He stared straight ahead, not saying a word.
Repressing a heavy sigh, Sam reached over and laid her hand on his upper thigh. "Billy," she said softly, feeling like slapping him instead. "We came down here to get something going-to give us a jump start to something better. You want that to happen, right?"
"Sure," he conceded, adding, "It just made me feel weird, you know? You doin' that."
She brushed the back of her finger against his cheek. "That's sweet. I didn't know you felt that way."
He stared at her. "Shit yeah, I do. What do you think? I mean, damn. Since I known you, I told you that."
She laughed. "I thought you were just horny."
He smiled awkwardly. "Well, sure. That, too. But. . you know."
"Yeah. I do. It's okay, Bill. Let's just see this through, okay? There'll be time for us later."
His face lightened at that, and he started the engine. "Cool. First things first. You said you had an address?"
She gave it to him, happy to have him back on track. In the long run, Bill Dancer was disposable, probably the sooner the better. But for right now he gave her the best cover she could ask for-not too bright, locally known, and with past history of purchase and sales. All she had to do was be his bimbo long enough to get in under the tent flaps.
"Tell me about all the head honchos they keep talking about," she said as he pulled into traffic. "The doorman said Johnny Rivera had stirred things up when he made his move."
Dancer was back in his element, feeling good again, at the wheel in more ways than one. "This town's run by about four of 'em, and each one's got turf spread over three areas-the Flats, South Holyoke, and Churchill, which is basically downtown. Those are the screwed-up parts of town, and the best placed, 'cause what with the Mass Pike, I-91, and I-391, complete with on- and off-ramps-not to mention the river and Chicopee and South Hadley on the other side-gettin' away from the local cops is pretty easy. You should look at a map of Holyoke, Greta. It's a laugh. The city's laid out so it looks like someone flipping the finger. I shit you not. Holyoke says, 'Fuck you, America.'"
"Cute," Sam murmured. She had seen a map. The image was there, but only if you were looking for it.
Dancer nodded, lost in his patter. "Yeah. Thought you'd like that. Anyhow, even though there's enough trade to go around, they chew on each other out of habit, you know? It's the macho thing." He lapsed into some indistinguishable accent. "Hey, man, you dissin' me? You insulting my mudda?" He laughed at his own theatrics. "So they cut each other and try to steal each other's turf. Kind of like warlords. Each head guy has maybe thirty or forty street guys, depending, and some of the street guys have people, too. They work it different ways, but it's the corporate thing all over again. Friggin' AT amp;T. That way the boss never gets dirty, never puts his hands on the product, and supposedly never gets busted. Course they do-all the time. Cops grab 'em for one thing or the other. Never sticks for long, but it keeps things stirred up at ground level. I don't know this Johnny dude-probably an independent, 'cause there's a shit-load of them, too-but I bet that's how he did his thing: moved when the powers-that-be were busy, if you get my drift. Happens all the time. They huff and they puff. They do some drive-bys and rough a few competitors up. Sometimes it works and sometimes it don't. Maybe somebody gets killed now and then. But it's all showing off. There's so much money changing hands, nobody has time to fart around with a real gang war. Plus, sounds like Johnny did it the smart way, grabbing business that nobody owned in particular."
He pulled over to the curb. "Here we are."
Sam looked around. "Pretty nearby."
"Whole goddamn town's pretty nearby. Shit, I mean two of the bosses I was talking about? They live a block and a half apart. The turf's pretty clear cut, but you can see one from the other. Holyoke's a small place. Oh, oh-here we go."
He was looking out his window at a short, stocky, twenty-something man who was approaching them from one of Holyoke's interchangeable brick housing blocks carrying a metal baseball bat. Instead of chains, this one had opted for fat shiny rings on all his fingers.
Bill rolled down his window. "Hey, man."
"What're you doin' here?" the bat wielder asked.
Sam leaned over to look up at the man, allowing him a view down the front of her V-neck sweater. "We're here to see Johnny. From Vermont."
"He know you?"
"Miguel Torres knows me," Bill answered. "I used to do business with him. Word is Johnny's the new man, so screw Torres, right?"
"Yeah, well, screw you, too, you don't have no appointment."
"Hey," Sam protested in a high voice. "Come on. We're lookin' to buy quantity here. Johnny's setting up business. We're here to help him do it."
"He don't need no help."
"You sure about that? You telling us to bring our business someplace else?"
She kept her eyes glued to his, driving home the implication.
He blinked. "Get out of the car."
They did as ordered. The man escorted them into the lobby of the building, where a number of others were standing around looking watchful. The hands-against-the-wall routine was followed again, but with none of "Don Juan's" blatant self-interest. This doorman was all business.
"Follow me," he told them afterward, and led them deep and high into the building, not just along staircase and hallways but also through several wall openings that had clearly been made with sledgehammers. Sam had no idea where they finally ended up, or even which wing of the block they were in, but she had a good notion they were at the heart of a modern day fortress, specially customized to both ward off attack and create a multitude of ambushes. If Johnny's enemies were interested in putting him out of business, they'd have to do it away from here.
Their escort finally knocked loudly against a steel-reinforced door. It opened a crack, he exchanged a few words in Spanish with a man inside, and then the door swung back.
The room they stepped into was square, small, window-less, and had five young men in it, all armed with semiautomatic weapons, all decked out in jewelry and designer clothes nobody could appreciate. They said nothing to the new arrivals, and Bill and Sam kept silent, waiting for directions about what to do next.
A door on the wall opposite them opened, and a slim, attractive man in jeans, a designer shirt, and a single thin gold chain around his neck appeared. He smiled pleasantly, nodded to both of them, and said in a quiet voice to Bill, "So, you used to work with Torres."
"Till I heard you were running things."
"He send you to me?" he asked dubiously.
Bill opened his mouth, but Sam answered, "No. He told us to drop dead. We found out about you from one of his people."
The smile widened. "And how did you do that?"
"The same way we got up here. I showed him my tits."
Johnny Rivera laughed. "Tits and brains both. Come on in."
He turned on his heel, leaving the doorway empty. Bill and Sam glanced at their escort, got nothing from him, and followed Rivera's invitation, stepping into a moderately clean, large, furnished room-half living room, half office-where every window was blocked by a steel plate reaching halfway up its length, permitting only a view of the sky from a standing position-a compromise that allowed sunlight but not sniper bullets.
"Have a seat," Rivera offered, settling into a beat-up armchair.
Bill and Sam shared a couch opposite him.
"I hear you've come to help me set up my new business."
Sam glanced around until she saw the intercom on a small side table. Very efficient.