The Watcher leaned down, hooked his hand through Teardrop’s hipster, and threw him bodily into Kano’s body, whose head was still processing what his eyes had seen. Teardrop’s head smacked deeply in his midriff, and both went down untidily. The Watcher stamped Kano’s right hand, crushing his fingers for good measure.
He stripped both of them of their weapons — a couple of Czech pistols and a wicked, serrated knife. He removed the magazines from the guns and pocketed them, and broke the knife.
Assholes could have just walked on, and their day would’ve turned out differently. He looked down at them moaning softly, and then around. The street was quiet and undisturbed. Newburgh had seen and heard far worse than daytime shrieking to be bothered about it.
He walked on unhurriedly to his truck.
He had been drifting north to south along the Eastern Seaboard, down the I-95, when the clutch on his Dodge pickup reached its end of life. He had then drifted inwards seeking a replacement. He could have had the clutch replaced at any number of garages, but he was picky. He wanted a mechanic who didn’t want to engage him in any conversation… not about football, baseball, politics, nothing. A mechanic who grunted when he took on a job and grunted when he finished. The Watcher didn’t like conversation. He knew such a one in Newburgh and didn’t mind the detour.
After all, there was no schedule to keep.
He was off the grid. No phones, no laptops, no email… the nearest thing he had to an electronic device was his electric razor, and that was dead. Nobody could contact him, and nobody knew where he was, which was not very surprising. Only one person on the planet knew who he was, and that person was not expecting any contact from him for a while.
An hour later he was speeding in his truck towards New York.
Speeding was a word used loosely since he could see white-haired grannies overtaking him in their Lincolns as he chugged along in the slow lane. A few even gave him the finger and inched faster when his dark glasses swung their way.
He coaxed as much juice as he could from the Dodge, without it falling apart, and settled back in his seat. Time hadn’t been an issue earlier; it was now.
He knew who the ghosts were and what damage they could do.
Chapter 20
The Watcher hit George Washington Bridge a couple of hours later and headed south on Henry Hudson Parkway, down West Side Highway, and slowed as he reached the outer edges of the Garment District and headed east. He found a crowded parking lot and nosed his truck between an equally decrepit Toyota and a Ford Explorer. Taking his sole possession, a rucksack, he headed to a self-storage on Thirty-Sixth Street. He headed out of the storage an hour later, his rucksack weighed down by his Glock, magazines, other stuff a good ghost carried, and a hunting knife.
He headed to the nearest pay phone and dialed a number. He knew how the other person would react. Look at the number, frown, think about ignoring it, think again, and turn on the speaker.
He spoke one sentence, ignored the exclamation of surprise, and listened. Ten minutes later he was heading north. He knew what was happening and what he had to do.
Broker headed into the city once they crossed George Washington Bridge and drifted into Harlem. ‘You guys wanted to check out the Manhattan Chapter?’
He headed deeper, past Hamilton Heights, and then headed south on St. Nicholas Avenue and headed east again, the neighborhood sprouting auto repair shops, computer shops, barbers, any number of small businesses. ‘Harlem’s gotten better in the last few years… fewer gangs and safer streets… but still a long way to go.’
He slowed a little and pointed to a large walled compound on the left, and as he neared it, they could make out the name of a garage fronting a wide entrance. Several cars stood in the forecourt, and they could see a hive of activity in the garage.
‘This is where they hang out. Dieter Hamm, a few shooters, the top hoods. This is where they do business.’
Roger noted the security cameras and tapped Broker, who speeded up slightly. ‘You want one more pass?’
Roger shook his head. ‘Let’s work out what we’re going to do, and then we can come back tomorrow. I’m sure the moment we make another pass, we’ll get flagged, if they have any decent security shit.’
‘They will,’ Broker said grimly. ‘They’re hoods basically, but not stupid hoods. Let’s not reveal ourselves tonight.’
They reached Broker’s apartment in near silence, and as they were going up the elevator, Chloe broke the silence. ‘The first time we met, you said we’ll just ask them. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll go to that garage and ask this Hamm.’
Bear bowed extravagantly. ‘Your wish is our command, milady.’
She snorted. ‘That would be good if it wasn’t a one-off. And you better be packing heat tomorrow. We’re not going to Sunday school.’
Bwana looked up hopefully. ‘We off-ing Hamm tomorrow?’
She shook her head. ‘I am surrounded by idiot savages.’
Broker used the same Rover the next day. ‘If we’re declaring our hand, they might as well know our ride.’
The car shop was busy when they arrived. Broker parked, the Rover facing its entrance, with a clear lane for exit, and led the way inside. Bwana strayed from the group and paused to watch a couple of mechanics work on a Mustang. Seem to know what they’re doing. This is a very good front for the gang.
He went into the reception, a large, white-tiled square that had a desk at one end and posters of cars all over the walls. Broker was talking to a short, bald mechanic with greasy fingers; the others were casually spread out.
‘Dieter Hamm. We’re here to see him.’
‘No one here by that name, man. You got a car to be looked at?’
‘No, we’re here to see Hamm. Could you tell him we’re here?’ Broker, patient, coming across as the Wall Street executive.
The first trace of impatience came into the mechanic’s voice, and his voice roughened. ‘Told ya, no one by that name. And if you don’t have a car to be looked at, you’re wasting our time.’
‘Who’s your manager? Let me speak to him?’
The mechanic opened his mouth and then shut it and looked over Broker’s shoulder. Broker turned to see a tall man in a well-tailored suit glide forward, his tanned skin stretched across his face, his head bristling with a steel gray buzz cut.
He stopped a few feet in front of Broker and made an eye signal to the mechanic to leave.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Not if you aren’t Dieter Hamm. We’re here to see him.’
‘I think Enrique’s told you already that we don’t have anyone by that name here. Now if you don’t have any vehicle to be repaired, I suggest you leave. As you can see, we’re busy, and you’re eating up billable hours.’
Roger shouldered forward. ‘Let’s drop the shit, shall we? We know this is a front for 5Clubs, and we know Dieter Hamm runs this chapter. We want to see him. Tell him we’re here.’
Suit looked Roger up and down and then at the others. ‘Gang? 5Clubs? You’ve got your facts wrong. I own this business, and I’ve nothing to do with gangs. Now I suggest you leave, or I’ll call the cops for harassing us.’
Broker pulled out a business card and handed it to Suit. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow and will expect to see Hamm.’
Suit took the card carelessly and placed it on the desk without looking at it. ‘You’ll be wasting your time.’
He stood in the center of the floor watching them leave. Bear lingered and looked him over. ‘You were a Joe?’