Take care of business. That was Freeman’s motto. God, he took care of it all right!
Well, dealing coke and crack wasn’t for the squeamish or indecisive. Nobody who knew McNally ever suspected he had either of those flaws.
As he threaded the Mustang through the heavy evening traffic — only seven shopping days left before Christmas — Harrison Ronald wrestled again with the why. Why had he demanded two more nights of this?
He had worried this question all afternoon and he still was not satisfied with the answer that fell out. He thought Freeman and the boys ought to be locked up for a serious stretch and he thought it was worth a big risk for somebody to accomplish that chore. But he had no personal ax to grind, other than the fact he loathed all these swine. Still, there were a lot of people in the world he would just as soon not spend time with. The discovery of another dozen or two wasn’t earthshaking. No. The question was, Why did he want to risk his butt to put Freeman and friends and maybe one or two crooked cops where the sun don’t shine?
Grappling with the why question made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t a hero. The possibility that someone might see him as one was embarrassing.
Harrison thought that perhaps it was the challenge. Or some sense that he owed something. Payback. Something like that, probably. That wasn’t too bad. But when he thought about it honestly — and he did do that: he was an honest man — he sensed a little bit of thrill at the excitement of it all. Living on the edge burned you out and scared the shit out of you and made you want to heave your guts at times, but it was certainly never dull. Every emotion came full blast, undiluted.
The thrill aspect made him slightly ashamed, coming as it did with a dollop or two of the hero juice.
Two more nights. Hang in there, Harrison Ronald, Evansville PD.
He parked the car in the alley and said hi to the guy standing in the shadows, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. His name was Will Colby and he and Sammy Z had delivered crack on a half dozen occasions. Harrison rapped on the back door.
If they thought he was a cop, the reception inside was going to be very warm. As he waited for the door to open, he wiped the perspiration from his face with a glove and glanced again at Colby, who was looking up and down the alley. Colby seemed relaxed, bored perhaps.
Thirty degrees and a breeze, and he was sweating! Where’s the thrill now, hero? He consciously willed his muscles to relax.
Ike Randolph opened the door and looked around.
“Hey, Ike.”
Ike jerked his head and Harrison Ronald went inside.
As they went through the kitchen, Ike said, “Better get some coffee. You’re out front tonight.”
Harrison filled a styrofoam cup with steaming liquid. “When they coming?”
“Ten. Got a piece on you?”
“Nope.”
“Get something from the bedroom and go on out front.”
Harrison selected a .357 Smith & Wesson, checked the cylinder, then stuffed the weapon into the pocket of his pea coat. He had bought this coat because it was warm and had deep pockets and a large collar. There was sure a lot of standing around outside in this business. Just like police work.
With that irony in mind, he walked down the hall carrying the coffee, nodded at the guy with the Uzi, and went out the front door to the stoop.
Harrison had seen the guy out front before, but didn’t know his name. “I got it. Anything happening?”
“Just cold as holy hell,” the guy said, then went up the steps and inside.
So far so good. Another three minutes of life and a fair prospect of more. Amen.
He was still standing there at nine fifty-five when a dark gray Cadillac wearing New York plates pulled up to the curb in front and the man in the passenger seat climbed out. Fat Tony Anselmo. The man at the wheel killed the engine.
Anselmo glanced at Ford, taking in every feature with one quick sweep, then climbed the stairs and pushed the doorbell button. The door opened in seconds and he went in.
The man at the wheel sank into the seat until only the top half of his face was visible under his dark, brimmed hat. At twenty-five feet the features were hard to distinguish in the glare and shadows of the streetlights, but Harrison Ronald knew who he was: Vincent Pioche, hitter for the Costello family in Brooklyn and Queens. According to Freddy Murray, the FBI thought he had killed over twenty men. No one knew for sure, including Pioche, who had probably forgotten some of his victims. Brains weren’t his long suit.
If you were going to make your living in criminal enterprises, Ford mused, you should either be a rocket scientist or mildly retarded. The people between those extremes were the ones in trouble. The thinking they did was both too much and not enough. Like Tooley.
That line of thought led him to consider himself. He had a high school diploma and two years of college. He could balance a checkbook and write a report. Tooley probably could have too, if he had had any reports to write.
Was he as smart as Freeman McNally, the Ph.D. of crack philosophy?
The very thought gave him goosebumps. The wind was cold and he had been out here over an hour. He began walking around.
Ike came out about ten-thirty and relieved him while he went inside for a break. He got another cup of coffee and hit the bathroom.
He was standing by the guard with the Uzi in the hallway sipping coffee when the door to the living room opened and Fat Tony came out. He already had his coat on. Freeman was behind him.
Freeman followed Tony to the door while Harrison trailed after.
Together they stood on the stoop and watched Tony Anselmo get into the car. As it drove off, McNally said, “There goes the two guys who killed Harrington and Lincoln a couple weeks ago.”
Because he thought he ought to say something, Harrison Ronald asked, “How’d you hear that?”
“You can find out anything if you know who to ask and you’ve got enough money.”
Freeman went back inside. Ike nodded and Harrison reluctantly descended to the sidewalk.
Yeah, with enough money to spread around you can find out anything, like who’s the undercover cop in the McNally organization.
On Saturday morning at eight a.m. Harrison Ronald Ford met special agents Hooper and Murray in the motel in Fredericksburg. The first thing he did was give them the forty-three hundred dollars that Freeman had given him. The money, Hooper said, would go to a fund to finance antidrug operations.
As they sipped coffee, Harrison Ronald told them the news: “Freeman says Fat Tony Anselmo and Vinnie Pioche killed two guys named Harrington and Lincoln several weeks ago.”
“How’d he find out?” Freddy asked.
“He says he asked the right person and used money.”
“We’ll follow it up. Right now I think those murders are being investigated by local police. To the best of my knowledge, they’re wide open.”
“Did he know why?” Hooper asked.
“Freeman didn’t say specifically. Fat Tony spent an hour and a half with him last night. I think it’s this money-washing business. It all fits.” Harrison Ronald shrugged.
“Monday you’re going to the grand jury. If they indict McNally and his gang, we start busting them Monday night.”
Harrison Ronald nodded and inspected his hands. They were shaking.
“There’s no reason for you to go back there tonight. Those clowns aren’t going anyplace.”
“Last night I got this tidbit on Anselmo and Pioche. That may wrap up two unsolved killings. Who knows what I might pick up tonight?”
“It isn’t worth the risk,” Freddy insisted, dragging his chair closer to the undercover man. “This undercover op rumor might land there today. Tonight they may decide to put a bullet into you for insurance.”