The Coat of Arms has three things going for it: It’s cheap, it’s cheap, and it’s only five minutes from my office. The neighborhood ain’t great, but neither is it a crime-infested ghetto. It is a semisuburban place, halfway on life’s journey between a slum and a modest home with a lawn that has to be cut and a basketball hoop your kids never use in the driveway.
I slept in till seven, then made my way to the outdoor parking lot and my car. I was preoccupied, and I don’t mean by Mary’s confession the night before, or even by regrets about letting Katrina go. Those were niggling issues compared to something Mary had blurted out in her confession. She’d mentioned she’d been recruited to entrap her husband after a source tipped off the Agency about his treachery. A moment later, she’d admitted that she only joined the investigation to prove the tipster was wrong.
I had a new threat to consider, a fresh and unexpected turn, as they say in thriller novels. There was a tipster out there somewhere.
Somehow, in all of Eddie’s materials, there’d been nothing about any source tipping off the CIA and the molehunters about Morrison-no small oversight, if you think about it. In other words, Morrison hadn’t been caught by the brilliant detective work of the molehunters, or even by Mary turning him in. He’d been betrayed by someone, presumably somebody with direct knowledge. And if Mary was telling the truth, Eddie had the kind of witness I most dreaded-a guy who came over from the other side to testify firsthand to Morrison’s acts.
I was pondering this as I opened my car door and two guys appeared behind me. I’m normally fairly observant-recent evidence to the contrary-and they appeared out of nowhere. No noise, no chatter, no footsteps; I actually smelled them before I saw them-personal hygiene wasn’t their shtick. One was Latino, the other black, and they were dressed identically: baggy jeans with crotches that drooped to their knees, muscle shirts, and doo-rags on their heads. Both were also big and muscular, with that street look that told you they weren’t collecting for UNICEF. Particularly impressive was the. 38 street special in the Latino’s hand, which looked considerably more threatening than the six-inch blade the other hood was holding.
“Hey Patron,” said the Latino, his tone familiar and coaxing like we knew each other, “just relax, and this’ll go down easy. You gotta wallet, right, man? Keep this low-maintenance, huh? You hand over that wallet, we let you drive off to work, we all part amigos.”
He’d stopped moving toward me, while his partner kept coming, his knife held low, his grip tight. The police, who study these things, say the wisest thing in situations like this is to simply hand over your wallet. Something like 95 percent of the time, the crooks intend you no harm, so long as you pacify them by handing over whatever they ask for. Don’t challenge them. Don’t taunt them. Don’t try to fight. Play the odds and the worst you’ll get out of it’s the inconvenience of having to cancel your charge cards and replace your driver’s license. Even in those 5 percent of cases where the victims get hurt, fairly often the victim precipitates it, by choosing the wrong moment to act courageous, or failing to act respectful and subservient to the thugs.
On any ordinary day, I’d do exactly as the police advise. I mean, it’s not like I have a lot of money in my wallet. I’m an Army guy, right?
Something, however, didn’t look ordinary about this. Why did one have a gun and the other a knife? Why did the guy with the gun stand back, while the one with the knife kept moving toward me, his arm tense?
I studied their faces, and they only made one mistake. I immediately stepped to the right, putting the guy with the knife between me and the shooter. At the same instant I swung my briefcase up into his face while my right foot lashed out for his groin. It’s the oldest trick in the book: Threaten the target with two simultaneous chances of bodily injury. It was a fifty-fifty shot, and he took the 50 percent most advantageous to me. Instead of a broken nose, he got his testicles driven into his stomach.
Before he could even lurch over, I rushed him, ramming his body with all my strength, shoving him toward the shooter, using him as a screen. Which turned out to be a damned good idea, because the shooter let loose two shots at my human shield before we came into him full force.
The shooter sprawled on his ass, the pistol still in his right hand, his partner’s dying body still on top of him. I reached for his pistol hand and pinned it to the pavement. With my other hand, I tried to chop him across the nose but knowing the instant I struck that I’d hit something too hard, like his forehead.
I could feel his gun hand moving up, trying to redirect the pistol at my head. I let loose of his wrist and grabbed the gun barrel, trying to keep it pointed away from me. We stayed like this for a few seconds, me lying on the dying knifer’s body, the gunman trapped underneath it, both of us grunting and cursing.
He was a strong man, though. I could feel the gun barrel slipping from my grip, when the strangest damned thing happened. The dying man trapped between us screamed, “Bastard!” and furiously bashed his forehead into his partner’s face. That act of dying fury saved me. I felt his grip loosen and I turned the barrel toward his own head. In the process I must’ve cramped his trigger finger, because there was a sharp bang and blood and brain matter sprayed all over my face.
I lay still a moment to be sure he was dead. I couldn’t actually open my eyes to check, because my face was covered with goo. When he didn’t move, I finally rolled off, dragging the pistol out of his hand, just in the event I was wrong and there was a little life-juice left in him.
I stood up and wiped my face. Then I bent over and began searching their pockets, looking for identification. The black guy’s pockets contained nothing but a few reefers. The Latino had more reefers and a thick wad of money. I pulled it out and counted; five thousand dollars in used hundred-dollar bills.
A moment later I heard a siren and I nearly stuffed the bills back in his pocket, realizing as I started to do so that if the police fingerprinted the money, I’d have some explaining to do. Instead, I opened my car door and put the money under the front seat.
Then I sat on the seat and tried to look like I was shaken, which, frankly, required very little acting. The police car screeched to a halt and two officers rushed out, gripping their guns and screaming for me to put my hands where they could see them and stay perfectly still. It’s an old, overused line, but I didn’t argue. I always try to be good-mannered in situations like this. They looked down at the two bodies, saw they were street hoods, saw my Army uniform, and the younger of the two officers told me to sit back down and relax.
He was still taking my statement when a meat wagon followed by an unmarked car arrived and unloaded some emergency technicians, who inspected the corpses, while an older, somewhat overbearing detective named Sergeant Burrows took over the interrogation from the uniformed cop.
After ten minutes of semi-antagonistic questioning and the uniformed officer confirming my identity, Sergeant Burrows said, “Seems pretty open and shut, Major. Coupla punks make their way over from the city to score a quick hit. Probably they only wanted enough cash to buy some dope. They were hiding between some cars when you walked out. Wrong place, wrong time, shitty situation.”
“Very shitty,” I said.
“We’ll get their prints and know who they are by noon. Both had big-house tattoos, so they got records. Won’t be hard to identify.”
“No, I guess not,” I said.
“You know, you fucked up.”
“Actually, I think they fucked up.”