Maven knew fentanyl. A prescription drug for cancer patients or long-term pain management. Like OxyContin but more powerful. Something like eighty times more potent than heroin.
Maven went cool and shaky, as though he’d hit up on the stuff just by holding the kit in his hands. He zipped it shut and set it back on the sill. He stood there a long time, immobilized, until he realized that the longer he waited, the better the chance Ricky would know he’d been found out.
Ricky was tearing open a pack of Sour Patch Kids when Maven returned. Ricky was smiling, but everything had slowed down for Maven. He fixed on Ricky’s froth-white skin and raccoon-mask eyes. The sweat stain around his collar.
“Tyra’s coming on soon,” said Ricky. “You gonna hang out, watch with me?”
Maven couldn’t remember what he said, or how he did it, but he got away soon after that and took the long way home.
Bounty
Lash met Tricky at dawn on the beach at Columbia Point. They crossed Day Boulevard into the park, walking wide around some citizens doing a daybreak boot-camp exercise class, running up bleachers and frog-walking across the field while instructors barked at them.
“Here’s two hundred bones, please kick my ass,” said Trick, the scar on his neck tightening as he chuckled within his hoodie. He had been about Rosey’s age when Lash saved his life on that Mattapan sidewalk. Rosey was still laid out in bed, snoring like a bear when Lash decamped, having stumbled in a few hours earlier. He’d been going with a girl recently. He had a lot of friends.
They crossed Old Colony near the JFK/UMass station, staying wide of the commuters, drifting underneath a bridge.
“Fuckers staying busy,” said Tricky. “I ain’t heard all that much, past couple a weeks, but I don’t hear everything neither.”
Lash said, “Street prices going up.”
“Up, up, up. Cost of doing business. Supply drying up all over. Seller’s market out here.”
No economic system was as pure and elastic as street economy. Tricky showed Lash what he had brought him here for, the tag on the stanchion beneath the bridge, painted red and fresh: BANDITS 25/PER D-O-A.
“A street bounty,” said Tricky. “Twenty-five g’s each. Dead or alive.”
“That’s a lot of bones.”
“Four bandits is six figs. Tol’ you this serious. Somebody gonna get popped.”
Lash foresaw dead-enders banding together, bandits hunting the Bandits, turning Boston into the Wild West. “Who put it out?”
“We in Broadhouse turf, but I’d put it on L or C.” Lockerty or Crassion, the other two Pins. “Probably Lockerty. It’s his house getting hurt the most.”
“You know this?”
“Who knows anything? It’s what I hear.”
“You wouldn’t just be protecting your own boss?”
“My boss of bosses. That’d be like you hustling to protect your top man in D.C. Broads can take care hisself.”
Lash unfolded the ATM surveillance photo, another copy, this one without Maven’s vitals on the back. Showed it to Tricky.
Tricky pointed to Vasco. “That Bob?”
“Who’s Bob?”
“What you call a guy, cut off his arms and legs, throw him in the river.”
Lash nodded. “That’s Bob. Vasco, the Venezuelan. What about the woman?”
“Shit. I remember blondes much better.” An ambulance siren went screaming past them, down the Southeast Expressway. “You got my attention though.”
“It could be coincidence, a blind alley, nothing.”
“Not if you’re showing it to me.” Tricky one-eyed the photo, working through it. “A girl, huh? Part of the outfit? What you think?”
Lash didn’t tell Tricky about the phantom minutes on Vasco’s mobile, and the bum numbers to a temp phone. Or what Schramm said about needing somebody close to get access to Vasco’s phone. The Venezuelan’s credit card indicated a bunch of restaurant charges in the weeks leading up to his death, the amounts indicating dinners for two.
The sun was coming up over the first buildings, oranging the bridge. Lash folded up the photo printout. “Let me hear from you. Anything. I want to be the one to settle this, not leave it to the streets. And, hey — if I hear you cashing in these mo-mos yourself, we don’t have a pleasant relationship no more, you feel me?”
Tricky flat-smiled him from within his heavyweight hoodie cowl. “I’ll take that under consideration.”
Painted Rock
Termino must have tipped Royce, because Royce was in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of FIJI water when they got back from the surveillance.
Glade started speaking as soon as the door was closed. “So now there’s a fucking price on our heads.”
They had overheard their name during a ghost-phone snoop. Bad guys talking about a bounty on the Sugar Bandits, making plans accordingly.
Royce said, “That scares you.”
Glade rocked back as though Royce had swung a pillow at him. “It doesn’t make me feel good.”
“It’s a mark of honor. A sign of respect.”
Glade smiled sideways, looking at Royce as if he were being put on. “Okay, I gotta call bullshit on that one.”
Termino, laying his keys on the counter, said, “What’d you expect? We’d steal from these kingpins, and they’d like it?”
Royce said, “We stay tight, stay alert — we’re solid. Nothing has changed.”
Suarez said, “Nobody expected us before. We swooped in like ghosts. Now they’re looking for us. Waiting for us — expecting us.”
Maven said, “These guys are hiring cops now. That’s right — real cops. Dirty cops.”
Royce keyed in on that. “More.”
Maven said, “They got on to a BPD cop out of Hyde Park, and his partner.”
“You get names?”
Maven nodded.
“They’re paying protection?”
“For an escort. Sellers and buyers going in fifty-fifty.”
“How much?”
“Five hundy a key.”
Royce nodded, wheels turning. “That’s a good piece. What’s the load?”
“Between eighty and a hundred twenty keys.”
Royce smiled after a moment. “The tougher it gets to move the goods, the more they have to try to shove through at once. The more we take down, the bigger the scores that come to us.”
Glade said, “Did you miss the part about the cops?”
“So what?” said Royce. “As long as it’s not a surprise. We still have all the advantages. Anything we see coming we can neutralize.”
Suarez sat down on one of the padded stools, taking weight off his healing leg. “People coming at us now, instead of the other way around — that changes the game.”
“So we change with it. Come on. You’ve all dealt with insurgents before. This is the fun part. Unless you guys want to tail off, feel you have enough money...”
Maven grinned. Royce challenging them and enticing them at the same time. Playing Glade and Suarez like puppies.
Royce said, “How much you all worth anyway? Maybe I’ll turn you in myself.”
Begrudging smiles. Termino went to get himself a beer.
Royce said, “Step back and see this for what it is. This says we are making a significant impact. It says we are now the Man in town. Not the fuzz. Not the kingpins. Us, right here. And nobody knows anything about us, and nobody’s gonna know anything about us. So long as we stay razor sharp, as always.”
After silent nods, Glade said, “So, what, do we drop these guys? Wait for the next gig?”
“Are you high? Eighty to one hundred twenty keys?”
Termino returned with his beer. “Hell, fifty keys would be a major score.”