Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [107]
“Don’t worry,” Pins asked. “I’ll have them back to you by this afternoon, cleaned and pressed. When did you tell her they’d be ready?”
“Six tonight,” Harry said.
“Perfect.” Pins jammed the clothes under one arm and reached out a hand to Harry. “I appreciate all your help.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” Harry said, smiling and shaking Pins’s hand.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Pins said, heading for the door. “Is there anything the department can do for you?”
“Is the place you’re having those cleaned a good one?” Harry asked, walking around the counter.
“It’s a special cleaner,” Pins said. “Like running your clothes through a car wash.”
“Then there is something you can do,” Harry said. “A small favor.”
“What?” Pins asked.
“I need to get a stain out of Mrs. Babcock’s black cocktail dress. I’ve put it through the wash three times and it’s still there. I don’t know what the hell she spilled on it, but I just can’t get it to come out. Maybe your place can give it a shot?”
Pins smiled at Harry. “Get the dress,” he said. “I’ll bring it back to you like new.”
“You’re the best,” Harry said, rushing to the back of the store for the dress.
“I hope so,” Pins muttered.
• • •
GERONIMO WAS LIFTING a large cardboard Zenith television carton filled with wires and a rusty old air conditioner when he spotted the double-parked car. The black, late-model Lincoln was inched alongside a Toyota Corolla and a blue Renault, engine running, tinted windows up.
Geronimo tossed the box into the back of the sanitation truck and shifted the crush gear, his eyes on the Lincoln. The lead man shifted the truck and moved it slowly up to the next hill of garbage. Geronimo walked in the shadows of the truck, his head down, his mouth inches from the collar of his work jacket.
“That double-parked car doesn’t look right to me,” Geronimo whispered into the tiny microphone wired inside his collar. “You picking up anything from inside?”
“Saldo’s in the backseat.” Geronimo heard the crisp sound of Pins’s crackling words come through his ear mike. The thin wires from the audio devices ran down his neck and into a small box taped to the center of his back. “He’s got two shooters with him, both in the front. All three carrying heavy.”
Pins was parked on the north corner, dressed in the brown uniform of a Department of Transportation officer, behind the wheel of a battered tow truck.
“Shooters always carry heavy,” Rev. Jim’s voice said through the mikes. “Why should these two be any different?” He was on his third set of windows, turning slightly to drop a squeegee into a bucket of water and pick up a hand towel.
“Well, these two are out gunning for us,” Pins said. “Somebody’s tipped them. They know we’re sending a plant into the building. They just don’t know when or who.”
“Do Boomer and Mrs. Columbo know?” Dead-Eye asked, crouched against the iron door leading from the roof to the top floor of the brownstone.
“Their mikes are turned off,” Pins said. “It’s too risky otherwise.”
“It’s your play, Dead-Eye,” Geronimo said. “We’ll walk it any way you want.”
“Just make it fast,” Rev. Jim said. “I’m runnin’ outta water and windows.”
“Pins, can you hear me?” Dead-Eye asked.
“Got you,” Pins answered.
“Back up into the block and tow that car out of there,” Dead-Eye told him. “Geronimo?”
“I’m here,” Geronimo said, dragging a thick bag of garbage from the curb.
“Back-up Pins,” Dead-Eye said. “Let’s try and do this clean. We don’t need a gunfight on the street. Rev. Jim?”
“Talk to me.”
“Get in here without too much noise,” Dead-Eye said. “Just in case I get jammed up.”
“What about Boomer and Mrs. Columbo?” Pins asked.
“They’ve got a job to do,” Dead-Eye said, “and so do we.”
“And Saldo?” Geronimo asked. “How do we play him?”
“Let him take the ride with the tow truck,” Dead-Eye said. “There’s a better chance he’ll run his mouth sitting in the car. Pins will let us know if he says anything we need to hear.”
“Can Saldo’s wire pick me up when I get close?” Geronimo asked.
“Don’t worry,” Pins said.