Chapter 12 #2
Busby said, “I don’t favor waiting to see. Why don’t we save ourselves the anticipation and simply eliminate the problem?”
“You want to hit Haskell? Now?” Roland’s tone implied rejection of the idea.
“Why not?”
“He’s got a spotlight on him because of his current battle with Bowie.
As that drama unfolds, we’re not the only ones watching to see what’s gonna happen next between the two of them.
With all the attention he’s getting, we’d be risking exposure to make a move on him, especially during a week when you don’t want anything to go wrong. ”
That was a reasonable point, but Malone’s reluctance didn’t sit well with him. For the time being, he tabled the subject and decided to give it more thought. “You think this El Paso can handle your problem with the homeless?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s a mean little bastard.”
“Tell him not to be too mean. Keep it simple.”
“I’ll impress that on him.”
“Let me know how it works out.” Saying nothing further, Busby clicked off. But for a long while, he ruminated on the bothersome matter of Mitch Haskell talking about the death of his wife with a therapist.
He made a mental note to find out more about Dr. Dylan Reede.
Roland was at the hostess stand looking over the dinner reservations for the evening when El Paso pushed through the swinging kitchen doorway and sauntered into the dining room like it was he who owned the place.
He topped out at around five feet five and was slight of build, but he had the aggressiveness and voracity of a wolverine. If Roland didn’t know better, he would think the kid filed his teeth into sharp points.
As he came toward Roland, he took in his surroundings, a smirk of derision on his face, as though amused by all the finery. “You wanted to see me?”
Roland didn’t deign to reply. Instead he turned to his ma?tre d’ and gave his approval of the seating chart for tonight’s most important diners. He then headed for his office, assuming the kid would follow, which he did.
“Shut the door.”
After doing so, El Paso, without invitation, flopped into the chair facing Roland, who had sat down behind his desk. “Niiiice,” El Paso said after surveying the office.
Roland wanted to smack him on principle. “There’s something I want you to do for me. I’ve cleared it with Oz, and he—”
“Who is he anyway? This Oz character.”
Roland gave him several slow blinks, then continued as though the kid hadn’t spoken. “Oz gave his approval.”
El Paso shot him a sly grin. “The head honcho’s identity is a big secret, huh?”
Roland leaned back in his chair and rotated his ring around his pinkie several times as he stared at the younger man. “Maybe you’re not suitable to work in this organization, after all.”
“Naw, naw. I was just—”
“You were being an arrogant dickhead, which you can’t afford to be. Lots of people would like to know your current whereabouts. David.” He kept his cold stare fixed on the kid, who’d suddenly become a lot less smug.
“David Rodriguez,” Roland continued. “DOB October twenty-sixth, 2005. You think I believed that bullshit story about a girl you knocked up?” He rolled his ring around his finger. “Don’t fuck with me again.”
El Paso chewed the inside of his cheek through an uncomfortable silence, then, with more civility, asked, “What do you want me to do?”
He explained the problem and what he wanted done about it.
“Keep it low-key. Simple,” he said, using Oz’s word. “No grand gestures, nothing that would draw the cops. Just get the message across that these lowlifes are to steer clear of Ristorante Italiano.”
El Paso nodded. “Sure. I can do that. When do I start?”
“You know the neighborhood?”
“Not good. I just got here.”
“Take tonight to scope it out, get a feel for the area. Strike tomorrow night.”
El Paso shrugged. “Sure, okay. Is that it?”
“That’s it. Now get the hell out of here.”
He snuffled a laugh, said, “Yes, sir,” rolled out of the chair, and saw himself to the door. He made an exaggerated effort to close it without making a sound.
Turd.
But as soon as the kid was gone, Roland focused his thoughts on the more complex matters raised during his conversation with Oz. Of all the people working for Oz in one capacity or another, Roland was the only one who knew his identity. And that had happened more or less by accident.
The first time Allen Busby had come into the restaurant for dinner, Roland had recognized him as the carnival barker on TV, but hadn’t made out like he knew him. Busby had eaten alone and had spent a lot of time on his cell phone.
Then, Roland hadn’t known that Busby was exchanging texts with a swarthy, elegantly dressed diner who was at another table. Also a first-timer at the restaurant.
The two hadn’t acknowledged each other at all. As Busby left, he’d shaken Roland’s hand, complimented him on the food and service, and promised to return soon.
After all the staff had left, Roland had gone around checking locks. Through the door into the alley, he’d heard raised voices and had opened the door just in time to see the South American type produce a pistol and aim it at Busby’s forehead.
Never one to miss an opportunity to make friends with a celebrity, Roland had his garrote out and around the man’s neck in under a second.
He’d struggled, of course. But Busby had done nothing to dissuade Roland, had just stood there and watched, and, when the tension on the garrote was released, the man dropped to the alley pavement, dead.
Busby had taken a breath, patted down his hair, and straightened his necktie. “Much obliged.”
“No problem.”
“What do we do with him?”
“You? Nothing. I’ll take care of his disappearance.”
“He’s got enemies and allies. They’ll all come asking.”
“I don’t even know his name. First time he’s been to my place. How would I know where he went or who he saw after? Do the enemies and allies know you?”
Busby shook his head.
“Then don’t worry.”
“What do I owe you?”
“You just watched me kill a man in cold blood, and I’m gonna ask you for money? No.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he’d said of the garrote.
“You never will.” A cousin in the Bronx custom made them for him. “Once used, it’s disposed of.”
Busby looked down at the body, then back up at Roland. “You do this often?”
Something in Roland’s implacable gaze must’ve been answer enough. Busby held out his right hand. “Allen Busby.”
“I know who you are.”
He’d flashed a smile that was startlingly white even in the dark alley. “Not really. But you’re going to.”
That had been seven years ago. He’d started working for Oz that night by being given a list of other people Oz would like to have disappear. Over time, Oz had also come to rely on him as a sounding board. By now, Roland had earned his complete trust.
Tonight, for instance, Oz had confessed to stealing millions of dollars’ worth of goods from the Caballeros, who weren’t going to take the theft lightly. Then he’d turned right around and stressed that he didn’t want anything to go wrong this week. That looked like tightrope-walking to Roland.
Oz also continued to harp on Haskell. God forbid that the boss get the impression he was going soft on the detective, especially in view of this week’s happenings.
He saw the need to seize the initiative, do something moderately chancy that he could report to Oz as a step toward Haskell’s annihilation.
But what? If he got anywhere near Haskell…
But maybe he didn’t have to. Minutes ago, hadn’t he advised El Paso to check things out, gauge the situation before striking?
Suddenly motivated, he swiveled his chair around to the console behind his desk.
A lower drawer concealed a built-in safe with an old-fashioned dial lock.
Inside it, amid bricks of banded currency, several pistols, boxes of bullets, and two new garrotes in standby readiness, was a seldom used burner phone.
He checked the battery, saw it had enough of a charge, and tapped in a familiar number.
“This is Dr. Reede.”
“Hi, Dylan. It’s Roland Malone.”
“Roland, hello,” she said, sounding surprised and pleased. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“I’ve been busy. You know, the restaurant and all. How are things in Auclair?”
“Hot and muggy.”
“Here, too. Different summer, same swelter.”
After covering the weather, there was a lag, then she said, “I’m glad you called. It’s been weeks since you’ve come in. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, but, you know, like you said, it’s been a while. I could use an appointment.”
“Of course. When were you thinking?”
“As soon as possible.”