‘No obvious link to Zeb, I guess?’
Tony shook his head. ‘They were in the same base, but other than that, no record. I’m speculating obviously, but I think it was Zeb’s intervention that got him his benefits. I have left a few messages for those who were involved in Shattner’s case, but haven’t heard back from them yet.’
‘So we’ve got squat,’ growled Bear and grinned suddenly as Tony’s shoulders tightened.
‘Relax, Tony. Not aimed at you.’ He looked at Broker. ‘Does the why of the Zeb-Shattner connection really matter?’
Broker returned his look. ‘Nope. It’ll come to us eventually. We’re going to find Shattner, aren’t we?’
Chloe’s answer was low and fierce and spoke for them all. ‘Hell yes. If Zeb was involved, so are we.’
They bumped fists, and Broker took charge.
‘Tony, keep digging and let us know. Also dig more into Elaine Rocka.’
Bwana ventured, ‘You don’t think—’
‘I don’t, but intel never hurt us. We should keep the pressure on the gang, and I’m thinking the four of you should take down the strip club. You can clear out the club so that there is no collateral damage.’
‘You’ll not join us?’ Roger asked him.
‘I need to work the street, talk to some junkies I know, and see what they can tell us about the Brooklyn chapter.’
Roger looked at him doubtfully. ‘Alone?’
‘Yeah. These guys will clam up at the sight of strangers.’ He grinned. ‘I can take care of myself… don’t forget I’ve saved your butts many a time.’
Bwana nudged Roger. ‘And he’ll never let us forget that. Broker, about those kids and Elaine Rocka… I really think the cops should be informed about Shattner’s absence.’
Broker nodded in agreement. ‘We need to persuade her, but let’s go back to her after a few days. I didn’t press her today since her defenses were all up and we’d have ended up in a confrontation in front of the kids.’
The Watcher was deep inside another café, across the street, a baseball cap pulled low over his head, shades covering most of his face, the collar of his thick jacket rolled up. A crossword puzzle in front of him, he had the air of a man in no hurry and no particular purpose.
He had found them the previous night after hours of driving past cheap hotels and run-down neighborhoods that hope had left behind. He had cut downtown into grids and searched, looking out for two vehicles that were on the right side of anonymous and were company owned. With his laptop running on the passenger seat, he had driven for hours, taking his chances on Broker staying in hotels that didn’t come with basement or valet parking, and therefore the vehicles would be street-parked.
Company-owned, anonymous cars were aplenty, but the Watcher was seeking transport that was owned by a series of shell companies, and when he finally found two of them in the early hours of the morning, he kept watch on them.
When the group came out and surveyed the street, they didn’t spot him. He was prone in his car, several car lengths away, watching them through the mirrors, and when they left, he merged in their wake.
At the Rocka residence, he’d briefly considered approaching the rear of the house to overhear them — briefly considered and rapidly discarded when he noted the proximity of the houses and the barking from inside.
He looked up Rocka, covering the same ground Tony had, and pieces started falling into place. He dug out his phone and called the garage and got nothing. He was politely turned away at Rocka’s workplace. He looked down at his scribbling, at the various names he’d written. He called the next number, a school, and the jigsaw was complete.
Bwana led them out of the café, and he paused, scanning the neighborhood. Nothing unusual stood out, yet his radar was uneasy. He didn’t feel followed, yet he felt something. His shoulders moved in the smallest shrug when the street gazed back at him blankly, intent on its own course for the day.
‘Yes, I’ve felt it too,’ Chloe said behind him, ‘and I haven’t spotted anyone. Bear too. If we’re being followed, it’s by a ghost.’
‘I’m sure the gang is searching for us, but I’m also pretty sure they haven’t found us yet,’ Broker commented as he led them to the Wagon. ‘I had Tony search our Rovers for bugs, and he didn’t find any. There aren’t any on the Wagons. This other player can see us, but not hear us… let’s wait till he shows his hand. If he’s real!’
He noticed Bwana grinning, sunlight across the dark man’s face. ‘I know. To you, the bigger the party, the better.’
It was late evening when Broker approached Snarky in Brooklyn, when schools and offices closed and apartment windows were lit, and different beasts roamed the street.
Snarky was a junkie who teetered on the edge of the precipice, knowing enough when to back off, but not having the resolution to walk away. A part-time dealer and user, he was a frequent partaker of the NYPD’s hospitality, and after one such sojourn, Broker had tapped him. The NYPD squeezed him for juice when it found him, for Snarky had one redeeming quality in its eyes — he knew the streets better than any cop or junkie, and was quick to part with it and get back to the street.
In Broker, Snarky found a better paymaster, and someone who didn’t judge him and treated him with respect. Respect. Snarky found that the word warmed him and stirred something deep inside him in a way Broker’s money didn’t. That too helped, though.
Snarky was lying where he usually lay, sprawled against the shutters of a long-dead store in Lorimer Street, a trilby covering his face, legs and arms sprawled out. He was king of his section of the pavement. He was singing, what he called it, and waving a bottle in a brown wrapper when Broker passed him. Broker thought it might have been a popular tune, but he could be wrong. Alcohol and Snarky’s abilities had a unique way of reshaping songs.
Snarky twitched when Broker passed him — Broker had never figured out how he recognized passersby with the hat covering his face — and lurched to his feet and followed at a shambling pace.
Broker entered a bar, a slight improvement from a hole in the wall, very slight, and had ordered drinks for Snarky and himself by the time Snarky’s body odor announced his presence.
‘Snarky, you know there’s such an invention as a shower?’
‘Conserve earth’s resources, that’s what they say at the home,’ replied Snarky piously, in his thin, reedy tone. Snarky frequented a shelter for the homeless when he wasn’t dealing or housed at the NYPD. ‘Besides, it’s my shield. No one willingly gets close to me.’ He laughed, and Broker was reminded of hyenas barking.
Snarky had surprisingly perfect diction, and Broker had occasionally seen dog-eared books on philosophy in his pockets.
They drank, the pleasantries over. ‘Which gang runs Brooklyn?’
‘Gangs, they’re a dime a dozen. They come and go. No one rules any place for long. There’s always another bigger, stronger, dirtier that comes up. Way of the jungle and all that.’
You had to be patient with Snarky. He got to the point, but not in the way a crow flew.
Broker seated himself more comfortably and listened to a mix of science and philosophy, and eventually Snarky addressed his question.
‘Only one gang. 5Clubs. Came from nowhere, and now nothing happens without their knowing or permission. Ruthless. They want to be feared, and they are.’
‘They’ve a chapter here?’ Broker knew, but he wanted to hear it from Snarky.