Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [104]
“Only way to get our foot in her door,” Dead-Eye said.
“There’s a lot of layers between her and the sale,” Geronimo pointed out. “It’s not like walking into J. C. Penney’s and finding her behind the counter. Lucia’s never near the buy and always far away from the kill.”
“We take it one step at a time,” Boomer said. “We start at the bottom of her outfit and work our way up.”
“Where the hell’s the bottom?” Pins asked. “It’s not like this crew takes out ads.”
“You find a guy named Saldo,” Nunzio said, opening a manila folder and sliding out a half dozen head shots of a man with thick dark hair and a long scar running down the right side of his face. “He’s the guy who fed Malcolm the lady’s business card. He’s her main New York line into the baby market. Pays top dollar and asks very few questions.”
“What is it you do, exactly, Nunzio?” Rev. Jim asked, looking over at the older man with a trace of admiration.
“I listen,” Nunzio said.
“Pins, we’ll get you an address and a plate number by early tomorrow morning,” Boomer said.
“I’ll have him wired before lunch,” Pins said. “You want him bodied too?”
“How the hell can you body-wire him?” Boomer asked. “You’re not gonna be anywhere close to the guy.”
“I don’t have to be.” The confidence in his own abilities overcame Pins’s shyness. “I don’t even have to meet the man.”
“What are ya gonna do?” Rev. Jim asked. “Mail him the wire and ask him to put it on himself?”
“He gets his clothes cleaned somewhere,” Pins said. “As soon as I have his address, I’ll figure out where. I’ll plant the bugs there before he puts on his clothes.”
Boomer glanced over at Dead-Eye, who looked back at him and smiled. “My hunch is the guy works out of the East Side. We’ll have the layout soon enough. I want the building covered in case of trouble.”
“If there’s a super or a guy at the door, I can talk my way into having them let me do the windows,” Rev. Jim said. “I’ll look scruffy enough so they won’t notice.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Nunzio added.
“Go in on a day there’s a garbage pickup,” Geronimo said. “Around the time they’re working that street.”
“Why?” Boomer asked.
“I got a friend in Sanitation,” Geronimo told him. “He’ll let me work on the truck crew. This way I’m visible but nobody notices me. There’s trouble, I’ll be there.”
“That covers the ground and the outside of the building,” Boomer said. “That leaves the roof for you, Dead-Eye. Your gut tells you something’s not right, don’t even hesitate.”
“What about me?” Mrs. Columbo asked. “What am I doing while all this is going on?”
“Nothing,” Boomer said with a smile. “You’re my wife and no wife of mine’s gonna have a job.”
Mrs. Columbo looked down at the baby, lifted him to eye level, and kissed his flushed red cheek. “Your father’s an asshole,” she cooed as she placed him on her shoulder and patted his back. Seconds later, the baby let out a loud burp.
“That’s what he thinks of you,” Mrs. Columbo said with a laugh.
• • •
LUCIA SAT AT the head of the eight-foot dining table, a yellow folder spread open beneath her elbows. A crystal ashtray and wine goblet were off to her left, a 1980 merlot in one, a filter-tipped cigarette smoldering on the edge of the other. She stared across the length of the bare table at the private investigator sitting nervously at the far end. He had on a cheap coffee-colored suit, worn at the cuffs, a brown shirt in need of a wash, and a poorly knotted cream tie. He was thin and balding, the top of his head coated with beads of sweat, his small fingers softly drumming on the top of the table. Three of Lucia’s men stood silently behind him, hidden by the shadows of the drawn brocade drapes that kept out the afternoon sunshine. There was a large glass of ice water in front of the man. It sat untouched.
“You’re charging me two hundred and fifty dollars an hour plus expenses, Mr. Singleton,” Lucia said in a level-toned voice. “I expect you to have something to show for it.”
“It’s all there in the file,” Trace Singleton said. “You can see for yourself.