Suit shook his head, his lips moved in a sneer. ‘Marine.’
Bear nodded and left silently, Suit watching him.
Suit made his way to an inner office that overlooked the forecourt and parted the window blinds to watch their Rover leave the garage.
He picked up his phone after activating a scrambler. ‘Some guys came asking for you. Four guys and a woman. They didn’t give a reason and didn’t believe that you weren’t here.’
He listened in silence and then described them.
‘Hold on.’ He put the phone down to fetch Broker’s card.
‘Business card says Broker and has a number. Nothing else on it.’
He spelt out the name and a New York number. ‘He said they’d be back tomorrow.’
He listened some more and grunted and put the phone down.
Hamm tossed the phone, leaned back in a plush chair covered with lizard skin, and stretched. His body rippled and flowed in the chair, the long snake tattoo on his forearm curling and flexing. 5Clubs had a flat hierarchy with no layers separating the bosses from the hoods. Quinn and a few other managers, in effect the enforcers and shooters, had easy access to him. The gang also had an impressive early warning system. Anything out of the ordinary got reported upwards immediately, however small.
That the garage was a front for the gang was known to very few in the business — even the NYPD had no knowledge of this — it troubled him that the façade had been uncovered so quickly by these strangers.
He picked up another phone, a burner phone that would be crushed at the end of the day, and called a number that was burnt in his memory. That number would change the next day, and he would have to memorize the new one. He was allowed to make only one call a day to the number.
The phone at the other end got picked up after precisely five rings. Always five rings, no more, no less, at any time.
The person at the other end didn’t say anything, just filled the line with silence.
Hamm recited what had occurred in short precise sentences, unemotionally. The listener didn’t say anything for a long minute after he had finished. ‘You trust Quinn?’
‘Yes. Served with me. Good guy, not imaginative, but will die for the gang.’
‘Call me in two hours.’
Hamm nodded. ‘Okay.’
After two hours he got his orders. Meet the strangers and find out what they want. Have them followed. Bugged if possible.
The next day, the garage was the same scene, except for the presence of several hoods loitering around, alert, trying to fit in and failing.
Suit approached them as Broker led them inside the office. Suit was in decent shape for his age, but the well-cut jacket couldn’t hide the thickening of the waist.
Broker greeted Suit before he could open his mouth. ‘Hamm going to see us?’
Suit gestured to a few chairs and disappeared wordlessly into the snugly fit door he had come from.
‘Power games,’ mumbled Broker to Roger, who was closest to him.
‘Who’s the fucker? Bear said he was a Marine?’
Broker nodded. ‘Name’s Quinn. Nothing special in his record. Except for a dishonorable discharge. A temper that gets worse when drunk, and he gets drunk often.’
Broker looked over at Bwana and frowned. Bwana and Chloe were looking up at the ceiling. If you looked hard enough, you could just make out the concealed camera. Bwana stuck his finger up and grinned silently.
‘Cut that shit out, Bwana. This is a public place.’
Chloe gave a last look at the camera. ‘Maybe Bear and I should wait in the Rover?’
Broker nodded in their direction, their ride had to be secure, and settled down to wait, Roger and Bwana leaning against the opposite wall. An hour later they were unmoving, all three of them, with their eyes shut. They heard various customers drift in and out of the office, the clunky sounds of the garage at work, and then the inner door opened.
‘Come.’
Broker opened his eyes to see Quinn beckoning at him. He flowed out of his chair and approached Quinn, Bwana and Roger falling in behind him.
‘Not them. Just you. This is not a fucking convention.’
Bwana and Roger resumed their Zen meditation as Broker disappeared behind the inner door.
It was a simple office. There were millions of such offices in millions of garages around the country. Untidy piles of paper littered the desk and the filing cabinet in the corner, posters and certifications hung on the wall, a coffee pot bubbled away in the corner.
Millions of garages around the country did not have Dieter Hamm, chapter head of 5 Clubs, seated lazily behind the desk. Hamm was wearing a blue shirt hugging his muscular body, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing veined, hairy, tattooed forearms. His eyes were dark and hooded as he watched Broker cross the room and seat himself after being expertly patted down by Quinn.
He tossed Broker’s card across the desk. ‘You demanded this meeting. What do you want?’
Broker leaned back in his chair and contemplated him, and a broad smile split his face, a chuckle coming from deep inside.
Hamm’s hooded eyes didn’t change; his expression didn’t change. ‘Something funny?’
Broker waved his hand to encompass the room. ‘Yup. This. You. You’re just a punk. All right, a punk who dresses well and speaks well, but still a punk. And look at your airs!’
Quinn shifted on his legs behind him, his shoes creaking above the muted sound of the garage. Hamm blinked. ‘You’re wasting my time. What do you want?’
‘I want the mole you guys have in the FBI.’
Hamm regarded Broker curiously. ‘Mole? FBI? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I have a mole in the FBI? What does a garage have to do with them?’
Broker smiled, but no mirth reached his eyes. ‘Look, Hammy. I’m so glad you didn’t pull that I’m-just-a-small-business shit with me. I know who you are, and doubtless you have done some research on me. Let’s not act virginal about this FBI mole crap. I know you have one there, you know it, and the Feds know it. All I want is the scumbag’s name, and I’m out of your life. I am least interested in your gang and your activities.’
Hamm continued regarding him curiously. ‘Is this where the threats come in? Where you say you’ll destroy us if we don’t give up this hypothetical mole?’
Broker’s sunny grin filled the room. ‘Hammy, don’t be dramatic. You guys are what, three, four hundred at last count. How can three or four of us destroy you? Nope. I think you’ll listen to reason.’
Hamm’s brow furrowed. ‘What might that reason be?’
Broker had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together. ‘Those guys outside, they’re the reason. See, two of them are known to you. They came across your guys on the border… you’re short a few hoods over there, aren’t you?
‘You might want to check their faces against the news bulletins from Tucson,’ he added helpfully.
He heard Quinn leave the office and allowed the silence to build.
‘Those two don’t like hoods. Hell, none of us do. You guys are parasites. But as you know, I am a businessman. Live and let live is my policy.’ Broker believed himself. Almost.
He nodded his head, indicating the guys outside. ‘I had a tough time restraining those two. They not only share my dislike for hoods, they carry a torch for the vulnerable. Like young girls. Women. Children. They wanted to start a war in Arizona and California and take down all your guys there. The Border Patrol talked them out of it. Luckily. For you.
‘So, they’re the reason. Them and the other two.’ He sat back, case made.
Hamm held up a calloused hand, the fingers slender and rock steady. ‘I’m trembling. Wetting my pants.’