the matter.
Even if Philips and his buddies were willing to let it drop, that didn’t mean Schaefer was. He’d been looking for Philips in his spare time for months, and hadn’t found him-but now he might have a fresh lead.
”Smithers, huh?” he muttered to himself. “If that’s a real name, I just might want to look him up later. We might have a nice little chat about Dutch.” He fished a scrap of paper from the pile on his desk, found a pen, and scribbled a quick note to himself just two names, “Smithers” and “Philips,” with an arrow connecting them.
Schaefer’s brother Dutch had disappeared years ago while working for Philips. Schaefer was certain that Dutch had run up against one of those alien big-game hunters, down there in Central America where Philips and his boys had been playing around in the local politics. Dutch and his boys had walked right into its hunting ground, and the thing had butchered Dutch’s entire team-but Dutch had apparently killed it and gotten out alive.
And then he’d vanished, and Schaefer was pretty damn sure that Philips knew more about that disappearance than he’d admitted.
And after last summer’s debacle Philips had disappeared, too-into the Pentagon somewhere, probably. Schaefer had resented that; he had wanted to have a friendly little talk with Philips.
This Smithers might be able to lead him to Philips, and maybe they could make some kind of a deal. He might just help Philips out after all, if the two of them could agree on a few details. He didn’t like those big ugly bastards from outer space, and despite what he’d told Smithers, a rematch wasn’t completely out of the question.
Any deal they might make would have to be on Schaefer’s terms, though. He wasn’t going to come running whenever Philips called. And sending Smithers here to fetch him had just pissed him off.
Schaefer would deal with Smithers and his boss when and where he chose-which wasn’t here or now. For one thing, he wasn’t going to tackle any sort of serious negotiating here at Police Plaza, with a couple of hundred cops around who might have their own ideas about what was appropriate bargaining behavior. No, they’d meet somewhere private, at a time and place of Schaefer’s choosing, when he was good and ready, and when that happened the agenda was going to start with Dutch, not with those alien freaks.
And it wouldn’t be any time all that soon, because Schaefer had a bust to attend to, one that he and his men had been setting up for weeks. Once that was out of the way, then he’d have time to worry about Dutch, General Philips, and a bunch of bloodthirsty goons from space.
He dropped the note on the desk and left.
Chapter 9
Schaefer turned and looked out through the storefront, trying to appear casual or as casual as he ever did, at any rate.
He was standing in a small shop in the Village, a place called Collectors World that sold comic books, baseball cards, and other such things, all of it overpriced kid stuff, in Schaefer’s opinion. He was pretending to talk to the shop’s manager, a balding guy named Jon Cohen, but he was actually looking out the front window at the man in the driver’s seat of a brown van that had just parked illegally at the opposite sidewalk.
The van was late; Schaefer had been in here killing time for a good three minutes, waiting for it.
”Testing, one two three, testing, one two three,” he said in a conversational tone. “This wire better be working, Rawlings, because I’m going in, in about two minutes, before these clowns talk me into buying any funny books.”
The driver held up a hand, displaying thumb and forefinger in a circle-the “okay” sign. The mike was live.
”Okay, boys,” Schaefer said as he strode toward the door, pushing past a clerk who’d also given his name as John, “we’re on. Remember, nobody moves in until Baby coughs up the dope. I want her for dealing, not just for some candy-ass zoning violation.”
He marched out onto the sidewalk and across the street, headed for a kitchenware shop-a shop that, according to the dealers in the vicinity and NYPD’s own undercover operatives, happened to be the local headquarters for wholesale cocaine. A cold winter wind ripped down the street, flapping his leather coat, but Schaefer ignored it.
In the back of the brown van one of the three cops manning the monitoring equipment muttered, “Thank God Schaefer’s here to tell us our jobs, hey? For a second there I was almost feeling competent.”
His companions grinned nervously.
”Shut up,” Rawlings said from the driver’s seat. “You guys be ready.”
A bell jingled as Schaefer stepped into the kitchenware shop. He looked around at the cluttered shelves and empty aisles; the only other person in the place was the woman behind the counter, who seemed out of place amid saucepans and spatulas. She wore fishnet stockings, an elaborately teased blond wig, and makeup as thick as Tammy Faye Bakker’s, and looked as much at home among kitchenware as a coyote among kittens.
Schaefer knew her as Baby. Everyone in this neighborhood knew her as Baby.
”Glad you could make it, big man,” she said. “Could I interest you in some Fiesta ware?”